Page 9 of Christmas Treasures

On the day she’d closed on the old farmhouse, Charlie had found him as a shivering kitten tucked under an overturned wheelbarrow in the dilapidated barn. It had been raining, and he was absolutely miserable and frightened. He’d been so tiny that he’d fit perfectly in her two hands. She’d taken him inside, fed him goat milk from a dropper, and kept him tucked in the crook of her arm for days. From then on, they’d been inseparable, other than when she was at work.

Fig let out a tiny chirpy meow as she walked into the kitchen. Ivy, the local interior designer, had helped her remodel the entire house. The kitchen had come out well,with a double farmhouse sink, oversize range, and gorgeous granite island.

The farmhouse had been a wreck when she bought it. But she’d seen the bones beneath the rot and been taken with the sloped roof, wide front porch, and generous windows that flooded every room with light. It had taken almost a year to make it livable, but Ivy had a trusted contractor she had worked with many times before. Between Ivy and the talented contractor, they’d made it into her modern farmhouse dream home. Cathedral ceilings rose above soft white walls and exposed beams. Massive windows lined the back wall, framing a view of the sloping backyard and distant trees.

She hadn’t wanted a giant mansion, which, frankly, she could have afforded. Instead, she wanted a place that felt homey and welcoming. And she’d gotten exactly that. A sanctuary from the world. A place to be herself.

She set Fig down and opened a can of tuna for him. He liked to have a treat when she got home. In fact, he expected it and hounded her with pitiful meows until he got his way. She’d spoiled him, but she didn’t care.

Leaving Fig to his treat, she passed through the main floor to head upstairs for a shower. Back downstairs, cozy in a soft pair of old jeans and a cotton sweatshirt, she opened the refrigerator to decide what she would eat for dinner. Oftentimes she felt too tired to cook and would simply heat something she’d put away in the freezer. Tonight, though, she had a craving for a vegetable stir-fry. She had squash and green beans ready in her greenhouse that would be perfect for a springlike pasta dish. Not the obvious choice, given the cold weather and that it was December. But not everyone had a greenhouse.

She grabbed her basket and slid her feet into a comfortable pair of boots and headed outside, making her waythrough her mostly dormant garden to the entrance of the greenhouse. She’d had it built shortly after the house was finished, and it had quickly become one of her happy places. She could lose herself for hours, planting and harvesting herbs and vegetables, many of which she used at the restaurant.

Inside, the air was warm and earthy, rich with the scent of damp soil and sun-drenched greenery. Rows of herbs lined the wooden shelves—basil, thyme, rosemary, all clipped into tidy shapes. Lush lettuces spilled from trough planters, and heirloom tomatoes climbed toward the rafters, tangled with flowering vines. Overhead, ferns and trailing ivy hung from hooks, catching the golden light of vintage-style pendant lamps. A narrow path of weathered planks wound through the center, leading to a rustic potting bench covered in clippings, seed packets, and a well-worn garden journal. The world seemed far away in here. And she felt her dad’s presence among the green, growing things of the earth. He’d had a small greenhouse in his small yard back home and taught Charlie everything she knew from the time she was old enough to understand. Together, they had worked in tandem, not needing to talk, other than in the language of plants.

She plucked a few sprigs of thyme and tucked them into the basket along with a cluster of small heirloom onions. Her summer squash were small but plentiful. She cut two for her dinner before heading to the row of green beans. She picked a dozen for tonight but made a mental note to plan on picking a bowl full in the next few days.

By the time she returned to the house, Fig was waiting by the door, giving her a baleful glance as she came through the French doors into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, Figgy?” She set the basket on her islandand crouched low to scratch behind his ears. He immediately started purring.

She straightened and washed her hands before starting to cook. Fig jumped up onto one of the stools and peered at her as if waiting for a beer. While she chopped vegetables and put a pan of water on the cooktop, she thought over the events of the day. She felt chagrined by the way she’d acted toward Max and the “cheese-gate”situation. Clearly, he had something bigger on his mind than cheese. Which, looking back, made her behavior even more embarrassing.

She had half a mind to call out to the store to apologize. Although it would be closed by this time in the evening. She would call first thing in the morning.

She set a cast iron skillet on the stove to sauté her vegetables, starting with minced garlic and chopped onions. While they softened, filling the kitchen with their tangy aroma, she found some pasta in the pantry and set it aside to add to the water once it boiled.

Fig continued to stare at her, as if he knew exactly how she’d misbehaved earlier.

“Fine. I wasn’t my best self today. It’s just something about Max Hayes that gets under my skin. I mean, seriously, who is that happy all the time?”

Fig mewed, tilting his head to one side.

“He wasn’t happy today, though. Something was bothering him. I think it was really bad, because he never looks like that. You know what I mean.”

Fig didn’t respond, other than to blink his green eyes.

“Now I feel terrible for being so harsh. Why is it so hard to talk to people?”

When she’d moved to Sugarville Grove, she’d been too raw from her father’s death and the way the board had ousted her from her own company to have any desire to be part of the community. But after several years of mostlykeeping to herself, she felt a little lonely. At times. Other times she was glad for her solitude.

Regardless, she’d let Nina convince her to join the group in town who organized the food drive. It had been all right. She’d mostly stayed quiet in the back of the room, trying not to notice the way Max Hayes’s brown hair curled at the nape of his neck or how wide his shoulders were in a tight black sweater. Her attraction to him had surprised her. She was not usually swayed by a pretty face, especially one that smiled as much as he did. Again, anyone that cheerful must be up to no good. No one was that nice.

And December? This was the month to get through. She closed her eyes as a wave of grief hit her. Her mother had died when Charlie was only thirteen. It had been Charlie’s fault. She’d sneaked out to meet friends on the first evening of Christmas vacation. Her mother had gone out looking for her, walking down dark and dangerous streets to find Charlie. Instead, she’d been struck by a car speeding through a red light and been killed.

After that, it had just been her and her father. He’d done his absolute best, but a man raising a teenage daughter alone, especially one like Charlie, couldn’t have been easy. She’d not rebelled again. Her mother’s death was her fault. If only she hadn’t sneaked out that night, her mother would probably be alive today. Even now, all these years later, shame filled her. She’d been so ridiculous, talked into meeting kids at the park because of her desperate need to fit in. To be normal. But the truth was, she wasn’t normal. She was awkward with people. Nerdy and cerebral. People didn’t like her.

Perhaps to atone, she’d immersed herself fully in her studies, leaning into this word they’d labeled her: genius. Genius. She graduated from high school at fourteen and gone on to Stanford with a full ride. While there, she’d developed the code for ForkCast for her senior thesis, mostly as away to help her father’s pizza place. But the software designed for small businesses had been so effective that it quickly caught on. Before she knew it, Charlie had a full tech company, with fifty employees. They’d gone public, which sometimes Charlie regretted, despite ultimately selling the company for a hundred million dollars. She’d lost control of her own company after that. The board and shareholders had basically pushed her out after the sale.

That had happened in December. A week later, her father died of a sudden heart attack.

So, yeah, December was her least favorite month. It hadn’t occurred to her that a town like Sugarville Grove would go all in at the holidays. She couldn’t escape the twinkling lights and cheerfulness, the sense of excitement around the tree lighting and first snow, and that weird ice skating rink that went up after Thanksgiving. Carolers insisted on singing outside her restaurant, even though it was obvious from her lack of decorations that she had no interest. That gossipy postman, too, always asking questions, trying to draw her out. She did not want to be drawn out.

She wanted to hide in her greenhouse and her home. With Fig.

Then why had she opened a pizza restaurant? See, this was the problem with being human. People, including her, did not make sense. She’d opened the business as a way to feel her father’s presence. Yet it exposed her to the entire population of Sugarville Grove.

Why was she such a messy contradiction? Why couldn’t she be like Fig, who was happy with cans of tuna, Charlie’s lap, and a clean litter box?

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