Page 1 of Cozy Hometown Christmas
Chapter 1
From the second Dorothy Woodward saw George, she fell madly, deeply, and hopelessly in love. His big green eyes seemed to delve deeply into her soul as if he understood her. George was the answer to her prayers, the very thing she needed to get through this lonely Christmas. As they approached her house, decorated with a wreath on the door and candles in the windows, she glanced over at the passenger seat, where George looked back at her adoringly.
Not at an equal level though... George was looking up. From inside a cat carrier. Because George was a cat. A gorgeous brown-and-white Ragdoll with luminescent green eyes, to be exact.
A cat was just what her big, drafty house needed. Dorothy Woodward had lived in this sprawling farm house on the outskirts of Pinecone Falls, Vermont, for as long as she’d been married: thirty-eight happy years with her husband, Charlie, before he’d passed two years ago. Now that December was here, with the snow starting to accumulate on the ground and the sleepy Vermont town waking up for its most active tourist season, it was time to fill the emptiness.
She wanted things to be upbeat and cheery when Kristen, her daughter, arrived home again. Kristen needed a fresh start, even if she would be staying in her childhood home for the time being. Dorothy had no hopes of her remaining in the house past when she found another place nearby to rent, but for now, she would enjoy the company. She would make this house bright again. She would make it a home.
And that started with George. Dorothy lowered the carrier to the ground of the entranceway and unlatched the front gate. “Welcome home, George.”
She’d chosen this cat in particular not only because he was young—the last thing their family needed was to face the mortality of another member—but also because he was curious. He hadn’t hesitated to approach her, and he didn’t hesitate to exit the carrier in favor of his new surroundings. The fluffy fur ball lunged into the open with such abandon that he skidded on the floor, skewing the hallway runner sideways before escaping into the great unknown of the house.
Her children were now grown. Ethan, the oldest, ran the Christmas tree farm that had been in her husband’s family for generations and lived on the other side of the acreage. Although Dorothy had done everything possible to console him after the passing of his wife in a car accident five years prior, it hadn’t been until last year that she had truly understood the yawning hole that was left when a spouse passed.
Of course, Ethan had known and had been invaluable in helping Dorothy through the worst of it. Not that Kristen hadn’t tried, but those initial well-meaning attempts had left Dorothy feeling guilty for causing so much fuss. Sometimes, all she needed was to sit in silence in front of the fireplace with someone nearby. Ethan was good at not interrupting her silences.
But now Kristen was coming home after a nasty breakup with her fiancé (good riddance, Dorothy thought, but she would never say it out loud). The very last thing her daughter needed was an empty, silent, grieving house. Kristen needed life. She needed laughter. She needed to feel like this was the right choice.
And maybe, just maybe, Dorothy needed to feel that way too. It was time to move on.
It would have been perfect if she could have bought the house across the street, Kristen thought as she pulled into the driveway of the house she’d grown up in.
Her mother had mentioned the house was for sale a dozen times when Kristen was planning the wedding that never happened. It was clear that Dorothy was hinting for Kristen and Brian to move to town.
The little white bungalow was cute, and Kristen might have considered it if Brian hadn’t insisted they stay in Chicago. Now, ironically, when Kristen had been unceremoniously dumped six months before the wedding and decided to move home, the house was already sold. Past sold, actually. It looked lived in, with a car in the driveway and lights on inside. It already had a Christmas wreath on the door. Even from a distance, Kristen could tell that it wasn’t one of the ones sold by her family tree farm. The green of the pine needles was the wrong color, obnoxiously vibrant in a way that nature didn’t provide. It was probably artificial.
An artificial wreath on the door across from a Christmas tree farm? These folks might not fit in so well.
Pinecone Falls was all about Christmas. They started attracting tourists in early November and kept up the decorations and holiday events until long after New Year’s Eve. Neighbors had friendly rivalries as to who could put the most Christmas lights on their house. The town held skating parties, decorating events, anything and everything to bring the Christmas spirit to life.
As a kid, Kristen had taken it all for granted. She hadn’t realized that not every town went quite so far at Christmas. Now that she’d been away for almost a decade, she missed that in-your-face Christmas spirit. It was something to look forward to. A reason to be happy. She needed that—and so did her mom.
She turned to her own house, the antique farmhouse with its wraparound porch making her spirits soar. The nastiness of the breakup was finally behind her, and she was turning the corner to happiness. And who wouldn’t be happy in a town that was covered with pristine glittery white snow and smelled of pine and cinnamon?
The decision to leave Chicago had been fairly easy. Sure, she’d miss her friends there, but she had friends here in Pinecone Falls too, and she never had been a city girl. She’d gone to college there and eventually landed a job as a manager in a high-tech company. Getting romantically involved with her boss had turned out to be a big mistake, so when Brian had dumped her, working for him was out of the question. And since she didn’t have the job to keep her in Chicago, coming home and taking over the reins at the family Christmas tree farm seemed like the best idea.
Besides, she had a longing for home and her mom’s cooking and her famous Christmas cookies that she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the holiday season or the fact that it was only the second Christmas since her father had died, but somehow, Kristen just knew she belonged back in Pinecone Falls.
She’d spent the past month packing up her Chicago apartment and shipping all of her things to Pinecone Falls ahead of her. Knowing her mom, they were probably already unpacked and neatly in place in her old childhood bedroom. This was going to be an adjustment, and even though she was looking forward to it, in some ways, she was afraid she’d outgrown the person she used to be when she was here. Hopefully, she hadn’t become too “citified” to fit in.
The slam of the hatchback and the chirp of the car locks echoed among the trees. On a road like this, there were usually miles in between houses, but the bungalow had been built for her great-aunt in the 1940s. Her kids had sold off the land, so that parcel no longer belonged to the acreage of the tree farm.
The next house was a quarter mile down the road, so with trees, both cultivated and wild, nestled up against both houses, they were in their own little cocoon of privacy.
She should have bought that bungalow while she could. Too late now.
Then again, when she’d been with Brian, she hadn’t been ready to make a big decision like that. They’d both been stalling on all major decisions, including wedding plans, and she’d thought the stress of impending marriage was getting to them. As it turned out, Brian had had another reason. Her name was Sophie.
But that was all water under the bridge now.
She rolled her shoulders to rid herself of that ugly mortification and crunched across the lawn toward the door. Her boots left their imprint on the pristine crust of snow. She liked being able to make an impression on the world around her. It made her feel as if she was in control.
And she was. She was here to make a fresh start, yes. But she was also here to help her mom and brother with the family business.
The front door was unlocked, as she’d always remembered it being. It squeaked on its hinges as she pushed it inward, opening into a hallway that hadn’t changed since she’d last been here. The same family photos hung on the wall of the hallway. The same grandfather clock ticked away the seconds in the dining room. And the same antique ruby-and-cobalt runner stretched out from the doorway leading down the hall toward the kitchen. The runner was askew, and Kristen bent to straighten it.
It was a good three weeks before Christmas, but her mother had already started decorating. Old Christmas cards (her mom had kept every single card since she’d first been married) were tacked up by their corners on the doorframe leading to the den, and a garland wound around the banister to the stairs. It smelled of fresh pine. The smell of home.
