Page 104 of Holding Hope

Her excitement warmed me. As I threaded a slice of orange beside a few cranberries, I glanced across the room and caught Melody’s eyes. She looked better than she had last week. The doctor Avalon flew in had given her something that eased the pain, and she’d been moving more—though Mama made her promise to save her strength for the wedding.

“Do you think she’s going to stop anytime soon?” Avalon muttered beside me. “I want to do something else, and I keep stabbing my finger with this stupid needle.”

I looked down at her garland— blood oranges and berries sewn in a pattern far less precise than mine. But she was trying, and that alone made me smile.

“Let me see.” I gently took the needle and thread from her hand and lifted her finger. “Ah. Yes. I see.”

A small bead of bright red blood swelled at the tip of her index finger. I grabbed a napkin from the hamper Mama kept near the mixing bowl, wiped her finger clean, then brought it to my lips.

Avalon giggled, leaning forward on her toes.

“There. All better.”

Another giggle sounded—Melody’s—before she quickly looked away, pretending to study the blanket tucked around her.

“Thank you,” Avalon whispered, brushing her thumb across the back of my hand just as Delia spun around.

“Hello? This is supposed to be my wedding-planning day.” She narrowed her green eyes at us. “Save your mushy-gushy stuff for after I’m married.”

Avalon and I exchanged a look.

“Yes ma’am,” she said, scooping up her abandoned garland. “But are we covering all of Texas in dried fruit? This seems excessive.”

Delia gasped, hand to her chest. “It is just enough. Clarke, tell her it’s fine.”

I leaned toward Avalon with a sigh. “Lia has always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“I heard that,” Delia grumbled, flipping through her cookbook again. She circled items with the enthusiasm of someone planning a feast for a small nation. We would definitely have to narrow her list down later. If she had her way, every dessert Mama had ever baked would be at the reception.

“It’s fine,” I murmured to Avalon. “Whatever we don’t use for the wedding will be used for Christmas.”

“Christmas,” she echoed softly. But her voice wasn’t thinking about dried fruit or holiday storage. I knew exactly where her mind had gone—the same place mine had.

Where would we be at Christmas? Would she still be here? Would she go back to California? Would she come back if I asked?

I placed my hand over hers. She looked up, storm-cloud eyes reflecting the same uncertainty in my own.

“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded, turning back to her berries. “We better get these put together then. They won’t string themselves.”

Delia snorted from the table. “I don’t see why I can’t have everything at the reception. It is my day, after all.”

“You’ll give everyone diabetes and a sugar high,” I said, setting aside my finished garland. “What’s next on the agenda, boss lady?”

Delia launched into another list—one that seemed to grow longer with every breath. I tuned out around task number seven. Avalon must’ve done the same, because she tucked herself into my side with a sigh.

“You know,” she whispered, “the night Delia and I first met at Rorie’s, she pulled me aside and told me all the ways her father taught her to gut a deer.”

I snorted, burying my face in her hair to hide my laugh. I’d told Delia she wasn’t allowed to hurt Avalon, but I knew she’d find a loophole.

“She said she could make my death look like an accident,” Avalon continued, laughing softly. “If I ever hurt you again, she’d make it look like I was just another preppy nepo baby who never stood a chance in the Texas terrain.”

Her voice wavered—just slightly. Enough for me to hear the emotion beneath it. I turned toward her, checking that Delia was still absorbed in her cookbook.

“Hey,” I murmured, taking Avalon’s arms gently. My thumbs brushed up and down in slow, reassuring strokes. “It won’t be like that. Not this time. We’ll be fine, Avie.”

The nickname slipped out naturally—too naturally—and I didn’t regret it. I’d been holding it in for weeks, waiting for the right moment.