Page 2 of Not Home Alone

My dad has taken me to dinner at the Factory to enjoy the polka band every year I’ve been around for Christmas, ever since I was a kid. I doubt we’ll make it there this year… But it’s fine.

Finally, we turn onto Evergreen Lane. I sit up straighter, and my lips curl into a grin in anticipation. I quite literally haven’t felt this kind of joyful anticipation about anything in a decade. It’s like Christmas morning when I was a little kid. This picturesque, tree-lined street is only eight blocks from my dad’s house, but it’s so much wider and prettier than our street. A couple of the houses closer to Main Street have been renovated since I last saw them, but the general look of the street hasn’t changed. Almost all the homes are covered in Christmas lights. The Home Alone House—my house for the next two weeks—is at the end of this road, three long blocks down.

“You really are excited, huh?” my dad asks.

Nodding, I remove my gloves, pull off my knitted cap, and run my fingers through my hair. Then I apply lip gloss. I want to look good for the nicest house I’ve ever stayed in. I’m gonna get all cozy up inside that Georgian-style beauty. With its stately brick exterior, black shutters, and magnificent, tall trees surrounding the property. It looks so solid and secure. Like nothing bad could ever happen to anyone who lives there. Unless, of course, you consider being left behind by your family or robbed by bandits something bad. I can hardly believe how lucky I am that the someone who’ll be living there for the next two weeks—is me.

As my dad pulls up into the driveway, my heart sinks just a little bit. The big hanging lantern over the front porch is on, but aside from that, the exterior of the property is entirely unlit. It’s still light enough out for me to see that there are no Christmas lights anywhere on the house or in the shrubs or trees in the front yard. None. Nada. Not even a battery-operated candle in a window. There are no garlands, no wreaths, no red ribbons.

If I’m being honest, upon first glance, I am disheartened. Thankfully, I am the daughter of the owner of The Christmas Barn. I have access and ye olde family discount to whatever I might need in order to get this house back into the holiday spirit. So this is also fine.

My dad turns off the engine and there is finally silence. “Looks like you’ll be at the Barn bright and early tomorrow, huh?”

That makes me laugh. “You literally read my mind.”

“I’ll get your suitcase from the back.”

I put my hat and gloves back on before opening the passenger door and stepping out into the crisp, cold evening. With a deep inhale, I fill my lungs with the sweet, smoky haze that hangs in the air. I’ve been living in apartment complexes in Ann Arbor, and this is one of the things I always miss this time of year—the warm, earthy scent of burning wood in contrast with the sharp winter cold. I can’t wait to use the fireplace in this house.

As I turn to face the van and shut the door, I let out a yelp. I cover my mouth when the old woman next door frowns at me from her front porch. She’s dressed head to toe in black as always and her long, braided hair has been completely silver for as long as I can remember. “Sorry!” I squeak. She’s still frowning at me. Old Lady Crowley. I forgot she lives here. But wow, she’s still alive. Good for her! I mean, she probably didn’t really murder her family and burn them in the backyard. That’s probably just a dumb rumor the neighborhood kids started decades ago.

“Oh hey, Mrs. Crowley!” my dad calls out. “Good to see you.”

She scowls at my dad and swipes her hand through the air. “Meh!”

“Meh-rry Christmas to you too!” my dad practically sings. “My daughter Merrily will be your neighbor for the next two weeks! Let her know if you need anything!”

I’m just standing here with a smile frozen on my face, hoping she won’t kill me or say anything mean.

She narrows her eyes at me and then goes back inside.

I can breathe again.

As my dad rolls my gigantic suitcase over to me, he wraps his free arm around me and says under his breath, “She probably isn’t a murderer, but you should still lock all the doors and windows.”

“Thanks. You coming in?”

He pulls the suitcase along the cement path from the driveway to the front porch. The path that should be lit up with soft white string lights. “Course,” he says. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

“Great! Once you’ve ushered me in safely, I can unpack my toiletry bag and trim your eyebrows.”

“I knew it! I saw you staring at them at the bus station, and I’ve been waiting for you to say something ever since.”

“They’re out of control! Ear and nose hairs too.”

“Connie likes the stray hairs. She said she thinks they’re charming.”

“I guarantee you she doesn’t.”

And before we even reach the front steps, Darlene Love starts singing “Baby please come home!” from his phone. Which means it’s Connie again. This is only the third time she’s called since he picked me up from the bus station in Iowa.

“Hang on, I gotta take this,” he says, as he lets go of me to reach into his coat pocket.

I take the handle of my suitcase, already knowing that he won’t be setting foot inside this house.

Connie is asking him to stop by the market on his way home to pick up a list of things she’s going to text him. I can hear her. Everyone within a three-block radius can hear her, I’m sure. I can hear her sisters and her parents in the background, and I can hear Connie yelling at April to turn off an old black-and-white gangster movie. My dad doesn’t even have them on speakerphone. He looks at me sheepishly after he’s ended the call. “Uhhh…”

“I know. It’s fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”