Page 12 of About Last Christmas
Another meal. She’s been doing this too. Feeding me every time she gets a chance, as if trying to make up for all the missed meals over the years. I’m not sure if this is healthy, emotionally speaking. Should I assuage her guilt? Call her on it? I don’t have the energy, and honestly, I don’t have the willpower to turndown waffle fries. So like the adult I am, I’ll ignore this issue and postpone any impending drama until further notice. “Thank you.” I accept the savory offering.
She gives me a quick hug. “Love you, sweetie. I have to go make sure Pap hasn’t burned down the house.” As much as Mom’s sudden reappearance in my life has confused me, I’m grateful for her taking over Pap’s care. Those years as Gran’s primary caregiver seemed both a blur and an eternity. “Oh and I bought the turkey for Thanksgiving. Thought I’d beat the rush.”
This year, Thanksgiving is later in the month. This means Light-Up Night is the week before the fall holiday. I have lots to do and zero enthusiasm for it. My mind drifts to last year’s event. The turtledoves fiasco. Meeting Leo. Sledding and carefree smiles. He flirted like he meant it, then ghosted like he didn’t. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Which is probably for the best because that night waiting for him in the cold haunts me. For so many reasons. “That’s great.” I muster all the enthusiasm I can.
“Maybe we can go Black Friday shopping.” Her eyebrows raise, her voice hesitant.
“I have to work.” I won’t get the foot traffic that department stores will, but every year I have my faithful customers. I glance around at my very Christmas-less store. I need to get all my decorations out of storage for the shop. Those need to be up by Friday too. Plus, I have to decorate the float. I haven’t decided on the theme yet. If I think too long, I get overwhelmed.
I’m behind.
It’s that time of year when people measure your festiveness by your efficiency. Do you have your tree up? Got all your presents bought? Wrapped? Me? I shaved my legs last night. My leg hairs no longer hold up my socks. How’s that for productivity? Next time I’ll hum “Jingle Bells” so I can claim it as a festive activity. It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. I love it. I’mjust tired. Caregiving these past few years required so much of me. Like I lived through a thousand lifetimes yet never actuallyliveda single one. But I don’t regret a second that I cared for Gran. I sacrificed, sure, but I had her. Memories I wouldn’t have if I’d gone off to college like I planned, if I hadn’t stayed to care for her. Now this is my first full holiday season without her.
That’s the heart of it all. She’s gone, and I’m missing her. This is her favorite time of the year, and the ache seems to grow as I look around at all she loved.
“Okay, sweetie.” Mom smiles. “Just don’t work too hard this season. Leave time for yourself and what you want.” Motherly wisdom at its finest. Where was the sage advice when I was fifteen and cut my own bangs? I shrug off the negativity.
“Will do.” I give an awkward thumbs up.
“I have some business of Gran’s to finish up then back to Pap.”
I blink. “What kind of business?” I handled everything after she passed, the insurance, the finances, down to the little stuff like canceling herWoman’s Worldmagazine subscription.
Mom waves me off. “Just some stuff I ran across while cleaning out a drawer or two. It’s nothing big.”
This is another feature of April 2.0. If she sees something of Gran’s that I hadn’t already done, she snaps it up. I’m unsure if it’s a bit of daughter remorse because she hardly had much contact over the years, or if this is mom guilt because I had to sacrifice so much to take care of her parents. Probably both. But again, I let it slide. I know I took care of the major aspects of Gran’s affairs. If Mom found some trifle to appease her conscience, I’ll let her run with it. Plus, I have only a few minutes till closing and my pajamas are summoning me.
I say goodbye and savor the quiet settling around me. My antique shop is my haven. I stand among hundreds of stories. Treasures from the hands of the past. I never feel alone here.With another appreciative sweeping gaze of the floor room, I head back to my office to put the food there. I only have a few things left before closing, but one of my rules is never to have food out on the counter. I wouldn’t want my customers walking around with food because I have some furniture that costs thousands. So I keep my own back in my office. Though that doesn’t mean I don’t stuff a couple of waffle fries in my mouth. I hear the bells jingle from the door, signifying Mom’s exit.
I’m in the process of squeezing some ketchup into my mouth when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s Tilly.
Tilly
SCSS Sighting!!!!!
SCSS is code for Silver Creek Secret Santa. I wipe my fingers on a napkin and text back.
Greta
Where? When?
My stomach yells at me for teasing it with two fries, so I shove as many as possible in my mouth before moving to the front of the store. Tilly works at the café, four shops down. I’m uncertain if this sighting is recent or if she’s saying the man is walking down Main Street. Either way, I’m scurrying toward the picture window. My best friend brags that she could sniff a rich man from a mile away. I must be nose-blind to such a scent because the Silver Creek Secret Santa is standing only a few feet away from me.
Just in time for a dollop of ketchup to drip from my chin.
CHAPTER 5
Very few inthis town are aware of the Silver Creek Secret Santa’s identity, but everyone, I repeat everyone, knows that Fletcher Thomas is the area’s most eligible single. If Silver Creek ever hosted their own small-town version ofThe Bachelor, the line for contestants would stretch into the next county. Of course, the man shows up at The Memory Bank when I look my absolute worst. I grab the napkin I stuffed in my pocket earlier and angle away to wipe my chin as I chew like a mad woman. In my panic, I bite my tongue and my eyes water.
The world is against me. However, Fletcher is accustomed to my awkwardness. So today’s just a new episode of the latest season regarding my socially weird self in public settings.
I clear my throat. “Hey there, Fletcher. I didn’t hear the bells.” I motion toward the door.
“I came in when another customer left.”
My mom. She could’ve given me a warning text that the town’s hottest single was here.
