18. Ms. Porter
Chapter eighteen
Ms. Porter
Christmas was in the air at Winterridge in a way it hadn’t been in years. The ornaments seemed brighter, the pine smelled stronger, and the energy of the Wetherbys was very present in the halls.
Ms. Porter stood by the kitchen window, drying a platter while Tiny fussed over ingredients for the spice cake. Clint argued with Bobby about whether horses could sense snow before it arrived.
The answer was yes. The answer was always yes. Clint just enjoyed arguing with the poor lad.
A smile tugged at her lips as she glanced at the courtyard. For the first time in a long time, Winterridge was alive again. It was more chaotic, exhausting, and complicated, but that’s what this estate had been missing for years.
Family couldn’t work out their problems unless they were trapped under one roof, and this family was trapped, at least for a few more days.
Movement caught her eye, and she turned her attention toward the guesthouse. Lena Hart marched across the snow-covered path with purpose. Behind her trudged Gabe, looking as though he’d just lost a fistfight with a freight train.
Ms. Porter narrowed her eyes. Interesting.
Lena stopped abruptly and pointed her finger at Gabe’s chest. Even through the glass, Ms. Porter could tell she was lecturing—something Gabe Wetherby would absolutely hate, but desperately needed.
Gabe threw his hands in the air, but that didn’t deter Ms. Hart. She flung her finger toward him again. To Ms. Porter’s surprise, Gabe let his hands fall to his side and he… he actually listened.
“Huh.”
“What’s that?” Tiny asked.
She hadn’t realized she had uttered that out loud. “Oh nothing,” she said, waving her hand as if to wipe any lingering questions away.
It most certainly was not nothing, but she wasn’t about to gossip.
She’d known Gabe Wetherby since the day he was born, and if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that boy had always been stubborn.
He seldom listened to his parents, his teachers, or even Lily.
No, he was an independent thinker who insisted on leading, whether or not anyone wanted him to.
They moved on, making their way toward the front of the house when more movement caught Ms. Porter’s eye.
Carter stepped out of the guesthouse, and her eyebrow arched. His hand lingered behind him, attached to none other than Miss Ashley. She nearly dropped the platter from her hand. It was about damn time. And Carter seemed not to be sporting a black eye.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered.
“Did you say something?” Tiny asked. “I swear I hear you talking.”
“Just talking to myself, dear. Please continue with what you’re doing. Christmas is right around the corner, and we need that spice cake.”
Tiny sighed, but got right back to work, as Ms. Porter stared out the window. Carter brought Ashley into him, wrapping her in an embrace before kissing her right out in the open.
A visceral reaction ripped through her old body, but she controlled herself from throwing her hands in the air and letting out a whoop whoop!
Miss Ashley looked as happy as she’d ever seen her. And Carter… oh that sweet boy. She couldn’t remember the last time his smile fully reached its potential.
Tiny appeared beside her. “Oh.”
They watched in silence as Carter wrapped his arm around Ashley’s shoulder, and they walked toward the door, laughing
Tiny nudged Ms. Porter. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
“I do not. I said Christmas.”
Tiny held out her hand. “You said Valentine’s Day.”
Ms. Porter mumbled under her breath and reached into her apron pocket. She smacked the bill into Tiny’s hand, and Tiny laughed.
“Best twenty bucks I ever made.”
Ms. Porter sighed. “Go back to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ms. Porter glanced out the window. Outside, Ashley linked her hand through Carter’s and leaned into his side. It was a small, simple gesture, but it spread warmth through her entire being.
For years Winterridge had felt like a house filled with ghosts, and now it felt like a home again.
If she’d learned anything through the years at Winterridge, it was that Christmas miracles rarely arrived wrapped beneath a tree. Sometimes those miracles arrived completely unplanned, with no bells or whistles. And they were the best ones of all.
The trouble with miracles, however, was that they rarely arrived without a little chaos tagging along behind them.