Page 1 of Grinchland
ONE
CLARA
“Merry Christmas!” the street vendor shouted as he shoved a snow globe in my face.
Abbie hooked my arm with hers as she pivoted away, no doubt knowing exactly how I was going to react to this man. I allowed her to drag me a few steps away before I suddenly twisted and broke free. In one swift movement, I was back to the street vendor, who had turned his attention to the older couple pretending to talk to one another as they hurried past.
If Abbie thought she was going to keep me from stopping, she was kidding herself. “It’s December,” I sang out.
“Clara…” She sounded like a mother exasperated with her child.
I waggled my finger in her direction. “We have a deal. For the sake of our friendship, no Christmas talk. No Christmas decorations. And no Christmas music—which I think is just a crime—until December first.” I shrugged. “Then all bets are off.” I rubbed my hands together as I turned my attention back to the rows and rows of snow globes laid out in front of me.
I picked up one with two snow people ice skating on a picturesque pond. There was something about the elegance and beauty of the moment that had my body warming. Even though Abbie didn’t understand my obsession with the holiday, this was why I loved Christmas the most. It was the feeling of home I experienced when I decorated a tree, ate Christmas cookies, or sang a carol for a smiling family.
It filled my bucket in a way that nothing else could.
“I’ll take this one,” I said as I handed the globe to the vendor.
“That’s a very popular?—”
“And this one.” I reached out and picked up a snow globe that depicted three snow people standing around a tree. The biggest one—the dad—was holding the plug for the lights in its little twig hand.
“Really? Do you think that’s wise with your”—Abbie leaned in—“job situation?”
I knew exactly what she was saying. My job situation wasn’t even a situation. It was a nothing burger. My substitute teaching job had finished last week, and there wasn’t a prospect in sight.
“Look at its little twiggy hand,” I said in a baby voice, choosing to ignore what she’d said. Life was better when I focused on what was important, like Christmas decorations. I held it close to her face so she could see just how ridiculously cute this one was.
Abbie humored me by glancing down at it. “Oh,” she said, her skepticism fading a bit. “That is cute.”
“And this one!” I exclaimed as I held up a snow globe with a snow couple and a little snow dog. “There’s a puppy in it.” I handed it to the vendor along with the snow family around the tree. “I need these as well.”
Abbie scoffed. “You don’t need three snow globes.”
I shrugged. “It’s December.”
“I know you keep saying that, but I don’t think your tiny house can hold any more decorations. Last year, I couldn’t find a place to set down my hot cocoa much less walk around.”
I waved away her worry as I picked up a snow globe of two snow people sitting on the couch in front of a fire. I chuckled at the irony as I handed it over to be rung up. “There will always be room for one more.”
Abbie was appalled—but not surprised—that I left with ten snow globes in hand. By the time I handed the vendor the ninth globe, he declared that I was now his season’s best customer and gave me a tenth one for free. I tried to convince Abbie that I was basically saving money as we headed down the snow dusted sidewalk, but that wasn’t a cookie she was willing to bite.
Instead, she just hooked her arm with mine and said, “I’ll never understand you, but if it makes you happy, then it makes me happy.”
I smiled at my friend. We were different in so many ways, but we allowed each other to be our own kind of different. Abbie loved purses and shoes. While I didn’t understand her need for so many—you only have two feet—I still went with her to store after store as she searched for the special pair. I knew, come December, she’d let me be the holliest, jolliest Christmas-loving person that I tried to hide the other eleven months of the year.
We spent the rest of the afternoon stopping at vendors so I could peruse their holiday assortments. We ate at the local sandwich shop, Freddie’s Footlongs, where I sipped on peppermint-flavored hot chocolate while Abbie settled on a diet Coke with light ice. Our feet were aching as we climbed the stairs to my small house on Main Street. I’d inherited this place plus a borderline-hoarder collection of Christmas decorations when my grandmother passed away three years ago.
I spent every Christmas growing up with Grandma Dawn. I’d inherited her caramel-colored eyes, dirty blond hair, and love of everything that sparkled. We were ride-or-die Christmas fans, and this time of year made me miss her that much more. Dad was MIA after he left Mom and me on Christmas Eve when I was seven, and Mom spent more time in rehab than out of it.
Christmas with Grandma Dawn was the only constant I had in my life, and my memories with her were the memories I would cherish forever.
I pushed open the front door—my shoulder hitting the obnoxiously large wreath I’d hung November first—and walked inside. I set my bags down in the entryway and was in the process of pulling off my boots when Abbie joined me. She kicked off the bits of snow on her shoes before turning to shut the door behind her.
“It smells good in here,” she said as she held onto the nearby wall so she could slip her shoes off.
“I made sugar cookies this morning,” I said. I was out of my fluffy red jacket and had turned to hang in on the hook behind me.
