Chapter 30
“With termites in your smile, you have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch”
Pine, sap, and fresh snow invaded the house as the double front doors burst open. Heavy boots stomped across marble, leaving wet puddles as Greyson, Soren, and Logan wrestled their prize inside.
“You’re bending it!”
“Drop it down!”
“Not that way. The other way, dumbass.”
Wren followed the arctic draft and the path of pine needles to investigate. “Did you get the—oh.” Each brother gripped a different branch of the enormous fir, the tree bound in rope like a captive giant. “I see you went with the Rockefeller Center starter pack.”
Pine needles scattered across the silk Persian rug in a festive massacre as they angled their kill awkwardly in the foyer.
Logan grinned proudly as he looked at her. “You said to get a big tree.”
“I meant big as in normal-sized.”
“Maybe normal-sized in this family is bigger than most.” Soren waggled his brows.
“Oh good, more penis innuendos.” She moved to shut the front doors, but froze at the sight of Soren’s overcompensating—and extremely muddy—luxury SUV. “Car’s a little dirty, Soren.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He shoved the tree with renewed violence, muttering under his breath, “Two fucking pickup trucks and somehow we end up taking my Cadillac.”
“Where are we putting this monster?”
Three sets of eyes turned to Wren. She pointed toward the den where Magnus had his hospital bed arranged. “In there, so your dad can enjoy it.”
Soren snorted. “Yeah, he’s gonna love this.”
They heaved the tree into the den, propping it against the corner with collective grunts.
“What the hell is that?” Magnus barked from his bed, newspaper crumpling in his grip.
“Seriously?” The boys were dirty and in no mood for their father’s unappreciative attitude.
“It’s a tree,” Wren said, rushing into the den. “A Christmas tree.”
“Just what I want—” A wet cough interrupted his tirade, shaking his brittle frame. “A nest of ticks and spiders and God knows whatever else is living in that thing.”
Monica, the housekeeper, materialized with water. “Drink, Mr. Hawthorne. You must have lots of fluids.”
He gulped down several sips before continuing his protest. “How one of the filthiest traditions survived this long is beyond me.”
“He loves it, Wren,” Logan cheered, his cold sarcasm dripping like melted icicles.
Greyson stepped back to assess their handiwork. The tree nearly brushed the ceiling. “How are we standing this sucker up?”
Three expectant faces turned to her and she shrugged. “Don’t you have a stand?”
“We haven’t had a tree in years.”
Greyson’s fingers scratched his jaw as he surveyed the room, memory flickering in his eyes. “It used to go there.” He pointed to the large bow window flanked by the grand fireplace and velvet wingback chairs. “We have to have stuff in the attic.”
“The attic?” Logan whined. “You said we were having a party. This day’s been nothing but work.”
Wren smacked the back of his head. “It’s for your father.”
“Don’t pin this nonsense on my account,” Magnus griped.
“Yeah, he’s thrilled.” Logan rubbed his scalp.
Another gust of cold air cut through the den as the front door opened and Jocelyn’s voice called from the foyer. “Hello?”
Soren stiffened. “What’s she doing here?”
Wren shot Soren a warning glare. “We’re in here, Joce.”
Jocelyn swept in like a winter storm, kicking off stilettos and trailing a cranberry-colored fur coat. “Glaeligr Jól!”
Soren’s face scrunched. “How are you a bestselling author when no one ever knows what you’re talking about?”
“It means happy Yule, dumbass.” She thrust a covered dish forward. “Wren, where do you want this?”
Soren eyed the dish with suspicion. “Back at your house?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Daddy Issues. Just wait until you have a taste.”
“What is it?” Wren lifted the foil, releasing an intriguing blend of sweet and savory aromas.
“Pork and apples—just like the Vikings ate.”
Soren rolled his eyes, picking sap from his nails with studied indifference.
Jocelyn pivoted and noticed Magnus for the first time. The volume of her voice cranked up to a controlled shout, “How are you feeling, Mr. Hawthorne?”
Magnus’s caterpillar brows collided as Wren grabbed Jocelyn’s arm, dragging her toward the kitchen. “He’s sick, not deaf, Joce.”
“Oh. My bad.”
Wren steered her toward the kitchen and added the dish to the growing collection of sides on the marble counter. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course. You know I always love to come.”
Wren shot her a warning look. As much as she adored Jocelyn’s unfiltered, colorful personality and inappropriate humor, today was about creating a healing, wholesome, holiday atmosphere, not a chaotic one. “Try not to fight with Soren today, okay? They’re going through a lot.”
“What are you talking about? I never fight with anyone.”
“Oh, please, you two are always bickering and at each other’s throats.”
“Seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “Just...behave.”
“I’m always behaved.” They held each other’s gaze for exactly two seconds before Jocelyn’s composure dissolved with snorting laughter. “All right. I’ll try to be a good girl.”
“Good would be a miracle. Just try not to fight with him. Come on. We can’t leave them unsupervised for too long.”
Magnus, in his monogrammed sweater, surveyed the chaos from his medical throne, micromanaging his sons. “You’re getting needles everywhere.”
“And joy, Dad. Don’t forget the joy.” Logan examined his sticky palms with disgust. “Hey, how do you get sap off?”
Magnus drew a breath from the oxygen mask. The blanket Wren gave him draped his knees with presidential dignity. “Try soap.”
Wren moved to the other side of the room, where Greyson surveyed the designated tree area.
He seemed less tense, but still reserved whenever in his father’s presence.
None of them chose to spend their day this way, but she hoped the forced merriment might help them face down their demons.
Magnus was still an intimidating presence, but he seemed to be softening the longer his sons stuck around. At least she thought he was.
Grey’s arm hooked around her waist, pulling her against his solid warmth. Gentle breath teased her neck as he pressed a kiss to her pulse and whispered, “What do you think?”
She tilted her head back to study the bound giant. “It’s big.”
“I know. But what do you think about the tree?”
She swatted his chest. “You’re as bad as your brothers. Will you see if you can find a tree stand for it?”
“I’ll take a look.” His fingers traced the shoelace now wrapped around her wrist, their secret burning between them.
Their eyes met, and her smile bloomed. They hadn’t breathed a word about the proposal.
With Magnus’s condition and the family drama, adding engagement news felt like throwing gasoline on a yule log.
Besides, Greyson insisted on replacing the shoelace with a more traditional symbol of his love before they shared the news.
“Logan.” Greyson pointed toward the stairs. “Come on. We’re going into the attic to hunt a tree stand.”
“And anything else Christmas-y that you find!” Wren called after them.
Across the room, Soren and Jocelyn huddled at the wet bar, their whispered conversation punctuated by sharp gestures. Rather than referee whatever battle brewed between them, Wren approached Magnus.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Hawthorne?”
His unimpressed, somewhat bothered disposition hadn’t lightened much since morning, yet she believed he was secretly enjoying the chaos. He lowered the oxygen mask with trembling fingers. “There hasn’t been a tree in this house since Sable was alive.”
She followed his gaze to the wrapped pine. “Maybe it’s time to bring the magic of Christmas back.”
His sharp eyes dissected her as he drew a long pull of oxygen. “How long have you been dating my son?”
Heat crept up her neck. They hadn’t bothered to hide their affection, so she’d expected him to notice, but his directness made her feel as if she were doing something…
inappropriate. She suddenly felt like she was being called into the principal’s office.
“It’s fairly new. But we’ve had feelings for each other for years. ”
“I assume you know about the will.”
“Mr. Hawthorne, this isn’t about…”
“Money?” His laughter crackled like dead leaves. “Everything’s about money, Haven.”
She stiffened. “I’m Wren. Haven was my mother.”
“Right.” Confusion clouded his features. “You look like her.”
Despite his open dislike for her mom, Wren smiled. “Thanks.”
Greyson reappeared, carrying their holiday haul of boxes and bags from the local shops. Logan followed with a tattered attic box that looked one sneeze away from disintegration.
“Where should we put them?”
“Over there.” She gestured to the floor. “Did you find a stand?”
“We found something. I don’t know how good it’ll work, but I’m sure I can rig it.”
Jocelyn wandered over, cocktail in hand. “Oooh, someone went shopping. What’d you get?”
Wren sorted through the various boxes, revealing the new dinner plates they bought. “This one goes to the kitchen. Soren?”
He retrieved the box of dishes and carried it off.
“That’s a good pup,” Jocelyn praised, and Wren rolled her eyes.
“You love to pick on him.”
“Meh, low hanging fruit. He makes it so easy.”
“You know, he took care of you a couple weeks ago when you were drunk. He could have left you there.”
“I’m aware of what he did. I have cameras.”
It wasn’t like Jocelyn to cut her off so concisely, but the look on her face told Wren she didn’t want to talk about her embarrassing episode at The Chowder House. It must have ended pretty rough for her not to make light of what happened.
Letting the topic drop, she revealed their treasures from town. “Look how cute these are.” Wren unwrapped the collection of ceramic Santas, handblown stars, and tiny porcelain boats with meticulously stitched Hideaway Harbor flags. “Aren’t they adorable?”