“I don’t have the faintest clue, yet.” Miriam pulled away to look at Noelle’s face. “I haven’t even unwrapped them. I don’t know which ones they are. I just—I found them, I freaked out a little, then I ate cake and made a lot of art, and now we’re here.”

“I’ll support you, whatever you decide. We all will.”

“I know. But I need to focus on the tree lighting and getting the Rosensteins on board and the bank figured out. Make it to the other side of this crisis, and then I’ll deal with them. They’re not going anywhere.”

“My brave girl,” Noelle said quietly, and Miriam’s dam finally broke. She wept, and Noelle held her. They sat there, rocking together, surrounded by Cass’s smell and tulle and hypocritical twinkle lights, for a long time.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Noelle

The night before Christmas Eve, they held an anniversary celebration for all the couples who had been married at Carrigan’s over the years. Miriam was helping Mrs. Matthews finish off the dinner rolls when Noelle walked by with a stack of wine bottles in her arms.

She’d thought she had a solid grip, but one of the bottles shifted and slipped out of her hands, shattering, slow motion, on the floor. The smell of merlot filled the kitchen.

Noelle coughed. “Well, that smell takes me back to the bad old days.” She smiled ruefully as she headed for the broom to sweep up the glass shards.

Mr. Matthews shooed her away from the mess. “You know I would have taken care of the wine.”

“You were busy fixing the tractor, and we have to get ready for tonight, Ben.”

Mr. Matthews swatted her with the broom until she went to see if Miriam needed help with the rolls.

“You call him Ben?!” Miriam whispered to her. “I’ve never called him Ben in the thirty-five years I’ve known him!”

“You’re jealous that they love me more,” Noelle teased, nudging her shoulder as Miriam stood at the kitchen island working.

“I’m glad they love you so much,” Miriam said quietly. “You deserve it.” She scooted over a tray of rolls. “Do you ever talk about them? The bad old days?”

Noelle took the basting brush from her and dipped it in the butter, watching the bristles drip but not brushing the rolls. Kringle sat under her feet, watching her intently and waiting for her to drop butter on the floor. She didn’t want to give Miriam a drunkalogue of every afternoon she woke up hungover with an answering machine message from the school about truancy that her parents would ignore, every girl who she went home with from a party when she was too young for parties or girls.

But she wanted to be honest.