Christmas Memories (Spruce Crossing Christmas Book 1)

1. Mia

My hands dance over the ancient piano, and some of my first-grade students sneak in their own pokes on the keys to interrupt this version of “Jingle Bell Rock” as we sing. I don’t stop them, my smile widening with each sneaky finger pinging off the piano.

It’s not hurting the off-key song anyway, not with their mishmash of voices, most of them forgetting the words despite this being our eighth or ninth rendition of the tune this week. It’s their favorite. And it’s certainly not hurting the outdated, out-of-tune piano that has belonged to Spruce Crossing Elementary since both my older sister and I were students here, about two decades ago.

“Well done, class!” I tell them proudly, sliding off the creaking bench to clasp my hands together as the bell rings, signaling the day’s end. Surprised, I glance up at the clock over my desk and realize that the day has flown by. It always seems to go so much faster as the holidays approach.

A collective cheer erupts as they flock to their lockers to collect their boots, coats, and hats, eager to meet their busses and waiting parents outside with the rest of the students beyond my classroom walls.

“Bundle up, children,” I call out as always. “It’s a cold one today.”

It’s such a silly statement. Of course it’s a cold one. It’s late November in Montana, but if these six-year-olds are left to their own devices, they’ll wander into the streets without pants.

“Yes, Miss Reyes!” they chorus.

Snowsuits in blues, pinks, and purples trudge past me as I herd the kids into the hallway, a girl in one of the older grades acting as the end-of-day monitor to see the children outside.

Ensuring that the last of my classroom is empty, I retreat to my desk and shuffle the strewn pages of artwork and choppy printing sheets together, my head turning toward the wide wall-length windows overlooking white fields beyond. Snowflakes dance prettily, piling on the already two feet of snow that has fallen over the past weeks. The view from my classroom doesn’t overlook the mountains, but I look out over the soccer field and playground, which are all encased in snow now. I love this time of year, despite the cold. Montana is never more breathtaking than in the winter months.

My eyes trail back inside to settle over the new decorations the kids made for the classroom. There’s a combination of paper turkeys and lopsided paper Christmas trees hanging from red and green strings against the blinds, even though we just made it through Thanksgiving weekend. That doesn’t matter to the kids, though, who would much rather paint pictures of Santa than pilgrims in hats.

Soon, I’ll be removing the Thanksgiving decorations to make way for the Christmas ornaments. By the time Christmas break arrives, the entire room will be covered in cardboard gingerbread men and candy canes.

A familiar pang of nostalgia twinges through my heart, remembering that I’d made the same crude decorations once upon a time. Times were much simpler for me back then—no heartbreaks or lonely nights.

“Mia?”

My head swivels, cheeks flaming as if the principal had heard my embarrassing innermost thoughts. I flash her a grin. “Hi.”

“Are all your kids gone for the day?” she asks, not crossing the threshold, a furrow of worry kneading between her glasses.

“They just left,” I reply.

“Then you should get going, too. There’s a terrible storm coming through.”

My smile grows, her concern for me endearing. “I’m just finishing up, and I’ll be on my way,” I promise. “But I don’t have far to go.”

It’s a tongue-in-cheek comment. None of us have far to go, not in Spruce Crossing. But the principal isn’t amused.

“You’ve lived here long enough to know how these storms creep up on us, Mia,” she scolds me.

“I know, you’re right,” I agree quickly. I really need to read my audience better. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.

“I’d rather you take home whatever you need to bring home and be on your way, so I don’t have to worry about you,” she continues.

There’s no sense in stressing her out. She still has to make her rounds to all the classrooms, and it’s clear she wants to leave.

“All right,” I agree, rising from the wooden chair and collecting the paperwork in front of me. Correcting backward Ds and Bs can keep me company tonight. Nothing else will. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She’s already gone before I look up again, and I try not to take it personally. Being alone at the end of the day has been a way of life for me since my last breakup, almost a year ago, when my ex left me for the secretary at his dental office. The burn of that still stings so deeply, I can’t even bring myself to look at dating apps.

My sister always jokes that I should get a cat.

“They’re independent, but at least they keep your bed nice and warm,” she says. I laugh when she suggests it, but inside, it makes me cringe. I’d be happy to get a pet—if I didn’t think it would run away, too.

By the time I bundle up in my faux fur-lined coat and hat, the busses have already pulled out of the pickup line and are bringing the kids home before the storm hits.

Teachers wave at me as they enter their respective vehicles, and I wave a gloved hand back. I start my Subaru before digging the snow brush out of the trunk.

“Need help, Mia?” Jerry Smythe, the gym teacher, asks, bouncing over with his own brush. I start to refuse, but he’s way ahead of me, tackling the top of my car.

“Is this your subtle way of mocking my height?” I tease, but I’m grateful for the help.

His eyes widen in fake shock. “I would never subtly mock your shortness. I do it outright,” he jibes back, finishing the job as the wind picks up, driving more snow over the parking lot. “You owe me and the missus a dinner,” he reminds me as he backs toward his pickup truck. “She’s constantly on me about it. ‘When are we going to see Mia? We never see enough of Mia!’ Do a man a favor and make the arrangements, will you please?”

“Soon!” I promise, slipping into my vehicle and waving him goodbye. “I’ll call her.”

Inside the semi-warmth of the interior, with the windshield wipers going, I start the seat warmers and back out of my spot carefully.

Ah, Friday. How can I be the only human on the planet not excited about the weekend?

Slowly, I maneuver the gray Subaru across the slippery parking lot, falling in line behind the row of cars itching to return to their families sprawled through the charming mountain town.

It’s already getting hard to see as the storm increases in front of me. The principal hadn’t been wrong. But I’m a Montana girl, born and bred on a horse farm, not five miles from where I steer my car now. My parents still live on that ranch.

As if on cue to those very thoughts, the Bluetooth speaker in my car rings. Mom’s name flashes on the screen of my dashboard.

“Hey, Mom,” I call out cheerfully, my hands curling around the steering wheel tightly. “Are you home?”

“I am. Are you?” the worry in her voice is palpable.

“Almost,” I reassure her. “I just left work.”

“It’s getting bad out there, honey. Do you have everything you need at home? Flashlights? Water? Food?”

Swallowing a chuckle, I note that her concern is sweet but unnecessary. I live within walking distance of everything, but I don’t discount her alarm.

“I’m fully stocked,” I say. “Do you and Dad need anything?”

“Just for you and your sister to be safe,” she replies. “Will you call me when you get in?”

“I will.”

“I wish you had someone waiting for you at home,” my mom sighs, and I bite on my lower lip. This is a conversation I can do without right now.

You and me both, Mom. You and me both.

I wait for her to mention my ex-boyfriend, but to my relief, his name doesn’t come up. It’s a first for her. Usually, she can’t resist asking if I’ve heard from him, as if he’s going to come crawling back after leaving me for his secretary. Last I heard, they are very happy in their new apartment in the next town over, raising a puppy together. Not that I’m keeping tabs.

“I’ll let you concentrate on the road, honey,” my mom concludes. “Don’t forget to call me when you get in.”

“I won’t.”

We disconnect the call, and I stop at the red light on Main Street and Silver Lane.

White lights twine through the lampposts, unlit at this time of day but laced through boughs of thick pine all the way to the top where the lightbulbs sit. To my right, the Spruce Crossing Park nativity scene is barely visible through the snow. That doesn’t stop a handful of teenagers from engaging in a snowball fight, their laughter filtering through the closed windows of my car.

On my left, paper covers the windows of a storefront, and my head cocks to study Mason Adler’s new restaurant. Well, it’s not a restaurant yet, the former lawyer only having moved to Spruce Crossing a couple of weeks earlier. Aside from hearing about him and glimpsing him here and there, I know very little about the new arrival.

I pass the storefront every day on the way to and from school, curious to know what’s happening behind the covered windows. Like everyone else in town, I’m eager to see what kind of food the restaurant will serve. Rumors have been flying around about the menu Wild Sage will offer when it’s up and running. Frankly, anything new in Spruce Crossing is newsworthy.

The honk of a car horn behind me snaps me out of my reverie, and I realize the light turned green while I was daydreaming. Raising a gloved hand apologetically to the car behind me, I continue up Silver Lane and take a left toward my apartment complex once I reach Carver Street.

Secure in my assigned parking space, I reluctantly leave the heat of my car behind and head into the side door of the apartment building with my key, shaking off the flakes of snow that have caught in my hair. Adjusting my bag and purse over the shoulder of my coat, I head toward the stairs, forsaking the elevator to try and get in just a tiny bit of exercise.

I barely step foot on the third floor, where my unit is, when the elevator dings and opens, and I face my next-door neighbor.

Officially, her name is Audra Jameson, but everyone calls her Mrs. J.

“Mia!” she calls out gleefully, her crystalline eyes shining. “I’m so glad I caught you!”

“Were you looking for me?” I ask worriedly, rushing forward to take the damp paper bags from her arms.

She shakes her head. “Not specifically. I feel like I never get to see you with your schedule. And being an old lady, I fall asleep at seven every night.” She chuckles. “Are those little ones at the school keeping you busy?”

“Always. They’re running circles around me already,” I reply dryly.

“My word. How long have you been teaching now? Three, four years?”

I’m half flattered that Mrs. J thinks I’m so young, but I remind myself that her memory isn’t as good as it once was.

“This is my sixth year,” I confess.

She gawks at me in disbelief. “But you’re barely twenty!”

I titter. “I’m twenty-eight, Mrs. J.”

“My word!” she chokes again. “Where does the time go? I remember you, knee-high to a grasshopper, trotting around on your mama’s ponies and causing your sister all kinds of grief.”

I swallow a smile. She has me and my older sister confused again. It’s her who was the terror in our youth.

“You’re just coming back from the grocery store, Mrs. J?” I ask, balancing her packages.

She bobs her white crown of hair and fumbles through her oversized purse for her keys. Patiently, I wait by the door, admiring the wreath that covers the peephole. Strands of silver ribbon thread through the thick of green with sewn red plastic berries.

“Did you make that?” I ask, nodding at the craft.

“Oh, heavens, no. One lady in my church group made them up for all of us.” She finds her keys, and we enter her cozy apartment, wafts of apple and cinnamon tickling my nose as we step across the threshold.

“Oh, that smells divine,” I purr, my stomach growling, even though I’m not hungry. “Are you baking?”

“I am, dear. I am,” she coos, ushering me toward the train-car-style kitchen. Setting her bags down on the counter, I face her. “Pies today. I went to the store to get more ingredients. There’s so much food to be made this time of year.”

“I think I gained five pounds just from the smell alone,” I laugh.

The woman smiles at my compliment.

“One of them is for you, dear,” she informs me pleasantly, unloading her purchases, her weathered hands moving with surprising speed as she pulls filling and whipped cream out of the bags, and I’m just about to excuse myself when she grunts aloud. “Oh, darn it!”

Her arthritic fingers splay upward dramatically, and my eyebrows raise. “Is something wrong?”

“I forgot to buy pumpkin filling! You can’t very well have pumpkin pie without pumpkin filling, can you?”

Rheumy eyes peer helplessly at me before trailing toward the windows and back toward me. “I have to get these pies done tonight. They need to be ready for the church bake sale tomorrow! Oh, I don’t know where my mind is sometimes!”

The anguish in her voice breaks my heart.

“I can go back to Greenfield’s for you, Mrs. J,” I tell her. It’s not far away, and I’m not afraid of a little winter driving.

“Oh, no, dear. I can’t ask you to do that! The weather is terrible.”

She sounds like my mom.

“If I go now, I’ll be back before it gets too bad,” I say, grabbing my purse off the counter. “How many cans do you need?”

“Oh, Mia, you’re a lifesaver, darling! Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. How many?”

“Six ought to do it. I’m giving you three pies, you angel!”

I chuckle. “What am I going to do with three pies, Mrs. J?”

“You could find yourself a nice man friend to share them with,” she offers slyly, and I balk but maintain my smile.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I muse, turning toward the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Please, be safe. Oh, I don’t know if I feel right about sending you.”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I tell her confidently. “You have my cell number if you think of anything else, right?”

“I won’t need anything else. You just get back safe, Mia. Thank you, dear!”

I close the door and head into the hallway, passing by my apartment door as I move back toward the stairwell again. I would never admit it aloud to my neighbor or anyone else, but I’m glad for the distraction. At least it’s another half hour that I don’t have to spend alone in my apartment this weekend.