Ramona #2
I download the app. While it installs, I picture my grandmother, that last Christmas I saw her—eight years ago, I think. She made a little comment about me working nonstop, never letting anyone get close, and I snapped at her. She’d just smiled. Did she plan this all along? This last test?
My phone chimes—I have to fill out a short personality questionnaire, including disclaimers about event schedules. Then it demands a short personal profile. I consider lying, but maybe that’s frowned upon.
Name: Ramona Baines.
“Please describe your interests in a few words.”
I groan. “Umm… efficiency, data, and real-time scheduling.”
I type it, then realize I sound like someone who’s never had a single interesting hobby. But I definitely can’t think of one right now. Next question: “What are you looking for in a partner?”
Exiting the entire app is what I want, but that’s apparently not an option. “Someone who can handle busy schedules,” I type, resisting the urge to add: That describes literally no one in this town.
The final step is checking a box that says I understand the matches are random, drawn from the local participant pool, and revolve around the official holiday events in Hollyvale. I drag my finger and tap.
A swirl of digital snowflakes cascades across my screen as the registration is confirmed. The app then loads an event schedule with headings like: GINGERbrEAD HOUSE BUILD, TREE LIGHTING, CANDLELIGHT SERVICE. Each bullet is a date. Next to them is a blank slot labeled “Partner: TBA.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Following. I guess I can’t quite believe she’d tie an entire inheritance to something so… intangible. Not intangible, I correct. It’s intangible for me, but Grandma found a way to make it horrifyingly real.
The phone pings with a push notification:
MATCH #1 CONFIRMED: The Gingerbread House Contest, December 3rd @ 6 PM.
Host: Hollyvale Culinary Society. Founder: Keri Baines.
Something in my stomach twists. Grandma started this. She built it with her own two hands, metaphorically speaking, and now it stands in my way.
I lean back against the bench. My suitcase is covered in a light dusting of snow, which I swipe off. I have to do it. Brooklyn’s texts are going to be relentless, and I don’t blame her. If we don’t get that money, the company is toast.
Out of habit, I check my watch. It’s late afternoon, but the early winter twilight makes it look like evening.
A swirl of Christmas music floats down the street.
I rub my eyes. Maybe after this I’ll let myself go see the house.
But not yet. There’s no time for a deep spiral.
I need a bed, a hot shower, and a place to plan out these next few weeks.
I pull out my phone again, ignoring the half-dozen waiting texts from Brooklyn, and open a browser to quickly search lodging options.
The top recommendations are the Hollyvale Inn & Spa (too expensive) and a couple of smaller motels.
Perfect. I can manage a motel for a few nights, suffer through each matched date, and push the sale paperwork through the second I have the legal right. Then I’m free.
A trio of laughing families bustles by, arms laden with craft supplies.
One child holds up a sign that says GINGERbrEAD OR BUST. My head throbs as an answering pang stirs uncomfortably behind my eyes.
There’s something sweet about watching them rejoice in the promise of tomorrow’s event, but it’s also a jarring reminder that I’m not here for the same reason.
This entire festival is just an obstacle.
I stand, gather my stuff, and march toward the motel. My phone rings, and I see brOOKLYN in all caps. Great. “I’m working on it,” I answer without greeting.
She cuts in. “Any trouble with the inheritance forms?”
I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder as I rummage around for my gloves. “Just a mild twist.”
Her breath hitches. “Define mild twist.”
I blow out a frosty exhale. “Apparently, I have to go on twelve holiday-themed blind dates before Christmas if I want the estate. Then we close the deal on the 26th. So. That’s my next few weeks.”
Silence on the line. Then Brooklyn asks, “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m really not.” I spot a small sign for the Wintercrest Motel up ahead—a two-story, older building with a flickering neon VACANCY sign.
“Look, I’ll do it. It’s a forced timeline, but I can handle it.
This place is sappy, but they have functional roads and some winter wonderland events.
I’ll finish the dates, sign the deed, and we’ll get the money. Don’t panic.”
There’s a tiny breath of relief in Brooklyn’s voice, though it’s faint. “We can’t risk scaring off the prospective investor before we can show we’re stable. This house sale is our best bridging strategy.”
“I know,” I say, crossing the parking lot. “I’ll call you tomorrow after the first date is done. Then we can reevaluate the timeline. My earliest chance to sell is the 26th. Let me confirm a buyer or two, and we’ll get it in motion.”