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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Layla had been awake since seven in the morning.

She’d lain in bed watching the pale winter light creep across the ceiling of her room, listening to the sounds of Hearthside Cottage waking up around her: the old radiator clanking to life, the distant murmur of voices from downstairs, the creak of floorboards as Christopher went down the hallway to get breakfast ready for the guests.

She hadn’t wanted to leave her room, and all because she was trying desperately to avoid having to deal with the fact that her parents were here.

The thought made her stomach clench. She’d tried to go back to sleep after waking at seven, pulling the quilt over her head and willing herself to drift off, but it was useless. Her mind wouldn’t stop going over and over potential scenarios and conversations, trying to prepare herself for the inevitable confrontation.

Layla sat up slowly, running her hands through her hair. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dresser—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale. She definitely hadn’t slept well.

She dressed quickly in jeans and a soft gray sweater, knowing her mother would probably say something about how casually she was dressed, but she couldn’t muster the energy to put on something fancier. She’d gradually become more comfortable dressing down in her more comfortable clothing the longer she’d been in Fir Tree Grove, but now her parents were here, and she could already feel that self slipping away.

Taking a deep breath, Layla opened her door and stepped into the hallway. The house smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls. She had a feeling she knew what Christopher was making for breakfast, and her stomach rumbled.

She made her way down the stairs, her hand trailing along the smooth wooden banister. She could hear voices coming from the front room—her mother’s voice, crisp and clear, saying something about “provincial charm” in a tone that made it sound like an insult.

Layla paused at the bottom of the stairs, gathering her courage. She could do this. She could face her parents, have a civil conversation, and then… and then what? Go back upstairs? Hide in her room for the rest of their visit? Head back to the city? The roads must have been cleared a decent bit in order for them to get into Fir Tree Grove at all, so she could probably go home sooner rather than later. She was already late getting back to the office, so she should leave as soon as possible.

The thought made something twist painfully in her chest.

She found her mother in the living room, standing by the window and looking out at the snow-covered street with a slight curl to her upper lip. She was dressed impeccably as always, in tailored wool pants and a mulberry-colored cashmere sweater. Her blonde hair was twisted up in a sleek updo, and she looked like she belonged in the front room of a New England manor, posing for a Ralph Lauren ad, maybe. She looked absolutely out of place in the cozy, homely warmth of Hearthside Cottage.

“Good morning, Mom,” Layla said quietly.

Mary turned, her expression softening slightly when she saw her daughter. “Layla. Finally. I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”

It was barely eight-thirty, but Layla didn’t point that out. “How did you sleep?”

“The bed was all right,” Mary said, turning back to the window. “Although the creaking of the floorboards made it difficult to sleep well. Old houses, you know. Charming in theory, but rather impractical in reality.”

Layla felt a flash of defensiveness on Christopher’s behalf. Hearthside Cottage wasn’t impractical—it was beautiful, full of character and warmth and history. But she swallowed the words, falling back into old patterns so easily that she almost didn’t notice she was doing it.

Layla moved further into the room, perching on the edge of one of the armchairs. She folded her hands in her lap, licking her lips nervously. “So,” she said, trying to keep her tone light and cordial. “What are you and Dad doing here? I mean, I know you were worried, but the roads must have been terrible⁠—”

“Well we had to come, didn’t we?” Mary interrupted, turning to face her. “We had to do something to save your sanity while you’re stuck here in this miserable place.”

The words felt startingly like a slap. Miserable place. As if Fir Tree Grove was some kind of punishment to be endured rather than a town full of kind, warmhearted people.

She felt herself shrinking further, becoming smaller and smaller, until she felt like a young woman again—eighteen years old and sitting in her parents’ pristine living room while they told her that poetry was a waste of time, that she needed to focus on something practical, something that would lead to a real career. She could still remember the way her father had looked at her notebook of poems, the one she’d been so proud of, as if it were something embarrassing, still hear her mother’s voice saying, “You have so much potential. Don’t throw it away on childish dreams.”

She’d barely written anything since that day, and she certainly hadn’t since graduating college. She’d focused on being driven, ambitious, and focused, all of the things they said were her best qualities.

Now, sitting here in Christopher’s beautiful B&B, she could feel it happening again. She could feel herself being pulled back into that old version that existed only to please them.

But something in her resisted.

“Fir Tree Grove isn’t all bad,” she heard herself say quietly. “It’s actually been a nice departure. From the city, I mean.”

Mary laughed dismissively. “Oh, darling. I’m sure it’s been a lovely little vacation. Very quaint, very picturesque. But it will be such a relief to get you back to the city, where you’ll actually have purpose again.” She paused, narrowing her eyes at Layla as if she saw something in her daughter’s face that unsettled her. “Your ambition would be wasted here. Can you imagine? All that potential, all that drive, spent in a place like this?”

The words settled over Layla like a heavy blanket, smothering her. Her mother was saying everything Layla had said herself when she’d first arrived: that this was temporary, that her real life was waiting for her back in the city, that she didn’t belong here.

But hearing it now, in her mother’s voice, Layla felt something crack inside her chest.

The truth was, she didn’t feel like her ambition would be wasted here any longer. She felt like maybe, for the first time in years, she could figure out what her ambition actually was, rather than what her parents thought it should be.

She opened her mouth to say something—although she wasn’t sure what—when she caught movement in the doorway, and she realized as Christopher stepped into the room that there was no way he hadn’t heard what her mother had said… or that she hadn’t responded to it.