The Art of Being Merry (Winterberry Junction #2)

Chapter The Merry Meet

the merry meet

CLEM

“Of all the stupid things I could do, all the dumb mistakes I’ve made in my life, this might be the most foolish.

” I shake my head, a worse one coming to light.

“Nope, that honor belongs to marrying Keith. Ignoring all the red flags. Thinking he was ‘perfect.’ Perfect, my ass. More like the laziest and stupidest son of a bitch living.”

A sneeze from the back seat returns my attention to the car.

Probably wise to keep my focus on the road in front of me and not the errors of my past. Besides, had there been no Keith, I wouldn’t have Atlas and Jace, the best parts of my life.

Despite sharing half their DNA with their father, they’re my world.

The reason I get up in the morning.

The reason I live and breathe.

The reason for this trip.

“Bless you, Attie. You hungry?” I seek Atlas in the rearview. He’s dozed on and off, but he’s been my company for the drive, asking all the questions, questions I didn’t—don’t—have answers to.

“Are there any apples left?”

“I’m not sure. Can you check the bag next to you?”

My gaze drifts to the empty road. Early Christmas morning in southern Vermont isn’t a busy travel time, but I can’t blame folks for staying home.

No one should drive on Christmas morning at this hour.

Unless you’re a fool, which I am. I’m not certain it’s for being out on the road on the holiday or staying this long in a horrible marriage.

Probably the latter.

“Found one.” Having temporarily forgotten what he’s talking about, his groggy morning voice startles me. “I need it cut. And did you pack the peanut butter?”

I’m lucky I packed the three of us, I want to shout, but I refrain.

I’m the only one to blame for the predicament we’re in—running away to Vermont on Christmas because my life imploded yesterday morning.

Atlas and his brother are innocent bystanders, along for the ride because no way was I leaving them with Keith.

He could barely manage them when he got home from work before me.

Also, the thought never crossed my mind.

Whenever the urge to run away from my life hit, they would never have been left behind.

Where I went, they followed. Much as I might need a break from them from time to time, I knew I’d never leave them behind. I’d figure it out.

Perhaps Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to put the plan in motion, but my patience snapped yesterday, and I couldn’t stay in that house one second longer.

Logic should have sent us to my parents’ house, a mere five miles down the road, but amid my meltdown, reason and rationality flew out the window.

It wasn’t until I had the car packed with a suitcase of clothes for each of us and all their wrapped Christmas presents did I realize where I was headed.

Not that I told Willa I was coming. She’d be up now. I could call or text her, give her a heads-up we’re here. I can’t explain why alerting her makes me physically ill.

Okay, I know why. I’m ashamed, mortified at how this looks, at how I’m behaving.

Taking my children from the only home they’ve known, from their father, their grandparents, and driving over a dozen hours to a twin sister I hardly ever see.

It’s only because of the physical distance, not that we aren’t close.

She’s my best friend, but it’s been three years of her living in Vermont and not home in North Carolina with us, I’ve had enough of missing her.

Beyond getting to her, I don’t have a plan. Not how long we’re staying. Hell, not where we’re going to stay. All my mind can handle is “get to Willa.” Like she’s the one who will know what to do in a crisis. And a crisis this is. Even of my own doing.

What the hell am I doing?

The question has played on repeat since a mile outside of town, a loud voice in my head commanding I turn around. With two screaming kids, tears cascading down my cheeks, I should have listened. But I couldn’t. A magnetic force was pulling me north to Willa, consequences be damned.

I pulled over to compose myself as best as I could, but I didn’t turn around. With a full tank of gas, I pressed forward, counting down the miles to Vermont with each new state we entered. Virginia. D.C. Maryland. Delaware. New Jersey. New York. Connecticut. Massachusetts. Vermont.

Not when Jace threw up did I contemplate turning back.

Not when Atlas demanded to go home did I consider his opinion.

Not when the pesky voice of reason highly suggested I was making a mistake did I give it another thought.

Come hell or high water, I was on a mission to Vermont.

Now, nearly nine hundred miles, a night of no sleep, and an eerie sense of calm washing over me, the end is in sight-ish.

“Are we almost at Aunt Willa’s? We’ve been driving a long time. I hope Santa found her house okay.”

A “lie” I told him when I needed him to get into the car without arguing.

“Of course Santa knows we’ll be at Aunt Willa’s house on Christmas.

” Nothing white or little about it, but he seemed to buy it.

Haven’t quite worked out how I’ll unload the presents from the car into her cabin without his knowledge, but I’ve got about an hour to figure it out.

Along with how to explain to Willa why we’re here. She’ll welcome us with open arms, but as soon as we’re alone, she’ll question my every decision. It’s in her nature and what makes her good at her job as a children’s mystery author.

I wish I wasn’t at the end of her inquisition this time.

Following the GPS directions, I navigate from the highway to Winterberry Junction, sticking to the main roads because even in the daytime, Main Street is supposed to be a sight.

Beckett, Willa’s boyfriend, is the resident expert on Winterberry and all things Christmas, and for the last year, I’ve had to hear all about it.

Every time Willa talks about another facet of their Christmas celebration in town, her excitement is palpable.

There was a time it wasn’t, and I owe Beckett a huge thanks for reigniting my sister’s joy of Christmas.

“Mama, look.” Atlas’s excited voice draws my attention from my head to him, and I quickly glance at what he’s pointing to—an inflatable reindeer and Santa. “Oh, and over there.” His gaze swings to the other side of the car, the holiday spirit oozing off.

I’m glad my piss-poor attitude and hasty decision haven’t squashed his joy. I’d feel worse than I already do for abandoning our home on Christmas.

“Wow, there’s a lot of them. Wait until it’s dark. Aunt Willa says that’s when the magic happens.”

“Can we stay until it’s dark or do we have to leave?”

My sweet boy. I hope I’m not stealing his innocence and robbing him of being a kid. My job is to always make sure their needs are taken care of before my own, and here I am, making the worst snap judgments in the history of snap judgments for my sanity.

I can’t let the guilt worm in. What’s done is done. We’re here now. Turning back at this hour would only make things worse . . .

“Yep. We’ll probably stay a few nights.”

“Until Daddy comes to get us and we’ll go home.”

My fingers slip on the steering wheel at his comment. Thankfully, the street’s empty, and I recover quickly.

His tone is indiscernible about his true feelings. It’s only day one. I’m sure there will be a lot more to contend with over the next several days.

As for Daddy coming to get us . . . most likely not. He’d have to care enough to realize we’d left.

As we drive down Main Street, I can’t help but agree with Willa. It’s breathtaking, and I can’t wait to see it at night. Because it has to be triply more gorgeous than this.

Several additional minutes have us at her driveway.

I should have listened more to her descriptions of her cabin, but I admit I haven’t been the best sister.

Sure, I’m over the moon she loves the holiday, but having to hear about her love story with Beckett, while my life swirled down the drain like spoiled milk, has only added to my sour mood.

And yet, here I am. Willa’s is the only shoulder I want to cry on.

Yet, as I take in the inside of the cabin from the front lawn as the boys survey the decorations, I’m not sure she’s here, despite the cars in the driveway. Wouldn’t that be my luck?

I dial her number frantically, only to find out I’m imposing on something kind of big for them. Beckett takes pity on me, giving me directions for where to find the spare key, and I usher the boys inside.

Nearly ten minutes later, a newer model truck barrels down the driveway.

Through the front window, I watch with wide eyes as who I guess is Dax, Beckett’s older brother, lumbers from the truck, smirking at the setup of inflatables in the yard.

He’s dressed in jeans, work boots, and a puffer ski jacket, but what gets me the most is the Santa hat sitting crookedly on his head.

One he didn’t put on before he got out of the truck. One he was already wearing.

He doesn’t knock, instead letting himself inside through the front door. Jace attaches himself to my legs, hiding away from the stranger. Atlas stands next to me, his eyes assessing Dax’s every move, his head tilted to one side, his curiosity piqued.

“You must be Clementine.”

I contain my annoyance at his use of my full name. Rather than confirm, I state, “Dax. You didn’t have to go out of your way. We’ll be fine here until Willa and Beckett return.”

His hearty chuckle nearly shakes the cabin, causing Jace to tremble.

The sound is deep and rumbly, like he shares it freely.

“Yeah, they might be a while. Oh, Mom sent food. You must be hungry. I’ll grab it from the truck.

” He turns on his heels, but soon he faces us again.

Up close, his days-old scruff is on prominent display.

Not that I’m checking it out, but it’s hard to miss. “How was the drive?”

“Long. Dark. Tiring.” Why I give him so many answers is anyone’s guess. Probably because I’m tired and moody, a lethal combination if ever there was one.

“What food did you bring?” The question comes from Atlas, still sizing up the stranger.

Dax scratches his head, further skewing the Santa hat. “I’m not sure. My mom put some stuff in a bag and handed it to me on my way out. Whatever it is, it’s yummy. My mom only cooks good food. How about yours?”

I suck in a breath as I wait for my seven-year-old’s response. Will he sell me down the river or will he cut me a little slack?

“She makes the best pancakes, chicken tenders, and mac and cheese, but if she tries to serve you sloppy joes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He makes a gagging sound and exaggerates his full-body shiver.

I stifle my laughter. He’s nothing if not honest. You forget to omit the onions one time, and the kid won’t shut up about it.

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll go grab the food. Be back in a jiff.”

My eyes trail after him, way longer than I can see, as he disappears through the front door. Except the huge picture window makes it easy to continue ogling the man, especially the way the jeans showcase his ass. How he carries himself with confidence. The merriment oozing off him.

Before he returns, I shake off the hold he has over me.

Running away from a husband doesn’t involve running to another man. Just another tally in my epic mistakes column.

But what a fine mistake Dax Nicholas would make.