Christmas With the Colburns Read Online Free Page B

night, she was
tempted to flop onto her bed and sleep too, but Isabella needed care. As she
descended the stairs, Lydia picked up a bundle of dirty laundry she had left on
the landing. It would get washed Monday no matter what. She dumped the laundry
in the kitchen by the pantry, loaded a tray with Isabella’s favorite afternoon
snack, and took it to her great aunt’s bedroom.
    Isabella’s door stood open and the heavy drapes were tied
back, allowing the afternoon sun to light the room. Lydia raised her voice as
she entered. “Aunt Isabella, it’s me, Lydia. Would you like something to eat?”
She set the tray on the doily-covered nightstand. “I brought you tea and
shortbread cookies.”
    “Seventy-eight years I’ve lived in this room, and I’ve always
kept the curtains closed in the afternoon.” Her gravelly voice sounded painful.
“I don’t like how the sun heats the room when it hits the windows.”
    Lydia peeled back the quilts and touched her blind aunt’s
hand. “Your skin is cold. A little extra heat won’t hurt you.”
    “I don’t like sunshine coming in here,” Isabella mumbled.
“It’ll shrink the rug.”
    “I need the light.” Lydia reached for a vile of balm and
dabbed it on Isabella’s chapped lips. “Would you like some tea?”
    “No, dear.” Isabella pressed her lips together. “I need you
to go to my wardrobe and get something.”
    “Of course. What do you need?”
    “It’s not for me, child. It’s for you.” Isabella lifted a
crooked finger. “Inside, at the back of the top drawer, beneath the shawl. It’s
a family journal that was entrusted to my keeping. I should have given it to
you long ago, but I always feared it would only sadden you.”
    Though she didn’t expect to find anything in the drawer,
Lydia stepped to the varnished wardrobe and opened its smooth doors. The scent
of lavender wafted out as she followed her aunt’s instructions. She drew out
the shawl, and at the back of the drawer beneath a sachet of dried lavender was
a pocket-sized notebook. Its thick paper cover was crisp, as if the notebook
had hardly been touched, let alone written in. She opened the cover and there
in her mother’s handwriting it said: Private.
If found, please return to Mrs. Hannah Colburn.
    It couldn’t be. Lydia’s stomach tightened. Once desperate for
her departed mother, she had asked her father if he had anything her mother had
written. He had said her mother never kept a journal.
    She flipped to the first page: I expected my eighteenth Christmas to be a lonesome holiday, missing my
family and dreading the future, but one week with the Colburns of Good Springs
changed my life forever.
    It didn’t read like a journal at all, but more of a personal
narrative. Lydia clapped the notebook shut. “Who wrote this?”
    “Your mother. She was having emotional difficulty after your
birth. I suggested she write her account of the happiest time in her life, to
help her overcome her sadness. After she wrote about falling in love with your
father, she brought the journal to me and said she couldn’t bear the thought of
someone reading what she had written. She wanted to burn it. I convinced her to
let me hide it.” Isabella blew out a long breath. “And now I’ll hide it with
you.”
    Though the journal was small, it felt heavy in Lydia’s hand.
“Why me? I’m grateful, I really am, but shouldn’t Father have it?”
    Isabella closed her unseeing eyes and lay back against the
pillow. “That is up to you, but since you are facing Christmas with sorrow, I
think you should read it first.”
    “Did writing the story help Mother overcome her sadness?”
    Isabella didn’t answer. Her head lolled to the side.
    “Aunt Isabella?” Lydia felt the pulse at her neck. It came in
weak intermittent beats. She adjusted the pillows and raised the quilt to
Isabella’s emaciated shoulders. “Rest now. I’ll be back to check on you in a
little while.”
    She slipped the little journal into her