Chapter 5
“Flat ginger ale for the lady,” Amelia announces, using her Downton Abbey English accent and a singsong tone. “Will you be joining us for luncheon in the drawing room?”
Amelia speaks French fluently and has a knack for accents. I have a basic knowledge of French, thanks to our elementary school’s immersion program, but it’s modest at best.
“Also, expect you’re missing this?” She hands me my phone, which had fallen under the car seat.
“Oh! Thanks—and thanks for getting my car last night. Let me know what I owe Chase.”
“He said you’re family now, so no charge.” Amelia jumps on the bed without waiting for an invitation, right onto my stretched-out legs.
“Hey!” I complain, before drawing up my legs to give Amelia more space. She leans forward and wraps her arms around my bent knees, giving them a hug.
“I’m glad you’re home, even if you’re sick.” Amelia offers a wide smile, looking so much like our mom. She’s willowy, too, taller than me by about an inch, her blond hair naturally wavy, like she’s spent a day at the beach.
“Same,” I reply, squeezing her forearm gently. I see the sparkling diamond eternity band on Amelia’s left hand. “Nice accoutrement you’ve got there.”
“Nice use of the word accoutrement ,” Amelia replies, in perfectly accented French. Grinning, she holds her hand out so I can take a closer look. “J’adore. Elle est l’une des bonnes.”
“Sure, to whatever you just said.” I sip the ginger ale. It’s sweet, warm, and soothing.
“I said, ‘She’s one of the good ones.’?”
“Of course she is—you said yes.” I’m truly happy for Amelia, who is also one of the good ones .
“So Beckett Livery-Quinn is joining the Munro family, huh? Does she know what she’s getting into?”
Amelia nods, smiles. “She does.”
“What about your number one rule?” I ask. “It seems to me you broke it.”
“I did not! My number one rule was to never marry a doctor or a nurse,” Amelia says, holding up a finger in correction. “I’m already surrounded, and you know medical stuff makes me feel icky.”
“Clearly you made an exception,” I reply. “Beckett is a doctor.”
“An animal doctor —totally different! Turns out I’m not as squeamish as I thought,” Amelia says. “I even assisted when she delivered a calf.”
“Wow, that’s progress. How was it?”
“The delivery?”
I nod, and a sudden sense of wistfulness hits hard, like a wicked case of déjà vu.
Between the well-used mug I’m holding, which has carried many a servings of warm ginger ale over the years, and the cozy Christmas decorations, to Amelia sitting cross-legged on my bed, her elbows on her knees and chin in hands, it’s like I’m sixteen again.
“It was fine, and gross.” Amelia grimaces, shakes her head, and I chuckle.
“Okay, off to school. Last day, so wish me luck—the kids are bananas this time of year.” She stands, smoothing her black turtleneck and pleated silver skirt. “Oh, before I forget.”
Amelia holds up two fingers, the way I expect she would for her students. “One, we need to go to a celebration of life service tonight, so get this sickness out of your system today.”
“Celebration of life for who?”
Amelia mouths for whom , and I narrow my eyes.
“Sorry, force of habit,” she says. “For Elsie Farrow.”
“Oh no, Miss Elsie died? When? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
I’m heartbroken for Claire—my high-school best friend and Elsie’s granddaughter—as well as for Harmony Hills more generally. Elsie is a beloved member of the town, running programs for seniors, chairing community events, and taking in every stray dog or cat that happened upon our village.
“She passed about six weeks ago?” Amelia replies. “I’m pretty sure Mom left you a voicemail.”
My stomach clenches, guilt rearing up again.
Six weeks ago, and I haven’t reached out yet to Claire, which makes me eligible for the Worst Friend of the Year award.
But I rarely check my voicemail. However, I can’t blame this one on anyone but myself.
I need to get better at checking my messages ( New Year’s Resolution Number Two ).
“She died in her sleep, the day after her ninety-fourth birthday. Anyway, it’s not meant to be a sad affair. We are to wear ‘festive’ attire.”
Festive attire? To a memorial service? Though I shouldn’t be surprised, having spent the first eighteen years of my life in Harmony Hills.
The town and its residents take holidays, all of them, though especially Christmas, quite seriously.
The town’s motto is even written onto the welcome sign: HARMONY HILLS—WHERE EVERY DAY’S A HOLIDAY!
“I’ll be there even if I have to bring this wastebasket with me,” I say. Amelia’s at the door now, and I add, “Wait, what’s the second thing?”
“Oh, right!” She half turns, facing me again. “I’m almost twelve weeks pregnant. You’re going to be an aunt.”
My mouth drops open, my food-poisoned brain slow to catch up to this epic news she drops on me like she’s merely telling me there’s freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen.
“But, p.s., it’s a secret, and I’m going to surprise everyone—Mom and Dad included—after the wedding, so zip it for now,” she adds, before blowing me an air kiss and shutting my bedroom door.
By the time I get ahold of myself, calling out, “What do you mean you’re pregnant ?!” my sister is gone and the house is empty, the only sounds I hear are faint Christmas carols (“Little Drummer Boy”: “Pa rum pum pum pum / Rum pum pum pum…”) playing on the kitchen radio.
“Excuse me? Dr. Munro?”
There’s a determined tug on my skirt—red, pleated satin, nearly identical to Amelia’s silver one.
I borrowed it from her closet, adding a sparkly silver belt and an enameled Christmas wreath pinned to my white blouse to meet the “festive attire” brief for the memorial service.
I glance down into the curious wide eyes of the small person tugging at my skirt, and see deep blue eyes that are so familiar.
“Hi, Jonah.” I crouch so I’m eye to eye with one of Claire’s six-year-old twins. “You don’t need to call me Dr. Munro—that’s my mom’s name. Elizabeth, or Libby, is just fine. What’s up?”
He doesn’t answer right away; instead, he glances at the ornately carved walnut box that holds his great-grandmother’s ashes.
It’s on a table at the front of the funeral home’s gathering room, which has been transformed to look more like a holiday office party setting than a sombre memorial.
The room is full, crowded with so many conversations and people, shoulder to shoulder, the entire town here to celebrate Elsie Farrow’s life.
A blinking, lit-up Christmas tree stands tall in one corner, with boxes wrapped in holiday paper nestled underneath, featuring candy canes, decorative bulbs, and Santa Claus wearing board shorts on a surfboard.
Long boughs of pine garland frame doorways and windowsills, with bright and shiny decorations poking through the greenery.
There’s a low hum of lively chatter throughout the space, with holiday songs (currently an upbeat, a cappella version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”) streaming from built-in speakers.
Guests enjoy spiked eggnog, nonalcoholic cranberry-soda punch, and trays of holiday-themed cookies.
Jonah is holding a half-eaten Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sugar cookie in hand.
“So Gigi died, which is sad.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
Then with his cookie-free hand he fiddles with the red sequined bow tie around his neck.
Likely purchased from Everhart’s Dry Goods down the street.
People here don’t shop online—they support the local businesses, and their neighbours.
“It is sad.” I rub Jonah’s back gently. The half-eaten sugar cookie’s vanilla scent wafts into my nose, and for the first time since the sandwich incident, I’m hungry. A good sign.
“And Momma said Gigi is in there .” Jonah whispers, pointing at the walnut box on the table.
“That’s right,” I say, keeping my tone gentle and open.
“But, um, I was wondering… Dr. Mun—Miss Elizabeth,” he says, before lowering his voice even further. I lean in to hear him. “How did they fit Gigi into that little box?”
I resist the urge to laugh. Glancing over at Claire through the crowd, I see she’s holding her youngest—a little girl named Lucy—tightly with one hand, and trying to pry something out of Jonah’s twin sister Jasmine’s hand.
I can see at least two cookies grasped in Jasmine’s hand, and her face is smeared with blue icing.
Then Jasmine suddenly darts away, giggling as she does, cookies still in her clutches.
Claire sets a hand to her head (some blue icing transferring to her forehead, which I’ll tell her about in a moment) and catches my eye.
She gives me a crooked smile and shrugs as she picks up Lucy before following Jasmine.
Turning back to Jonah, I hold his hands so he faces me. Employing my doctor’s tone— confident but not cocky, clear but not emotionless, empathetic without being condescending —I explain cremation as simply as I can.
“Do you understand?” I’m still holding his hands but stand to let the blood flow back into my screaming leg muscles.
I wonder how moms adjust to these constant bent-over and crouched positions.
I think then of Amelia and her bombshell news, which I’ve had no time to revisit because we haven’t been alone all day.
I have a lot of questions, starting with “Are you taking your folic acid?” and ending with “How did you know you were ready to be a mother?”
Jonah purses his lips, clearly deep in thought. Maybe I went too far? Shoot, he doesn’t need to know details about cremation, Elizabeth. But then he gives the box a long look, and nods.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, with the confidence of someone four times his age. He hands me his half-eaten cookie. “You can have the rest. I’m gonna tell my sister about Gigi now.”