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ALSO BY MELISSA HILL

The Last to Know

All Because of You
Please Forgive Me
Something from Tiffany’s
The Guest List
The Charm Bracelet
A Gift to Remember
A Diamond from Tiffany’s
The Hotel on Mulberry Bay
The Love of a Lifetime
Keep You Safe
The Summer Villa
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places,
events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2021 by Melissa Hill

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are

trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542033046
ISBN-10: 1542033047

Cover design by The Brewster Project

 With love and thanks to my wonderful parents, who help me
appreciate that the little things in life really are the big things.
 CONTENTS

Start Reading
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Life isn’t a race. It’s a relay.
—Dick Gregory
 Prologue

The magic was missing . . .

Romy Moore sat at the window chair in her late mother’s study
and looked out over the nearby woods and forestry trails,
appreciating why her mum had always found this spot so peaceful.
The trees wore a light dusting of white, the family home’s
elevated position in the Dublin Mountains ensuring they always got a
bit of proper snow in winter, as opposed to the typically damper stuff
on lower ground.
Fittingly beautiful for the season, but also serving merely to
highlight the fact that everything felt so . . . wrong.
Romy’s world was so out of kilter now that it should be howling
gales and driving rain out, not Christmas-card perfection. It made
everything even more desperately hollow and painful, and now she
understood why some people found this time of year so difficult. The
forced festive gaiety, the crippling sense of nostalgia and the idea
that everything was supposed to be so bloody wonderful. When all
she wanted to do right then was pull the covers over her head like it
was just another day, a normal day, and she didn’t have to pretend
to be OK, to try to cheer up and put a brave face on for anyone
else’s sake.
And most of all, not to have to lie to herself that this time of
year, to say nothing of life, could ever be the same without her
mother.
Romy turned back to the desk and opened up a drawer, seeking
a tissue. She found an already open packet of Kleenex and paused a
little, reflecting that her mum would’ve likely used the one just
before it, oblivious to the fact that her youngest would be needing
the next to grieve her passing.
She wiped her eyes and then blew her nose into the tissue,
looking idly through bits and pieces scattered across the desk before
coming across a prettily patterned notebook beneath some letters.
Opening the cover, she saw her mother’s familiar neat
handwriting swirl into focus, achingly comforting, and as she began
to read the opening words on the page, Romy quickly realised it was
one of her journals.
Her mother loved to write and had kept a journal for as long as
Romy could remember – ever the traditionalist at heart, despite her
sister Joanna’s grand attempt a couple of years back to move her
into the twenty-first century with the gift of an iPad.
Feeling like an interloper for even daring to read – these were
her mother’s private thoughts, after all – she couldn’t help but be
drawn in, desperate to feel close to her once more.

If you are reading this, then for certain I am no

longer with you.

In body at least.

Indeed, it is hard for me to be writing this now,

from a place where I am still full of the joys, having
just watched you all depart our very last family
Christmas together.

While this year’s gathering was, in a word . . .

eventful, it gives me such joy that all ended happily
– just as I’d hoped.

I wish I could imagine how your lives have been

since – and, admittedly, I have tried – but when I
attempt to imagine any scenarios that have
transpired in the interim, I tend to go down a rabbit
hole and overwhelm myself.

I cannot control what will happen. Just as I cannot

see the future, I have no way of knowing how any
of you will handle my passing.

The only thing I can do from this vantage point

right this minute is provide my thoughts, my words,
and perhaps a little bit of motherly advice.

I’m trying to picture you all together this time next

year without me – and truth be told, I struggle with
the concept because it feels so foreign.

So bear with me, as I seek to find the words and

comb the recesses of my mind for any wisdom or
reminders that might be useful as you navigate the
festive period without me.

Firstly, it’s OK to feel sad . . . but not forever.

And please do not let grief colour the first Christmas

where I am absent. Whatever you do, don’t allow
sorrow to serve as the backdrop.

Because, oh my darlings, it is still the absolute best

time of year and as you know has always been my
favourite.

So please, for my sake, celebrate this Christmas as

if I was still here?

Because I will be, in my own way – in all the little

festive traditions we have followed over the years,
 and recipes and rituals that have become our
family’s staples.

Yes, of course this will be a Christmas like no other.

But that doesn’t mean it has to be a terrible one.

It was like . . . a gift, Romy thought, a lump in her throat; though

obviously not for her alone.
Because of course her mother would have understood that the
family’s first holiday period without her would be impossibly difficult.
Though she couldn’t possibly have known just how scattered
and broken they’d all become since her passing.
But maybe . . . Romy thought, sitting up straight as an idea
struck her, and her mind raced as she flicked through the pages,
desperate to read more of her mother’s wisdom, or any pointers that
might help endure her absence.
Maybe this was exactly what was needed to mend things –
something to gather up all the little broken pieces that were this
family now, and help put them back together?
As Romy continued reading, something akin to hope blossomed
within her for the first time all year, as she realised that this was the
miracle she’d been searching for.
Thank you, Mum. I think I know what to do . . .
While this family might be sinking beneath the surface at the
moment, perhaps, with a little guidance, there was hope for them
yet.
 Chapter 1
LAST CHRISTMAS

You bring your own weather to the picnic.

That’s what my mother used to tell me, and

goodness knows you three have heard me repeat it
often enough. But now I myself really do need to
heed those words and act on that advice.

Because the weather for me lately has been, well

. . . unpredictable, to say the least.

But not any more. Now, I finally have a forecast.

Not the one that I wanted, but that’s life, isn’t it?

And like Mr McCartney – another beloved influence

in my life – cheerily sang . . . life goes on.

An uncomfortable lyric for me now. Because life

does indeed go on; just not for all of us. Everyone’s
story has an ending.

Of course, I’ve always been aware of that too, albeit

as an abstract concept. A whole different feeling to
know for sure that you’re facing the conclusion of
your own story.
What I need to decide now is the kind of conclusion
I want. And I know I do have a say in that, no
matter how much it feels like my choices have been
taken away.

They haven’t – not all of them, at least.

So I want you each to know that I choose a positive

outlook – for all our sakes.

Our gang has always loved the festive season – it’s

always been such a joyful time for us Moores. So
much so that I’ve always felt so sad for anyone
estranged or separated from family at this time of
year.

Or worse, bereaved.

For how can the season ever again be joyful and

magical when someone you love is absent?

Still, it has always been my job to make the

occasion special. And I’m determined to make this
year one for the memory books. Despite knowing
what comes after.

I won’t let our time together be dampened or

darkened by rain.

So for the moment at least, let us do what we

always do: recharge and reconnect, eat and drink
as much as we can bear, laugh ourselves silly and
just enjoy being together again as a family.
 After all, isn’t this the time of year for believing . . .
in something?

This Christmas, let’s try to make the weather

perfect.

For it will surely be our last.

‘Nate, it isn’t a race – especially in these conditions. Slow down or

you’re going to miss the entrance.’
I turned around from the passenger seat of our SUV rental and
peered anxiously back at the twins. Both, thankfully, were still sound
asleep after the trauma of their first ever transatlantic flight and
preceding dash through the chaos of SFO during the holidays.
Though maybe not so traumatic when at five months old you get to
do it all in business class.
‘Jo, I lived in Massachusetts until I was twenty-four – I know
how to drive in snow. And this sure as hell isn’t snow,’ my husband
chuckled, looking balefully at the light dusting amid the woodlands
either side of the roadway, inching up towards the Dublin Mountains.
‘Besides, I’m barely going over fifty.’ With twinkling green eyes, he
reached across the centre console and patted my knee. ‘And the girls
are fine.’
I saw him glimpse into the rear-view mirror and smile with
satisfaction – Suzy and Katie were snug in their car seats, bundled
up in the brand-new Burberry snowsuits I’d changed them into to
protect them from the damp Irish winter, in comparison to the
California weather they’d known for their short little lives. Yes, I was
aware that they would outgrow the suits in no time and that they’d
have little need of them back home unless we took them on a ski
jaunt, but there was no denying how cute they both looked.
Plus it was their first Christmas ever, let alone in Ireland – and I
wanted the family pictures to be appropriately Insta-worthy.
 As if reading my thoughts, Nate looked at me again and this
time he was grinning.
‘Should I pull over for a minute? Get another shot of them in all
their pink fluffiness with green fields in the background? Hashtag
TwinsFirstChristmas Hashtag IrishHomecoming Hashtag
IrishFamilyChristmas.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You got ’em all.’ Then, turning my
attention to the outside world, I sighed. ‘You know, I always said
that I wouldn’t miss Irish weather, but now I kinda do. Especially
when it looks like this.’
It was a bright, cold December day beneath a brilliant blue sky.
Some gentle early morning snow had just fallen, enough to settle at
this elevation at least, ensuring the surrounding spruce forest was
draped in sheer bright whiteness – like fondant frosting on a skilfully
iced cake.
And there was no denying that the tree-lined road we were on
just then, winding through the picturesque Dublin mountainside
community that was my childhood home, made for a certain charm
overall.
Many of the houses on the way were artfully decorated behind
their gated entries. And while I knew a great many of the more well-
to-do residents had professionals create such aesthetically beautiful
winter wonderlands, I still preferred my parents’ more modest
Georgian pile in the older, rural centre of the community. Where
every year my now sixty-something father braved the weather and
rooftops – despite my mother’s admonishment – to ensure that her
home-made holly garlands and all the mismatched lawn decorations
and string lighting collected throughout the years were reinstated
with care.
‘You’re in festive mode, though, and forgetting the inevitable
mid-morning thaw when everything turns to grey slush,’ chided
Nate, pulling me out of the picture-perfect holiday postcard I’d been
mentally creating.
I snorted a laugh. ‘Grinch.’
‘Just thought your nostalgia needed a little reframing before you
started figuring out a way to split time between Palo Alto and here. I
doubt your Manolos would work as well on muddy mountain trails.
Nor all the others you’re going to buy after the promotion . . .’ He
winked, expertly steering the rental along the sharp bend on the
approach to the house, our tyres cutting a disappointing swathe
through the whiteness.
Something that felt uncomfortably like doubt jumped into my
throat, and I did my best to shove it back down.
I didn’t ‘do’ doubt.
‘That’s still not a sure thing, you know,’ I replied simply.
‘Honey,’ he smiled. ‘Of course it is. You’re a superstar. As soon
as you get back from maternity leave and smash the launch, you
know they’ll make the announcement.’
I swallowed hard, because I knew he was right. About that at
least.
Determined to look carefree, I reached over and tickled his
cheek; the long day of travel across multiple time zones had allowed
just the barest bit of dark stubble to form. Though again, I mused,
still feeling the after-effects of all that wonderful Aer Lingus
hospitality, we hadn’t exactly roughed it.
‘I don’t know . . .’ I took an inward deep breath, trying to
choose my words. ‘Lately, I keep thinking a lot about Mum – how
she raised all of us and how maybe it might be nice to give the girls
something like that . . .’
‘Sure, but that was a totally different time. Your mum was . . .
well, a mum.’ As opposed to Nate’s own less secure upbringing amid
the divorced parents he rarely saw. His family situation in general
was a million miles from the close relationship I enjoyed with mine,
so I couldn’t blame him for not really getting it. ‘And nothing against
that, but, Jo, you are literally the most ambitious person I have ever
known.’ He side-eyed me curiously. ‘Where is all of this coming
from?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. Maybe it’s because I’ve just
begun getting comfortable and actually enjoying the girls now, as
opposed to the endless worry and chaos of the early days.’
Nate reached across and took my hand in his, kissing my
knuckles. ‘Anything is better than the early days,’ he laughed,
despite having had very little to do with the night feeds, sleep
deprivation, worry and general domestic mayhem that came with a
newborn, to say nothing of two at once. ‘And while I’m having a
hard time picturing you as a full-time mom, I could definitely get
used to the idea of coming home to a tidy house and gourmet meal
every day. No doubt you’d figure out some brand-new side hustle
too – like be a hot mommy blogger or something.’
Laughter was thick in his voice, and I raised an eyebrow. ‘A
gourmet meal? You’d be lucky if you got fed at all, buddy.’
He rested a hand on my knee. ‘You’d be great at whatever you
put your mind to, hon – whether it’s running a Fortune 500
powerhouse or ferrying the girls to and from ballet, soccer or STEM
lessons . . . whatever.’
I smiled and the anxiety I’d been feeling in the pit of my
stomach dissipated a little. ‘I mean it, Jo,’ Nate continued. ‘You’re the
kind of woman who really can do it all.’
As if sensing my instantly renewed discomfort, I heard one of
the girls stir in the back seat, letting out the tiniest cry, like the
whine of a lonely puppy.
‘Suzy’s waking up,’ I murmured, without needing to turn
around.
Nate looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘How can you tell them
apart like that? They both sound the very same to me.’
I shrugged. ‘I just . . . can.’ And it seemed my body knew too,
since my breasts had just begun to ache on cue. ‘Watch out. Our
entrance is next – just after that holly bush on the left . . .’
‘Honey, this isn’t my first time at your folks’ house.’
‘I know, it’s just . . .’
‘. . . the bush makes it hard to see the drive,’ we chorused in
unison.
I blew out my lips. Nate was right. Of course he knew where he
was going. He didn’t need me to guide him.
We turned through the gates and into the driveway, and as
always – as if their children wore homing devices – the front door
opened and my parents ambled out onto the porch at the top of the
stone steps.
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