Page 1 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
ONE
Avery
I lovedfall mornings in Los Angeles, even if, for all the critics out there, I knew we didn’t really get seasons in Southern California. The palm trees didn’t shed their fronds, the sun didn’t care if it was October, and my kids were still begging to swim after school, but it was still in the air, you know? That crisp edge in the air when you step outside before the traffic turns Beverly Hills into a parking lot.
Meg Ryan said it best inYou’ve Got Mail: “Don’t you just love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies.” That line lived rent-free in my head this time every year, and I swear I could smell pencils just thinking about it. And even though I wasn’t strolling past corner bookstores in Manhattan, every sip of my PSL made the world feel full of possibility.
And yes, I said PSL. That’s shorthand for pumpkin spice latte, because apparently coffee drinks deserve acronyms now. Silly? Maybe. But honestly, it was my seasonal love language.One sip and suddenly I was Meg Ryan in a turtleneck, typing on a clunky computer, and falling in love with Tom Hanks.
“Dear Lord, Mom. You’re doing itagain.”
Addy’s voice cut through my nostalgia from the driver’s seat. She was fifteen now, newly armed with her learner’s permit, and filled with enough sass to fuel an entire CW drama. She was my mini-me, down to the arched brow she had just aimed at me.
“Care to enlighten me about what exactly I am doingagain?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s that weird face you get every time you drink a pumpkin spice latte,” she glanced over, chuckled, and brought her eyes back to the road. “You look like you’re about to elope with your coffee.”
“If it keeps me alive while you’re behind the wheel,” I lifted the cup in a mock toast, “I’ll marry this shit.”
I looked back at Izzy in the back seat and winked. She was my adorable nine-year-old, who was quiet as a whisper, charming as hell, and every bit of Jim in the personality department.
“Dad makes that face when he kisses you, so maybe you should just marry them both,” Izzy said with a shrug and a giggle.
Addy snorted so hard she almost swerved. “Can you imagine Dad fighting Starbucks for your love? He’d probably buy the whole chain.”
I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Jesus. I can’t even drink coffee in peace with you two.”
Truthfully, I wouldn’t trade these moments for anything. Addy, sharp and sparky, rolling her eyes like it was a competitive sport, and Izzy, soft and cuddly, but always watching, always knowing. Jim might own skyscrapers, but these girls owned me. And they were growing at the speed of light these days.
By the time we pulled into her high school, Addy hurried out of the driver’s seat, grabbed her backpack, and was off before Icould even buckle myself in behind the wheel. As Addy hurried away like my very existence was a social hazard, Izzy hung out the window, blowing her big sister kisses goodbye until the security guard waved us on.
Two completely different kids. Both mine. Both everything.
I waved at the security guard as I pulled around and out of the school, “Let’s get out of here and get your cute little butt to your school, shall we, Miss Izzy Bear?”
“You’re driving now, so at least I know I won’t die,” she said, mocking the dramatics of her teenage older sister.
“Your dad might argue with you on that, Iz, but I’ll take that as the best compliment since you raved about my baked chicken nuggets the other night.”
Izzy and I both laughed and cranked up our Spotify jams while I floored it to get my youngest safely to her school…in record time, of course.
I smiled after Izzy jumped out of the backseat of the Rover, saying goodbye with her usual way of walking backwards and blowing a thousand kisses before turning around and skipping up the steps and into the brick building.
Damn, I loved our kids, even when they caught me and their dad stealing kisses and comparing that to my love for the perfect fall drink. My mind wandered back to this morning; Jim had kissed me goodbye like he always did—like I was his entire world—before he headed downtown to his office to play king of the universe.
I was so fortunate in love and life, and I was happy to focus all that gratitude this morning so it could ground me and keep me centered for the day ahead at the women’s shelter I’d founded years ago. Phoenix House was my pride and joy, serving as a safe haven for women who were survivors of domestic abuse, and it was a daily reminder not to take my beloved relationships for granted.
By the time I pulled through the gates of the shelter, my latte was half gone, and the warm smell of cinnamon clung to my sweater. I loved this place and everything it had done for women—empowering them in ways they never thought possible and helping them start over.
The place rose out of the hillside like something out of Architectural Digest: glass, stone, and sprawling gardens. My close friend Bree designed it, and since she was a world-renowned architect married to Alex Grayson—my husband’s best friend and former VP turned architectural mogul—she didn’t exactly get to say no when I called. And lucky for me, she didn’t hesitate to rise to the occasion. Bree didn’t just build a shelter, she built a fucking sanctuary.
It wasn’t sterile or institutional. It was the furthest thing from that. It was strong, exclusively private, and beyond stunning. It was built like a modern-day castle carved into the hillside. I told Bree that I wanted a fortress of safety disguised as home, so she took my vision and made it an even better reality.
Inside, the air hummed with life, joy, and happiness. More importantly, you couldfeelthe hope and promise of a brighter future the moment you stepped into the atrium. The visual beauty was matched by the comforting aroma of coffee brewing somewhere down the hall, the sweetness of fresh cinnamon rolls delivered from Bailey’s Bakery down the street, and the sound of children’s laughter coming from the enormous playroom, which was basically a slice of Disneyland without the lines.
And even with that warmth, there was always a soft murmur of voices, carrying equal parts of fear and hope.
Today, I received a referral from one of the investors I’d met at a gala for the hospital, and I had no idea what to expect. It wasn’t often that one of the wives from the crowds at my husband’s company events showed up, but the way I saw it, it didn’t matter if you came from poverty or wealth. We are all thefucking same in this world, and we could all use someone to help us when we can’t find a way to help ourselves.
