Chapter 16 Holly
Holly
The sugar cookies need borders.
I pipe white icing around each edge—snowflakes, trees, bells—filling the bakery's glass case with December. My hands move automatically, steady and sure even when the rest of me isn't.
“Those are beautiful, sweetheart,” Mom says, wiping down the counter behind me.
“Mmm.”
She doesn't ask why I've been here for days. Doesn't ask why I'm staying in my old room instead of going back to the city. Doesn't ask about the photo or Evan or any of it.
The Bennett family specialty: giving each other space until we're ready to talk.
The door chimes. Mrs. Crawford bustles in, already unwrapping her scarf.
“Holly! I didn't know you were still in town. How wonderful.” She leans closer, eyes bright with hunger for news. “I saw you in that photo online. With that handsome young man at the theater! How romantic.”
I add borders to another snowflake. “Just helping out with the festival, Mrs. Crawford.”
“But you two looked so—”
“What can we get you today, Mrs. Crawford?” Mom intercepts smoothly, and I could kiss her.
“Oh, the usual. And maybe two of those snowflake cookies for my grandchildren.”
I box them carefully, hand them over, and smile until my face hurts.
By noon, I've decorated forty-seven cookies and answered variations of the same question eleven times.
Marie asked yesterday if Evan is coming back for the rest of the festival this weekend, and to see her final show.
“He's busy with foundation things,” I'd said.
The words came out flat. Wrong. But Marie just nodded and went back to practicing her pirouettes in the kitchen.
I'm reaching for another cookie when my hand slips. Icing smears across the snowflake's perfect edge.
I stare at it. The first imperfect cookie all morning.
For a second I consider leaving it. Putting it in the case anyway, letting one thing be less than perfect.
Instead I scrape off the icing and start over.
My phone rings while I'm boxing pastries in the back room.
Mabel Bellamy.
“Mrs. Bellamy? Is everything alright?”
“Perfectly fine, dear. But my nephew Will is planning an enormous event for some dog adoption charity or another. Spring timeline. Out of his depth, poor thing.”
“Dog charity?”
“You remember Yappy Hour, of course.” Mabel's voice warms with amusement. “Well, I have a weakness for anything with four legs, and Will's exploiting it shamelessly.”
I reach for my phone's notes app, already thinking logistics. “Where is this?”
“The city for now, but he’s planning to move it all to some tiny town a few hours from here after the event. Riverside? Riverside Falls? Something with water. Says that’s where the dogs need him most. Tech money, you understand. Sold some app about dogs.”
“An app. About dogs?”
“Don't ask me to explain technology, dear. All I know is he's rich enough to fund this rescue nonsense and sweet enough that I can't say no. Will you help him? Consider it a personal favor.”
I should ask for details. Timeline, budget, scope. I should ask if this conflicts with my existing commitments. I should think about whether I have the bandwidth for a project this size.
Instead I say, “Of course. Please send me his information.”
“Wonderful. Oh, and Holly?” Mabel pauses. “Don't let his down-to-earth charm fool you. The boy's worth billions. He just doesn't like people knowing.”
After we hang up, I stand in the back room surrounded by pastry boxes and the lingering smell of cinnamon.
Filling my calendar. Stacking projects for spring. Keeping myself busy enough that I don't have to think about the fact that Evan hasn't called.
That I haven't called him either.
Upstairs in my room, I open Mabel's email with Will's information. The project is massive, complex. I skim the details—spring timeline, huge scale, the kind of challenge I love.
My phone buzzes. Emma.
Emma
How are you doing?
Fine. Busy. Got another project for the spring. Something to dive into.
That's great! Want to come over for dinner tomorrow? Tom's making his famous chili.
Can't. Helping at the bakery.
Holly.
What?
You can't hide in cookies forever.
My phone rings. Sarah, a wedding coordinator I've worked with on at least a dozen events. She's sharp, funny, and doesn't tolerate nonsense. She's also plugged into every professional network in the region, which means she's most certainly seen the photo.
“Holly! How are you? Are you taking new clients for spring?”
Not what I expected. “I—yes? Potentially. Why?”
“The Dawsons want to hire you for their thirtieth anniversary party. April timeline, about two hundred guests, they're thinking garden party situation but they're flexible.”
“The Dawsons?” I open my laptop, already pulling up my calendar. “From the Walsh wedding?”
“The same. Apparently they were impressed by how you handled that blizzard situation.” Sarah pauses. “Also, they saw the photo.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “And they still want to hire me?”
“Holly.” Sarah's voice shifts—still professional, but warmer. “You survived a social media moment with class. You didn't issue some performative statement. You didn't over-share. You just ... let it blow over. That's how you know someone's a real professional.”
“But people must think I'm just—” I can't finish the sentence.
“What, a social climber? Please.” Sarah laughs. “You reorganized the Harborview Hotel’s entire vendor system in three hours when their coordinator quit mid-event. You made the Walsh wedding happen during an actual blizzard. You're good at what you do. That's why people hire you.”
I lean back in my chair, phone pressed to my ear.
“Also—between us?” Sarah says. “I've been rooting for you two since I saw that photo. You looked happy. Really happy. I hope you figure it out.”
“Sarah—”
“I know, I know. None of my business. But I had to say it.” She's back to business mode. “Now, about the Dawsons.”
We talk through preliminary details—potential dates, venue options, their style preferences. By the time we hang up, I have three pages of notes and a calendar hold for their initial consultation.
I can't help but open my message window. I scroll back through our text conversations like they might tell me something I don't already know.
Saturday, December 21st, 11:47 PM:
Marie says Josh is tapping through every class. Driving his teacher crazy.
Evan
Tell the teacher it builds rhythm.
She says it builds a headache.
Valid.
Goodnight, tap dance enabler.
Goodnight.
That was the last normal conversation. Before the photo. Before everything.
I open a new email.
Subject: About the photo
Evan,
I know you didn't orchestrate what happened. I know Jocelyn didn't mean any harm—she saw something beautiful and wanted to share it. I've been in this industry long enough to understand that impulse, even if I wish she'd asked first.
What I'm trying to say is: I'm not angry about the photo anymore. I was never angry at you. I was angry at myself for caring so much about what it looked like from the outside—when what mattered was how it felt from the inside.
Which was real. It felt real.
I think I ruined that though. I think I took something that was real and turned it into a problem that needed solving, and now I don't know how to—
I stop typing. My fingers keep slipping on the keys.
This isn't right. Still too much explaining. Still trying to logic my way through something that was never about logic.
I highlight everything below the subject line.
Delete.
I close the laptop.
I know what I have to do.