Holidays & Heartstrings (Winter Wonderland #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

CELESTE

The long-haul bus doors hiss and snap shut behind me, snagging my favorite scarf in its maw. Shit!

The oversized wheels turn.

The bus rumbles away from the curb. I teeter on the icy sidewalk before spinning my way out of strangulation and avoid being dragged alongside the bus by my winter wardrobe.

Finding my balance eventually, I watch as my scarf flies alongside the bus, in all its freedom and glory.

I press my frozen fingers to my neck, now burning from the quick departure of what was my favorite colorful scarf.

Well, welcome home to you, too, Grafton.

A beat later, the small-town Main Street closes in with all its quiet charm.

My two overnight bags, stuffed with every single possession that wasn’t nailed down or of questionable ownership in the tiny studio bedroom that, up until yesterday, I lived in with my roommate of seven years, drop to the sidewalk.

A defeated sigh slips out as I take in the tiny town that hasn’t changed one bit in the last ten years. I breathe in the cold air as it nips my skin and brightens my nose to a rosy pink hue and sends my ears burning.

Grafton, Vermont—home to the childhood I was only too happy to leave behind for the bright lights of Chicago. Now, it’s home to a population of seven hundred and two.

Still tiny.

Still freezing in winter.

Still stunningly beautiful with all its heritage buildings and New England charm. And . . .

Still like watching paint dry.

Now bursting with Christmas color despite it barely being December 1st.

The folks I grew up with mull about, like the day I left a decade ago is still in progress. They go about the same things, in the same places, and in the same ways.

Can’t blame a girl for wanting to escape a real-life Groundhog Day situation, can you?

But as vibrant and fun as life was in Chicago, it was also stressful and expensive. And mostly, much too far away from the only person left on this planet I care about—my father.

Which brings me to the reason I’m back.

My chest aches at the thought. And I hope, even though the hope is a completely useless waste of time, that he’s having one of his increasingly rare good days, and he’ll remember me.

I pray for that, eyes drifting shut as the quiet hustle of the small town that raised me hums softly.

I pluck up the bags and decide to hike the four blocks to the small dirt road that leads to the bigger houses on the outskirts of town.

Crisp snow crunches under my boots. As I make my way through Main Street, currently adorned with every holiday trimming in dark green and red known to mankind, and then the sleepy streets, my breath curls ahead of me, as if leading the way home.

The blue skies show no signs of the blizzard that apparently took Grafton by surprise, judging by the mile-high snowdrifts and yet-to-be-shoveled driveways.

Amber-tinted leaves cover every newly turned tree, the few evergreens dotted among the streets between the deciduous stand over front yards like dutiful soldiers in pairs flanking every white-picketed gate.

Grand heritage homes that take more upkeep than the White House, no doubt, stand proud in the center of each family’s small allotment of land.

“Yoo-hoo! CC, darling, is that you?”

That didn’t take long.

A gray-haired woman in her sixties presses a hand into her lower back as she straightens, garden shears in hand, delight scrawled all over her face.

Mrs. Matheson, my fifth-grade teacher, who by the looks of it, has been immortalized.

Most likely the frigid weather preventing her from aging, or the fact that she’s the biggest square a small town has ever had the privilege of housing.

“Hey, Mrs. Matheson, how’s the garden?”

“Oh.” She waves a hand at me, shaking her head. “Frost killed most of it. Same every year.”

“That’s a shame,” I call back, not slowing or changing course.

“You home for the holidays? Your father will be so pleased, bless his heart.”

“Yup.” I point an awkward finger, still gripping my bag, toward the direction of said home and offer up a small smile. “See you ’round.”

I catch a glimpse of her front door featuring an oversized golden wreath, complete with angels and bells.

Urgh. Christmas. An annual reminder of all the things our family has had to live without for so, so long . . .

“Of course, honey! Say hello to your father for me.”

Absolutely not.

Even on a great day, making mention of anyone who’s not close family or in his everyday life only serves to send him into a confused stupor.

Mrs. Matheson can keep her kind gestures, along with the rest of this town.

I may have been living through his everyday via long-distance, but Marie, his live-in caretaker who has been with our family for over a decade, calls me twice a day, morning and night.

And since I’m the youngest of three, at the sprightly age of thirty, and the only one without a ‘serious career’ according to my brother, well, here I am.

Leaving Main Street, I trudge my way through the side alley that leads to MacKelvie Lane, home to one of the original families of Grafton and our only neighbors in this tiny town for as long as I can remember.

Old Mrs. MacKelvie’s apple pies are something to behold. I’m sure she bakes in edible gold to glam up her pies . . . They’re that stupidly good.

Mrs. MacKelvie has always been old. I swear she’s been seventy for thirty years now. However, her grandchildren—who rarely visit—would be around my age now, from a quick running calculation. Her children all left for the city, one after the other, leaving her alone after all those years.

This time of year, I can almost smell the apple, cinnamon, pie crust, and . . . Smoke?

Shit.

I pick up the pace. My bags slam into my thighs as I close in on the two grand homes side by side. I’m out of breath. And a whole lot confused. Outside the MacKelvies’ is a large drum, burning, legs of antique chairs sticking out of the top.

Hey, what?

Okay, that’s not—

The front screen door of our house snaps.

Marie’s face lights up as she crosses our wide porch, drawing my attention to my own home. Leaning on a colonial-style column, she folds her arms over her chest, her smile widening. Not a Christmas decoration in sight.

We love Marie.

Without my mother, our father lost interest in the world around him.

We were so little when she died. At least, I was little when Marie started taking care of us like her own children not long after we lost our mom.

Then she went from caring for us to caring for my father in one seamless transition.

I drop the bags the second I make the porch, and she pushes from the column and envelops me in one of her warm hugs.

And for a minute, she feels like the mother I grew up without.

“Welcome home, Celestia.”

Her nickname for me. A combination of my name and the stars of the incredible night sky that floats above Grafton in the wintertime.

“It’s so good to be home.” The words almost get stuck.

She holds me at arm’s length. “He’s waiting for you in the sunroom. It’s a good day. Even better, now that you’re here.”

I huff a breath of relief, trying to stem the emotion that comes with the fact my father should recognize me.

I reach for my bags, and she shoos me inside before popping back out. To grab my luggage, I assume.

I walk into the foyer that has always felt far too formal for our family. The house is huge, even for a family of five, then four. Until Marie came stepped in, at least. She was Mom’s best friend.

“Hello?” I call out as I travel the corridor, a library flanking my left and the sitting room on the right. I know I’ll find my father in the sunroom at the back of the house. His favorite place.

And my mother’s before it was his. Every story he tells me about her, she was sitting in the sun’s rays or the moon’s beams, painting or sculpting.

The great Leticia Black. Her work still hangs around town; at least it did last time I was home.

I guess I took after my mother with the artist gene.

But the fact that I haven’t sold a single painting worth enough to keep my bills paid and my career afloat tells me the genetics I received are somewhat watered down.

I find Dad in the chair by the southern windows.

Rounding the chair, I touch his shoulder before sitting on the ottoman in front of him. “Hey, Daddy.”

His face lights up with delight. A beat passes and his brows frown. “Tisha, you’re supposed to be at the studio. Did something happen?”

I’ve been assumed to be worse people than my own mother, and in his defense, I am her spitting image. Dark hair, brown eyes, wide smile, small nose, and petite frame. Not-so-petite personality.

“It’s me, CC, Daddy.”

His face curls with confusion, then morphs to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, honey—”

“No, don’t be. I’ve been honing my Leticia Black style for a while now.”

He chuckles, but the frown doesn’t ease. “You do look so much like your mother, sweetheart. Sorry, I got confused.”

“I’ll take the mistaken identity as a compliment. Anyway, how have you been? Marie looks great, she’s keeping you on your toes, hey?”

“Your mother is always busy organizing my days.” He leans forward, hands gripping my knees. “All this old man wants to do is read and nap. She won’t hear of it.” The smile that widens his face is spectacular. And I put my mother’s inability to resist my father down to that one feature alone.

“I bet she does, Daddy.”

He’s mixing up the two most significant women in our family. But he’s not wrong. Marie was pretty much my mother figure. She took care of us. In return, she had a home and a family that would always do anything for her. But nobody could ever confuse the two . . .

“Can you do this old man a favor?” he asks.

“Anything.” I squeeze his hands, now back on his lap.

“I’m parched. Bring my tea, will you?”

I stand and dot a kiss to his forehead. “Of course, be back in a sec.”

He smiles before picking up his book.

Mark Twain.

Again.

I guess there are perks of not remembering things, after all. What I wouldn’t give to read my favorite books for the first time over.

I wander through the house and into the long galley kitchen. The black-and-white tiled floor has seen better days, as have the countertops and cupboards. Marie stands at the counter, preparing the tray loaded with a tea pot, two cups, and the sugar pot with two teaspoons.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“Okay. He mistook me for my mother for a second there. Not a big deal.”

“Lots of people do, until they remember . . .” The cheeky expression that sprung over her face fades with the last few words, and she gives me an empathetic expression, plucking up the tray.

“What’s going on next door?”

“Ah, that would be your new neighbor.”

“What? What happened to Mrs. MacKelvie?” My face is widened, hands gripping the counter. Surely, she just moved into the nursing home or something. Marie would have told me.

“I was trying to find the best time to tell you, without your father overhearing and—”

“Tell me what?”

“She died.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.”

“Two months! Marie, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know . . . I’m always with your father, I didn’t want him overhearing and getting upset. They were friends.”

“Well, he’s going to figure it out eventually.”

“True, I guess he might.”

“Then who is burning the drum?”

She pulls a face that looks suspiciously like a cringe. But I’m sure Marie hasn’t used that kind of expression ever in her life. “Her grandson.”

“Oh” is all I can say.

“Yes, oh.” She rolls her eyes and mine nearly fall out of their sockets. “He’s disposing of all of her outdated furniture. Apparently.”

“You’ve talked to him?” I lean over the counter, mouth agape.

“Briefly. Your father was outside, without any clothes on.” She picks up a teacup not on the tray and sips it.

“Oh.” I can only imagine the encounter.

The secondhand embarrassment it brings shouldn’t be so intense. I know it’s not his fault. I know it’s just his condition . . . Still.

I know nothing about this person next door. Everything about our neighbor is new. And I have the overwhelming urge to protect my father from him. Regardless.

“I popped your bags in your room upstairs. Let me deliver this, then we’ll catch up.

” She walks from the kitchen with the tray.

I amble through the house to the central staircase.

The mahogany railings still smell the same, woodsy and ancient like the house itself.

Ascending the stairs, I take in the photos of our family.

Mom and the three of us. And ones of just us kids.

Some of them have Marie in them. Some don’t. Which doesn’t feel right.

When I make it onto the first-floor landing, all of the doors are open, the windows closed against the cold. My room is the last door on the left.

The soft, worn carpet runner that leads the way dulls my footsteps as it always has.

Sound echoes off the cream walls with brown polished wooden trim around doors, skirting boards, and windows.

When I cross the threshold to my old room, I sigh.

Padding across the equally worn floor rug over hardwood floors to the bay window and seat, I push back the curtain.

Next door, out in the backyard, is the new neighbor. Another burning drum and a few odd pieces of furniture are on the lawn, now sentenced to a timely death by fire also.

Despicable. If old Mrs. MacKelvie could see the fate of her precious pieces now . . .

Shaking my head, I turn away, unable to watch the ultimate demise of the old chairs and whatnot that she loved and cared for dearly. The generations before ours valued their possessions, realizing their hard-won value. A sentiment that is apparently lost on whoever has taken over next door.

Smoke curls outside my window.

Barbarian.

I cross to the bed and flop onto my back, letting my gaze stagnate on the ceiling. The space is a time capsule hell-bent on preserving my childhood the best way it knows how. Without change or interference.

But one thing is for sure.

This still feels like home.