Chapter 9 - The Christmas Sun
Two weeks later, Christmas morning arrived in Lake Forest with a sky so blue and clear it looked like polished sapphire.
The grand foyer of the Mercer mansion—once a dark, silent vault of polished marble and cold statues—was filled with the loud, chaotic, joyous noise of two five-year-old children opening presents.
A massive fifteen-foot pine tree stood near the double staircase, decorated not with formal, expensive glass ornaments from Paris, but with hundreds of paper snowflakes, popcorn strings, and wooden stars that Jonah, Blythe, and Waverly had made over the past seven days.
Odette Marsh stood near the dining room archway, wearing a red apron over her dark dress, holding a silver tray of fresh cinnamon rolls, tears shining openly in her sharp grey eyes. Beside her stood Prescott Hale, his hands folded behind his back, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips as he watched Jonah race a new red wooden train across the rug.
Blythe was sitting in the middle of a pile of shredded green wrapping paper, wearing a soft pink velvet dress, holding a large, handmade wooden easel that Lawson had spent three nights building in the basement workshop.
“Look, Waverly!” Blythe squealed, holding up a new set of professional brushes. “Look how soft the hair is!”
Waverly sat on the floor beside her, wearing a dark green wool sweater Lawson had bought her from a boutique in the city, her hair pulled back into a soft braid. “That’s horsehair, Blythe. That’s for big watercolor landscapes.”
Lawson stood by the fireplace, wearing a simple grey cashmere sweater, holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
He stepped over the piles of paper, walked over to Waverly, and handed her one of the stoneware mugs.
“Thank you,” Waverly said, looking up at him with a warm, brilliant smile.
Lawson didn't step back. He sat down on the rug beside her, his long legs stretched out, his shoulder resting comfortably against hers.
“Dr. Yates called twenty minutes ago,” Lawson said quietly, taking a sip of his chocolate.
Waverly turned her head instantly, her eyes wide with sudden concern. “What did he say?”
“He got the full panel results back from the Boston clinic,” Lawson said. He looked over at Jonah, who was currently trying to make his red train jump over one of Prescott’s polished dress shoes. “The remission markers are firm, Waverly. Both of them. Yates says... he says if they stay on the oral protocol for another six months, they can start primary school in the fall.”
Waverly dropped her mug onto the wooden coaster beside her. She covered her mouth with both hands, a deep, beautiful sob escaping her throat as fresh, hot tears overflowed her dark eyes.
Lawson reached out, his thick arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side.
Waverly buried her face in his neck, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist, holding onto the man who had turned his castle into a sanctuary.
“They’re going to live, Waverly,” Lawson choked out, his own voice thick with an emotion that no longer needed to hide behind stone walls or dark coats. “They’re going to live.”
In the middle of the floor, Jonah and Blythe stopped playing with their toys. They looked over at their father and Waverly sitting together by the Christmas tree, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Blythe picked up her brown stuffed bear, Barnaby, walked over to them on her sturdy, bare feet, and squeezed herself right between Lawson and Waverly, wrapping her thin arms around both of their necks.
May you like
Jonah came running a second later, dragging his red wooden train behind him, jumping onto Lawson’s lap with a loud, triumphant cheer.
Lawson Mercer held all three of them—his son, his daughter, and the broken woman who had opened the curtains—while the bright morning sun streamed through the uncurtained arch windows of his home, filling every corner of the house with light.
