Chapter 22
Not Mom’s Cup of Tea
Dash
Mom wants to see the town.
It’s a reasonable request. So I walk her through the square, pointing out the Snowflake Cafe, Frost & Fizz, Mountain Organics.
She asks questions about everything—genuinely engaged, admiring the window displays, commenting on the charm of it all.
I’m glad she’s enjoying herself and happy to be spending this relaxed time with her.
But every time I try to steer us toward the inn, she finds another shop to explore. Another story to tell about when I was little. Another reason to delay.
“We should grab dinner,” she says as the sun starts to set. “Just us. We never get time alone anymore, and I want to hear everything. How you’ve really been.”
I check my phone. Ivy hasn’t texted. “Okay. But I’m supposed to meet Ivy at seven for—”
“Seven? Perfect. That gives us plenty of time.” She links her arm through mine, and I give in.
After Vlad the vampire became a teen heart throb, our relationship shifted. She became a trusted advisor, a steady hand as I navigated fame. But this part—quiet mother/son time—was edged out, pushed to the side. I want to enjoy it now. So we head to dinner.
But we don’t have plenty of time. By the time we finish “a quick bite” at the Sushi Station, it’s 7:15.
Mom shifts into business mode, telling me about a conversation she had with Brody, about the projects coming up, about how proud she is.
Then she orders dessert. And coffee. By the time we reach the Tipsy Turnip, it’s nearly eight.
I feel guilty about being late, but Mom seems so happy. So relaxed. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this way.
The Tipsy Turnip is packed wall-to-wall when we finally arrive. Someone’s butchering “Jingle Bell Rock” on the karaoke stage while the crowd cheers them on.
I scan the room for Ivy. She’s at a high-top table near the back with her sisters, Quinn, and Delphina. When our eyes meet, she gives me a small wave. I wave back, hoping she’ll come over, but she’s deep in a conversation with Merry.
I’m about to suggest we head to Ivy’s table when Griselda introduces herself. “Hi, you must be Dash’s mom. I’m Griselda Alexander.” She gestures to the shorter, curvier woman beside her. “And this is my partner, Marley Jacobs.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Not the Griselda Alexander who appeared in Annie and Matilda on Broadway?”
Griselda smiles, pleased. “The very same.”
“I saw you in Annie! You were incredible.” Mom’s face lights up. “Honey, did you know—?”
“Actually, Mom, I need to talk to Ivy for a minute.”
“Oh, of course! Go, go.” She waves me off, already turning back to Griselda. “Tell me, are you still performing?”
I make it exactly three steps before Mom calls out, “Dasher! Would you get a drink with me first before you run off? I’m parched. And I want to hear all about Griselda’s career.”
I pause, torn. Ivy’s right there. But Mom’s genuinely excited—talking to Griselda about theater, about the life she gave up. How can I say no to that?
“Sure. Just a quick one.”
It takes a while to fight our way to the bar.
Titus stops us to tell Mom about the Cat Cafe.
Autumn Frost pulls us aside to say she’ll drop off my mom’s gift tomorrow since she hasn’t been to the post office yet.
Everyone wants to meet my mother, and she’s gracious with all of them—asking questions, remembering names.
When we finally reach the bar, I order a Frosty IPA for me and a candy cane martini for her. I spot Ivy at the other end of the bar, carrying a steaming mug. I call her name, and she turns to flash me a smile.
I pass my mom her martini and slip away to catch up with Ivy.
“Hot toddy?” I gesture toward her drink.
“Tea with lemon and honey. For Holly.”
“Is she sick?”
She laughs. “No, she’s being competitive. She saw Griselda and Marley drinking it earlier—vocal prep—and said she needed to up her game. She’s in the ladies’ room right now doing warm-ups.”
We both laugh and I’m about to pull her close when my mom appears beside us.
“Ivy, what’s that?” She nods at the mug, curious.
“Herbal tea,” Ivy tells her.
“Oh.” Mom pauses, something flickering across her face. “That’s very mindful.”
“Um, I guess?” Ivy gives me a confused look.
There’s an awkward beat. Then Mom brightens. “Ivy, thank you again for inviting me. This town is delightful.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Ivy says, but I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
“I’d love to do a duet later,” I tell Ivy, trying to bridge the weird moment. “Want to go pick something out?”
“Oh, but you have to sing with me first!” Mom exclaims. “Come on, Dasher. Just one song. I haven’t sung in . Not since—” She stops herself. “Well. It’s been a long time.”
The unspoken ending hangs there: Not since I gave up performing to raise you.
I glance at Ivy, apologetic. She gives me a tight smile. “Go on, sing with your mom. We’ll do ours later.”
Mom’s already heading to Nebula’s table to sign us up.
An hour later, I’ve sung two duets with my mother (she’s fantastic, of course—the whole bar loved her), met approximately two dozen new people, and haven’t had a single real conversation with Ivy.
Every time I try to make my way to her table, something happens. A tourist asks for a photo. Titus wants to confirm Santa Paws details. Mom needs another drink. Or she’s in the middle of a conversation and gestures me over to introduce me.
I’m sure my mother’s not doing it on purpose. She’s just here. Present. And everyone wants to talk to her.
As if I’ve summoned her with the thought, she appears at my elbow. “This town really commits to the season, doesn’t it?” She’s smiling, but there’s something wistful in her voice. “It’s charming. Very ... settled.”
I give her a close look. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She glances toward Ivy, who’s laughing with Quinn. “Your girlfriend is lovely. She fits in here perfectly.”
“She does.”
Mom’s quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Fit in here.” She says it gently. “I’m just trying to understand, honey. This is so different from your life in LA. Do they have theater here? Museums? Culture? The things you’re used to?”
“There’s a theater in Stonebridge. And Manhattan’s not that far.” Why is she asking these questions?
“Of course.” She touches my arm. “I’m not criticizing.” A pause. “I want you to be happy. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“I just worry.” She looks down at her drink. “I can tell you care about Ivy. But you’ve worked hard to get where you are. You need to remember that.”
Before I can respond, Nebula calls my name. Just mine this time.
I look at Mom, confused. “I didn’t sign up for a solo.”
Griselda materializes beside us, grinning. “I did. Surprise! I picked something special. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Hope I know it.”
“Everybody knows it.”
The opening notes start as I take the mic, and I recognize it immediately as a Daniel Lovelace ballad.
It’s one of his Christmas originals from an album that came out nine or ten ago.
I used to play his songs on repeat when I was a teenager—drawn to the rasp in his throat, the way he bent notes. This one especially.
I start singing. The bar quiets—people actually stop talking to listen. It’s that kind of song. Quiet, aching. About missing home and not knowing where home is anymore.
Halfway through the first verse, I spot a man sitting alone in the back corner. Cowboy hat tipped low over his face, nursing a beer. He’s very still.
During the chorus, he sits up straighter. I can’t see his eyes under the hat brim, but I feel him watching.
Then suddenly he’s standing. Moving fast toward the exit. He knocks into someone’s table in his hurry, doesn’t stop to apologize, just pushes out into the night.
He leaves so abruptly I wonder if he’s having a medical emergency. I almost stop singing to check on him. But no one else seems concerned, so I push the worry aside and finish the song.
The applause is generous. Griselda whistles. I wave and scan the room.
Ivy’s pulling on her coat. I start toward her, but then I see my mom at the bar.
She’s pale. Her hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
I change course, immediately worried. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is barely audible. “You sang that beautifully, sweetheart.”
“Do you know the song?”
“No. Why would I?” But she won’t look at me. “I think I need some air.”
She’s out the door before I can offer to go with her.
I look around for Ivy, but her table is empty. She left without saying goodbye.
Frustrated, I push through the crowd and leave the club. Outside, I find Mom standing alone, arms wrapped around herself, staring up at the falling snow. She looks small. Vulnerable.
“Talk to me,” I say quietly.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Mom.”
She finally looks at me. Her mascara’s smudged. “That man. The one in the hat. Did you see him leave?”
“Yeah. During my song. Why?”
“I thought—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. It’s impossible.”
“What is?”
“Nothing.” Her voice breaks. “It’s late. I’m tired. Can you take me home? ”
“Of course.”
We start walking in silence to Ivy’s car. I want to push, to ask what’s wrong, but she looks so fragile. Like she might shatter if I press too hard.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ivy.
“Ivy,” I say, relieved.
“Hi. Merry and I brought your mom’s bag over to the cottage. I’m going to stay at the loft tonight instead of her.”
The words come out rushed, like she’s trying to get through them quickly.
“Ivy—”
“You two clearly have a lot of catching up to do. And I’m exhausted. Besides, Holly and Jack want to clean the loft more thoroughly for your mom because Holly is a certified neat freak.”
I lower my voice, turning slightly away from Mom. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend any time with you tonight.”
“It’s okay. Really. It’s only one night. Are we still on for the gingerbread contest tomorrow at Quinn’s barn?”
“One hundred percent. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good night, Dash.”
She ends the call. I pocket my phone and turn back to Mom. She’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. It’s not worry. Honestly, it looks like satisfaction, but that can’t be it.
“Change of plans,” I tell her. “You’ll stay at the cottage with me tonight.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“I’m sure.” Ivy is, at least.
By the time I park Ivy’s car in the garage and get my Mom settled in the cottage, I’m exhausted and confused.
Mom being here should be a good thing. We’re finally going to have a real Christmas together. But I don’t the growing distance between me and Ivy.
Mom appears in the bedroom doorway. “The bathroom’s all yours.”
I brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. When I step into the bedroom to say goodnight, my mother hugs me tightly.
“I love you, sweetheart,” she says. “You know that, right? Everything I do is because I love you.”
“I know, Mom. I love you, too.”
As I head to the couch, her words echo in my mind.
Why do they sound like an apology?