Ten Christmases Without You

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS

With a deep breath, Emmy Brewer dumped her Christmas exchange gift bag under the tree with the others, shrugged off her coat, and unwound her scarf.

“You made it.” Her sister Madison helped with her luggage and latched the front door.

Emmy dropped the rest of her things on top of her suitcase.

Catching her reflection in the window, she ran her fingers through her dull, tangled hair, wishing she’d done the chestnut wash-in treatment that brought out the green in her eyes.

Madison grabbed her arm and whisked them into the kitchen where the women in their extended family had gathered. Then, her sister abandoned her as she popped into the garage where Uncles Stephen and Brian, along with Madison’s husband Jack, could be heard hooting over football.

“So good to see you,” Aunt Charlotte said, as she arranged a platter of cold cuts and cheese. “You look like you’ve been through it.”

“You really do. Poor thing,” Aunt Elsie said from the other side of the finger-food-filled island, a slice of Emmy’s mother’s famous ham-and-sausage crescent ring now in her hand. Someone made it every year, so it felt as if her mother would walk through the door any minute.

Not sure what to make of her aunts’ assessment of her, Emmy busied herself with hanging her coat and scarf on the back of a kitchen chair. She’d been on a flight from New York to Tennessee, and travel did take it out of her, but she hadn’t really “been through it.” Did she look that bad?

If only she could’ve somehow delayed her trip.

Now, she’d have to endure even more days of Aunt Elsie pinching her side, asking when she’d last had the opportunity to get a good meal, and inquiring, for the millionth time, about why she didn’t get a more suitable place to live that allowed her some extra spending money.

Her aunt would undoubtedly eye Emmy’s beat-up sneakers and offer an appeasing smile.

She also wasn’t quite ready for Uncle Stephen demanding silence in the room in order to point out that Emmy needed a Christmas sweater because, apparently, she was the only one who’d forgotten to wear one.

While they were well-meaning, they were nothing like her graceful, gentle mother, Anne Fairchild Brewer.

Madison returned from the garage with their father, James Brewer.

“There she is.” Her dad came over with his arms wide and gave Emmy a kiss on the cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He wrapped Emmy in a tight squeeze, lifting her and jiggling her around as if she were still a little girl.

She didn’t mind. The gesture took her back to her childhood and the happier days of her youth.

Her dad had been her light after her mom died of cancer ten years ago.

He’d always seen more potential in her than she could see herself.

He let her go and smoothed down his Christmas sweater—a montage of embroidered holiday gifts in red and green.

“How was the trip?” he asked brightly.

“It was good, despite the weather,” she replied. “The storm’s making a mess of things. I’m glad my flight wasn’t canceled.”

Emmy hadn’t wanted to come back for Christmas at all. The holiday had never been the same without her mom.

She’d originally planned to fly in later to shorten the trip, claiming work demands, but with the ice storm affecting much of the southeastern U.S.

, she’d had to come now. Once the storm got going, she never would have made it into Nashville, let alone been able to travel the hilly, unsalted Tennessee roads to her parents’ house, over an hour from the airport.

As it was, she’d barely made it before the temperatures plummeted and the roads began to ice over.

Aunt Charlotte glided over and kissed her cheek. “Well, now you can relax.” She scooped up Emmy’s coat and scarf, still in motion, and handed them to Emmy’s father, who hung them on the hook by the garage. “We’re all nibbling Christmas cookies. Have one.”

Aunt Elsie waggled a finger at the plate of assorted treats, her eyebrows dancing. “I bought them from an Amish market up north—so they’re super healthy!”

Cookies? Healthy?

Emmy nodded. “I’ll grab one in a second.”

Emmy’s dad was an only child. His side of the family was small, and his parents had already passed away.

So every Christmas, her mom’s side descended upon Emmy’s childhood home in Cookeville, Tennessee in an effort to fill the gaping hole that had ripped through their family when Emmy’s mom had succumbed to her illness.

Ten years later and the holidays were still tough without her mother humming Christmas carols as she danced around the kitchen in her apron with a homemade dinner in the oven.

Emmy missed the week of preparation that came after Thanksgiving, when the house smelled of pine from the fresh-cut tree and greenery her mom would get from the farmer at the edge of town.

With cookies in the oven, her mom would pull out the boxes of blown-glass ornaments and sparkling baubles to trim the tree.

Nothing ever went wrong at Christmas. Her mother had made sure of it.

“Let me help you with your things,” her father said.

He opened the hallway door leading to the stairs, and Emmy slipped through it quickly, glad for an escape.

Madison followed. Their dad rolled her suitcase over to the steps, picked up her duffel bag and slid it over his shoulder, then grabbed her toiletries bag.

They lingered in unified silence—a silence that had settled upon them after her mother had died, taking her chatter with her. At first, the hush had bothered Emmy, but it had been so long now that the lack of conversation had become part of them.

Madison still struggled with the silence at times.

“What’s this?” She picked up Emmy’s sketchbook.

Vivienne had asked Emmy to work on the contact list for Hawthorne & Co.

, a small designer client, and told her that she ought to do some of her drawings to show them.

While Emmy was adamant that she wasn’t her mom, Vivienne continued to encourage her.

So Emmy had treated herself to the cream-and-dusty-pink flowered pad on her way home from work a few weeks ago, although she hadn’t had time to do any drawings until now.

“I was drawing during the flight, for something to do,” she said.

Madison opened the notebook and then looked up at her sister. “You’re so good at these.” She tapped the drawing of the 1950s-inspired gown that Emmy had sketched. It had clean lines and elegant pleats in the skirt. Emmy had imagined it in a deep blue.

“Thanks.”

“It’s my dream that you’ll use your talents,” her father said. “I knew you had the chops from the minute you picked up a pencil.”

She’d drawn a lot when she was a girl, but the first to-scale clothing sketch Emmy had ever done was five days after her mom died.

She’d been struggling without her, praying for some way to feel closer to her.

As the two artists in the family, she and her mom used to doodle together.

Her mom would draw outfits that wowed Emmy, and they’d giggle for hours as they planned out designs for Emmy’s prom and wedding gowns—dresses her mom never got to make for her.

Over the years, her father had attempted to convince Emmy to take art or design classes. At times, she wondered if he was trying to reach something missing within himself, bridging the loss of her mom with the birthright talent she’d left in Emmy.

“Have you ever thought about bringing one of the sketches to life—actually sewing it, like Mom did?” her sister asked.

Emmy shook her head. “No, I just draw them for fun.”

Dressmaking was her and her mom’s thing together.

Emmy didn’t feel comfortable sewing by herself.

Not wanting to exist in her mother’s large shadow, Emmy had worked hard to find her own path in life, using her artistic abilities by pursuing a marketing degree.

But while she’d taken a job in public relations at a prominent firm in New York, she worked incredibly long hours and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

Madison closed the notebook and tucked it under her arm. “You should definitely look into selling them somewhere.”

Emmy shrugged.

Madison blew air through her lips. “Or just keep running your boss’s errands and wasting your talent.”

“Don’t start,” Emmy said. “She gets me to run her errands because I’m trustworthy. And I still get all my work done.”

Their father offered a stern look. “Okay, you two.” He turned to Madison. “Give her a break. It’s Christmas.”

Madison shook her head. “All right.”

Her sister was elegant, with deep-set blue eyes like their mother, and while she gave Emmy a hard time, she was nurturing beyond her years. She was the younger sister, but Madison often assumed the role of a first born. She’d soothed Emmy during those difficult nights alone when they were younger.

“Go enjoy yourselves,” their father said. “I’ll take all this up to the loft for you.”

Emmy put on a smile for his benefit. “I can help you.” Then she thought better of it: her sister’s call earlier in the week floated back into her mind, but she quickly pushed it away.

“I’ve got it,” James said.

Her dad started up the stairs, and she and Madison went back into the kitchen.

Aunt Charlotte beckoned her over to the table.

Not only did Aunt Charlotte favor Emmy’s mother, she was sitting in the seat by the window that her mom used to sit in, making Emmy uncomfortable.

If she squinted just right, with her aunt’s soft features and angled jawline, she could almost bet it was her mom.

Elsie pulled out two chairs and brought the plate of cookies over from the counter, setting them in the center of the table. Aunt Elsie had taken after Emmy’s grandfather. She was taller, with pointier features.

“We’ve heard all about Madison’s year,” Charlotte said. “What about you, Miss Emmy? Tell us all the wonderful things you’ve done since we saw you last.”