This was an actual crisis.

  On the surface, the mistake was just a numerical error, no different than a typo. But because it skewed the results—in their favor—it could easily look as if Poppy had deliberately altered the results to get the grant.

  Jonas would be all right, not just because she could protect him, but because the blame would fall on her—as it should. She was the boss; she was responsible. Her whole career and hard-won reputation would be on the line if she turned in suspicious data. It only took seconds for a scientist to lose her credibility, and shorter than that if the scientist was a woman. She’d have to start from scratch and prove herself all over again before anyone would ever give her a chance at another big-money grant like this one.

  Uncovering the problem wasn’t that challenging, because Jonas had done the work—gone over his own research and discovered the data numbers in question. It could be fixed—and hopefully before the grant was expected to be electronically delivered right after Christmas. But it couldn’t be done in seconds. Much less in one day.

  Poppy shooed Jonas back to his family for the holiday and then knuckled down for another hour. Now that she knew the problem, she couldn’t just leave it. She needed to organize a plan of attack, set up a timetable, and establish a check and recheck system to prevent this from happening again. Finally, she felt prepared enough to lock up and leave.

  The whole drive home, though, she kept thinking of everything she’d left for her family to do—the cooking, the setup, all the preparations for the holiday dinner. And Sam had to cope with her family alone—including her dad, who could be a handful.

  Cripes, her presents weren’t even wrapped.

  Actually, Sam’s present couldn’t be wrapped—but that was beside the point.

  At the cottage door, Poppy pasted on a hard-core joyous smile and turned the knob, quickly letting out a wildly happy “Merry Christmas Eve, everyone!”

  As if Sam had been waiting at the door, he reached her first—and had a wineglass waiting for her. He held her drink as he helped her shimmy out of her parka and snow gear, blocking her view of the family at the same time. “Poppy, you look gorgeous,” he murmured.

  Had he been drinking? She looked like worn-out dishwater, not that she could help it. She just said, “Sam,” and then let his arms fold around her.

  The hoard still made it through to her, but Sam, thankfully, could run interference in a hurricane. The sisters surged first, with kisses and Merry Christmases and you look so great, Poppy. She could smell dinner. She could see the table set, with even a couple of candles in the center. A cluster of grocery bags were nested under the tree, and Bubbles muscled in for her kiss and a petting. The fire was blazing and popping, bright and warm as sparklers.

  Even her dad cornered her for a massive hug. “Hey, Poppy. I like your young man.”

  Good grief. How much could he have had to drink this early?

  Sam ushered her to the couch and parked her next to him, with Bubbles guarding her other side. Poppy never expected to relax. She never expected to relax again in this life. But it was all so much easier than she’d expected. Anxieties and worries petered out. The chores were done, everybody happy, no one complaining, no one wringing hands.

  And then, out of the blue, Marigold and Cam approached her, so close they could have been joined at the hip. They pulled up two chairs, clicked their wineglasses to hers, ignored Sam—they had never ignored Sam yet—and then smiled at her.

  Just smiled. Suspicion sped up Poppy’s heartbeat. Something was caving in. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

  “You two okay?”

  Cam nodded. “We’re both happy as clams. And dinner’s about ready. But neither of us are putting food on until we have a couple minutes to talk to you.”

  “Go for it,” Poppy said, already braced for Armageddon.

  Cam clearly had been elected to take the podium. “When you texted that you had to go into the lab this morning—well, it obviously had to be a serious problem.”

  Poppy frowned. “It was. And honestly, it was a really serious problem.”

  Cam nodded. “We get that. Only we don’t know what that means because you never talk about what you’re doing. Like you never really explained what this grant was all about.”

  Poppy’s eyebrows lifted. “Say what? I used to tell you bits and pieces about my work all the time—but your eyes always crossed. I got it, honest. Most of the world doesn’t get orgasmic over microorganisms or percentages of deviant chemical compounds and all that.”

  “We forgave you a long time ago for being brainy, sis.” Marigold’s turn to sound downright mature. “We know you can’t help it. You know we’re going to blank out when you talk about algorithms and other mathematical crud like that. But when you took off this morning—Christmas Eve morning—we knew it had to be more serious than that.”

  “It was,” Poppy admitted again. “There was a mistake in the grant we are supposed to submit in just a couple days. If it hadn’t been found—and corrected—to be honest, my job would have been at risk. Pretty much my reputation altogether. I have to admit I was pretty shaken up. Even if I didn’t make the error myself, I’m responsible for it. I should have checked and rechecked—”

  Cam interrupted. “Wait a minute. You made a mistake?”

  “You?” Marigold echoed.

  And suddenly they both jumped up and surged toward her. “We’re so proud of you, Poppy! Good for you! Good for you for screwing up. Good for you even more for telling us!”

  “We want to hear more. But I’m afraid dinner’s going to burn. We really have to eat.” Cam’s tone was apologetic.

  She got one more hug and then the sisters hiked toward the kitchen. Poppy finished her last gulp of wine, glanced at Sam. “Did you put them up to that?”

  “Not me. I don’t think anyone did.”

  “It sounded . . . planned. They ambushed me.”

  “Yup. Sounded that way to me, too. I liked it. That they were proud of you for making a mistake.”

  “Yeah.” Poppy still couldn’t quite put her head around it. But it seemed like . . . it sounded like . . . it felt like . . . they were trying to help her climb off the Mom Pedestal. Tell her she didn’t always have to have the answers.

  Maybe they’d actually been hearing her?

  “This feels like a downright miracle,” she murmured to Sam. Then they both popped up to help bring dinner together.

  Poppy organized serving plates and servers. Camille lit candles. Sam said grace. The brown-sugar-coated ham was more tender than any she’d ever baked, the potatoes tastier, the salad perfect.

  All three sisters saw Christmas as an ideal time to remember their mother, so dinner conversation started with their favorite mom stories. George talked about the challenges and politics of his current sculpture project. Everyone found a way to chip in.

  Poppy sat back, loving this. Her sisters really glommed on to Sam—no question they liked him. They took extra pleasure in telling embarrassing stories about her—but that was okay. Sam had enough siblings to know that game. Their dad had a maestro baritone when it came to singing carols, and he devoured dinner with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them.

  Poppy could feel it building—the Christmas spirit. The lights, the love of family, the snow outside, the personal memories of their mom. Through thick and thin—and all the hardships—the sisters had cleaved together. “Like glue,” Cam said. “Anyone in trouble, the other two were there. Always.”

  They were. Maybe Poppy knew how hard she’d tried to help her family come together and stay together—but they all did their share.

  Marigold finally stood up. “I can’t eat another bite, as good as the desserts look. So why don’t we rest, do a few presents now? I’ll hand out.”

  “How come you get to hand out?” Poppy teased.

  “Because I’m the most beautiful, the youngest, and the most talented,” Marigold said without missing a beat. “Also because”—she glanced at Sam—“Sam said I could.”

  “Oh, well. If Sam spoke, I don’t think anyone would dare argue.”

  Sam held his head in his hands.

  Poppy’s eyes met his a half-dozen times. Maybe a whole dozen. Every once in a while she caught a pensive expression on his face—as if he were thinking about something serious—but it wasn’t as if she had the chance to ask him about it. This just wasn’t the time or place. And she didn’t know how he’d accomplished it, but he’d clearly waved a magic wand over her family. They were having fun, acting easy and relaxed. All their Christmases had been special, Poppy had always believed. But not like this. Each of them—including her—just seemed to be . . .

  Happy.

  “Okay,” Marigold ordered, as if she’d been giving orders her whole life. “Everybody gets a grocery bag with their name on it. If anyone doesn’t like what they got, that’s okay. Just give it to me. I’ll either eat it, wear it, pass it on, or sell it.”

  Out came the loot, which was pretty similar to most years except there were more cries of I love, love, love it! And Is this perfect or what?

  Her dad opened the fresh shirts and gave a hearty laugh. “Thank heavens. I don’t think I have a shirt in the house that doesn’t have paint or clay or solvent on it!” But then he glanced up. “But what’s this, Poppy?”

  Poppy saw the envelope her dad held up, but she’d never seen it before. From the corner of her eye, she caught Sam giving her a quick wink. She cocked her head but gave her dad the obvious answer. “It looks like a Christmas surprise to me.”

  Her dad slipped open the envelope and read the contents with a confused frown. “Call the Mrs.? I’m not sure what that is?”

  Sam wandered close to her dad, took a glance at the letter that was confusing George, and then plunked down next to Poppy again. By accident, he moved a little closer. His arm, even more accidentally, rested behind her back. But she was pretty positive the teensy pinch wasn’t an accident.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” Sam said to her dad. “I know that service. My mom gave it to my uncle a few years ago when he was stuck with a broken ankle.”

  “What kind of service? It says it’s for six months.” George showed everyone the form letter.

  “So it does.” Sam nodded. “What I remember is that my uncle didn’t like strangers in his house, but for a few months, he just plain needed some help. So this service does all kinds of things. Like grocery shop. Or cook. Or do laundry and clean. Or pick up prescriptions or take your car in to have it serviced. You tell them what you need done. Simple as that.”

  It might be “simple as that,” but Poppy had never heard of it before. She wished she had. It was an ideal thing to try on her dad. She just wasn’t the one who’d thought of it. She leaned closer to Sam, looked up into his big, bad eyes. “You’re in big trouble with me,” she whispered.

  He laughed, as if she’d told him a joke. “I hope that’s a promise,” he murmured back.

  Marigold and Cam were both entranced by the gift and gave Poppy a double thumbs-up. Marigold tried coaxing her dad into loving the idea. “This doesn’t mean we’ll visit you any less, Dad. But this way we’ll be able to spend less time doing chores, and more time just being with you.”

  Clearly George wasn’t as excited as his daughters. “You’re making me feel guilty, Poppy. I never thought I was asking you to do too much.”

  Cam was close enough to mutter a whisper. “A little guilt won’t hurt him. You go, girl.” And in a normal voice, kicked in, “That was a brilliant idea, sis.”

  Poppy flashed her eyes at Sam again. “Did anyone ever tell you that you lie like a rug? I never guessed.”

  “I have a couple other hidden talents I haven’t had a chance to mention to you yet.”

  He was having so much fun. And since he’d invented this idea entirely on his own, Poppy figured she needed to show him that she could keep up. She shot her most loving smile at George. “I just wish I’d thought of it before, Dad. We all want you to enjoy your art, your work—and not have to worry about distractions. I hope this will help.”

  And that was it. The only sticky moment. Except when Sam got up and bent behind the tree and brought out the last present—a two-foot-long skinny package, wrapped in green paper with an eaten-up red bow. He raised a hand to get the group’s attention. “For the record, everyone, Poppy refuses to give me a present until tomorrow. So I’m not giving her the present from me until tomorrow, too. But tonight, I had to give her this. And on the beat-up bow . . . well, Bubbles helped me wrap it.”

  Bubbles lurched to her feet, clearly wanting credit for whatever was making everyone happy. Poppy unwrapped the curious package slowly, looking at Sam. “I can’t imagine what this is.”

  “It’s a very, very important present,” he assured her. “It nearly broke the bank, it was so expensive. And rare. I could hardly find anyone who was selling anything like it.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “I’m guessing you want a whole lot of brownie points for this?”

  “I do, I do. I earned them. Trust me on this.”

  “Sam. I do trust you. But I’ve come to notice—especially recently—that you have some unexpected credentials in shenanigans.”

  “Me?”

  And then she opened it. At first she couldn’t figure out what it was. A long sterling silver handle—gorgeous—ending with something? A clamp of some kind?

  He whispered, “It’s a marshmallow stick. For cooking marshmallows over a fire outside.”

  “Sam! A sterling silver stick for marshmallows?!” She threw her arms around him, half shaking her head, half laughing. “You nut!” And then she stopped laughing long enough to kiss him. Kisses in front of families were inevitably . . . tidy. But she tried to send him secret gifts with her eyes.

  “She likes it,” he told the family.

  “We can all see that,” George commented dryly.

  Everyone stayed for another couple hours, but it was late, especially with everyone driving. Poppy split up food so everyone had goodies to take home, helped gather up their gifts, their stuff. The whole crew was still chattering, still hugging, still smiling.

  Then out of nowhere, the cabin was suddenly silent—there was nothing but the Christmas lights. And her. And Sam. And Bubbles, of course.

  Poppy’s heart started pounding. “You did something to my family. They weren’t normal. Was it alcohol? Magic? A secret spell?”

  “I suspect it was all of the above with some plain old happiness thrown in.” Sam scratched his chin. “But I guess, right about now, you have something you want to talk to me about. And I’ve got something serious I need to ask you, too.”

  “Yikes. That sounds serious.”

  “Nothing so heavy it should upset our Christmas. But I do think we’ll both feel better if we clear up a couple of touchy things.”

  “Sure. Wine?” she asked.

  “How about half a glass? This won’t take that long.”

  There was a bottle open somewhere. Malbec, she thought. Someone had opened it, but it was still almost full. She poured two glasses and carried them back to Sam by the fire. “Okay, on my dad’s present, if you were afraid I was going to call you a scalawag—”

  “A scalawag? Say what?”

  “For buying my dad that Call the Mrs. present and making out it was from me. That was a real scalawag move. But I can’t very well yell at you when I thought it was an incredibly thoughtful thing to do. And I appreciate it hugely. But, for the record—if we’d just had two seconds to ourselves, I’d hope you would have asked me first, talked it over, before you just did it.”

  “We haven’t had those two seconds, Poppy.”

  “I know. The last whole week seemed like a nonstop roller coaster. And I’m just saying—really—thank you. But. You shouldn’t be paying for a present like that for my dad, so just tell me what the cost was.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  Poppy waited. She could almost see the little masculine wheels whirling in Sam’s brain. He wanted to pay for it. He was considering arguing with her. But then he looked straight in her eyes, then at her mouth, and finally threw up his hands and chuckled. “Okay, okay—I’ll make you a deal. What I want to talk about is a little more serious. If you promise not to be mad at me for tackling something touchy, I’ll tell you what your dad’s present cost.”

  “Deal,” she agreed. “But spill it quick. I want to get to the more fun part of Christmas.”

  “Me, too,” he agreed and clinked glasses with her. Both of them took a sip of wine, and then Sam crouched down to bank the fire.

  “Okay. Here it is. I’ve been around your sisters several times now, and because they can talk a hundred miles an hour, simultaneously, I’ve heard dozens of family stories and traditions. I feel like I halfway know your mom, from all the things you and your sisters have said about her. I tucked in all the stories about when one of you was sick, or sad, or upset. After a while, it really got to me, that one person was never in any of those stories. Never. Not once.”

  She knelt down on the warm hearth next to him. “You’re talking about my dad.” She didn’t phrase it as a question.

  “Didn’t anyone do anything? Aunts, grandparents, neighbors, teachers, someone? If they didn’t intervene themselves, didn’t someone at least report him for neglect?” Sam’s voice was husky, a timbre of emotion Poppy had never heard from him before. Anger. But not at her. “I’m not looking to cause a rift. But you have to know this wasn’t remotely right.”

  She tried to swallow, almost couldn’t. In all these years, no one ever asked about her dad. About how the three girls had lived, how they’d coped. “We always had food. A roof over our heads.”

  “Poppy.”

  Okay. He wasn’t interested in platitudes. But she didn’t like remembering those old nightmares. It couldn’t be helped. It was just their reality. She had to protect her sisters from the goblins under the bed, when she was still young enough to be scared of those goblins herself. “Some things were pretty rough,” she admitted.

  “Rough? I’d say it was beyond rough. A pack of wolves raise their cubs with more nurturing than your father showed any of you—but especially you. Maybe if a surgeon had a reason to cut open his chest, you’d find out if he even had a heart.”