Always had. You’d think a man born and raised in New England would feel differently or leave, but he’d done neither. Every November when the first few flakes started falling, a part of his soul would shrivel up until spring. That was why he’d booked himself a trip to Jamaica for the week before Christmas. He’d planned to return to the Edens’, as always, for the holiday, but the frantic call he’d received from his foster sister, Julianne, had changed everything. He had been loath to tell his assistant to cancel the trip, but perhaps if all went well, he could use the reservation after Christmas. He could ring in the New Year on a beach, drinking something frothy, with thoughts of his troubles buried deep. Interesting choice of words. The BMW SUV wound its way down the two-lane road that led to the Garden of Eden Christmas Tree Farm. Wade preferred to drive his roadster, but rural Connecticut in winter was just not the place for it, so he’d left it in Manhattan.
