Page 79 of The Holiday Makeover

Coco deserved her moment.

I owed it to her to give the house the makeover she’d asked for.

I worked my way through the maze of supplies scattered across the entryway—drop cloths, paint trays, sandpaper, trim brushes, a box of new brass switch plates, and the stair runner I still wasn’t entirely sure about. By now, I’d hoped to have the walls painted, new hooks installed for coats, and the mirror and bench I’d purchased set perfectly in place. I’d also hoped it would look less like a charming construction zone and more like the kind of entryway that said, Welcome to Christmas—not Please excuse our mess while we renovate.

But I couldn’t install anything until the walls were painted, and I couldn’t paint with plastic standing in for the front door and every draft in Aspen Lake trying to blow through the entryway.

A girl could only fight so many dust particles and crises, of both the renovation and emotional varieties, all at once.

The renovation crisis being that my supposed partner in crime during all this was gone more than he was here. His homecoming special was taking over his life and, in turn, mine.

I knew he felt awful. I also knew he was burning the candle at both ends trying to do it all so he didn’t let me down.

But . . . we were exactly two weeks away from Christmas Eve, and I had no idea how we were going to get everything done in time.

That was where the emotional crisis entered the picture.

Coco’s deadline was looming large, and everywhere were the daily reminders that she was really gone, from having to pick out the urn for her ashes to smelling lilacs every time I walked past her bedroom.

I had yet to actually go inside her room.

I just wasn’t ready to see all her things. Her sweaters. Her books. The little dishes where she kept her rings and stray buttons and probably the cinnamon candies she’d loved. I especially wasn’t ready knowing that one day I’d have to go through it all and decide what to keep and what pieces of her I was supposed to be brave enough to let go of.

And don’t even get me started on how tired I was from painting, sewing, shopping, planning, sanding, stripping, hanging, adjusting . . . you get the picture.

Then . . . there was Tate’s show.

Did he work these kinds of hours in LA all the time? Did it always consume his life like this? He’d been so busy, I hadn’t even had time to broach the subject with him. And honestly, I didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did. I knew he felt terrible for not being here more.

Sometimes I wondered if Quinton was doing this on purpose.

Or if Tate’s dad was.

From the sound of it, Dominic seemed to be wherever they were filming. Today, I believed they’d rounded up not only Tate’s old football coach but several players from his high school team too. Apparently, they were going to relive their glory days by tossing around a football or doing something equally nostalgic and probably emotionally complicated.

Honestly, it surprised me that Tate had gone along with it.

He rarely talked about football. He wouldn’t even watch a game. It still embarrassed him that he’d been cut from his college team.

I would have loved to discuss his feelings about all of this, but there had been no time to unwrap any of it.

And speaking of wrapping, when was I supposed to get any Christmas shopping done? I hadn’t even had time to contemplate what to buy anyone. And I couldn’t just do gift cards. Coco frowned heavily on that practice. She said that when you buy someone a gift, it should tell them you’d taken the time to search out their heart.

No pressure there.

With all those lovely thoughts keeping me company, I pulled the note off the plastic and read it while scratching George’s head.

Good morning, beautiful.

I’m sorry the door still isn’t back on. I promise today, come hell or high water, it will get done. Darian should be here around midday with the new kitchen cabinets, and he’ll start the install. Hopefully, I’ll be back by then. There’s fresh-brewed coffee waiting for you in the living room. I love you.

Tate

PS: I walked and fed George before I left.

We’d made a makeshift kitchen in the living room with Coco’s old coffeepot, toaster oven, and microwave.

The living room was another source of anxiety. The wood for the built-ins remained neatly stacked against the wall, looking more like a ticking time bomb than the promise of something beautiful. Not one ounce of prep work for the shelves had been done beyond that.