Page 64 of The Holiday Makeover

Her hand holding on.

And me, promising myself that this time I wouldn’t ruin the best thing life had ever given me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rory

“Rory, what do you think about doing a guest book in the entryway where people can sign their names and leave their favorite memory of Cosette in it?” Veronica asked as I sewed curtains in the living room.

Well, sewed and tried not to think about the last two amazing days with Tate, especially with his mom there. That seemed a little wrong. But seriously, her son could kiss. We are talking toe-curling, skin-raising, make-you-forget-what-day-it-is kind of kissing. Although I was doing my best not to become the mouse with the cookie. It was hard to stay grounded, but Lily had no problem helping me out there.

She had taken to texting me every few hours with what she was lovingly calling her Proceed with Freaking Caution list.

And yes, her period had started after almost a two-year break, and she’d warned me that if I wasn’t careful, she was one nerve away from a meltdown and would direct all her built-up postpartum and PMS hormones toward Tate. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

I believed her, so I tried to stay grounded and reminded myself there was no need to rush. And that I was in a vulnerable place in my life after just losing Coco and her throwing me headlong into home renovations with Tate. Sure, Coco would tell me to throw caution to the wind—that Tate and I belonged together.

But I had to be somewhat rational. Even though Tate made that very difficult. Charming exes really were the worst. And the best.

I let my foot off the pedal and glanced at Veronica, sitting on the couch draped with the extra fabric that needed to be ironed before I transformed it into curtains. My living room had officially become my makeshift workshop—bolts of fabric stacked by the fireplace, my sewing machine perched on a folding table, and my trim samples fanned out like a color-theory textbook.

The sewing machine I’d borrowed from Mrs. Torres, a few doors down. She made the most amazing quilts and had several sewing machines. She was happy to let me borrow anything I needed, seeing as all my things were in Nashville and ordering a new sewing machine would take too long.

Veronica, as always, looked classy in designer jeans and a bottle-green sweater that brought out her hazel eyes—the same as Tate’s. But her eyes lacked their normal brightness. Things were still tense between her and Dominic, and I knew she was having a hard time with the honest conversations she and Tate had been having the last couple of days.

I felt like each of their therapists. Both would privately get my take on their discussions, which so far had covered everything from unrealistic expectations to Tate’s parents treating him more like a commodity than a son.

“I love that idea,” I said warmly. “Coco would love it too.”

Veronica smiled and typed it into her iPad. She had a list for everything. She’d vowed to make this the best Christmas Eve party the neighborhood had ever seen. Coco deserved that.

And I was so grateful to have Veronica’s help. Between her doing the decorations and Eden handling the food, I felt like we might just pull it off. Assuming we could get all the renovations done on time.

Tate had come across some plumbing issues in the kitchen we hadn’t expected. He was in town now, looking for the right parts to make the repairs himself. Nothing said holiday cheer like a surprise leak behind the lower cabinets.

“I was also thinking it would be nice if we did a photo display of her life.” I pointed at the pictures hanging on the living room walls. They were the story of my life—the beautiful life my grandparents had given each other, and me, and my mom.

When I was little, Coco used to tell me the stories behind the older photos—stories from her and Grandpa’s honeymoon at Niagara Falls, or the day my mom was born. Even of the day I was born. I really was an adorable baby with dark, matted hair that had lightened over the years.

“I was thinking of getting some new frames and different-sized easels to make it look artsy,” I added.

Veronica didn’t respond, and that’s when I noticed she was looking around the room, her eyes filled with tears.

Oh gosh. “I’m sorry—did I say something wrong?”

Veronica shook her head and wiped her eyes gently with her fingers. “Not at all, honey.”

The way her voice shook had me leaving my station at the sewing machine and taking a place beside her on the couch. I took her delicate hand—her huge rock of a wedding ring practically blinding me. I’d always admired how strong her finger must have been to carry around that kind of weight.

“What’s wrong?” I gave her hand a little squeeze.

“It’s nothing.” Her voice hitched. “It’s just that all these pictures are so happy. There’s so much love in them. All our family pictures are professional and staged with perfect lighting and posed perfection. Tate’s not smiling in them the way he does in the ones on the wall here.”

She pointed at a cluster of pictures. One was from the day Tate and I graduated from high school—I sat on his shoulders, and we were both smiling goofily. A few more showed random moments of our lives—college graduations, hanging out in the backyard, our first Christmas as a couple.

They were all happy pictures. Pictures I loved. Even though I had once begged Coco to take down any photos of Tate. She’d refused based on her belief that we weren’t over and that even if she removed him from the wall, it wouldn’t make me feel better. You can’t erase people from your heart, she’d said.

She was right, but oh, had I tried.