Chapter 4
Nine Days Before Christmas
Singing along to One Direction’s non -Christmas album, I clicked on my blinker as I made the final turn onto my parents’ farmland.
Rolling hills stretched before me, reminding me of the drawings I’d etched from my second-story window as a kid.
The same tired but sturdy red barn stood tall an acre from the house, the worn trail leading from the back door evident in the dead grass.
The long gravel drive wound toward the covered carport.
Make that the empty gravel drive.
My stomach knotted—I was the first one there.
I’d really hoped to pull up to Ryan, Lydia, and Nick as buffers.
My parents adored Lydia, of course—who wouldn’t love a sweet elementary-school teacher obsessed with their only son?
—and with Nick being new, they’d be much less likely to grill me on all the conversation topics I hoped to avoid.
My pre-owned RAV4 sounded as reluctant as I felt as I navigated toward the gray colonial-style farmhouse I’d grown up in. Midday sunshine peeked around puffy clouds and cast a warm glow on the lingering patches of slush that had yet to thaw under the holly bushes and the porch steps.
Home.
A bittersweet ache spread through my chest. There was the rope swing, still tied and waiting in the oak tree where Ryan and I used to race up the thick branches. Until we both broke ankles, anyway. Tree, 2; Sinclair Kids, 0.
A glance to my left confirmed Dad still hadn’t fixed the wooden fence bordering the east pasture since my last visit several years ago. I winced. I’d probably hear about that, too, but at least we’d all seen each other last summer at Olivia’s house for Janie’s sixth birthday party.
The pond off to the right of the house wasn’t crusted over with ice yet, but it would be next month for sure, if not before Christmas.
I shook my head as I braked for a hollowed-out dip in the driveway.
Ryan had been the only one to ever fall through the ice, and he never failed to make it sound like his quick plunge was anything short of a near-death experience.
Ten bucks Nick would hear that story before we even sat down for dinner.
I bounced closer toward the house, willing my car not to conk out, and gave the front yard a quick scan.
Hmm. Conspicuously absent was the giant Frosty inflatable that had held court every single Christmas since I was a kid.
About three years ago, my younger sister Kat stated how Frosty must be invincible to have lasted so long.
But Ryan had been quick to point out that Frosty’s hat seemed two shades blacker than usual—implying Dad replaced it without telling anyone.
For an hour, they’d all begged him to admit it, but he never would.
I clenched the steering wheel with mittened hands—the heater only worked when it felt like it—and leaned forward, peering at the house as I rattled to a stop.
The brown and tan striped cat that was stretched out in a patch of sunshine on the porch wasn’t familiar, and neither were the flower baskets hanging near the white rocking chairs.
I smirked. Mom must be in her Black Thumb Denial era, again.
The navy shutters looked like they’d been painted recently…
and was that a new roof? I frowned. Mom and Dad hadn’t mentioned getting any bad storms lately.
Or maybe I’d been more self-absorbed than I realized.
I shifted the gear into Park and let the car idle for a minute, casting one last desperate glance in my rearview for any sign of Ryan before I got out.
Still just me.
I could do this. I opened my door and sucked in a deep breath of Ohio winter air. My parents weren’t judgy—they wouldn’t condemn me for getting fired or being alone or possibly facing homelessness. No, it’d be much worse than that.
They’d feel sorry for me.
The only thing worse than being overlooked as a middle child was being looked at when you didn’t want to be.
I stood, brushing road-trip cookie crumbs off the front of my jeans—Ryan better appreciate the sweatpants sacrifice—and looked up just as the front door opened.
Dad.
My throat tightened.
“There’s my girl!” Fit as ever, my father descended the porch steps and headed toward me, arms open wide. His ever-present black glasses framed his face, his short beard and mustache a little more salt than pepper these days. Ryan looked just like him, but with freckles like mine.
“Hey, Dad.” Before I could say anything else, I was folded into a hug, my face smooshing into the shoulder of his T-shirt. My shoulders relaxed as I hugged him back. He smelled like Old Spice and fresh wood. Must have been working in his shop out back before I pulled up.
I eased away, and sawdust gritted between my teeth. Yep. Somebody was getting something carpenter-y for Christmas.
Dad held me by the shoulders, giving me a quick once-over. “You look great. Merry Christmas.”
“Uh-uh. Not yet.” I shook one finger and grinned to make my correction at least appear like a joke. “We still have nine days.”
Nine. Days.
Free groceries, free groceries, free groceries.
Dad opened the passenger door and grabbed my duffel bag. Birds chirped in the tree branches overhead, annoyingly cheerful. “Remember when you used to make those countdown chains with red and green construction paper?”
“Sure do.” I also remembered the year those chains stopped being anticipatory to Christmas and started being anticipatory to Christmas being over —the first year my birthday got put on the back burner. What was I that year? Twelve? Fourteen?
Dad shouldered my bag and grinned, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Well, I bet your mother has some construction paper in her craft closet, if you get the hankering.”
“I think her paper is safe, Dad.” I grabbed my purse and the tote bag of gifts I’d thrown together at the last minute, despite my meager budget, and shut the car door with my hip. “Don’t worry, you have grandchildren now to do all the cute stuff.”
“Only two.” He frowned. “Five adult children, and two grandkids. That math doesn’t add up.”
“You know how the saying goes.” I started toward the porch steps, calling over my shoulder. “First comes love, then comes marriage and then the baby carriage.”
Dad fell into step behind me, carrying my duffel as easily as if it were a backpack instead of the beast that had taken me ten minutes to wrestle into my car.
Ryan’s wardrobe accusations had me doubting every article in my closet, but after that blue sweater splurge and Christmas shopping, I couldn’t afford to even swing by a thrift store.
I’d basically brought everything that still fit.
“How’s that going, by the way?” Dad asked as we clomped up the stairs. “The whole love and marriage progression?”
“Dad!” My voice squeaked in protest. “We’re not even inside yet.”
He laughed as he reached around me to pull open the screen door. “I figured I’d get it out of the way before your mother was in earshot. You know I’ll go easier on you.”
He had a point. I wrinkled my nose, tugging my purse strap higher on my shoulder. Best to get this over with. “No boyfriend right now.”
Dad frowned. “What about that IKEA—”
“I do have a date for the holidays, though.”
“You do?” Dad’s brows hiked over his glasses.
He didn’t have to sound so surprised. Though I guess that answered my question as to whether or not my brother had explained about the bonus guest this year. “Ryan’s friend, Nick. That’s why he’s joining us for Christmas.”
“Oh, is it?” A muscle jumped in Dad’s jaw. Briefly, but it happened. Was he feeling protective of me?
A little rush of warmth spread through my chest. That was nice. With the rest of my siblings away this Christmas, maybe I’d keep a bit of my parents’ attention for once. Even if I did still have to share with Lydia and a near stranger.
I patted Dad’s shoulder. “Nick’s a good guy, don’t worry.”
“I’m sure he is. Are you sure—Never mind.” Dad cleared his throat, then abruptly turned, bumping my bag through the doorframe and into the living room. “Grace! Holly’s here!”
I followed Dad inside, dumping my other bags on the benched hall tree as he took my duffel around the corner and up the stairs. The scent of berry and vanilla hung in the air—cookies, already? My stomach growled.
Then I realized something even more disconcerting than the lack of Frosty outside. Not a single Christmas decoration graced the foyer or living room.
I spun a slow circle as the theme song for The Twilight Zone played in my head. Cream-colored walls and couches, sage green throw pillows. A plush brown blanket draped aesthetically over the back of the sectional. Wood stacked neatly next to an unadorned fireplace.
No stockings. No garland. Not a single Christmas tree.
My stomach dropped. “Um…Mom?”
Gravel crunched and my stomach dropped again, this time from nerves. They were here.
Nick was here.
I suddenly felt incredibly appreciative of Ryan’s controlling mannerisms as I tugged the asymmetrical hem of my black sweater over the top of my jeans and smoothed my hair. I tried again. “Mom?”
No answer. Hmm.
A car door slammed, and I hurried toward the door. Nerves tap-danced in my chest. Would Nick be as cute as I’d remembered? Would he notice the five pounds I’d added since our meeting last year or think I had too many freckles?
Would he really hate Christmas as much as me?
Ryan and Lydia tugged a laundry basket full of gifts from the back seat as an unfamiliar red truck parked behind Ryan’s Subaru. I hurried down the porch stairs, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my eyes—
And landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps.
Ow. I sat up just as Lydia gasped. “Holly, are you okay?” She palmed her dainty, makeup-free face in shock.
I’d really hoped no one had seen that. I groaned as I wrestled my ankle out from under me. All in one piece, thankfully.