Page 17 of Holiday at Home
I don’t know what’s worse—my uncle’s full-on admonishment, his wife’s passive-aggressive guilt trip, or the fact that Violet’s face flashes through my mind.
“Well, it’s good to see you both,” I say. “And if I get my way, we won’t go so long between visits next time.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, but it’s what they want to hear. It won’t kill me to say it, and I do intend to be around more—especially after seeing Violet. I don’t know why I felt like I needed to avoid her all these years. People break up all the time. Sometimes they see each other. It’s not the end of the world.
Grandma and Grandpa Holiday hobble in, complaining about the chill in the air. I stare at them like they’ve lost their minds. After two days, I still haven’t adjusted to theheat. My cousins enter, trundling suitcases and excited children along with them, and it slowly becomes obvious I’m the only Holiday/Houlihan descendent without a family of his own. It becomes doubly obvious as we filter into the kitchen for more “conversation”—if that’s what you can call twenty people talking over each other at once—that no one understands my decision.
That’s fine. They have different priorities than I do. I’m not saying I’ll never have a family, but right now my focus is on building a business. A legacy. Security. Something Grandma and Grandpa Holiday will never understand, apparently.
“Tell me Si-Guy,” my grandmother begins in her typical soft, sweet tone, “have you met anyone in that big scary city who might be worthy of being the next Mrs. Holiday?”
Before I can answer, she continues with a sad shake of her head. “I don’t know that anyone will ever live up to that sweet Violet. She sure knew what you needed. She would have kept you from turning into a lonely old Scrooge who doesn’t understand the value of family.”
Mom drops a protective hand on my shoulder, looking sternly at her mother-in-law. “Simon very much knows the meaning of family, Bernice.”
“Hard to tell based on his actions the last couple years,” comes the muttered reply.
The doorbell rings again, saving me with a much-needed interruption. I head to the fancy coffee maker I shipped my parents last Christmas. It looks largely unused, though it sits in a place of honor on the counter.
Yet another way I’m different from my family. I nerd out over coffee. Not just the drinking of it, the whole process. The ritual. I love the smell of freshly ground beans, the hiss of the kettle just before it boils, the bloom when hot water first hits the grounds. I can talk for hours about roast profiles and origin notes, about how Ethiopian beans give you citrus and floral while Colombianroasts are nutty and rich. I tweak grind size like it’s an art form, chase the perfect brew ratio like it’s a science. Some people meditate; I dial in espresso shots until they run like honey. There’s something grounding about it, about creating something simple and perfect, one cup at a time.
Another set of aunts, uncles, cousins, and kids flood into the living room, and suddenly the house—never a soothing oasis to begin with—is an anthill of activity.
Desperate for quiet, I slip into the garage where Dad leans against his vintage car, sipping a boring cup of black coffee. He smiles knowingly when I burst through the door.
“I love your mother, and nothing will ever change that. Except maybe the fact that these gatherings get bigger every year.” He takes a long swig and shakes his head.
“I don’t know what possessed you guys to invite them all to stay here with us before we fly to Colorado.”
“Your mother,” he says, widening his eyes and blowing a puff of air past his lips. “This isn’t something I would willingly do. Too many people. Where are they all going to sleep? No one can keep their mouth shut and all they want to talk about is what’s wrong in the world. It’s just… unpleasant.”
I lean against the car next to my father, arms crossed as I blow steam off my mug. “I’ve already been told I’m anti-family, breaking Grandma’s heart, and a horrible human being for missing the last several Christmases.”
Dad takes another swig, eyeing me in that way of his. “Not gonna lie. We do miss you. I get it, though. I made the same kind of choices when I was young. Business over everything. I’ve come to realize in my old age that it’s not always worth it. Don’t get me wrong—neither is whatever craziness your mother concocts—but I think somewhere in between is where it’s really at. Happiness, I mean. It’s in finding balance.”
He watches as I try his words on for size. I see the value in what he has to say. I do. But Dad and me? We’re different. He’s a family man. I’m not. I don’t have to worry about balance. Just happiness. Success. Making a name for myself.
“So, how are things going with the coffee shop?” Dad asks. “Last I heard, you and your mentor were discussing the possibility of it becoming a franchise.”
“That’s the ultimate dream. National chain. I really think this thing has legs, and so does Gavin. Sometimes he’s behind it even more than I am.”
Dad bobs his head.
“It’s a play on our name,” I add. “Back when Violet and I were planning to take over her parents’ bakery, it was just going to be Holiday Coffee & Cake. Now it’s Holiday Jitters.” I press off the hood of the car and start pacing, talking faster, hands gesturing. This idea feels so big, so right, I can never sit still when I talk about it. “Because everyone gets a little nervous coming into the holidays, with family and pressure and everything.”
I glance at my father for approval.
He nods, listening, smiling.
“And you know, every change of the season, every holiday, we’ll roll out something new. Like peppermint mochas, but over the top on the ingredients. We’d have two versions, one standard because why mess with greatness? And one where we cut the sugar in half and amp the coffee flavor so it’s accessible to people who love coffee for coffee’s sake. Same with pumpkin spice for fall. Citrus blends for summer. It has legs.”
“What does Violet have to say about it all?”
I run a hand through my hair and stare at my feet. “I was gonna talk to her yesterday at the grand opening.”
Dad tilts his head. “Ahh yes. Every parent’s favorite opening phrase. ‘I was gonna.’”
“Timing seemed wrong. She was busy. She was less than thrilled to see me. I didn’t feel like dropping that bomb on her.” I pause in my pacing. “Why? You think she’s gonna care?”
