Page 54

Mary took a sip of water, unimpressed. “How quaint.”

“And Imogen,” Layla continued, refusing to be silenced for the first time in her life. “She owns Artisan Chocolates. She created a chocolate sculpture two years ago that was featured in a major food magazine. It was incredible—a work of art. People come from all over to visit her shop.”

“I’m sure it’s very sweet,” Steven said, speaking for the first time. His tone suggested he found the whole conversation tedious. “But your mother has a point. These are small-town hobbies, not real careers. Not the kind of thing that should interest someone with your education and background.”

“They’re not hobbies,” Layla protested, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “A hobby doesn’t make money. It doesn’t support anyone. It’s their livelihoods. They’re raising families, creating businesses, supporting this town’s economy. That’s not just a hobby.”

“And that’s lovely for them,” Mary said, her voice taking on an edge that meant she was losing patience. “But it’s not for you, darling. You have real ambition, real talent. This place—” She gestured vaguely around the dining room, and Layla saw Christopher’s knuckles whiten around his fork. “This place is a waste of your talents. You belong in the city, where you can actually make something of yourself.”

The words hung in the air. Layla felt herself shrinking again, that familiar feeling of inadequacy washing over her. Her mother was right, wasn’t she? She’d always been right. Layla was meant for bigger things, better things, more important things than⁠—

“That’s not true.”

The voice was quiet but firm, and it took Layla a moment to realize it had come from Christopher. She looked up at him, startled, and saw that he was looking directly at her mother, his expression calm but his eyes blazing.

“I’m sorry?” Mary said, her tone icy.

“I said that’s not true,” Christopher repeated, setting down his fork. “Fir Tree Grove isn’t a waste of Layla’s talents. In fact, I’d argue it’s the opposite.”

“Mr. Holcomb—” Mary began, but Christopher continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Your daughter has spent the past week here discovering parts of herself that have been suppressed for years. She’s creative and thoughtful and sees beauty in things that other people overlook. She writes beautiful poetry. She can see a moment and turn it into something lyrical. That’s been buried for years because you told her it was worthless, but it’s not. What she writes perfectly exemplifies the charm of this town, because she sees it for what it is. And it saw her too. She’s more than just the ambitions you have for her.”

Layla felt her breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t believe he was standing up for her. That he was willing to go to bat with strangers in order to defend her.

“She’s not wasting her time here,” Christopher said, his voice growing more passionate. “She’s remembering what it feels like to appreciate life, to be part of a community, to create for the joy of creating rather than for some external measure of success. That’s not a waste.”

Mary and Steven sat in stunned silence, their forks suspended in mid-air. Layla stared at Christopher, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.

“I—” Mary started, but for once, she seemed at a loss for words.

Layla finally found her voice, taking a deep breath. “He’s right.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

“I’ve spent years doing what you wanted me to do, being who you wanted me to be. And I was so miserable I didn’t even realize how miserable I was until I came here and remembered what it felt like to actually enjoy my life.”

“Layla—” her father began, but she shook her head.

“No, Dad. Let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “I love writing. I always have. But you made me feel like it was frivolous, like it wasn’t a real career, like I was wasting my potential. So I stopped. I stopped writing poetry, stopped creating. And I’ve been empty ever since.”

She looked at Christopher, at his kind eyes and his gentle smile, and felt tears prick at her own eyes.

“Being here, in Fir Tree Grove, with these people—it’s woken something up in me. I don’t want to go back to that life where I’m just going through the motions.”

“What are you saying?” Mary asked, her voice tight.

“I’m saying I can’t imagine going back home right now. I’m saying I want to stay in Fir Tree Grove for Christmas.” The words came out in a rush, but they felt right, and she felt a wave of relief at having finally said them. “I’m saying thank you for coming all this way to check on me, but you’ll need to go back home without me. In the morning, preferably, so I can enjoy the remainder of my time here.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Mary’s face had gone pale, then flushed with color. Steven looked between his wife and daughter, clearly unsure what to do. Christopher sat very still, his eyes on Layla, his expression unreadable.

“You can’t be serious,” Mary finally said, her voice shaking slightly. “You’re throwing away your career, your life, for what? A small town and some romantic notion of finding yourself?”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Layla said quietly. “I’m taking some paid time off. And when I decide what to do, it will be for me, and not for anyone else.”

Mary stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “This is ridiculous. Steven, talk to your daughter.”