That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty-Two

Sara

I totally missed the gala.

And I’m not even kidding. Thanks to my mother insisting I stick around until after Ryan Detweiler completed all the approval paperwork, I was already cutting my arrival close. Then I had to drop Three off at his place. Then a multi-car pileup—precipitated by some kind of major negligence on one of the driver’s parts—shut down all lanes just outside the Lincoln Tunnel.

Oops.

The whole area was clogged with emergency responders, law enforcement, and investigators, not to mention everyone and their brother trying to get into the city for Christmas. Including me.

Fortunately, my parents didn’t get too upset when I called them to explain what was holding me up.

I figured they’d understand. My mom and dad aren’t monsters. They’re Hathaways. And they were mostly just grateful I wasn’t a part of the accident—which everyone at the gala was talking about.

When I admitted I’d be running a little late, my parents took the news in stride. Unfortunately, a little late turned into me being stuck for three hours in a virtual parking lot. Now I’m rushing into the Winston Club, smoothing down my dress, and fluffing my hair for … absolutely nobody.

The only people still here—besides my mom and dad—are the caterers packing up the food, and a cleanup crew tackling all the wine spills and shoe scuffs.

My father spots me first, striding over to offer a hug. He’s dashing and handsome in a pair of black tuxedo pants and his signature white dinner jacket.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m safe,” I say, although my insides are in knots. I was already nervous about talking to my parents about Three. Then missing the gala threw a new wrench into the toolbox of my stomach.

“Well, that’s all that really matters,” he says as my mom comes floating around the corner. Her hair is in a perfect updo and her red gown swooshes behind her. Even after a long night of hostessing, the woman looks pageant ready.

Mrs. America: Sixty-Plus Division.

“Oh, Sara. I’m so glad you’re all right.” She hugs me too, on the opposite side of my father, then she takes a step back appraising me. “Lovely gown, dear. Is it new?”

“No.” I look down at my skirt. “I wore this one last year.”

“Really?” She furrows her brow. “You brought a dress with you to Abieville?”

“I have a new one at the tailor’s, but I wasn’t sure the alterations would be done in time, so I brought a couple of backup dresses in case I got delayed at the house longer than expected. Which, it turns out, I did.”

“That’s my girl,” my dad says, patting me on the shoulder. “The future of Hathaway Cooke. Always prepared. ”

Oof. Now the knots in my stomach have knots.

“You must be starving,” my mother chimes in, although I can’t imagine eating a thing in this moment. “I had the caterers set aside a plate for you.” She nods toward the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. “We served filet mignon, artichoke, and parmesan fingerlings. All your favorites, for your birthday.”

“Thanks, Mom. I wish I could’ve joined you.”

My father grins at me gamely. “Well, there’s always next year.”

And the year after that. Forever and ever. I press on a smile. “So. How did your speech go?”

My mother pats his shoulder. “He was wonderful, as always.”

“And the auction?”

She beams at me. “The Abieville getaway was one of the biggest hits of the evening,” she says. “And we owe all that to you. I was a little worried when you weren’t here to speak, but everything worked out.”

“Now that’s an understatement,” my dad chimes in. “Your mother left out the part where we hit our highest fundraising numbers ever tonight. A new record. New goal to exceed next year.”

“Wow, Dad.” I grin at him. “That’s incredible.”

“And your father left out the part where he made a little addition to his speech this year,” my mom says. “After sharing the usual story about the miracle of your arrival, he tacked on a harrowing narrative about you not being here because you were caught up in that dreadful Lincoln Tunnel debacle.” She presses her lips together. “He played on everyone’s sympathies with a new twist, since so many of them have heard the rest before.”

“And it worked,” my dad interjects.

“But you made it sound like our Sara could’ve been in peril.” My mother shoots him a horrified look. “Our only child, Charles.”

“ Could’ve , Kate, not was .” He turns and tosses me a wink. “So I may have laid the drama on a tad thick, but it was for the children. A worthy cause, wouldn’ t you agree?”

I hunch my shoulders. “Sure?”

“Now we’ll be able to donate the most money Children’s Village has ever received from a single event.” He arches a brow. “Until next year.”

My mother rolls her eyes, even as a smile tugs at her lips. “You’re only competing with yourself, dear.”

“That’s just plain smart,” he says. “It’s a guaranteed win.”

“Mom’s not wrong,” I say, nudging him. “You are pretty competitive.”

“Mea culpa.” He splays his hands, letting out a soft chuckle and not sounding the least bit guilty. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m off to tip the staff.”

As he heads across the room, pushing through the doors into the kitchen, my mom rounds on me, her brow hitched. “You know, you’re almost as competitive as he is, Sara.”

I lay a hand over my collarbone in mock protest. “Moi?”

“Vous.” She huffs out a laugh. “Between the two of you, I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years in the middle of an overachiever sandwich.”

“Huh. That’s a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” I tease. “You pushed me to succeed almost as hard as Dad did.”

“Hmm.” She pulls down her brow. “You think so?”

“Of course I do!” I gape at her, surprised she might be unaware of this. “You were always super-focused on my grades and test scores and applications. You wanted me to get accepted to all the top schools too. Maybe even more than Dad and I did.”

“Only because I never had a chance to,” she blurts. Then she slams her lips shut.

“Mom.” I take a beat to examine her face. “You never had a chance to what ?”

She glances around the room, although there’s no one else within earshot. “Believe me, Sara, I’m very happy being Mrs. Charles Hathaway. I always have been, and I always will be.” She lowers her voice, and her throat begins to flush. “But my entire adult life centered around being his wife, and then your mother. I oversee our home, not our bank accounts. That’s how I was raised—to be the support system of a family. A homemaker. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But maybe …” She inclines her head closer to my ear. “ Maybe a part of me wanted my only daughter to have … options.”

“Wow,” I say a little breathless, mostly because the rest of the air is leaving my lungs. It takes me a moment to fill them back up again. “How come you’ve never said any of this before?”

She squares her shoulders before responding. “I suppose I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining.” She tips her chin. “And I’m not sure I knew exactly how I felt myself. Not until my therapist asked about me and my mother. Then we got onto the subject of expectations, and the next thing you know …” She shrugs.

“You’re in therapy?” I stare at my mother, wide-eyed. This, more than almost anything else in the past few days, might be the most shocking. “I mean, I think it’s great. But you have a therapist? For real?”

“For most of this year.” She offers a prim nod. “Doctor Hahn is fabulous. Didn’t I tell you about her?”

“No. You most certainly did not tell me.”

“Well, you really should try therapy yourself, Sara.” She says this like the fact that therapy can be effective is some kind of new information. “It’s done wonders for our marriage.”

“I’ll bet.” I cough out a laugh. “Dr. Hahn sure seems to be bringing out the honesty in you.”

“Now, Sara.” She lays a palm on my shoulder. “I don’t want you to think I haven’t been perfectly content with my life. More than content.”

“I know that.”

“I love my life.”

“I know that too, Mom.”

Her eyes laser in on mine. “Do you, though? ”

“Yes.” I squint up at her, confused. “I just said that. I know you love your life. And I’m so glad.”

“No.” She meets my gaze again, her eyes softening this time. “I mean do you love your life?”

Oh. OH.

I draw in a rush of air. “Of course I do.”

“Because I have to say”—she tips her chin—“you haven’t seemed truly happy in a very long time. Not since … well…” She lets her sentence die off.

“Since when?”

Her brows pinch together. “Since that last summer you and I were in Abieville.”

Whoa.

“That’s why I talked your father into buying the Peabodys’ lake house,” she goes on. “I wanted a project, and I thought the investment would be sound—you know I enjoy a good renovation—but I also have such fond memories of that place. I felt like you and I had fun there, even when Daddy had to leave during the week. Just the two of us.” Her voice is quiet now, and a dull ache leaks into my heart.

“You’re right, Mom. We did have fun together. And I was happy.”

More pinching of the brow. “Until you broke up with that boy.”

My stomach lurches. “Three broke up with me, Mom. You know that.”

“You’re right. I do.” Her responding nod is tight. “And I knew you were sad back then, but you refused to talk to me about it. Then you were off to college, and you got so busy, and … things changed. You changed. Everything changed.” She sniffs, then squares her shoulders. “ We grew apart.”

“I grew up, Mom.”

“Yes, you did.” Her eyes scan my face, and the edges begin to shine. “And I’m so very proud of you. So is your father. In fact—” She casts a glance across the ballroom just as he emerges from the swinging doors. “He can’t wait to bring you onboard at Hathaway Cooke. So don’t tell him I said anything, but … you got the job!”

Another lurch of my stomach. “Mom.”

“What?” She blinks at me. “I was a big part of your journey too, you know. Why should your father be the one who always gets to share the good news?”

We both fall silent as he approaches. “Hello, beautiful girls.” He breaks into a grin. “Ready to head out? I’d like to get my family home before Christmas.”

My mother glances at me, then she pats at her sleek updo. “I believe it is Christmas, Charles.”

“Is it?” He checks his watch. “Well, what do you know? You’re right, Kate. It’s past midnight.” He turns to me, his smile faltering. “I guess we missed your entire birthday, Sara. For the first time since the day you were born.”

“I’m so sorry, dear.” My mother’s lips curve into a frown. “We’ll just have to make the gala extra-special for you next year.”

“Actually”—I bob my head—“I had a pretty great birthday, anyway.”

My dad cocks his head. “In Abieville?”

“Alone?” My mother blinks.

“Let’s get home and get some sleep,” I say. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on tomorrow.”