Holiday at Home

Chapter 1

Violet

Flames leap from the pastry oven and lick up the kitchen walls. The fire alarm screams to life, shrill, blaring, insistent. My heart thunders against my ribs. Fire multiplies exponentially, a flickering, snapping dragon devouring my bakery.

I stand in shock, watching the flames creep closer, closer, closer…

“Vi?”

My twin sister Nora calls my name, watching me with concern.

“Everything okay?” she asks. “You got real quiet all of a sudden.”

I blink back to life and take in my surroundings.

No flames. No fire. Not even a hint of smoke.

Just my imagination running away with me.

Again.

I run a hand through my auburn hair, blowing breath past my lips. “Yeah. Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just, um…”

“Imagining the absolute worst that could happen today?” Nora drops one hand on her six-year-old son’s head, ruffling his dark hair. Nash leans into his mom and rubs his tired little eyes. Baker’s hours aren’t for the faint of heart.

I shake off the remnants of the intrusive thoughts, then nod and shrug. “Pretty much.”

My twin’s knowing smile is exactly what I needed.

It’s why, when she offered to fly in with her husband and son to support me for the grand reopening, I didn’t put up much of a fight.

My anxiety can get on top of me—now more than ever before—and Nora’s grounding energy is guaranteed to root me in reality rather than doom loops.

“Look at this place, Vi. You took everything Sterling’s Bakery used to be and put your own personal spin on it. It’s a fitting tribute to Mom and Dad, but it’s also yours now. You’re so, so gonna rock this, and Nash and I will be here, cheering you on the whole way. I’m sure they are, too.”

I bring in a deep breath, close my eyes, and hope she’s right.

The gingerbread cookies are gingered. Icing drips off the cinnamon rolls.

The sugar cookies are decorated in brightly colored icing.

A Christmas tree stands in one corner of the seating area and lights twinkle in the front window of Sterling’s—the bakery my parents opened when they were newly married.

The place I’ve worked my entire life. The business I always knew I’d inherit one day.

Just… not this day.

Not for many, many, many more days.

I straighten a snowman figurine on the counter and tug on his tiny bow tie. “Are you sure? Do you think Mom and Dad would be okay with what I’ve done?”

Elizabeth, the one baker I could afford to keep on, peeks her head out of the kitchen, her thick, gray hair slung over a shoulder in a long braid. “Your mama and daddy would be thrilled to see what you’ve done with their place. They are certainly proud of you.”

Sterling’s has been a staple in Stillwater Bay from the moment it opened.

Customers would line up each morning to grab their favorite treat before it sold out.

And it wasn’t just the pastry that brought people in.

Mom and Dad knew each person who walked through the door and talked to them like the friends they were.

Between Mom’s baking skills, Dad’s business acumen, and a special gift for connecting with people, they turned Sterling’s into the heartbeat of our small town.

Nora and I basically grew up here, helping in age-appropriate ways as the years passed. The assumption was that we’d inherit the place and run it ourselves, but Nora married Robbie right out of high school and, when he joined the Navy, off they went, leaving me here to work with Mom and Dad.

Mom always had this place decorated to the nines the weekend after Thanksgiving, Christmas music and all. Even though I’m not exactly drenched in holiday spirit this year, I did my best to honor that tradition.

I drew a line at the music, though, which is weird. I adore Christmas music.

Just…

…not this year.

“What if no one comes?” I ask. “What if two months of being closed was too long, and everybody forgot about us? What if—with the Christmas tree-lighting celebration in Town Square today—everyone’s over there, and no one’s here?”

A silly question, because I chose to reopen on the first of December specifically to coincide with the tree-lighting ceremony, but since when does anxiety listen to reason?

Nora puts a reassuring hand on my arm. “Then we’ll deal with those things as they come.”

Nerves flutter in my belly. I shake out my hands, glancing around the store. Despite the Christmas décor, it doesn’t feel like Christmas in my heart.

But, then again, nothing’s felt the way it should since our parents passed.

I put my hands on my hips and blow out a puff of air. “Okay. It’s just about six. I’m like five minutes away from unlocking the doors.”

“You are so ready, Vi,” Nora says proudly. “And we’ll be with you the whole time.”

Nash grins, nodding as emphatically as a tired kindergartner can. Elizabeth pokes her head out of the kitchen with a fist in the air. I smooth my apron. Run a hand through my hair. Take a deep breath, close my eyes and send a quick prayer to Mom and Dad, then unlock the door and wait for the magic.

And…

…nothing happens.

My stomach sinks.

I turn to Nora in fear, and she holds up her hands to ward off my panic.

But then the door creaks open, the bells jingling merrily, and in walks my first customer, Roger Clementine. He’s an oldie, a staple of Sterling’s and of Stillwater Bay. His broad smile, grizzled beard, and booming voice immediately take my nerves down a notch.

“Violet, my dear!” Roger throws his arms wide, then glances around the shop. “And Nora, too? I haven’t seen you for years! And who’s this strong young man at your side?”

Nash’s little eyes go wide as he stares at the man in wonder. “Mom,” he whispers, tugging on her hand, gaze locked on Roger. “Santa knows your name…”

Roger throws his head back in laughter, belly shaking merrily. “Not the first time I’ve heard that and won’t be the last, I’m sure.” He crouches and extends his hand to my nephew. “Name’s Roger Clementine.”

“I’m Nash,” comes the reply as my nephew proudly shakes hands with the stranger.

“Pleased to meet ya, Nash.” Roger straightens and turns his jolly energy my way. “I sure was missing those cinnamon rolls of yours while you were closed down.”

“Good thing I made an extra big batch then, isn’t it?

” I pull out the tray and pick the best of the bunch, sliding it into a bag emblazoned with the Sterling’s logo like I’ve done for this man for years.

The familiarity of it all soothes my nerves.

Weirdly, I get a sense of Mom and Dad smiling at each other, like maybe, somehow, they arranged Roger’s arrival.

“Thank you for being my first customer.”

While I’m mostly speaking to the man across from me, I send a chunk of that gratitude to my parents.

Just in case.

“We got you, Violet,” he responds and tears spring to my eyes.

We?

The sense of my parents smiling increases and Roger drops me a wink. “I certainly won’t be your last customer. Just watch.”

The bells over the door jingle and suddenly the bakery is filled with laughter and conversation.

Roger lifts his hand and leaves me to a steady stream of customers wishing me well, thanking me for reopening after my parents’ accident.

Time flies, cookies disappear, and I almost completely sell out of cinnamon rolls before noon.

“How’s your coffee?” asks Matilda McIntire around a mouthful of chocolate croissant. “Sylvia Sterling’s espresso used to be the only way I could start my day.”

“She really had a gift, didn’t she?” I reply fondly. “That was one thing I knew I couldn’t live up to, so I decided to pare down the coffee menu. I do offer it, but it’s just your basic brew, unfortunately.”

I gesture weakly toward the industrial pots with their gas station vibes and Nora shoots me a knowing look.

There’s more to the coffee story than meets the eye.

“No worries.” Matilda waves her hand and chomps into her croissant. “Caffeine is caffeine, right?”

I pour her a cup and she takes a sip, wrinkling her nose in a way that says not all caffeine is created equal after all, then disappears in another wave of customers.

Elizabeth pokes her head out of the kitchen, tendrils of gray falling from her braid and a slash of flour streaked across her forehead. “I’m gettin’ a little behind in here.”

“Go, go,” Nora says, waving me into the kitchen. “I’ll man the counter.”

“I can help, too!” cries Nash.

“You don’t have to—” I begin, but he places his little hand on my arm with an adorably solemn look in his eyes.

“I like to help.”

I glance at his mom, who nods, so I hand him a rag.

He scampers off to wipe down tables while I join Elizabeth in the kitchen.

By the time the bakery shelves are nearly picked clean, my helpers look every bit as exhausted as I feel.

The stream of customers tapers off and we stare at each other with wide eyes.

I fold my elbows on the counter. “I think we saw everyone in Stillwater Bay at least once.”

Nora nods her agreement while Elizabeth blows a piece of hair out of her face.

“Aunt Vi?” Nash asks, shoving his hand into his pocket. “Can I buy a treat with the money people gave me?”

He threw himself into keeping the seating area clean today. So much so that he earned a couple dollars in tips… and plenty of “oohs,” “aahs,” and “what a good boys” along the way. He seemed embarrassed by the praise, excited about the money, but downright thrilled to have been able to help.

“Here’s the secret best part of working for a bakery,” I say, beckoning him over. “You don’t have to pay for your treats. Come over here and pick one out.”

Nash scampers behind the counter, skipping and hopping in excitement, and I wrap an arm around him. He has his dad’s dark hair and the gray eyes that mark him as a member of the Sterling family.

“Want a sugar cookie snowman or a gingerbread Christmas tree?”

“Neither. I want the last ooey gooey yummy nummy cim-a-nom roll.” Nash points at the tray with a wide grin and I reach for it, pausing when the bells over the door jingle again.

I glance up.

My jaw drops.

My heart does a tumultuous flip-flop.

He’s taller than I remember, broader too.

Shoulders filling the doorway like he owns the light pouring in behind him.

Jet-black hair tumbles into eyes the color of deep ocean water after a storm—blue, striking, impossible to forget.

For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe. The scent of cinnamon and sugar turns sharp in my lungs.

I clutch Nash closer, a living shield against the ghost of my past and the man I once thought would be my future.

“Simon?”

He lifts a hand in greeting, then rakes it into his hair. “Hey, Vi.”

There’s a soft smile on full lips and stubble on a square jaw and my heart skips a beat just like it always did when he walked into a room. Like it hasn’t been three years since I spoke to him. Like he’s not my first bad Christmas memory.

Whatever holiday spirit might have been growing inside me crashes to the floor. Of course Simon Holiday would pick today to show his face.

“It’s, uh, it’s been a while,” I say instead of what in the world do you think you’re doing here?

“It has been a while.” Simon’s expression is unreadable.

Staring at him reminds me of some of the best years of my life. Date nights and homecoming with Nora and Robbie, laughing into the wee hours of the morning, planning a future together that seemed so possible, so beautiful...

I don't know how to process seeing him again after the way things ended.

“It’s been three years of utter silence.”

Simon rakes his hand through his hair, and it flops right back into his eyes the same way it always did. “I’m in town for the holidays. I heard about what happened to your parents. Man, I’m so sorry, Vi. They were good people.”

“The best,” I manage, drawing Nash even closer for moral support.

“Mom said today was your grand reopening and I thought it’d be cool to pop in and wish you good luck.”

Pop in. He wanted to pop in.

After years of silence, he thought today, the reopening of the bakery we once thought we’d run together, was the day to reappear in my life.

“Thank you?” The question mark at the end of that sentence sounds ruder than I like to be, but I don’t know what else to say.

Part of me, the stupid, wounded broken part that will always love Simon Holiday, wants to ask how he’s doing. What he’s been up to. How his life has been since he called me on Christmas Eve to say he wasn’t coming home and he was calling it quits on our relationship.

The rest of me is annoyed that he thinks he can just show up, out of the blue, like we’re old friends with a lot of catching up instead of two people with a whole lotta history.

“Any chance I could get a cinnamon roll?”

“We’re fresh out.” I practically shove the last pastry into Nash’s little hands, but my nephew’s sweet, unburdened heart gets in the way of my mini retaliation.

“S’okay,” he murmurs, “he can have mine.”

“Looks like it’s your lucky day.” I eye Simon as I bag the pastry.

Something’s up. There’s more to this visit than him just popping in. He’s nervous. Fidgety. Like he’s got something to say he knows I won’t like. Which, after the way he ended things, describes anything he’d have to say to me. Ever.

I hand him the bag. There’s a momentary brush of his fingertips against mine and I pull my hand back quickly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Strangely, it never does.

Instead, Simon pays, then heads for the door, turning slightly over his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Violet.”

“Sure,” I answer grudgingly, “if you say so.”

As the door swings closed behind him, I turn to my sister and release my death grip on Nash’s shoulders. Behind her, the lights on the Christmas tree blink and dance, somehow making the moment even more surreal.

“What’s that about?” I mouth and Nora shakes her head.

“Simon’s always had a big set of b—” My sister’s eyes go wide as she glances at her son. “A big set of… golf clubs,” she finally finishes.

I choke back laughter as Nash looks on innocently.

“The man always did love… golf.”

“Isn’t he some big investment banker in New York City now?” Nora peers out the big picture window where Simon’s still standing on the sidewalk, peering down Main Street like he’s lost.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” I tug on my apron then straighten the garland of fresh pine and red bows draped around the counter. “I don’t have a lot of room in my life for people who can’t keep their promises.”

After one last glance at Simon through the window, I do what he did to me three years ago:

Turn my back and walk away.