Before I could warn her, my mother appeared in a cloud of perfume and pearls, a smile frozen on her face.
“Grant,” she said, kissing the air somewhere near my cheek. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
Then she turned to Valerie. “And you must be… Grant’s wife.”
“Valerie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Valerie reached into her purse. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Delaney.”
My mother blinked as Valerie handed her a silver envelope. She opened it, eyes skimming the contents.
“Oh.” Her sculpted eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh. This islovely. Thank you.“ A pause, then the slightest hint of a smile. “You can call me Helen. Come inside—you both must be freezing.”
I stared at Valerie, completely thrown. “What did you just give her?”
She dusted imaginary snow from her shoulder, eyes sparkling. “A season’s pass to a ski resort out in Coldspell. Iknow a guy. And I also know your mother led her ski team to the state championship title back in college.”
I pressed my hand against the small of her back, leading her down the hallway. “And how exactly do you know that?”
She tilted her head, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “An elf never reveals her secrets. But if she did, it would involve a late-night internet search. You don’t go into festive battle without a little internet sleuthing first.”
When we entered the main parlor, my mother immediately led Valerie away, asking about the terrain at Coldspell Mountain. Most people would have frozen into an ice sculpture from the chill of my mother’s smile, but not Valerie.
That didn’t surprise me. She hadn’t backed down from a single one of our agency fights, going toe-to-toe with me for years.
I lingered in the doorway, watching as my mother introduced her to every relative within a hundred-mile radius. Valerie smiled through it all, patient and radiant, stealing the attention of the entire room without even trying.
Our eyes met across the crowd, and my chest tightened. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. If sparring was her love language, praise and acts of service were going to be mine.
Just as soon as she whispered that one little word:mistletoe.
I wandered toward the hearth, stopping in front of a perfect line of stockings. Mine. Matt’s. I stared at his, a familiar ache settling beneath my ribs. I still grieved him—probably always would—but that sorrow had turned into something sturdier. A resolve to shift the Delaney name into something I could be proud of. And somehow, I knew, he’d be proud of that too.
My gaze drifted to the end of the line, where a new stocking hung in bright red yarn, Valerie’s name stitchedacross the cuff in slightly crooked letters. I turned, scanning the room until I spotted my grandmother in her favorite chair by the window, knitting needles clacking. When she looked up, she winked.
I mouthed,Thank you.
Her lips curved, just slightly, before smoothing back into their proper matriarchal composure. The needles clicked on, steady as ever.
I was still watching my grandmother when a low voice spoke behind me.
“Your report,” my grandfather said.
He stood near the mantel, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn’t look at me, just studied the fire.
“I started reading it this morning,” he said finally. “It’s… good work, Grant.”
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. The compliment was so quiet I figured it was a log shifting in the hearth. But it was real.
“Thank you,” I said, careful not to overplay it.
He nodded once and sipped from his glass. “I’ve made some notes. We can discuss them after the holidays.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
I followed his gaze to where Valerie was laughing with my aunts, showing them how to fold a napkin into a swan, then spinning her finger with a spell to make its fabric head turn.
“She’s not the granddaughter-in-law I would have chosen. And I would have preferred a traditional wedding.”
