11. Carter
Chapter eleven
Carter
The scent of gingerbread permeated the air.
Normally, Carter would hurry to the kitchen and snag a cookie from Tiny, but he had something he needed to deal with that couldn’t wait.
He ran up the stairs and took long strides down the hall.
Once he reached Bill’s office, he didn’t even bother to knock.
He marched into the large office and tossed the bag onto his desk.
Bill glanced up from the paperwork he was reading over, eyebrow arched. “That was a little aggressive.”
“You need to tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re sick.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. “The only way you would know that was if you’ve been snooping through my desk.”
“You left it smack in the middle. You were practically begging me to look.”
“Who else knows? Ashley?”
“No, which is why you have to tell her. I have my own—” He ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s not my place, and I don’t want to lie to her.”
“Hurts to lie to someone you love.”
His head snapped toward his boss, and while he tried to keep his composure, the speed of his shock was too obvious to ignore. “That’s neither here nor there.”
“I’d say it’s very much here, and you can’t continue to ignore it. My Lily always said, ‘if you let a problem fester, it will eat you alive.’”
“Which is exactly why you should be taking her advice. You have to tell the family.”
“So no one else knows?”
“Ms. Porter, as if you didn’t know. She saw the same envelope. As far as I know, she’s only discussed it with me.” Carter paced, coming to a stop in front of the desk. “Is this why you faked your death? You didn’t think the truth would get them here?”
“The truth would have made some of them dance with joy. I’m worth more to them dead than I am alive.”
“Only because you pushed them away.”
Bill’s jaw tightened, the lines around his mouth deepening. “I gave those children everything.”
“You gave them money. It’s not the same thing.”
Outside the windows, snow blew across the grounds of Winterridge, softening the world below while the tension inside the office thickened.
Bill diverted his gaze to the fire crackling in the hearth. “You think I don’t know that? I was never grandfatherly or fatherly. That’s why they had Lily.”
“You offer more than money.”
He swatted his hand at Carter, but Carter held his ground.
“You’ve always done right by me, and I’m not talking about the job.
I’m talking about sneaking me cookies when my dad wasn’t looking, giving me advice, and when I was old enough, offering me a scotch after a particularly bad day.
You have your moments, even if you are an asshole ninety percent of the time. ”
“Other people have been fired for less.”
“You’d never fire me.”
“No?”
“No, because you like when I tell you the truth. I don’t tiptoe around you and your feelings. You need me, and whether or not you want to believe it, your family needs you.”
He let out a long breath, and for the first time since Carter had known him, Bill looked tired. “My family hates me.”
“They hate how you acted. There is a difference. They’re here now. Don’t waste your chance to make things right. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud. Go… I don’t know… build a gingerbread house with them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. Tiny is already making gingerbread; I’ll tell her to whip up a bunch for everyone to decorate. We can even have the staff judge their favorites.”
“What the hell do we look like? The Cleavers?”
“No. You look like the Wetherbys, a family who has had a black cloud over Christmas for the last eight years. It’s time to pop it. Time to be honest with them and move on.”
“And what about you?” Bill asked, leaning back in his chair.
A frown pulled Carter’s lips downward. “What about me?”
“You should take your own advice.”
“And what advice is that?”
“Time to be honest. Tell Ashley what really happened.”
His shoulders stiffened. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday.” Bill folded his hands on his stomach. “I have eyes and ears all over this estate. I’m not as naive as you think I am.”
Carter scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Sir, with all due respect, Ashley and I—”
“Are idiots.”
“What? No. It’s just… that was a long time ago.”
Bill gave a dismissive wave. “Eight days or eight years, the heart doesn’t care.”
Carter looked toward the window, snow drifting past the glass. “We’re from two very different worlds.”
“You both have roots here that to me is the same world.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Listen to me. I was a nobody from Long Island. I didn’t make a name for myself until after I met my Lily. She loved both men. The failure and the success. All money does is make birthdays and holidays a little more extravagant. Other than that, there’s not much difference.”
“It’s easy to say when you have money.”
“About that—” Bill’s phone rang, and he sighed before answering.
Bill grabbed the paperwork he had been looking at, and Carter took his leave. At the door, he turned back and said, “I’ll get Tiny started with the gingerbread right away, sir.”
Carter didn’t wait for a response.
The sound of a pen striking the doorframe behind him told him exactly what Bill thought of the idea. A smile stretched across his face as he headed to the kitchen. Whether or not Bill wanted to, he was going to build a damn gingerbread house with his family.
The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of gingerbread became.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten more than the muffin he had confiscated from the breakfast table this morning.
The warm scent carried him back to Christmases when Ashley had spent more time in the kitchen than anywhere else, stealing bits of dough, dusting flour across his nose, and laughing every time Ms. Porter threatened to ban them both.
The memory stayed with him as he entered the kitchen.
Luca, impeccably dressed as usual, sat with Clint and Wendell at the table, sipping coffee and playing a game of Texas Hold'em.
Clint looked as weathered as an old saddle, his cowboy hat tossed onto the table beside him, while Wendell studied his cards with the same quiet patience he did when Carter discussed the grounds with him.
Carter was smart enough not to join. Those three might as well have been card sharks. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d lost to them over the years. He finally stopped trying.
“Want to get in on this, Carter?” Luca asked, throwing two cards on the table.
“I’ve learned my lesson.” He stepped around Celia, who was rushing off with fresh bed linens.
“Don’t forget to tuck tight, dear.” Ms. Porter said from her perch at the end of the counter, a needle and thread in one hand and a pair of pants in the other.
Tiny stood at the other end, rolling sheets of gingerbread with aggressive movements.
“Tiny,” Carter said as he approached. She didn’t seem to hear him, just kept rolling out the same spot over and over.
“She’s been like this for the last twenty minutes,” Ms. Porter offered. “I’m guessing trouble with the cake.”
The rolling pin came to a stop, then clattered on the counter as Tiny let it drop from her grasp. “I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to make an exact replica of a cake I have never tasted.”
“Do you have more samples for me?” Carter asked.
“Clint already tried them. He told me to get back to the drawing board. I’m out of ideas. I called my cousin. She works at a bakery in New Hampshire. They specialize in cupcakes, but her boss is a master with flavor. I’m hoping she might be able to help me.”
“Keep me posted. In the meantime, since you’re taking refuge in your gingerbread, can you whip some up for the family to make gingerbread houses?”
Tiny’s eyebrow arched. “They want to make gingerbread houses?”
“I haven’t exactly run it past them yet, but I told Mr. Wetherby it would be a great Christmas activity for the family to do together.”
“They’re not children anymore,” Clint said.
“Everyone is a child at the holidays,” Ms. Porter said. “I think it is a wonderful idea.” She placed the needle and thread, along with the pants, on the counter. “I’ll get together all the fixings for decorating.”
“Top shelf,” Tiny said. “You’ll find all the sprinkles and candy.”
“Thank you, dear.” Ms. Porter disappeared into the pantry, and Carter slid onto a stool.
These people were the only family he had, and with Mr. Wetherby sick…
he didn’t know what that meant for them.
What would happen to Ms. Porter, Hawthorne, Clint, Luca, Wendell, Tiny, and all the other employees of Winterridge?
The conversation with Bill couldn’t wait.
When Carter’s father died, he’d been terribly unprepared, and he never wanted to feel as clueless and helpless again.
As estate manager, preparing for the worst was part of the job.
What happened at Lily’s funeral would not happen again when Bill’s time came.
Ms. Porter returned, holding the two corners of her apron, which was filled with bags and bottles of icing and treats.
“This should be enough. Celia can bring everything upstairs when she finishes changing the sheets in Eleanor’s room.
” She lifted a hand toward Carter. “They weren’t Egyptian cotton.
” She let her hand fall with a dramatic sigh.
“Bobby can handle the dining room table.”
“I can help,” Carter said.
“If you help, then who is informing the family of this activity you suggested?”
He let out a low groan and pushed from the stool. “I guess I’ll go spread the word.”
“Tiny, how long do you think until the gingerbread is ready?” Carter asked.
Her nose wrinkled on the bridge as she tilted her head back and forth. “I have to roll out a few more batches, cut the shapes, bake, and cool. Two hours minimum.”
“Perfect. Why don’t we aim for after dinner? They’ll already be gathered at the table. We just need to keep them there.”
“Good luck with that,” Wendell said with a laugh.