Chapter 26
The community centre has been transformed, decked out for the upcoming holiday: a giant blow-up Santa and his sleigh are parked near the front door; multicoloured twinkle lights are draped across the ceiling; tinsel garland frames every doorway and window frame; mini lit-up Christmas trees line the walls, waiting to be adorned by ornaments guests will make tonight.
There’s mulled wine for the adults and sweet apple cider with cinnamon for the younger set; those scents compete with the savoury-spicy smells of bubbling chili in dozens of Crock-Pots.
While Slice of Life donates bread to go with the chili, the main meal is contributed by the families of Harmony Hills. Each participating family has a secret recipe, and there’s an annual competition amongst the chili makers for the Best of the Season trophy (a golden kidney bean).
Amelia’s smiling, but she looks tired—her ponytail mussed up, black mascara flecks on her cheeks, her eyes slightly bloodshot. “I can’t believe we pulled this off.”
“ You pulled this off, Mila, nearly single-handedly.” I wipe the mascara flecks from her cheeks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“Don’t worry about it. I had loads of help, and you were busy saving lives.
” Her tone reveals nothing but kindness and understanding.
I see my lack of commitment to the party was not something that needed to be forgiven, in Amelia’s eyes.
However, that doesn’t change the fact that I no longer want to be that disconnected sister, daughter, or friend again.
“Everything looks perfect,” Miss Elsie says, coming up to us. Claire links arms with her grandmother, who admires the party setup. “Well done, girls.”
“Oh, this was all Mila,” I say.
“It would never have all come together without a lot of help, especially from Libby and Claire tonight,” my sister replies.
“It’s a delight, having you both back in town. We all miss seeing you. Thick as thieves you were, in high school,” Miss Elsie says to Claire and me.
“A much-needed blast from the past,” Claire says. I catch her eye and we grin, remembering our shenanigans from those days. She still wears her signature scent, warmed vanilla sugar perfume, and I get a sudden waft of it—the increasingly present nostalgia crippling me again.
“Are you… crying?” Claire whispers, shifting to look me in the face. Miss Elsie and Amelia are discussing the gift, and when it will be presented to our parents.
I quickly wipe at my eyes, laughing. “Maybe? This place, during the holidays especially… I’m feeling all the feels.”
Claire nods, smiling. “I know. Me, too.”
“There’s something in the air here that makes all the good memories bubble right to the surface,” I say.
“My personal theory is that the city council pumps peppermint candy and hot chocolate with marshmallow scents through the heat vents,” Claire says with a bemused look.
“I miss you, Claire. I miss… this .” I wave an arm around. “I have Helena, of course—you need to meet her, you two will hit it off—and a few work friends, but it’s not the same. You knew first-generation Libby.”
“I loved first-generation Libby!” Claire replies. “Well, it’s decided. I’m going to visit you in the new year. Leave the kids with Kirby’s mom, or my parents. Three under six isn’t that tough.” She rolls her eyes at this.
“Besides, I need to finally meet the dashing Dr. Whitmore,” she adds.
Claire never ended up meeting Austin. Last year when I was in Harmony Hills for those couple of days, she was still in Westhaven.
We never had this conversation, and our communications have been entirely digital this past year.
I sent her a text on her birthday in March; she sent me one on my birthday in June.
Then we lamented, over a couple more texts, about how we needed to catch up on the phone, which never happened.
Hearing her enthusiasm about meeting Austin reminds me of the ring tucked in my overnight bag, wrapped up in his sweatshirt. I think of the ways my life might have turned out differently, had he given me that ring and asked the ever-important question, “Will you marry me?”
I consider all the ways I’m not only changing the past, but maybe also the future with these conversations and interactions. It’s easy to believe I’m making things better (hanging holiday lights and saving Mom’s ankle)… but what if I’m wrong?
I can’t think straight. It’s suddenly too loud, and I need to find a quiet place to regroup. “I’m going to the washroom. Want me to grab some mulled wine on my way back?” I ask Claire, antsy for an escape.
For a moment, I think she sees I’m not okay.
There’s a slight shift in her expression, a question mark in the subtle lift of her brows.
But then Kirby’s beside us, Lucy in his arms. The baby’s wriggling, crying in great distress, and has a fistful of Kirby’s long dark hair clutched in her little fingers.
“Hey, Libby!” Kirby says, trying to wrest his hair out of Lucy’s grip. He’s quite relaxed, considering the tornado of a child in his arms. “We’ll have to catch up, after we tame the wild beast here.”
To Claire, he says, “She’s changed and dry, so I’m guessing she’s hangry.”
“Looks like you have your hands full,” I start, gesturing over my shoulder. “I’ll get us some wine. Kirby?”
“I’m good, thanks,” he says, handing Lucy to Claire. “On call later, so it’s an apple-cider party for me.”
I give a thumbs-up and a crooked half smile, then turn and make my way through the groups of townspeople, who are chatting and celebrating.
It’s slow going, and I grow progressively more dizzy and anxious with each step.
My lungs begin resisting deep breaths. Am I having a panic attack?
I’ve seen plenty but have never experienced one myself.
“Excuse me, excuse me, oh, hello there… Very happy to be home for the holidays… Amelia will have them back in about half an hour… Yes, gout can be awful , I’m glad you’re doing better.”
This last comment is directed towards Millicent Mueller, a two-doors-down neighbour of my parents who used to babysit my sister and me, always serving this hot ham casserole that she boasted contained “an entire jar of mayo-nnaise!” Hot mayonnaise mixed with ham … ugh, no.
I make it to the other side of the main room, and then duck through the doorway, hoping for some privacy to catch my breath. But my plan’s soon thwarted.
“Hey, Libby!” It’s Beckett Livery-Quinn—the vet, Liam’s best friend, and, most importantly, my soon-to-be sister-in-law.
Beckett’s small-framed—about four inches shorter than I am—and has retained the compact, muscled figure from her former elite gymnast days.
Her deep brown hair hangs neatly past her shoulders, with enviable bangs (I can’t pull off bangs, more than one stylist has informed me).
Dark eyes behind large-framed black glasses, which make her look like an investigative journalist on assignment, or an advertising executive.
We hug, and I hope she doesn’t feel me shaking. “Beckett, so nice to see you. How are things?”
Black spots dot my vision. Uh-oh. I press my back against the wall, then pinch the skin between my thumb and pointer finger.
Beckett’s still talking, telling me a story about how my dad assisted her with a surgery because her vet technician had the flu.
I nod and smile, appropriately timed, I hope, to her story.
I’m barely paying attention though, trying to stay vertical.
“Anyway, I’m manning the family chili station tonight so need to get back on duty.
Chase is the chef, but I’m the designated server.
” Beckett’s a fourth-generation resident of Harmony Hills, and her great-grandfather, Arthur Livery-Quinn, was the town’s first mayor.
Her eyes dart over my shoulder. “Is Mila here?”
Her delivery of the question doesn’t give anything away, but the look on her face does. Anticipation, with a hint of… hopefulness.
“She’s gone to get Mom and Dad,” I reply. “Speaking of my parents, I should hit the ladies’ room before my own job begins. Surprise is set for…” I glance at my phone. “Seven on the nose. I have nineteen minutes. Mila was very clear we are to be ready to shout ‘surprise’ exactly five minutes early.”
Beckett chuckles. “She’s adorably uptight, that sister of yours.
” I catch her blush, watch her drop her eyes as her hands slide into her jeans’ back pockets.
She has always struck me as one of those women with confidence to spare, so this tiny act of what I presume is managing nerves fills me with a sort of sisterly adoration.
“That she is, and we all love her for it,” I reply. Beckett’s eyes come up to mine, and we exchange a smile. “Mila said you did the invites by hand. They’re gorgeous—thanks for that. I know she appreciated it. We both do.”
“Ah, I was happy to do it. Your parents and that clinic are the backbone of this community,” Beckett says, pulling her hands from her pockets. They’re steady now. “See you out there, Libby.”
“See you,” I reply, as Beckett steps past me through the doorway. I should get back out there, too , I think, turning to follow Beckett. But I don’t get far, colliding with someone who happens to be coming through the doorway at that precise moment.
We bump together with some force—enough to make me gasp—then simultaneously throw our hands out, clutching each other’s arms, to avoid stumbling.
It takes me only a split second to realize who I’ve run into, and when he smiles down at me, those dazzling green-gold eyes on mine, and says, “Hi there,” I’m lightheaded all over again.