DECEMBER 20TH
“Mom, stop.” One eye on the road in front of me, I fumble with the radio dial.
The rental car zigzags briefly across the yellow center line, and I curse as Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” fades out.
“I’ll be fine. I swear it.”
“You swear, but you also lie, Bell Bug.” There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
No. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’ve flown one thousand miles and spent money I don’t have, and for what? To hole myself up in a cabin in the frigid Montana wilderness for ninety-six hours in hopes that I’ll paint something good enough to salvage my career? Yes. That’s exactly what I plan to do.
But I don’t say any of that to my mom.
“It’s your thirtieth birthdayandChristmas. You shouldn’t be alone to—to wallow.”
“I’m not wallowing. I’m painting.” My chest squeezes as the words leave me.
The confidence I had when I left San Francisco has already dissipated. The parting words my agent, Luka, left me with linger in my head.
Try to paint something we can sell this time.
“And that cabin will help you, how?” A psychiatrist, my mother loves to poke at open wounds. Even if it’s all in the best interest of her only child.
“I still love it there.” I rub at the ache between my brows. “Despite what happened.”
I’m in a drought. The cabin’s always been a source of inspiration. With any luck, I can reclaim that this Christmas. If not, I can kiss my career goodbye.
“Okay,” my mother decides. I can almost see her mime locking her lips. “Not another word. Next Christmas you’re mine.”
A wave of warm affection rolls through me. “Promise.”
Once I’ve ended the call, I vow not to pick my phone up for the rest of the year. Unless it’s Luka calling with life-changing news. My mom knows exactly what this time of the year does to me, but I’m nowhere near ready to get into that therapy session.
“Hot cocoa. A fireplace. A fresh paint set. And the biggest, butteriest blanket I can find,” I murmur, doing my best to convince myself that this idea is a great big present topped with a beautiful red bow and not a lump of coal stuck in the bottom of my stocking.
Christmas in Montana.
After two hellish plane rides, with turbulence violent enough to give me whiplash, and three hours stuck in a horrible, smelly rental car, I’m ready for it.
I love Christmas.
I love everything that comes with the magical holiday season. Eggnog and hot toddies. Red stockings and silver twinkling lights. A freshly cut tree (never fake) and powdered snow. The roar of the fire. Sugar cookies with buttercream frosting. Mistletoe and cozy sweaters. Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning and Irish coffee in the afternoon. Long, lazy days and even lazier nights.
Even after all that’s happened.
Maybe because some dumb, idealistic part of me clings to the belief that miracles can come true, clings to those last few days of the year when all is bright white and hopeful.
I inhale, sit up straighter and turn up the radio. As Elvis Presley’s slow croon of “Blue Christmas” fills the car, a faint flicker of Christmas spirit spreads through me. A hint of a happy sensation I haven’t felt in the last three years.
Elvis continues his serenade as I ease off the highway and enter Silverwood. The quintessential land of cowboys with its red-bricked buildings, annual rodeos and busy saloons. I let off the gas and survey Main Street mournfully. The little downtown that I once truly loved as my own is decorated with wreaths and shiny garland. I ache to stop, to step into Candy’s Candy Shop for hand-pulled taffy, snag a gingerbread cookie from Baked or a Silverwood Amber Ale from Buck’s Bar.
Instead, speed limit be damned, I accelerate.
The bruise in my heart throbs.
Silverwood isn’t my town. I left.
I don’t deserve it.
