Chapter 25
Sugar and Spice and Sacrifice
Ivy
Properly caffeinated and powered by sugar, I take a quick shower and help myself to a thick fisherman sweater from Holly’s perfectly organized closet.
Since I’m about half a foot shorter than her, I style it as a dress.
Then I jam my feet back into the torture boots, throw on my coat, and run out the door.
It’s a short walk to the flower shop, but my bare legs are numb and frozen by the time I get there.
I strike gold when I’m rummaging in a drawer for a skein of twine.
I’d tossed a pair of black leggings in there forever ago so that I could catch a class at Maple Twist if an unexpected pocket of time ever opened up.
That never happened, but I’m thrilled with the find and wriggle out of the boots to put on the leggings under the sweater dress.
I congratulate myself on my fashion resourcefulness while I pack up the day’s deliveries. Farah’s offered to handle them for me, so I leave the box on the counter along with a note and a generous tip. My customers will tip her, too, but I know how expensive her textbooks are.
I whip through the rest of my work in record time, eager to get to the cottage early enough to have a heart-to-heart with Dash before we have to leave for the MacIntosh Farm. With any luck, Noelle and Dad can show Rachel around the inn while we talk.
While I’m locking the door, I spot a handful of photographers on the corner. So I turn and give them a wave and a friendly smile. In just a few short days, I’ve become accustomed to their near-omnipresence.
“Ivy, things must be getting serious between you and Dash if his mom’s here,” Shane calls. “Any comment?”
I widen my grin but say nothing. Dash told me to never say no comment, but to let them speculate. Speculation drives page views, apparently.
With my entourage of cameramen in tow, I hurry down High Street and turn the corner to head to the cottage. I’m actually looking forward to laying everything out with Dash. My sisters are right. I’ve come this far, I can’t shrink back into my shell now.
At the cottage, when I start to tap in the code on the keyless lock, the door swings open.
“Dash?” I call as I step inside.
No answer.
“Dash?”
The bedroom door opens. Rachel walks out, her expression expectant. When she sees me, it falls. “Oh, hi, Ivy. I heard the door. I thought you were Dasher.”
“He’s not here?”
She shakes her head. “No. He, um, needed some time to himself.”
This is a wrinkle. Now what? I check the clock on my phone. If I can track him down quickly, we’ll still have time to talk before we need to be at Quinn’s. I just need to hand Rachel off to Noelle and Dad.
Before I can suggest a visit to the inn, she ducks back into the bedroom and emerges with her bag and her coat.
“Can you take me to the loft, please?”
I can’t exactly tell her no. And, honestly, it solves the problem of finding something for her to do. Maybe she wants to take a nap or check her emails or something. Whatever it is, she’s welcome to do it at Holly’s place.
“Sure.” I find my key ring in the glossy red bowl on the counter and scoop up my keys.
She’s silent as she follows me to the car, silent as we zip over to the loft, silent as I park in Holly’s reserved spot. I ask her a handful of questions that she manages to answer by nodding or shaking her head and one shrug. I give up, and we climb the stairs to the apartment in silence.
Inside, I spot the bakery box on the coffee table. Surely, a sweet treat will end our extended game of charades.
“Rachel, would you like a pastry or cookie? My sister baked them.”
I’m halfway across the room to grab them when she says, “No, thank you. I had some … some … toast.” The word toast turns into a wail, and she bursts into tears.
Her shoulders shake. She drops her bag on the floor and buries her face in her hands.
I stand, frozen, in the living room for a moment, trying to think of something helpful to say. I land on, “I’m sorry? … About the toast?”
She hiccups and raises her head to stare at me. Then she bursts out laughing.
Great, Dash’s mom is having an emotional meltdown and I have no idea where he is.
“Oh, you’re funny.” She manages a wistful smile.
I am? I have no idea what’s funny about this situation.
“Can I get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?” Or a therapist? A priest? The number for a good boulangerie?
“Dasher and I had an argument and he left,” she says in response.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Maybe he’s at Quinn’s already? The gingerbread contest starts soon.”
Her face brightens with desperate hope. “Could you take me there? Please?”
I want to say no. I want to find Dash on my own, talk to him privately. But she’s looking at me with those dark eyes—Dash’s eyes—and I can’t refuse.
“Of course.”
“Thank you!” She heads for the bathroom, gesturing toward her red, puffy eyes. “I need to touch up my makeup first. I’ll be quick.”
While she’s gone, I sink onto Holly’s white couch and look around the loft.
It’s beautiful in a sterile, magazine-spread way.
Everything is beige and cream and perfectly arranged.
No photos of her and Jack. No messy piles of books or coffee mugs left on side tables. Literally anyone could live here.
When Rachel emerges, her energy has shifted. She looks determined. Her expression is pleasant, but her shoulders are back and there’s an intensity behind her eyes.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” she replies, then she sweeps past me to the door.
The MacIntosh Farm barn is aglow with white lights strung across the exposed beams. A dozen large wreaths hang around the barn—three on each wall.
I made them from fragrant white pine and sugared cranberries.
Their aroma complements the scents of gingerbread, peppermint, and vanilla that waft through the warm barn.
Four rows of tables covered with red and white striped tablecloths stand ready for action, holding the necessary components to create a gingerbread masterpiece.
Dash isn’t here.
I scan the barn again, hoping I missed him somehow. But no—he’s not here.
Beside me, Rachel’s shoulders slump as she realizes the same thing.
Then I spot the photographers near the entrance, cameras at the ready, and my heart thumps.
“If he stands you up, it looks bad,” Rachel murmurs, giving voice to my exact thought.
Our eyes meet and we wordlessly agree to protect the public narrative we’ve both helped create.
“We could say we planned to partner together,” I suggest. “The two most important women in Dash’s life want a chance to get to know each other.”
“That’s perfect.” Relief floods her face.
We claim the last empty table just as Quinn rings the cowbell to start. Around us, teams spring into action—sorting candy, piping icing, fitting gingerbread walls together. The room buzzes with excited chatter and laughter.
Rachel and I work in awkward silence at first. I pipe a careful line of white icing along one wall edge while she holds two gingerbread pieces steady. We’re building a small cottage—nothing elaborate. Just a simple house with a peaked roof and a red candy door.
“You’re good at this,” she says, watching me create scalloped shingles with green icing.
“I like detail work.” I hand her a bowl of mini marshmallows. “These can be snow on the roof.”
She presses them carefully into place, one by one. Her hands are shaking slightly.
“Ivy,” she says after a long pause. “Can I be honest with you?”
My stomach tightens. “Of course.”
“You seem like a lovely person. And I can see why Dasher is drawn to you and to this town, this life. It’s charming.” She adds a peppermint to the path leading to our door. “But he has a life in Los Angeles. A career he’s worked toward since he was six old.”
I focus on piping white icicles along the roof edge. “I know, Rachel.”
“Do you?” Her voice is gentle but urgent. “There’s a role—the lead in the new Lin-Manuel Miranda musical. It’s Dasher’s dream. The audition is next week and he won’t commit to it. Because of you.”
The icicle I’m piping goes crooked. I set down the piping bag.
“I didn’t ask him to give up his career.”
“Maybe not intentionally.” She places a gumdrop window with precision. “But staying here means walking away from opportunities. From everything we’ve—everything he’s—worked for.”
“I don’t want that.” I force the words past the hard lump in my throat.
“I know it’s hard to think about letting him go.” Her hand covers mine briefly. “Especially given your … situation. Believe me, I know better than anyone.”
My situation? I have no idea what she means, but the sympathy in her eyes makes my chest ache. Maybe them spending Christmas here is a bigger deal than I realize?
“Did you?” I ask quietly. “Let someone go?”
She swallows. “Dash’s father. I was young—younger than you. I loved him.” She places a chocolate kiss on our chimney. “But he had dreams. And I was pregnant with Dasher. I had to choose what was best for him and best for me and the baby, not what I wanted.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I still love him,” she says simply. “But he got to pursue his dreams. And I got Dasher.” She looks at me. “That’s what real love is, Ivy. Wanting what’s best for someone, even when it breaks your heart.”
Around us, teams are laughing, showing off their creations. Cameras flash as photographers capture the festive chaos. Rachel and I smile for them, two happy women decorating a gingerbread cottage. Meanwhile my world crumbles.
We finish in silence. Our cottage is sweet and simple—a red door, marshmallow snow, a chocolate kiss chimney. It looks like a home filled with love.