Chapter 24 Vanessa #2
“I already finished mine,” I say. “Once you finish with yours and they bake, we can pass this tray to the other set of twins.” I smile at Blaine and Amelia.
“I don’t want to share,” Amelia says. “Blaine will yell at me for adding too many colors, and then they run together.”
“Hers looked like Picasso painted them at Thanksgiving,” Blaine says. “And she’s always in a hurry.”
“You can join us,” Bryce says. “I love Picasso.” Hannah waves her over.
Blaine’s sigh is heavy. “I guess I’ll do my own tray again, then.” She’s a little dramatic. I worry about what will happen when she’s a teenager.
“You did these at Thanksgiving as well?” Mrs. Shanahan asks. “Do you do them for every holiday?”
I shrug. “We make them for a lot of holidays. Thanksgiving, when we have time. Easter for sure. Christmas, always. Sometimes Valentine’s Day.”
She frowns. “How special.”
“We’d never done them before this year,” Natalie says. “But my kids want to do them for every holiday now. It’s fun, and I like that when they cool they’re all shiny but they have way less added sugar than frosted sugar cookies. Creativity, plus a little healthier? It’s a win for me.”
“I don’t think you can call cookies healthy, even without frosting,” Mrs. Shanahan says.
“I can call the sky brown and the floor marshmallows,” Natalie says, one eyebrow quirked, “because I’m an adult, and no one tells me what to do or say.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get you a tray for your marshmallow floor and your brown sky.” I grab her arm and steer her to the corner before she can maul Jack’s mother. “Let’s tone it down, Brutus.”
Natalie laughs. “If you won’t defend yourself from that bully, I will.” She frowns. “It would be nice if Jack would. I thought he stepped up with those moms.”
It’s harder with our own family, I think, but now isn’t the time. I shake my head, and whisper, “Shush.”
“I make no promises,” Natalie says.
I’ve barely calmed Natalie down when I notice that Sam’s painting the same cookie over and over. Her tray has six cookies on it. A large gingerbread man, next to a small one. A large Christmas tree, next to a small one. And a snowman next to a mitten.
The snowman and the mitten are probably fine, but the others make me nervous.
Also, the fact that all of them are blue isn’t great.
Every last one. Sam’s not exactly Thomas Kinkade, but at Thanksgiving, she made the prettiest cookies on the plates.
Her turkeys had stunning and defined feathers.
Her pumpkin had vines at the top and lines with shaded orange and yellow streaks.
These blue blobs look. . .depressing.
“Hey, Sam.” I bump her hip with mine. “How’s it coming?”
She startles. “Great. Yeah.” She nods, but she keeps staring at the cookies. I notice her shirt is on inside out.
“Cool, cool. I thought you might want to go for a ride later.” I grit my teeth. “In the new arena. I haven’t done much with Foxy lately.”
She freezes, and then she turns slowly. “Wait, really?”
That worked better than I expected. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Tonight?” Her brow furrows. “When we’re done with cookies?”
“Right,” I say. “Yes. As soon as we’re done.” I toss my head. “Are yours almost done? Because they look. . .” I clear my throat. “Are they almost done?”
Samantha turns back to the cookies, and her eyes widen. “Oh.”
I suppress my laugh. “Yeah, I think you might have gotten a little distracted.”
“Maybe a hair.” She grimaces. “I wonder whether I can fix them.”
“We can fix anything,” I say. “Because Samantha North’s epic, remember?”
“Stiber now,” she says.
“Right. Samantha Stiber.”
She snaps her head sideways. “Do you think I’d be a good mother?”
I almost drop the cookie cutter I’m holding. “Of course I do.” I nod. “The very best.”
“I always wondered whether God didn’t give me children because I wouldn’t do a good job with them.”
“That’s not what He does,” Mrs. Shanahan says. “He gives lots of people children who do terrible jobs.” She glances at Trace, then, and turns toward me.
Samantha may be vulnerable right now, but she notices, too. “My friends whom God gave children are all amazing with them.” She glares. “But I suppose you’re right. Lots of children don’t have the best homes.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Shanahan says. “That’s all I was saying. You don’t have children?”
Sam shakes her head.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She steps closer. “They’re one of life’s great joys.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Sam charms Mrs. Shanahan thoroughly. Mrs. Shanahan also manages to say the right thing, apparently, because Samantha’s actually laughing as they try to repair her blued-out cookies together.
Strangely, watching them get along so well sort of triggers me.
When Sam finishes and puts her cookies in to bake, and I start cleaning up from the melee, I find myself somehow depressed.
Our little gathering went well. Mrs. Shanahan had a good time, and so did Samantha.
Quinn took a big plate with her, and all the kids are happy.
My chili, which is not a normal thing to eat here in Ireland, was a big hit, and the kids all ate it without arguing before gorging themselves on cookies, even Ryan and Rory.
I should be delighted.
Instead, I find myself getting more and more upset as I clean and prepare to go ride, as I promised I would.
Maybe I’m cranky because I’m riding. Maybe my nerves from hosting have left me frayed.
But the more Jack checks in on me, the more upset I get.
Once Quinn leaves, and his mother makes her goodbyes, and Natalie finally drags her kids out, with a promise to join us for a ride, I feel totally spent.
“You’re riding later?” Jack looks disappointed. “I thought we might let the kids play and watch a movie.”
“Well, my friend needed me,” I say. “She was practically despondent, and the offer of a ride snapped her out of it.”
Jack swallows. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to guilt you. I’m happy to hear you’re riding.”
“Sure.” Why am I so mad?
“Well, I know you need to go change soon to meet them at the barn, but I had something for you.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll just pop out and get it and be right back.”
“Can we do this later?” I’m irritated with him. I’m not sure why, but I am. Clearly. “I’m running late already, and I’m nervous about riding in an arena, I guess.”
Jack stares at me for a moment. “Are we okay?”
I sigh.
He steers me out the front door and closes it. Thankfully Trina hauled Rory and Ryan into her room where they’re making some kind of horrible marble maze that will take me an hour to clean up later. “What’s going on? Did I do something?”
It hits me then. He didn’t do anything. “No.”
“What, then?” He shakes his head. “Did I not do something?”
“Your mother was being—she has been really awful to me in the past. Our tea did not go well, and she’s managed to corner me in other places, and I didn’t want to tell you, because I want her to like me, but then today, she just loves Sam, and you didn’t even seem to notice,” I finish lamely.
Like he somehow should have noticed that I was being bullied in secret or that his mother liking Sam would upset me.
“It’s not rational. I’m sorry.” But then I start to cry.
Like a total idiot.
He hugs me. “It’s hard with her, always. I’m sorry.”
“You defended me against the moms,” I say, still bawling. “You stepped in like a boss.” I hiccup, which is horrifying. “I guess I just thought you’d do that with your mom, but you didn’t.”
He sighs, pats my back and steps back a little, enough that I can see his face. “With her, I have no idea what to say. Nothing I do or say will matter, so it’s a waste of time. She just is who she is.”
And now it feels like he’s saying I’m not worth it.
“It’s just. . .it’s easier for me not to be around her, and not to let you be around her. Nothing I say can change her, whereas with the moms at school, if they keep being mean, I’ll just quit coaching.”
“You could tell your mother what she’s doing or saying that’s rude and that if she keeps it up, she’ll be invited to fewer and fewer things.”
He blinks.
“I mean, it’s the same thing, just with your mom, right?”
He swallows, and I realize. . .he’s scared of her. Scared might not be the right word, but it’s close. Unlike the moms, he can’t stand up to her. For a moment, I want to break up.
Because I will be dealing with this forever.
As long as I’m with him.
She’s his mom.
And she’s a raging jerk.
He can’t or won’t fix it, so I’ll be stuck dealing with it from now on.
“Jack, I think maybe—”
“No.” He hugs me again. “Don’t break up with me over this. I can do better.”
How did he know? I hadn’t even said anything.
“I know she’s horrible, and I know I don’t stand up to her, but I can do better. I can.”
“The thing is, she’s your mom. You shouldn’t have to, and she does like some people. She loved Sam.”
“My mom loves to be better than people. She loves broken things she can lord her superiority over. She liked Sam because she admitted she had no kids and wanted them.” He sighs. “My mom’s a bully, and she has self-esteem issues, so she likes to be around people she can make smaller.”
I blink. “You—you know all that?”
“I’m realizing it, anyway,” he says. “Thanks to you, mostly. You truly care for your kids, and you never want to hurt them or anyone around them. Trish is the same way. My mom’s not like that, but I want that in my home.
I want you in my home and around my kids.
Please, please be patient. Please give me some time to figure out how to help the right way. ”
I watch his earnest eyes, his willingness to try. “Of course,” I say. “Yes.”
He beams. “I know you have to go, and this was supposed to be for Christmas, but I just picked it up, and. . .” He darts off.
Two seconds later, after opening the trunk of his car, he’s back, lugging a large cloth-covered saddle.
The cover says Stübben on it. “Samantha helped me choose it. It was fitted for Foxy.”
He bought me my own saddle. “But I’ve barely been riding.”
“Sam said you’d sit better in a saddle properly fitted for you and your horse.”
“My—” I shake my head. “She’s just one of the estate horses.”
“Well, don’t tell her I told you. Your friends had her papers put in your name.” He smiles. “Your surprises for this year were that and the cottage. They’re good friends.”
I’m crying again, but this time it’s the good kind.