Christmas With a Crank

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

OLIVE

W hen I agreed to participate in the Pine Creek Tree Farm’s Ugly Christmas Sweater Contest, I forgot my mother had such a competitive streak.

The woman is so determined to win that she went out and bought the most hideous sweaters she could find.

There were eight.

She handed them out last night after Thanksgiving dinner, an expectant look on her face.

I think my favorite was the one with Nicolas Cage’s face on it.

Merry Cage-Mas it read, in knitted, slightly off-center block letters.

It’s not the one I was given, however.

Horrified (and amused) expressions pinballed around the living room, from me to my brother Benji, to my best friend Phoebe, to my dad, before finally settling on my mom.

She looked positively perky.

“Aren’t they absolutely perfect?” she’d asked, holding her own sweater, which, once I looked more closely, was more of a poncho with stripes of actual tinsel and ornaments attached to it. She gave the sweater a shake, and it jingled.

“ We’re going to win this year ,” she said like a Bond villain, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

Looking at the array of machine-woven assaults to our eyes and the color wheel, I couldn’t argue. I knew that there was absolutely no way anyone in their right mind would don sweaters as offensive as these.

Now, standing outside the Christmas tree farm, I tug my coat around my torso a little tighter. I have no delusions of escaping this fiasco, and I know the rules. In order to win, the entire team has to remain in their sweaters for the duration of the party.

Whoever came up with this contest is a sadist.

Phoebe emerges from inside the car after reapplying very red lipstick to her very full lips. I frown at her. “Lipstick?” Phoebe is perpetually dating, always looking for the right guy but running into all the wrong ones.

She gives me an exasperated look. “I’m just putting out the vibe.”

“Do you actually think you’re going to meet a guy at this party?” I give her a once-over. “In that sweater?”

Hers was the one with the dachshund in the oversized sunglasses. The dachshund was also wearing a sweater. That lit up.

She shrugs. “It could happen.”

“Nobody is going to look twice at us when we’re dressed like this.”

“Oh, they’ll look twice,” she smirks, opening her coat and clicking the small battery pack on the inside of her sweater.

The glow from alternating green and red LED’s dance on my face, which isn’t amused.

“See, that’s your problem, Olive. You’re too cynical.” She takes me by the shoulders and shakes me. “There are opportunities everywhere .” She whispers that last word for dramatic effect.

“I’m taking a break from men, remember?” I say because Phoebe isn’t the only one who’s endured a string of bad first dates, and the last one, who actually stuck his finger in my coffee, was the last straw.

“That would imply that you, at one time, feasted on them,” Phoebe cracks.

She and I both know that’s not the case. Taking a break from men for me is like taking a break from deep sea diving.

Which is to say that I haven’t dove headfirst in like, ever.

She continues her ribbing. “Are you sure you want to fast men during the holidays?”

I resist the urge to whine. After enduring another solo Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, for the third year running, I really don’t need any more humiliation. “Yes. I’m sure. I can’t keep doing the dating app thing. It’s unnatural. And weird, frankly. The guys say the grossest things. I’ve had horrible luck.”

Phoebe frowns. “That’s because you go into every date thinking he might be Mr. Forever. Think of him as, you know, Mr. Right Now,” she glances over at me, “or at least Mr. Keep Me Occupied For The Next Hour or So While I Eat This Salad.”

I sigh. It’s just not how I’m built. I don’t want Mr. Right Now. “I think I’m going to focus on myself for a while.” Lord knows I have a lot of work to do.

“Well, that’s depressing.”

I shoot her a look.

She changes her face. “I mean, it’s great! How modern of you—self-care and all that.” She reaches inside her collar, clicks another button, and the knitted Christmas lights on her sweater light up. “I’m here to party.” She pumps her eyebrows.

“How many battery packs does that thing have?” I ask, still not amused.

She shimmies her shoulders, and I stifle a smile .

I’m not here to party. I’m itchy.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I grumble, knowing I need to fix my attitude.

“Oh, come on, you mud stick. It’s going to be so fun!” She prances off, as I trail behind, thinking she meant to say stick in the mud , but mud stick is more apropos.

I really just want to be home in my knitted slippers working on the big chunky scarf I’m knitting my mom for Christmas.

The tree farm is a Pleasant Valley staple, and every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, the Williams-Fisher family hosts a Christmas Kick-Off celebration in their barn. I’ve always loved it out here. The smell of the pine trees alone makes it instantly feel like Christmas. Add in all the decor, the Christmas shop, the white twinkle lights . . . and it’s next level. A tradition I, like so many others, have come to rely on.

And, with the exception of the abomination I’m currently hiding under my coat, I love Christmas and all its traditions.

Phoebe, who seems to be running on lipstick and delusion, leads us to the door of the barn, and when we walk inside, we quickly realize that we are among a very small minority of people who are actually competing in the Ugly Christmas Sweater contest.

I tense up, and Phoebe links her arm through mine. “The trick is to own it. My boobs will twinkle like the top of the Chrysler Building.”

I frown at her. “Are we really doing this?”

“It’ll make your mother so happy when we win.”

True.

I’m comfortable in my skin, and secure in who I am—but even I can admit my confidence these past few years has been shaken.

Bad business decisions coupled with bad dating decisions all happening in a small town? Disaster.

I know I’m disappointing everyone. I know I was supposed to do more with my life. I was on a certain path, and I took a nosedive . . . and now I’m working odd jobs to try to keep my head above water and wondering if I’ll ever recover.

For someone who loves Christmas, I’m struggling to jingle.

“Girls! You’re here!” My parents emerge from a small crowd standing off to the side, and when she sees me, my mother beams. “Olive, let’s see it.”

“We’re for sure still doing this?” I ask, taking a cursory glance around the barn. “Nobody else is wearing an ugly sweater.”

“Not true,” my mom says. “The entire Jenkins family is decked out. And they have seven kids.” Her eyes narrow. “That’s big competition.”

“Right, but their kids are all under the age of twelve.” I see Josephine Williams-Fisher making her way through the crowd, and she’s headed right for us.

The Fishers used to live next door to us, but when I was twelve, they moved here to run the farm. Jo said it was her duty to the town—and to the family—to keep it going, so she and Brant moved to Pine Creek and took it over. The tree farm is in the Loveland school district, so that meant their kids, Liam and Lacey, didn’t go to school with Benji and me anymore.

The four of us were inseparable back then, and it was hard when they weren’t right next door. But we had the kind of childhood that kids don’t have anymore. Running around outside, riding bikes to the park, eating picnics on the grass.

When they moved, we sort of lost touch, the way you do when you’re twelve and you aren’t in control of your own transportation. Sure, we’d run into each other occasionally, and I’d hear bits of gossip about the Fisher kids over the years, but mostly—sadly—the close bond of friendship we were poised to have for life slowly disappeared.

I absently wonder if Liam or Lacey ever come home anymore. If I had lived at Pine Creek, I don’t think I would’ve ever left.

“Olive, look at you!” Jo says when she reaches us. She’s older now, but you’d only know it by the gray in her brown hair. Her big, hospitable energy is still intact. “Your mother says she gave you the best sweater of the bunch.”

Everyone laughs, including me. I try to get the attention off me by pointing to Benj. He whips open his coat and says, “Merry Cage-Mas!” Phoebe catches a giggle in her throat, giving me a shove.

“ That will be hard to top.” Jo turns to me. “Come on. Let’s go. I absolutely must see yours.” She squeezes my shoulder, and I notice we’ve now drawn the attention of a small crowd. People I see often—in town, at the coffee shop, at the post office, at the farmer’s market.

These people will never look at me the same way again after I take off this coat.

And then, before I can make a move, a familiar—yet unfamiliar—face emerges from the crowd.

Liam. Fisher.

“Whoa,” I hear Phoebe whisper beside me, echoing my exact thought.

I freeze. So I guess that answers my question.

He does come home for holidays.

Liam seems to be on a mission and doesn’t notice me standing here. Given what I’m wearing, that’s a good thing, but I also take it as an opportunity to stare at him.

And then, I’m five years old, roller skating down the sidewalk and I fall. My knee screams in pain as blood begins trailing down my leg. A younger version of the man standing in front of me, a six-year-old with a mop of dark curls and bright green eyes, is at my side. He holds my hand. He wipes my tears. He is so kind, even at that young age.

Liam has the same dark hair and bright green eyes, but he’s tall now, has the start of a beard, and is a little disheveled. I try—fail—to recall the things I’ve heard about him over the years.

Nobody ever mentioned he grew up to look like this.

“Mom, Grandma has questions about peppermint sticks?” Liam says, an edge in his voice.

“Oh! Yes! For the hot chocolate bar,” Jo says. “Shoot. I forgot.” She shakes her head, then to me she says, “Olive, Liam can take your coat.” She looks at him with a knowing glance. “He’s supposed to be working the coat check counter.”

Now, he looks at me. I search his eyes for a hint of recognition, but he barely acknowledges me. “I just needed some air,” he says.

I know how he feels. Because with him standing this close to me, I also need air. And possibly CPR.

Which is dumb because this is Liam . Boy next door Liam. The kid who thinks people getting hit in the head with a football is funny. The kid who hit lightning bugs with the big red Wiffle Ball bat to watch them light up as they arc to the ground.

Kind, yes, but also totally annoying.

And a perfect stranger to me now.

Jo must notice me staring, because her expression shifts and she says, “Oh, gosh, it’s been ages since you two have seen each other, hasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah, uh, it’s been, I mean, um. . .” I stutter.

“Sound it out. Use your words,” Phoebe whispers, and not quietly.

“Liam, good grief, will you say hi?” Jo says.

He does that annoying chin lift thing guys do when they think they’re being cool, and I straighten.

My mother, always ready to make awkward situations more awkward, steps forward. “Olive was just about to show off the sweater I bought her for the contest.” Then to Liam, like a pirate captain not wanting to give up where he buried the treasure, “we really want to win this year. ”

My cheeks flame. My entire head is about to light on fire. And Liam, I notice, is wearing an unmistakable look of amusement, his brow quirked in expectation. Unlike me, he’s dressed in jeans and a simple navy blue henley.

He looks good in it.

“Let’s see it, Olive,” Jo says. “Before my mother-in-law has a meltdown over peppermint sticks.”

There’s no way out of this. I’m going to have to unveil this hideous sweater.

But then I see my mother, watching me with quiet excitement, and I know Phoebe is right. She loves this stuff. Christmas isn’t a single day for her, it’s a whole season. Winning this trophy and first pick of the cut-your-own Christmas trees, silly as it may seem, means something to her.

So, I need to suck it up and force myself to be a good sport.

Even if it means looking like a complete fool in front of half the town.

And now, in front of Liam.

Slowly, I unzip my coat, and when I slip it off my shoulders, Mom lets out a squeal of what can only be described as glee.

“Oh, my goodness, Marcia, you weren’t kidding,” Jo says, surveying my sweater. “It’s perfect! I wish I was judging this year”—she reaches over and squeezes my arm— “you’d take home first prize for sure.”

I wince.

The sweater, in all its glory, is cream colored, with playful sparks of red, green, and gold peppering the front, sides, and arms. And, of course, what makes this sweater super amazing is the faux coconut bra knit over my chest, lovingly draped with holly.

And below the coconut bra is a facsimile of six pack abs because it’s made to look like a man. As if one couldn’t tell by the fake chest hair sticking out from behind the coconut bra .

In addition, this sweater would be perfect for someone who is, let’s say, more buxom than me.

To finish off the look, right underneath the abs, are the words Mele Kalikimaka .

My face is officially on fire.

Even Phoebe is having a hard time controlling her giggles.

My brother is outright laughing, pointing his phone at me. “Oh my gosh, it’s so much worse on!” Then, after a pause and what I’m guessing is a burst of photos, he adds, “I love it!”

I try to own it. “Feast your eyes, buddy. And don’t forget that you’ve got Nicolas Cage on your stomach.”

“Nic isn’t nearly as offensive as that.” He looks at our mom and cracks, “I thought you didn’t want her to be single for the holidays.”

“I don’t,” Mom says, eyes wide. “I think she looks adorable.”

“She doesn’t,” Benji says, still chuckling.

Mom swats him across the arm, then looks at me. “You do, Olive. You look so festive.”

My mom isn’t old enough to think this sweater is festive. She is old enough, however, to lament the fact that I’m facing yet another solo holiday season. And Benji’s right—she’s not helping the cause. The threads of faux chest hair should’ve clued her in.

“Judging will be in about an hour,” Jo says brightly. “Have fun until then!”

The small crowd disperses, but before they do, my eyes drift to Liam’s. He gives me an amused smile, and before he walks away, he says, “Nice coconuts.”