Page 3 of Whiskey Holiday
Winter
"Seriously, Winter. You missed one hell of a party last night," Brinkley, my best friend, says. "Tammy was caught with her Christmas tinsel around her ankles, while Mr. Claus was giving her a big package if you know what I mean." I throw my head back, laughing. Brinkley has a unique way of telling a story. "She's giving Ho-ho-ho a whole new meaning this year," she says in a fit of laughter.
Soapy water sloshes over the rim of the bucket as I sit it on the wood floor at my feet, creating a puddle beneath my boots. Wearing rubber gloves up to my elbows and my hair pulled back in a braid, I smile. Another day of scrubbing years of dirt off the floors and soot from the two stone fireplaces completed before work. "I hate that I missed it." I sigh. "Hell, between the bar, and this house, I haven't had free time to enjoy any festivities this year. My social life has become nonexistent."
"Christian asked about you last night," Brinkley says, and I roll my eyes. "I heard your eyes roll into the back of your head." Brinkley chuckles. "Come on. What's wrong with Christian?"
"He's a nice guy and all, but…"
"He's safe—too dull?" Brinkley asks.
I plop down on the living room sofa that faces the fireplace and stare at the flames dancing atop the burning logs. "I don't know, Brink—maybe?" I'm even questioning myself. "He's got everything going for him; a steady job, good looking, doesn't live with his parents. The rational part of my brain says to give him a chance, but everything else inside tells me to run the other way. I want more than stability. I want passion—to fall in love. I want that soul-sucking I can't live without them kind of feeling. A man who can make my toes curl just by the tone of his voice."
"You read too many books, Winter. The man you just described only exits between the pages of a romance novel." Brinkley sighs. "I get it—I really do. Hell, to be honest, I want the same damn thing, but how in the hell are we supposed to find a man like that in Mistletoe?"
Slumping against the back of the couch, I lean my head back, and stare up at the vaulted ceiling. "Maybe I'll find him under my tree on Christmas morning." My statement causes Brinkley to giggle, and I laugh with her.
"Tell Santa I want one too. Listen, I got to run. I'll see you at work Peanut," Brinkley says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. It makes me look down at the inside of my wrist. No bigger than a penny, inked on my skin, is a small slice of bread with peanut butter tattooed. Brinkley has the same one; only hers is jelly. She's my other half. I've known Brinkley since we were in diapers. She's my ride or die—my soul sister. Our mommas call us peanut butter and jelly because where you find one, there is the other.
"Later, Jelly," I say before ending the call.
I glance around the room. I still can't believe I bought the Billings Chateau weeks ago. This old American Queen Anne style house has sat here empty and neglected for nearly five years. The bank and the rest of my family tried to talk me out of buying the old place, doing all they could to convince me it was nothing more than a money pit. Nevertheless, my heart was set on it—has been since I was a little girl when I used to ride out here with my grandad and visit his childhood friend Mr. Billings and his wife. They never had children of their own, so the home and land have sat here untouched. It needs a lot of work, but I'm determined to restore it to its original beauty.
I stare at the work I've accomplished so far, taking in the rich mahogany featured throughout the house and the intricate carvings etched into the wood above every doorway. This 1897, 6000-square-feet home has a lot of history under one roof. If these walls could talk, the stories they could tell. That thought alone brings me so much joy. It's not much, but I have managed to clean almost every surface, from floor to ceiling.
A bitter breeze causes me to shiver, reminding me to fix the seals around the front door, along with several broken window panes around the home.
I stand, and lift the bucket off of the floor, and carry it to the kitchen, where I pull my gloves off and sit them on the countertop near the sink.
I pour myself another cup of hot coffee, then grab my coat from the hook on the wall and slip it on. One downside to the home is the furnace is acting up. Sometimes it works—sometimes it doesn't. Not ideal in the middle of a midwest winter, but, for now, I'm wearing extra layers of clothes, using the fireplaces and a small space heater to keep warm when needed.
Grabbing the quilt I found tucked away in an old trunk this morning off the kitchen table, I drape it over my arm and walk across the room to the back door. The crisp December air greets me when I open the door and step outside onto the wrap-around porch. There's snow on the ground, and it's cold, but I love coming out here every morning.
I settle in one of two rocking chairs nearby and drape the blanket across my legs, protecting myself from the cold. I sip on my coffee and listen to the sounds of the river that runs along the property's backside, which I can't quite see due to all the overgrowth.
The Château sits on five acres of land, surrounded by trees and water. It's my own little slice of heaven here in Mistletoe, Montana. My home away from home after years of living with my parents. Not that they minded. Hell, if my father had it his way, I'd live with them forever.
The wind picks up, and the tip of my nose begins to go numb from the cold, so I head back inside. Removing my coat, I toss it and the blanket on the back of a kitchen chair. Cleaning up, I empty the dirty water from the bucket into the sink, wash my hands, then pull the ingredients I need for my mom's famous chili from the fridge and pantry. The sound of a truck horn honking from outside lets me know my dad is here with my new truck battery.
While finishing with the task at hand, I hear the front door open and my dad stomping the snow off of his boots before hearing the door slam shut. "Is that your momma's chili I smell?" my dad says as he strolls into the kitchen. "Morning, baby girl." He comes up beside me and kisses the side of my head—I breathe in his scent. My dad always smells like Brut cologne and black coffee.
"Since mom has been so busy preparing food at the soup kitchen this week, I thought I would have her some dinner already made by the time she got home today."
"Your momma will appreciate the help," Dad says.
"I thought mom was coming with you." I chop more onions.
"She wanted to do a little Christmas shopping at Mistletoe marketplace. You know she likes supporting local businesses. That, and she's had her eye on some new snow globes Tracie had on display the other day." Dad helps himself to the coffee.
There's a pause of silence as I mill about the kitchen. "Thanks for driving out here, Dad." I taste the chili and then add a little extra dash of salt and pepper before placing the lid on top of the stew pot and turning the burner down to simmer.
"Just taking care of my baby girl," Dad says, and I smile. "Now, where are the keys?" he asks.
"Hanging on the hook over there above the potato bin," I tell him.
Ten minutes later, I've bundled up again and walking out the front door. My dad is under the hood of my old red 67 Chevy. I love the old truck. My grandad gave it to me before he passed away two Christmases ago.
I wrap my arms around myself as the winds gust. "Drop the truck off by your brother's shop tomorrow on your way to work and have him change the oil and put a new carburetor filter on," Dad says as he tightens the cable wire bolt. Wiping his hand on a bandana, he steps back and closes the hood. "Oh," Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a white business card. "I've heard about this new construction company in town and that they specialize in restoration projects." He hands me the card, and I pluck it from his gloved fingers. "Give them a call, but make sure you get an estimate beforehand. I don't want to have to bust some heads if someone tries to take advantage of my baby girl."
