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“Have her? I’ve never had her. I mean, I don’t have her in any capacity except our official working capacity. She’s a competent coworker, though a little too into Christmas for my tastes, you know how I feel about Christmas, but nope, she’s definitely not a reason for me to stay in Winterberry Glen or Holly Ridge or anywhere near here.”
Smooth, Cole. Really smooth.
I can tell Mom is trying not to laugh at me.
“Okay, fine, so Blaire isn’t a reason for you to stay. So, let’s go back to you not wanting to tell me about the possibility of you moving because you didn’t want to upset me. Do you really think I’m that unable to take care of myself? That you’re the only support network I have?”
“Well, no Mom, of course not, but . . .”
“No buts. You’re right, Cole. We don’t talk about it much, but for several years after your dad left, I wasn’t the most self-sufficient parent around. And I’m sorry I put you through that. But when you stayed here for college instead of taking those offers from more prestigious universities that would allow you to start your life somewhere else, I decided I was going to make a change. And then when you took the job here in Winterberry Glen? Well, that’s what moved me to start therapy. I wanted that to be the last time you made a decision with my well-being ahead of your own. So, Cole, if the move to the capital and taking this new job with the state government is going to make you happy, of course I’ll miss our weekly dinners, but you’re not the only man in my life, you know. And family isn’t just the group of people you’re born into. Now, go heat up that pasta. I made tiramisu for dessert.”
I got up to put the bowl in the microwave on autopilot. It had been a long time since my mom had delivered such an impassioned speech directed at me, and it was going to take some time to process it all. There was one part I needed clarification on.
“I am sure Austin would love to continue weekly dinners with you too, Mom, and would definitely be willing to help with whatever you need.”
“That’s not the type of man in my life I was talking about, Cole, and you know it. Stop trying to be cute. It was time for me to take an emotional risk again and I think maybe you could consider doing the same. Think about letting someone in.”
Mom was just delivering thought grenades left and right today.
“Oh, and he’s a big Christmas type. I think I want to get a Christmas tree this year. You and I can go pick one out sometime this week, if you have time with the festival and packing and move prepping, that is. We’ll need a new tree stand and probably could spring for some new lights and ornaments too. I’m sure it’s been—”
“Twenty years since you’ve had a tree. Sure thing, Mom. We can definitely make time for all of that. Opening night of the festival is still a few days away. Let’s plan to go tomorrow.”
“Sounds great Cole, I’m looking forward to it. I think it’s time we gave a lot of things another chance in this household, Christmas being one of them.”
Mom sat back in her chair, swirling her glass of wine, looking very satisfied with the way the evening’s conversation had gone. That made one of us, at least. I couldn’t remember the last time a conversation plan went so far off the rails.
A tree? A new man? Second chances? Asking me about a girl? Man. Times, they sure are a-changing.
Chapter 22
December 15
Blaire
It was finally here: opening night of the festival. Somehow the last nine months had dragged on and yet also flown by in the time it took a snowflake to melt once it landed on warm skin.
I didn’t have to worry about my Christmas movie-themed nightmares anymore, because I was barely sleeping at this point. Susie was going to have to put a daily maximum on the amount of peppermint mochas I was allowed to consume, because the sugar, anxiety, and caffeine coursing through my body were not sustainable for the next two weeks.
Opening night of the festival always began with the tree lighting ceremony. Everyone would gather in the square around the gazebo and the huge Norway Spruce tree. The hot chocolate, mulled wine, and toasted nut vendors in the Christmas Market were open for people to buy something warm to hold on to while they waited for the ceremony to start. The rest of the vendors were prepping behind their stall shutters, with the market officially opening as soon as the tree was lit. Holiday music was being piped from the newly installed speaker system in the gazebo, thanks to a generous donation from Mike’s Speaker Shack, and the air buzzed with Christmas spirit and eager anticipation of getting the festival underway.
In years past, the ceremony had probably been too long and full of unnecessary pomp and circumstance. This year’s would feature a welcome address from yours truly, a medley from the local high school marching band while people got into position, a countdown to build the anticipation and then lights would be on, and the festival would be off and running. Tradition said that the mayor acted as the one to push the button controlling the thousands of lights strung around Norm—Norm the Norway Spruce, yes—and Rudolph had done so as chair of the city council in years past. This year, in a little show of spite to the council, as well as a push for publicity, I held a contest, inviting youth from all over the tristate area to pen a holiday poem. The planning committee had voted for their favorite poem, and the winner would have the chance to read their poem right before the countdown, and then push the button to turn on the tree. Pretty genius, right?
We had, of course, received lots of entries from the youth of Holly Ridge, as well as those from outside of the county and even the state. Sadly, there were no entries from any Winterberry Glen youth. Knowing what I knew now about the origins of the feud I probably shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was. I had removed the names and home locations from poems before the judging, so no one knew that fact except me, but I had made a mental note to reach out directly to the Winterberry Glen elementary school if—no—when there was another festival next year.
The winner ended up being little Olive Martinez , aged eight, from a few counties over. She wrote a poem from the point of view of Norm—someone, or someone’s parents had done their research—that the committee just ate up and we had it printed on some souvenir coffee mugs and tote bags that were available for sale at the festival. Olive was present and accounted for, along with her parents, and was practicing her poem in a corner of the gazebo with the encouragement of her dad and stepmom.
It was inching closer and closer to 6:00 p.m., the time when the tree lighting ceremony would kick off, and I was going over my opening night checklist one more time when I heard Cole’s deep voice behind me.
“It looks like there’s a pretty good-sized crowd gathered out there.”
He was right. There weren’t official attendance records from the past few years—because of course there weren’t—but it looked like the crowd was bigger than the estimates I had badgered all the square businesses for this summer when I was setting my attendance goals for each major event.
“Yes, I’m really pleased with the size of things. Moving the tree lighting to Friday night was definitely the right call, allowing us to kick off the festival strong on the eve of the weekend.”
I was still looking at my checklist, definitely not because I was avoiding looking at Cole’s face because I knew what it would do to my concentration, but really because I wanted to check everything over a third time. Only twice? What does Santa know?
“Uh, I brought you something.”
