Holiday Hopefuls (Serenvale Springs #1)

Chapter 1

Callie

“Isimply don’t understand how you could possibly be too exhausted to come over for dinner tonight.

” The sigh my mother manages to physically push through the phone would make any bridezilla proud.

“You know we only have these twice a month since all your siblings stay so busy with their work. Though, heaven knows I’d prefer my babies in my home every week.

And anyway—Calloway Leora Rutherford, are you listening to me? ”

The sound of my name pulls me back to the conversation.

“Of course I am," I answer absently. Meanwhile, a student’s still-wet finger painting lifts off the stack of papers in my hand thanks to the chilly winter breeze. Right onto my favorite sweater. Why I didn’t leave grading our class’ craft for tomorrow is beyond me.

Especially knowing there’s a family dinner tonight.

“Then what did I just say?”

“Uh … ” Reaching my car, I perform a juggling act of monumental proportion in order to unlock the door and hold the offending painting in place whilst managing not to drop any of the other artwork, all while continuing to listen to my mother complain about how I’m just a glorified babysitter.

Only when I’m safely inside the vehicle do I find myself able to answer, “You want us all to be together.”

A dissatisfied humph comes through the line. “It’s not easy to plan dinners with everyone else’s busy schedules, Calloway. You could be a little more grateful they’re willing to take time out of their busy weeknights to get together.”

My engine roars to life, effectively cutting off my mother’s spiel.

Heat filters through the vents, thawing my fingers that managed to become popsicles in the short walk from the school to my car.

Tugging my favorite wool scarf tighter around me, I once again wish I had worn my hair down today for whatever warmth it could have provided.

“Calloway.” The chill in my mother’s voice rivals the frigid Colorado afternoon.

“Mom, I promised I would be there. And I will,” I sigh. Shifting slightly, I’m able to carefully lay the stack of pictures down onto the passenger seat. “Give me an hour. I need to run home and change first.”

“I guess that’s fine. Your siblings are all coming straight from work. It’s very considerate of you, not wanting to show up in pajamas.”

I did that one time. Once. And I came straight from pilates.

But of course, that’s what she remembers.

Pressing my lips into a firm line, I count to three and take a deep breath.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you soon.” Without giving her a chance to respond, I end the call and haphazardly toss my phone into the cupholder filled with hair ties and bobby pins.

A quick glance around the parking lot shows that nearly everyone else has headed home to people that actually enjoy their company.

So I decide to do the same.

One of the main reasons I chose my apartment was its proximity to the elementary school. Well, that and its price. As a single woman living alone, those were two factors I simply couldn’t pass up on. Not to mention, I knew the vintage exposed brick would compliment my plethora of plants perfectly.

And Gilmore, of course. My perfect Nidularium Bromeliad child I’ve had since college.

My pride and joy. My raison d’etre. The day my life changed, I was walking around the hardware store when boom—there he was.

This tiny plant with dark magenta kissing the tips of each inner leaf sitting all alone on the top of a display tower, the grow light acting as a halo.

The fluorescence gave his uniquely colored tips a warm glow, calling to me.

When I read ‘Easy Maintenance and Hard to Kill’ on the tag, I knew he was the plant for me.

I’m allergic to cats and I’ve never been brave enough to get a dog, so that was the beginning of the plant lady madness. Since then, I’ve rescued bulbs, sprouts and seedlings alike.

No Plant Left Behind—my own personal agenda.

My best friends, Ian and Aaron, only add to the madness, having gifted me a new plant baby every birthday and Christmas since Gilmore came home.

The drive home is short and warm, just the way I like it in the freezing winters. And when I step out of the cozy vehicle, a sheet of snow smacks me square in the face.

I need hot cocoa, stat.

“Hi, Mrs. Martinez,” I call over, waving enthusiastically. Though my coat hinders my waving ability more than I’d like.

My elderly neighbor turns as she reaches her door, a stack of mail in hand. “Are you just now getting home, Callie?” Dark skin and salty curls highlight every snowflake that uses her as a landing zone, but her pink fleece robe and matching boots dare the snow to outshine this woman’s sweet nature.

“Parent/Teacher conference night,” I shrug. “But I’m heading out soon. Need anything from the store? I’m almost out of hot chocolate, which is dangerous for everyone.”

“Just to the store?”

“Well … it’ll be on the way.”

“Family dinner?” Okay, my schedule has been way too predictable lately, apparently. The tiny, shrewd woman raises a nearly invisible brow. My lack of response must be more than enough to answer her question. Or my grimace. “They’ll see your worth one day, dear. Don’t worry.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, matching my hair. “You really need to get out of this cold, Mrs. Martinez.” Unlocking my front door and stepping inside, I drop a canvas tote I’ve used since college right to the side of it.

“I have some fresh chicken tamales for you,” she says, half inside her own apartment. “I’ll leave them in your mailbox.” Raised in a traditional Mexican home, she learned plenty at a young age. Namely, how to cook. I’ve easily gained ten pounds since moving in next door.

Beaming through the light snowfall, I shake my head. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” With that, she closes the door and I follow suit.

“Gilmore, light of my life, I’m home!” I call into the warmth of my small entryway.

Shedding my coat and scarf, I make quick work of hanging them on the peg by the door before grabbing my bag and heading to the kitchen counter where my first child awaits.

“Hello, sweetheart. Did you have a good day?” I coo.

Getting no response—typical, but I can always hope—I give Gilmore’s leaves a once-over, checking their health before grabbing one of several misters, and set about watering each of my babies in turn.

My apartment is small in a cozy kind of way.

One bed and one bath with an open floorplan kitchen and living area makes for overall easy maintenance, which is my kind of living space.

With it only being me living here, I don’t really have a need for much furniture, just enough space for Ian and Aaron to sit when they come over.

And while the exposed brick walls, big windows and light wood floors should make it feel cold, the outrageous number of rugs and blankets I have on every available surface keep the place in coziness overload.

From the corner of the living area, my small Christmas tree blinks in greeting with its multi-colored lights as I bounce from one plant to the next.

All too soon, it’s time to change my paint-covered shirt and head to the one place I dread returning to.

The Rutherford family home.

Pulling on a fresh purple sweater and jeans, it takes all of thirty seconds to realize my hair needs to stay in whatever birdnest-like bun is happening so that I’m not any later to this ridiculous dinner. I’ll be shocked if I don’t hear about that one from Mom as it is.

I sigh, the inevitable finally upon me. “Try to get some grading done while I’m gone,” I tell Gilmore, “Most were able to keep the paint inside the lines, so I’m thinking A’s?” With no response from my first-born, I reluctantly head out the door.

Radio and heat blasting, the drive through the town is something out of one of those cheesy holiday movies that you can never quite get enough of.

The square is coated in fresh snowfall and twinkling lights while people walk arm in arm, all bundled up in coats and hats.

Storefronts glow, warm and inviting. Couples snuggle together under a blanket of shining stars.

Even with Thanksgiving still two weeks away, Christmas is in full swing in Serenvale Springs.

And I love every minute of it.

About fifteen minutes north of town, the coldest neighborhood in all of Colorado greets me with open arms. Estate after estate home passes, silently judging the old sedan I’ve had since I was nineteen and purchased with my own funds.

Since I was young, I’ve never wanted anything to do with my parents’ money.

It fueled them and most of my siblings to act as superior as they felt, and I always resented them for it.

For how it made our entire family look to the rest of the world.

As the youngest, I was supposed to simply fall in line in the Rutherford machine.

But I was a surprise for the entire family.

Mostly a bad one—and they’ve never let me forget it.

So I’ve worked hard over the years to minimize my footprint on the family finances and lifestyle.

Aaron and Ian’s childhood home passes in a blur, begging me to stop at the Fairchild residence, instead.

Their mom would welcome me with a warm hug and homemade bread fresh from the oven, even if I only saw her a couple of hours ago as she closed up her own classroom for the night.

Mr. Fairchild would tell me the latest news in the business world, kissing my forehead like the daughter he never had.

From the day they moved in next door, the Fairchilds have been more of a family to me than my own.

But I’m not stopping at the Fairchild estate.

Up ahead, the Rutherford estate awaits my displeasure. Three luxury vehicles have already claimed their spots in the circle driveway of the largest home on the block.