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Van stepped around Grandpa Hank, adjusting Ethan in her arms. “He needs to be fed,” she explained.
“Your bedrooms are all ready,” Grandpa Hank said, beckoning for Charlotte to enter so he could close the door behind her. “Yours is the first door on the right, Van. And Charlotte, I gave you your mother’s old room.”
As Van disappeared into her bedroom to nurse Ethan, Charlotte gave her grandfather another hug. The last time she’d seen him was four years ago when he’d come into the city with her cousin, Rudy. They’d attended one of her book readings, sitting in the audience dutifully until the question-and-answer session. At that point, her grandfather had waved his hand in the air like a child and asked, “How did you get so brilliant, Charlotte Summers?” Charlotte laughed and explained to the audience, “That’s just my grandfather. Nobody else thinks I’m brilliant. Not even my mother!” The audience had laughed.
“Sit down,” her grandfather instructed. He ambled to his La-Z-Boy and dropped himself delicately onto the cushion. Charlotte grabbed the couch across from him. On television, he watchedLaw and Order, but the volume was turned way down, and the subtitles were on. When Hank caught her looking, he waved his hand and said, “I hate hearing too many voices this early in the day.”
Charlotte laughed. He seemed just the same as ever. Behind him was a hanging portrait of him and Grandma Dee on their wedding day sixty-eight years ago. Her grandmother’s face was captivated, proof of her tremendous love for him. It felt impossible that she’d been taken from the world so many years ago. Grandpa Hank had never even tried to find love again.
“Can’t believe Grant left our girl,” Grandpa Hank grumbled, his eyes darkening. “Right in her time of need.”
Charlotte rubbed the back of her neck. She wondered if her grandfather and mother had had a similar conversation when her ex had left her. Probably.
“But she’s with us now,” Grandpa Hank went on. “We’ll protect her.”
Charlotte wet her lips. She considered the shadowy, busted inn attached to the apartment, a space that had once been her grandfather’s pride and joy. Should she ask him what went wrong? When he’d closed down the inn? Why he’d given up?
“We’ll have to get a Christmas tree,” Grandpa Hank added. “It’s baby Ethan’s first Christmas. And that means something. I won’t let him down.”
Charlotte reached across the living room and took her grandfather’s hand— which was large and heavy with wrinkles, the knuckles round. These hands had done so much— they’d put up the shutters around the inn windows, prepared sandwiches for grandchildren, held babies, and driven cars safely home. For a moment, Charlotte and Grandpa Hank locked eyes with one another, and Charlotte dropped through thousands of memories.
“I feel old, Grandpa,” Charlotte said quietly.
“If you’re old, what does that make me?” Grandpa Hank said with a laugh.
Charlotte squeezed his hand and sighed. It was her first Christmas back at the Cherry Inn in twenty-eight years, and she planned to make the most of it. Her grandfather was right; they had to do it for baby Ethan. Despite past resentments and so many mistakes, they had to show him what the Summers family was all about. A baby was a new start. A baby was hope.
ChapterFour
The cabin on the outskirts of White Plains featured a queen-sized bed, a wood-burning fireplace, a jagged counter that looked straight fromLittle House on the Prairie, an ax, presumably for cutting trees, and an empty refrigerator. It couldn’t have been further from the high-rise apartment building Charlie had just developed in Manhattan. The people who’d just been at the opening party, demanding Charlie’s attention, would have been scandalized. Why would the sought-after property developer, Charlie Bryant, choose to live out his holidays here?
When Charlie awoke at the cabin after a heavy night of sleep, his stomach gurgled with hunger, and he rolled over and blinked around him, trying to make sense of his surroundings. In a flash, it all came back to him: his wild drive through the night, pulling up next to the cabin at three in the morning, removing the keys from the safe, and collapsing on the bed. He rose and leaned against the headboard, rubbing his eyes of sleep. New York City now seemed like a nightmare, a collection of people who demanded his attention, his energy, his time at every turn. He wanted to be a different person. He wanted to start over.
But first, Charlie needed coffee. As the cabin hadn’t been equipped with anything, he had to head to town.
Charlie emerged from the cabin and into the crisp light of the morning. He was still in his sweatpants and a sweatshirt, an outfit he never would have allowed himself in the city, and he slid into the front seat of his car before checking the map and realizing he was only about a mile away from town. It just so happened there was a trail through the woods to get to the nearest grocery store. Abandoning his Porsche, he hiked the woods, his chin raised as flashes of sunlight dropped through the treetops. He heard nothing but the twitter of winter birds and smelled nothing but the soft soil and the trees. The contrast to Manhattan was night and day.
Eventually, the forest cleared and left him at the outer edge of White Plains, an adorable village with an old-world Main Street peppered with Victorian houses, an ancient-looking movie theater, several churches, their steeples glinting in the bright blue sky, and a little grocery store. He entered the store and found himself in a mom-and-pop shop with no more than three aisles, locally-made bread in the little bakery, fresh fruits and vegetables, and only one or two types of everything else— from cereal to crackers to soups. Charlie grabbed a package of coffee, some cans of soup, crackers, tuna, cheese, and bread for sandwiches. He wanted the simplicity of a different life. He never wanted to eat another three-hundred-dollar meal of tapas ever again.
Charlie paid a very low price for a big paper bag of food, then stood on Main Street for a little while, eating a crisp apple and looking at everything. Several locals passed by as he ate, waving happily. They wore sweaters with Christmas patterns, and their smiles were genuine, even as their eyes questioned who he might be. This seemed the sort of town where everyone knew everyone, where gossip flowed freely. That was okay. Charlie had bought enough supplies to live off of coffee, sandwiches, and soup for about a week. He would only emerge from his cabin when he had to.
As Charlie ate his apple, he couldn’t help but notice the state of several of the old Victorian homes on Main Street. It wasn’t hard to imagine how they’d once been, stately and proud, pastel colors, several of them with three floors and sharp rooftops. But now, many of them were dilapidated. Their front porches were crumbling, missing shutters, and needed paint.One of them in particular looked on the brink of collapse. A rusty sign out front read: The Cherry Inn.
Charlie’s over-active developer imagination kickstarted. If only someone could swoop into White Plains and flip these gorgeous houses. He could do it, of course. He knew how.
But no. He shook his head and turned back toward the cabin, tossing his apple core in a nearby trash can. He’d come to White Plains to get away from thoughts like these. He’d come to meditate on his life, to make peace with himself, and to decide what was next for him. Perhaps he would never develop another property again.
After another hike through the woods, Charlie returned to his cabin and made a fire in the fireplace. Afterward, he made a melted ham and cheese sandwich and read a book for several hours, getting up every once in a while to add another log to the fire. He hadn’t had his cell phone on since he’d arrived, and he took pleasure in imagining Timothy or Baxter Bailey trying to call him. He’d abandoned his life. He’d become a ghost. He was thrilled.
The next day and the one after that, Charlie kept up the same schedule. He read by the fire, took walks through the woods, ate sandwiches, and watched the snowfall from the windows. His phone remained off. His connection to the outside world was dead. And he hadn’t heard himself speak aloud since he’d thanked the grocery clerk, a fact that pleased him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown to hate himself until now. Maybe he could take a vow of silence. Maybe he could move to Asia and become a Buddhist.
But on the third day, Charlie woke up with a horrible heaviness in his chest. He’d been plagued with nightmares for hours, and images and sounds crashed through his mind: flashing lights and screams. He couldn’t stop his racing heart. Not even reading or walking through the woods calmed him.
As dusk draped itself over the woods, Charlie donned his winter coat, hat, and gloves and trudged back into the woods. He kept his eyes on the ground, and he tried to focus on his breathing. But every few minutes, the same fear and dread returned, and he staggered forward, gripped the side of a tree, and sputtered with sorrow.
He now remembered why he’d kept himself busy for so many years, with scarcely a day off. All that work had kept his demons at bay. He’d forgotten.
When Charlie reached White Plains again, he heard music coming from a road just beyond Main Street, and he went toward it like a moth to a flame. Overhead, twinkling lights had been strung from one side of the street to the other, and garlands and wreaths hung from business doors. A sign that read: “Merry Christmas, White Plains!” was featured on the front lawn of the courthouse, along with a nativity scene. It was clear that whoever oversaw Christmas decor in White Plains took her job very seriously.
