Decked By The Grumpy Golem (Monsters of Saltford Bay #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lucia

Nothing ever changes in this town.

I sit in my little red sports car at the end of my parents' driveway, headlights cutting through the December darkness, and wonder what the hell I'm doing here.

The front lawn is peppered with a group of reindeers made of strings of white light, larger-than-life wrapped gifts, and a huge wreath on the front door that catches the light.

This is no doubt my mom's handiwork. She always had a soft spot for the holidays.

Snow crunches under my tires as I inch forward, and my stomach does this nauseating flip-flop thing that reminds me exactly why I avoid coming home.

I didn't plan this. This morning I was in my New York City apartment, staring at my laptop screen with its cursor blinking mockingly in a sea of blinding white nothingness. My agent's voice still echoes in my head, full of words like deadline, breach of contract, and complete rewrite.

So I did what any rational, successful romance novelist would do when faced with career implosion: I threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed my laptop, and drove seven hours north without telling anyone I was doing so.

In short, I ran back home with my proverbial tail between my legs two weeks before Christmas.

Real mature, Lucia.

The front door opens before I can chicken out and drive back to the Big Apple.

Mom appears in the golden rectangle of light, and even from here I can see her face cycle through confusion, recognition, and pure joy in about two seconds flat.

She jumps up and down and claps her hands, then calls over her shoulder for my father, still somewhere inside the house.

It’s like a scene from a Hallmark movie I'm about to step into.

"Lucia!" she shrieks, practically bouncing on her toes, waving in wide circles like I didn’t spot her already. "Ernesto, come quick! Our baby's home!"

I kill the engine and grab my purse, then get out of the car.

My entire body is immediately assaulted by the biting cold of Maine, nipping at my nose and making me shiver through my thin designer wool coat.

Winters are not particularly warm in New York City, but they have nothing on the pure artic cold of coastal Maine.

For a moment, I just breathe in the cold, pine-scented air of Saltford Bay and I let it reach all the way to that small place inside my mind where home never truly changes face.

This is home. No matter how far I run. No matter how long I stay. Saltford Bay is where I go when I need to feel safe.

There is no time for introspection as I steel myself for the full Condoleeza Reyes experience.

She's already halfway down the front steps despite wearing her slippers and a robe over her pajamas, and by the time I get out of the car, her arms are spread wide like she's trying to hug the entire universe.

"Surprise," I say weakly, just before she collides with me in a cloud of her perfume that hits me like a brick wall of nostalgia.

"Oh, honey, I can't believe it! You're here! You're actually here!" She squeezes me so hard I can barely breathe, but God, it feels good. When did I get so desperate for a mom hug?

Dad appears in the doorway, moving slower, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. Even in the dim light, I can see the skeptical tilt of his full head of hair, the way his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in my unexpected arrival.

Dad trudges down the steps after pulling off his own slippers and sliding his feet in those ancient work boots he has that are probably as old as I am.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Luce," he says when Mom finally releases me. His hug is warm but briefer, and those sharp brown eyes of his don't miss a thing. "I'm not saying I'm not happy to see you, of course."

There's a question buried in there somewhere, but I ignore it. I could never get anything past my dad. I don’t see why today would be any different.

Like I said, nothing ever changes in this town.

"I know I should have called," I say, hefting my overnight bag from the back seat. "I just had some time off and thought I'd surprise you."

"Time off?" Mom claps her hands together. "Oh, that's wonderful! And Daniel? Is he coming later? I should make up the guest room."

"No," I cut her off, probably too quickly. "Daniel and I are not together anymore."

Mom's face falls like a deflated balloon. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I really liked him."

Yeah, well, that makes one of us. On paper, Daniel was the perfect boyfriend.

He was perfectly attractive, perfectly nice, perfectly motivated in his job.

And perfectly boring. Nine months of dating him felt like watching paint dry in slow motion.

But I can't exactly tell my mother that I broke up with him because he didn't make my panties melt when he kissed me.

Some romance writer I am. No happily ever after in sight for Lucia Reyes.

"Things just didn't work out," I say instead, which is true enough.

Dad's still watching me with that steady, probing gaze that makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old girl trying to sneak out to a party. It’s like he can see right through my facade of a fully functional, strong and independent woman to the hot mess underneath.

"Come on, let's get you inside before you freeze to death," Mom says, linking her arm through mine. "I’ll pour you a cup of chamomile, and there's leftover apple pie from the church bake sale."

“I’ll get the rest of your luggage, Luce,” Dad says.

The house hits me like a time machine the moment I step through the front door.

Everything is exactly the same as it was when I left for college ten years ago, just with more Christmas decorations layered on top.

Garland drapes the banister, stockings hang from the mantle, and twinkling lights are wrapped around everything that doesn't move.

The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, underlaid with something that's purely home.

Wood polish, Mom's vanilla candles, and the lingering aroma of whatever she cooked for dinner.

I should feel comforted. Instead, I feel even more out of place.

"Sit, sit!" Mom bustles toward the kitchen. "I'll get that herbal tea. And pie. You're too skinny, honey. Are you eating enough? I worry about you in that big city all by yourself."

I sink into the familiar embrace of Dad's old recliner, the leather worn soft from decades of use. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"You don’t look fine," Dad says quietly, settling on the couch across from me. "You look tired."

Thanks, Dad. Really what every woman wants to hear.

Mom returns with a tray laden with herbal tea, pie, and enough napkins to clean up a small disaster. She's practically vibrating with excitement as she hands me a steaming mug.

"Oh, this is just perfect timing," she gushes. "Mateo and Mara are dropping the girls over tomorrow before they go to work, and we're all going to Hallowell Farm for cocoa and sleigh rides. The twins have been talking about it for weeks! They'll be so excited to see their aunt Lucia."

My stomach does another one of those unpleasant flips.

My brother has the perfect Hallmark movie family.

Married to a gorgeous troll woman, they are as happy as a Christmas card and share the most adorable twin girls.

Isla and Arwen are six years old and the cutest things under the sun, but I see them maybe twice a year and they probably think of me as that weird lady who sends birthday presents but never shows up to the parties.

"You should come," Dad adds, and there's something in his tone that makes it less of a suggestion and more of a gentle challenge. "The girls barely know their aunt. This is your chance."

The guilt hits me like a slap. He's right, and we both know it. I've been so focused on building my career that I've missed out on watching my nieces grow up. I send gifts and cards, but I don't show up. I don't make memories with them.

"It'll be just wonderful to be all together," Mom continues, her eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness. "One big happy family!"

The weight of their expectation settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket. How can I say no when Mom looks at me like I've just handed her the moon? How can I explain that the idea of family togetherness makes me want to crawl under a rock and hide?

"Of course," I hear myself saying. "That sounds lovely."

Mom actually squeals with delight, and even Dad's stern expression softens into something approaching a smile.

We chat for another hour about Mom's volunteer work at the local animal shelter, Dad's latest project in his workshop, the neighbor’s new puppy. Safe topics that don’t really count.

I tell them about my book signings and the interview I did for the New York Times magazine, carefully editing out all the parts about missed deadlines and creative bankruptcy.

When I finally claim exhaustion and head upstairs, Dad insists on carrying my bags. The familiar creak of the old wooden steps fills the silence between us as we climb to the second floor.

"You know," he says quietly as we reach the landing, "whatever trouble you're in, you can talk to us. We're here for you, Lucia. Always."

The careful way he says my full name, the gentleness in his voice nearly undoes me.

For a moment, I consider telling him everything.

About the writer's block that's been strangling my creativity for almost a year.

About the deadline I've blown. Well, deadlines, plural.

About the growing certainty that my publishing company is about to drop me and that my agent will follow suit. About my career circling the drain.

Instead, I just nod and blink back the tears that threaten to spill over.

"Thanks, Dad. I know."

He studies my face for a long moment, then pulls me into another hug. This one lasts longer, and I let myself sink into the solid comfort of his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave.

When he pulls away, he cups my cheek briefly with one calloused hand. "Get some rest, mija. Things always look better in the morning."

If only that were true.

Then he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. I turn to take in the dreaded view.

My childhood bedroom is a shrine to the girl I used to be.

Boy band posters still paper the walls, their edges curling with age.

My old books line the shelves with dog-eared copies of romance novels I devoured in high school, fantasy series that transported me to other worlds, classic literature I struggled to understand.

The twin bed is still covered with the same purple butterfly comforter I picked out when I was fourteen, complete with the collection of stuffed animals I couldn't bear to throw away.

Nothing has changed. It’s like stepping into the past. I feel like a bug trapped in amber.

I change into my pajamas and brush my teeth in the little bathroom I used to share with Mateo, still decorated with the same seashell wallpaper border Mom put up when we were kids. Everything is exactly as I left it, frozen in time, waiting for people who don't exist anymore.

Lying in the narrow bed, I stare at the ceiling and listen to my parents' voices drifting up from downstairs.

The familiar rhythm of their conversation is punctuated by Mom's occasional laugh, making my throat clench.

They're probably discussing my unexpected arrival, trying to figure out what brought their wayward daughter home.

I wish I could give them a better answer than "my life is falling apart and I have nowhere else to run."

My gaze drifts across the room and snags on the dresser, where a silver picture frame catches the moonlight streaming through the window.

Even from here, I can make out the image.

Me in a midnight-blue prom dress, grinning at the camera with my arms wrapped around a broad shouldered, dark-haired golem boy in a black tux, so tall my head barely reaches his shoulder.

Gideon.

My chest tightens and my eyes sting as I stare at his boyish face, all sharp angles and that lopsided smile that used to make my knees weak.

We look so young in that photo. So happy.

So completely oblivious to the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, everything between us would shatter beyond repair.

I should have thrown that picture away years ago. Should have boxed up all those mementos and thrown them over the cliff and into the ocean. Instead, I abandoned it here like everything else when I left for college.

It’s the cautionary tale I’ve built my entire life around. A monument to a girl who believed in forever and got her dreams shattered along with her heart.

Before I can lose my nerve, I get up and cross the room, my bare feet silent on the old hardwood floors. The frame is cool under my fingers as I pick it up, and for a moment I let myself really look at the face of the boy who taught me everything I know about love and about heartbreak.

Ten years. It's been ten years, and I still catch myself writing heroes who look just like him.

With a sharp exhale, I flip the frame face down on the dresser and crawl back into bed.