Christmas Fixer-Upper Home

1. Melody

MELODY

It feels strange driving into Holly Ridge at this time of year.

The last time I made the trip was under the blaze of summer sunshine, the trees in full bloom, people walking down Main Street in a flock of shorts and t-shirts, sipping on iced drinks.

Not like now, when they’re bundled up in brightly knitted caps and scarves, carefully navigating the slush and snow on the cobblestone sidewalk.

Not that I haven’t been here during the Christmas season, but it’s been years, memories of my youth popping into the recesses of my mind as I pass the Painted Twilight Theater and Edna’s Gifts slowly, taking in the prettily decorated downtown, with its fairy lights and bright red bows wrapped around the wrought iron lampposts.

It’s bittersweet and beautiful, given the circumstances.

A mixture of sadness and nostalgia climbs up my neck as I pull into a free parking space, the exhaustion of the drive settling into my bones. I’m in no rush to get to Gran’s house, even though everyone is waiting for me.

The funeral already took its toll on my emotional state, and I need a minute to regroup before joining the family there for the reception.

If I had my way, I’d head back to the Snowy Ridge Inn, where I booked a couple of nights, and take a long nap.

I’m not sure I can deal with any more platitudes or people.

There are only so many murmured “thank yous” a girl can muster.

As I move to turn off the car, my phone rings, and I grimace lightly at my agent’s number flashing on the dashboard screen.

I want to ignore it, but I know Katie is worried about me.

She probably won’t call back if I don’t answer, but then I’ll be plagued with extra guilt for avoiding her.

We haven’t touched base since I arrived last night. It’s not fair to keep her hanging.

"Hey, Katie," I answer, leaning back into the warm comfort of the heated seats, observing a family strolling past with steaming cups clutched in their hands. They cross the street in front of me without a care in the world, as if they’ve never had to contend with city traffic before. It boggles my mind slightly, but I remember I’m not in Seattle.

In Holly Ridge, cars probably stop for pedestrians.

I need a caffeine fix of my own, and my eyes trail toward the entrance of the brightly lit coffee shop yearningly. Holly Beans. Its quirky little name should have put a smile on my lips, but I can’t muster one.

“Hi, Mel, honey.” Her sweet, southern accent drips with concern. “Are you still at the funeral? I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No. I’m heading to the house for the reception now. My parents are waiting there for me.”

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check in.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” I say.

She's not just my agent; she's my friend, too. She’s been there for me personally and professionally. Sometimes I retreat into my own world, disappearing into the depths of my creative process. If not for Katie coaxing me out occasionally, who knows where I’d be?

She pauses, and I tense, sensing an alternative reason for her call. “You want to know about my deadline.”

“No!” she lies, her transparency evident. “I called to see how you were!”

“And to see when my manuscript will be edit-worthy,” I add.

“Melody…”

“I know I keep asking for extensions,” I sigh, hanging my head in shame. “But I wasn’t expecting this to come up with my grandmother.”

“I explained that to the publisher,” Katie interjects quickly. “I have your back. Take the time you need with your family, and let me handle the corporates.”

Gratefully, I raise my eyes and peer back out the frosty windshield. I know that I’m putting Katie in an impossible situation, too. But what can I tell her? I can't summon inspiration when I'm stuck in a creative rut.

“Do you want me to fly out to Montana?” she offers. “I just have to finish up with a client here?—”

“No, no,” I tell her. “I’m returning to Seattle tomorrow after the reading of the will. It’s better that way. I should get right back into work mode, anyway. There’s no need for me to stay here.”

Laughter filters through the windows of my car, and a toddler scampers by in a puffy, blue snowsuit, his father rushing after him in a heavy winter coat and snow pants.

“I’m the Abominable Snowman! I’m coming to get you! Grr!” the man calls to the boy, who shrieks and tears off faster.

The interaction is sweet, and despite my melancholy mood, a smile spreads across my lips.

“Everything okay over there?” Katie’s voice brings me back inside the car, and I sit up straighter.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Just outside noise.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come? We could drive back to Seattle together.”

“I’m sure. Thanks for calling, Katie. I really should get going. Everyone’s going to wonder where I am.”

“Okay. You know where to find me if you need me,” she reminds me. “Text me when you get back.”

I promise I will and disconnect the call, climbing out of the driver's seat to walk across the street toward the charming little coffee shop on the other side.

Several teenagers push their way out of the door as I enter, and I impulsively withdraw nervously, intuitively expecting some kind of confrontation.

They stop and hold the door wider for me, stepping aside graciously to allow me through.

Surprised, I thank them and glance back over my shoulder at their polite gesture, feeling stupid for my overreaction.

Mentally, I compared them to the Seattle youth, who likely would have barreled me over if they had the chance in the same situation.

Cheerful Christmas music fills the small but bustling coffee shop, three baristas hustling to fulfill the stream of orders ahead of me. I notice their festive holiday hats, and a smile finds its way to my lips.

Despite my recent loss and dark mood, the Christmas cheer is infectious.

Gran was old, though. She had a good life in a town she cherished and friends who adored her, based on the turnout at her service. I'd be fortunate to experience the same simple joys she treasured throughout my own life.

“Can I help you?” A young woman in a Santa hat summons me forward.

“Just a black coffee,” I order. As the words leave my lips, I feel like the entire establishment stops and stares at me, the music fading with a record scratch—although I’m sure that’s all in my head.

“Black coffee?” she asks, blinking as if I’ve just cursed at her. “Are you sure? We have all kinds of specialty Christmas drinks.”

She nods toward the mounted menu, and I glance around again, realizing that everyone has gone back to their respective chatter. They weren’t looking at me. I’m too lost in my own head. No one is paying any attention to me.

My eyes trail back up toward the holly-framed signage, scanning the options, and I change my mind.

“I’ll take a minty-mocha cappuccino,” I decide. “With a double shot of espresso.”

“Good choice. Chocolate or cinnamon sprinkles?”

“Why not both?” I guess I’m going all out.

She punches in my order and directs me to stand aside after I pay, leaving me to absorb the cheerful interior more carefully.

I search for that familiar spark of inspiration, that instinctive urge to craft stories about the couples whispering with heads bent close, or the animated teens laughing at their tables, but nothing comes.

I grasp for descriptive phrases, reaching for imagery that once flowed so naturally, but my mind remains blank—as though the writer in me has gone dormant.

Is this it for me? Have I reached my peak as a writer now?

“Melody?”

My name is called when my order comes up, and I thank the barista, who is different from the one who took my order.

Ambling back to my car, I slide inside and take my first sip, still peering out the windshield. The drink has a nice kick to it, and I’m glad I ordered it instead of a boring, regular coffee.

This would be a nice place to set up shop and write. It really is a writer’s paradise in every aspect of the word. The triple mountain peaks loom in the background, the blanket of holiday spirit wrapped around it.

Why can’t I find my groove anywhere? Maybe it’s not the “where” but the “who” that’s the problem.

It happened long before Gran passed. I can’t even blame my writer’s block on that.

Sighing heavily, I start the car and head north toward her little house, nestled at the base of the mountainside.

More memories encase me with each mile that passes, my grandmother’s sweet, patient voice wafting into my ears throughout the years, teaching me to crotchet and fish in the stream behind her house.

I have few memories of her husband, my grandfather, who passed when I was still in preschool.

But Gran? I remember everything about her, and I miss her already.

A dozen cars are already parked along the road, fueling my apprehension. I don’t think I took that long, but the small cabin is already filling up. My parents made the trip up from Florida yesterday, and their rental car sits in the obscure parking spot next to the side of the house.

"What took you so long?" Mom hisses as I walk in, glaring disapprovingly at my Holly Beans coffee cup. The caterer has arranged an elegant spread throughout the rustic kitchen and living room. The sight of the house overwhelms me with emotions.

“Sorry,” I mumble, downing the remnants of my drink and leaving it on the counter.

It’s suddenly lost its flavor under her watchful eye.

I stop at the small kitchen window, gazing out at the pine woodlands.

For a moment, I find myself watching for an elk or deer to emerge with its majestic head—something I've witnessed before.

But no animals appear today. Too many visitors crowd Gran's small home to attract any wildlife. Any watchful wildlife remains hidden within the protection of the mountain forest.

“Come and greet everyone,” Dad urges.