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Chapter 1
Brie
Christmasshoppingismytherapy. There’s always another person who needs a mug or a cookie-scented candle. It’s my way of staying busy too. If I spend all my time gift-giving, there isn’t time for the dreaded holiday loneliness to set in. Today, my list is small: four boxes of candy canes to go with the books I bought my first-grade students for Christmas. It’s an in-and-out job, and my budget demands I don’t get distracted in the store again.
I pop inside Warren’s Grocery and breathe deeply. There are cinnamon pinecones in a center aisle display calling my name. My exhausting day of herding hyper kids ready for the holidays somehow lessens. The therapy is working already.
I see the tag and the over-priced number on the pinecone bag and tell myself a firm no. In a moment of weakness, I lean toward them as I walk by, sniffing like a proper Christmas addict. I look up and see a wall of people pushing through the candy aisle. No surprise. Warren’s is the only decent grocery store in Bearwood, Idaho, so a crowd this time of year is to be expected.
I inch my way closer and attempt to look over a woman’s cart to the shelves behind her. My candy canes must be farther down, but the aisle is clogged with people acting like kindergarteners incapable of forming a decent line.
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to find an older woman with rosy cheeks, short spiky white hair, and chunky snowflake earrings. She is dressed in a red cable-knit sweater with a Warren’s name tag clipped by her collar, forest-green jeggings, and black boots with an eclectic-looking gold buckle. Whoever she is, she resembles a contemporary Mrs. Claus.
I blink. “Yes?”
“It’s pretty congested, isn’t it?”
“It does look daunting.”
“I can help. Follow me.” She pulls the closed sign off the end of the register and un-clicks a rope barring the lane. When she steps aside, I notice plenty of Christmas candy stacked on a rack, including boxes of candy canes and my favorite salted chocolate caramels.
“This is perfect,” I say.
“I just finished stocking it.” Trendy Mrs. Claus steps behind the register while I pile boxes from the rack to the checkout counter, studiously ignoring the chocolate caramels. They are a different kind of therapy that I might have abused too recently.
“Do you have fun plans for the weekend?” the cashier asks, her tone curious.
Why do store clerks ask personal questions, and I always feel obligated to answer? Despite my better judgment, I tell her exactly what my plans are. “I’m watching Christmas movies.” I omit thealonepart, since my roommates have plans the entire weekend and have abandoned me, but it still sounds lame. It beats hanging out at my mom’s house to avoid the consuming quiet. But why am I justifying myself? Movies are perfectly acceptable—and holiday ones even traditional.
“I love Christmas movies too.” She leans over the conveyor belt when I set my boxes down. “They’re best with a hot cup of cocoa and someone special by your side, am I right?” She winks at me like I know all about how having a significant other makes movies ten times better.
I haven’t had a boyfriend in a long time. Emphasis on long. I live with my two best friends, so I’m not completely alone. But Brie Holland is old news in a small town like this. I’m destined to be single forever. I’ve never admitted this out loud, but I think life is against me having serious dating relationships. If my roommates marry or move away, I'm in big trouble. I smile, as if the idea of spending my evenings alone every weekend for eternity thrills me. “I’m the independent type,” I lie, pulling out my credit card to hint I’m in a hurry.
Mrs. Claus gives me a sympathetic look and rings up the first box. “Have you made your wish list for Santa yet?”
I sigh inwardly. More conversation. “Not yet.” I don’t make Christmas lists for myself. I’m a single girl in her late twenties. Besides, after I finish shopping for other people, what’s left has to go into savings. I have goals.
The Mrs. Claus cashier holds up a green notebook matching the color of her jeggings. In gold script across the front is the word Kismet. I didn’t even see her reach for it or know where it came from. “What do you think?” she asks. “Isn’t this darling? It’s perfect for making a Christmas wish list so Santa can send you exactly what you want.”
I suddenly feel like she is the schoolteacher and I am the first grader, buying into her singsong voice and feeling a rise in anxiety to get my list made before it’s too late. I blink until I regain my senses. The notebook is cute. Really cute. And the title pulls at my romantic heart.
The cashier can’t know I’m fascinated with the idea behind fate, kismet, and divine intervention (thanks to my secret theory that I’m jinxed on ever finding love), but she waves it in front of me as if she can read my mind. I want it like I do the cinnamon pinecones by the entrance and the chocolate caramels on the rack behind me. But I am a teacher, and I have hundreds of notebooks. She is a saleswoman—a good one—but I don’tneedthe notebook. “No, thank you.” I swipe my card to pay for my candy canes before she can change my mind.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to make you pay for it, honey. It’s on the house.” She winks at me.
“Really?” My heart warms. It never gets old seeing someone get into the Christmas spirit, no matter how small the gesture. “I can pay for it,” I offer. What can I say? I have a sweet tooth for sweet people.
“Nonsense, I had a good feeling about you the minute I saw you. It’s meant for you, and you can’t convince me otherwise.” There is a strange knowing tone to her voice, but older women always act like they know far more than their younger counterparts. I don’t let it bother me.
“Well, it’s very kind of you.”
“It’s nothing.” She grins. “Merry Christmas . . . or should I say, MerryKismet.”
“Thank you so much.” I reach for the notebook.
Her eyes widen with excitement. “Let me gift wrap it for you.”
“Oh, it’s not necessary—” my voice fades. Mrs. Cashier Claus isn’t listening because she is now humming “Jingle Bells” louder than the store speakers. Before I can stop her, she spreads wrapping paper out and starts cutting away at it. It has cute little elves all over it—and the whole thing is so ridiculous, I smile.
