Chapter 12
twelve
HOLDEN
“You were quiet at dinner.”
“Just tired, Mom.”
She follows me out to my truck, something she usually only does when she’s got something on her mind. And since she’s never been one to not speak her mind, the silence makes me uneasy.
“Are you happy, lásko?”
Mom doesn’t use that endearment often anymore—love—but it still makes me smile. You’re never too old for comfort.
“Yes, Mom. I’m happy. Don’t worry about me.”
She’s where McKenna gets her small stature, so when she glances up at me, she’s got to crane her neck. I surpassed her in height and had to bend to hug her around ten. Her face screams ‘you’re full of it’ as she presses a stack of Tupperware into my arms.
“You might think you’re happy.”
“I know I’m happy.” The lie tastes a little like cinnamon left too long in the pan—sweet, but bitter around the edges.
With a chuckle, I juggle the containers into one arm so I can wrestle the truck door open. “The bakery is doing great. You and Dad are going to love your trip. I’m glad you’re finally taking one.”
It took months to convince the bakery wouldn’t crumble without them. They’ve earned this retirement. Dad’s always wanted to see the Grand Canyon; Mom’s wanted to see the bakeries of Prague. It suits them. They’re two people who couldn’t be more different, but somehow made it work.
My parents are proof that opposites don’t just attract; they build.
They’re both native Texans, but Mom still has one foot in the Old World.
Maybe that’s where I get it—the tug between old roots and new dreams. Laila feels it too, even if she’d never say so out loud.
We’re a blend of both old and new. At first glance, we probably look a little confusing, especially when neither our first nor last names shout our heritage.
But it’s here in the land, in our traditions, in our food, our middle names.
Dad fell in love with Mom thirty-some odd years ago, although he’d never worked land a day in his life. But he slipped right into their family and learned everything he needed to for the day they took over for her parents.
They started the bakery together, and it was hard for them to hand it off to us.
There are still odd days here and there when they show up, ready to work in the early morning hours.
We let them, because the bakery is just as much their legacy as each of ours.
But I think seeing that it’s in capable hands helps ease their peace of mind.
When I was a kid, I thought they were perfect. As an adult, I know better. They just worked hard at trying.
“Mom,” I ask suddenly, “how did you and Dad make it work? I’m sure a lot of people thought you were too different. Didn’t that scare you?”
She tips her head, surprised. I rarely ask questions like this.
“Of course it did,” she says, her voice as soft as her expression. “But your father always said fear is just love in disguise. You’re afraid of losing something that truly matters to you.”
She adjusts the old shawl that Piper from the bridal shop knitted her as a side project, carrying the scent of yeast, butter, and vanilla from the kitchen.
“It took a lot of patience with each other. He taught me how to appeal to the hearts of people, and I taught him to knead dough until it listened. My family taught us both to love this land.”
I grin at her. “That sounds like something I can understand.”
“See, honey? It’s all the same recipe. You just have to get the proportions right.”
“You’re right, Mama,” I murmur.
She sobers a little. “It’s been a while since I reminded you, but I think you need to hear it again: some people are like bread, zlato. They need time, warmth, and space to rise.”
Love and honey in the same conversation. She’s definitely worried about me.
But it’s good advice, even though I didn’t need to be reminded. I know this about Laila.
“Why do you think I need to hear it?” I ask.
“Because you’ve got that look of love, lásko.” She says it like she’s caught me red-handed, dough and all. “It’s obvious to your mama. But you also look sad, and so I need to remind you of one more thing. Do you remember that study your father was talking about?”
Dad talks about a lot of studies, so this feels a bit like fishing blind.
“Could you give me a little more context?”
She huffs and sets her hands on her hips. “The one about the words. When you said the mean things, the bread molded faster, and when you said the loving things, the bread was fine.”
“Mom, that wasn’t a controlled experiment—”
She crosses her arms; her face a serious scowl. “Words matter, Holden Samuel Lockwood. Patience and caring can only go so far. Sometimes you need to use words.”
“Maybe I have used words.” She’s got me feeling twelve again—like I burned the bread after trying to do my own thing instead of listening to her.
“Maybe you have. But perhaps they weren’t the right ones.”
Maybe that’s why I keep thinking about the things I never say, the ones that get stuck somewhere between my heart and my hands. Maybe someday I’ll find a way to send them.
I don’t love what she’s insinuating. Laila knows I love her, but maybe she doesn’t believe it. That’s a hard pill to swallow, but there’s a difference. Enough that it could be the difference between staying and running.
“I’ll think about it, Mom.”
“One more thing,” she says, and I brace myself because with her, one thing usually means five.
I’d like to think that I’m not so obvious in my feelings, but these are the people who know me best. They’re the reason I’m always trying to squeeze in new traditions with Laila—our family is full of them.
“I’m listening.”
“If you let something go, and it comes back to you, it was meant for you. If not, it never was.”
“Mom, with all due respect…I didn’t come here for a bunch of cliched advice. I came for dinner with the people I love.”
“And I love you.” She steps forward and reaches for my face.
I bend so she can reach it, and she gently presses her hands to my cheeks.
She smells like dish soap and honey, the Lockwood version of holy water.
“If you don’t want to talk to me about it?
That’s okay. But listen. I want you to be happy, like your father and I. He was brave and told me how he felt.”
“That was different—”
“No,” she says fiercely. “No, zlato. Love is love. You tell her. And when things smooth out, you’ll bring her to dinner so we can all love her, too.”
I can almost smell her perfume mixing with the faint sweetness of yeast and honey wafting from the house, laughter spilling through the screen door. For a second, it feels close enough to touch.
I swallow the lump in my throat. She’s painting a picture I won’t be able to forget: Laila at the oversized table my dad and brothers carved to make room for our expanding family.
Standing beside my mother in the kitchen, washing dishes, or laughing at Logan’s terrible jokes.
Breezing through the door with McKenna after an afternoon of shopping.
Stealing glances at me over French toast made from freshly baked bread.
Simple, everyday forever.
“After the wedding, Mom. I promise.”
“That’s my boy. Now get that food put up before it goes bad.”
As I slide into the driver’s seat, her words linger. Laila needs time, warmth, space, and the courage to tell her exactly how I feel. What I want.
Our time together this week has been tough, but we’ve managed alright. There’s a learning curve to any relationship, and ours will definitely have to weather a few bumpy spots before we find a rhythm that can handle our schedules.
But I know for certain that I want that.
Laila belongs here—in Enchanted Hollow, with me. It’s where she thrives. She asked me why I let her leave, and this time, I don’t want to.
We’ve got too much to gain.
Fear might still be love in disguise, but I’m done letting it hide.