Page 1 of Five Days of Christmas Spice

1 HOLLY

DECEMBER 23RD

“You’re not even curious about the kinky resort next to your grandmother’s farmhouse?” Patricia Smythe, my best work friend, grabs my phone out of my hand.

My cheeks grew warm.

Patricia levels that same look at me that I’ve seen her use on a reporter when she wasn’t getting her way for a client. I stare past her at the bedazzled Christmas tree under her window, trying not to blink.

“This is what happens when you ply me with drink.” I take back my phone, wishing I had kept my mouth shut.

But the day before Christmas Eve, and in Patricia’s cozy living room instead of in one of our executive offices, leaves us more open with each other. I’ve known Patricia for five years, ever since she came to Edmonton and took a job as a PR Executive working for one of the best outfits in the city.

I work as a talent manager at one of the top firms in the country. Patricia and I share some of the same clients.

Patricia and her capable team handle many of my actor clients who found themselves on the wrong side of the press.

“Good drink, too.” Patricia holds the bottle of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon to the light. “Beats the orchid I sent her.”

I laugh. We can blame it on the drink. “Are you going to tell me who that’s from?”

“You know better,” Patricia smiles, wagging a finger at me.

“Don’t try to change the subject. Why won’t you go scope the place out?”

I don’t want to talk about this, but Patricia’s expression is open and judgement-free, her short black curly hair untamed, falling in ringlets to her chin, her brown eyes curious behind her red-framed glasses.

“The guy from the consortium that owns Vixen’s Paradise keeps bugging my cousin to sell. We’ve told them no. What’s there to go look at?” The truth is, I don’t want to go look at Gran Deb’s place. It hurts too much.

“The fact that this place is a kept secret in a small town outside of Toronto makes me curious. Maybe I can hire their PR person.”

“Patricia!” I giggle. “We have no interest in selling the land. I don’t need to go see some chintzy resort.”

“How do you know it’s chintzy?”

I bring up photos on my phone. The outside picture shows a manicured lawn and a huge old farmhouse that obviously had an addition or two, and the interior shot is of a dungeon. Turning off the screen, I toss my phone in my bag to stop looking at it.

“I assume the place is falling apart and cold and drafty with bad towels,” I curl my feet under me on her corduroy couch.

“You don’t know until you go look. Why won’t you guys sell?”

“It’s been in the family for generations. We don’t want to sell it.” A defensive tone creeps into my voice, and I wince.

“But your cousin and your parents don’t want to live there?”

“No. My mom and stepdad are happy in their St. Augustine condo. My cousin, with her five kids and two budgies, has no interest in living in the middle of nowhere. Neither do I.”

“Farming is hard. If nobody wants to live there, why don’t you look into renting the place to this consortium?” I shrug. I don’t want to deal with the Brennon Consortium, but truthfully, I’ve left my cousin, Stella to deal with it for too long, which is unfair.

I have to look at the place if I want to sell it.

“Yeah, maybe I should take a look at it. It’s been years since I’ve been there.”

“You could bring Phil,” Patricia waggles her eyebrows.

“He’s way too vanilla for that. Going to Cozumel is enough excitement.” Phil, my boyfriend of three years, and I had been going to Cozumel every year for Christmas since we first got together.

“It is exciting! I’d love to go!”

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