Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jenna
I double-check the address on the invitation as my phone GPS app says, “You’ve arrived at your destination,” in its soothing computer voice.
As though there were any doubt this is the place.
The house is decked out with lights and decorations everywhere, including a Santa and reindeer on the roof.
How fitting. Light spills around the wreath covering the window of the storm door, the main door behind it left open.
I catch a glimpse of people inside, though I can’t make anyone out from this far away.
The curtains on the front window are pulled back, and a large tree covered in lights and chockablock with ornaments covers most of the view inside.
The street is clogged with cars parked on either side.
Combined with the snow plowed against the curbs, there’s really only room for one car at a time to get through.
Guess it’s a good thing I’m on the late side of the start time—no one shows up to a party on time, do they?
Maybe they do here, though. Thinking back, I think we did when I was growing up too. It’s just since I went to college that showing up at the listed start time for a casual party has become not the done thing.
Am I late? Will everyone think I’m rude for not being here earlier? The start time listed on the invitation said seven, which struck me as early considering that ChristmasFest typically goes until eight on weeknights.
But everyone closed up at six tonight, which I’d forgotten about until this week.
This is one of the things I fought against in the planning stages. I didn’t understand why we’d be closing early on a random Thursday, especially the week before Christmas.
Why would Santa and Mrs. Claus, of all people, decide they needed to host a party on a Thursday night anyway? Don’t they have enough to do as it is?
And while I don’t entirely understand that urge other than the oft-stated, “It’s tradition!” I think listening to Aaron’s advice to show up was a good choice.
Up until Thanksgiving week I was trying to convince people that we should leave ChristmasFest open until eight even if some people decide to close up shop early to come here.
But when Sarah pulled me aside and let me know that there might only be one or two booths open—not even The Christmas Emporium—I gave up the fight.
I get it now. Kinda.
I circle the block in growing concentric circles, looking for an open spot that isn’t blocking a fire hydrant or someone’s driveway.
I end up parking a few blocks away, and when I get out of my car, my breath immediately puffs into a cloud of steam above my head.
I wrap my scarf more closely around my neck, tucking the ends into the top of my wool coat, wishing I’d worn the warmer coat Aaron left at my place after we went sledding.
Remnants of snow and ice crunch underfoot as I walk the three blocks to the Daniels’ house. Apprehension grips me when I reach their driveway.
Shaking my head at myself, I head for the walkway leading to the door. This’ll be fine, I tell myself. You were invited by Mara Daniels herself. Sarah will be here, too. And Aaron. You know people. It won’t be a room full of mean old Karens waiting to rip you apart.
Because that’s the apprehension, isn’t it?
Some kind of fun-house mirror version of reality where I come in and everyone turns and points, screeching, “Grinch!” and, “Scrooge!” and, “She wants to destroy Christmas! Watch out, kids! She’ll steal your presents and your trees!
She’ll tell you she’s just making it better, but that’s what the Grinch said too! ”
“Except I am trying to make things better,” I mutter to myself. “And I don’t have to steal anything to do it.”
I really thought that if I gave everyone time, they’d come around.
They’d see that the festival was going well and realize I wasn’t trying to destroy anything.
But when I overheard those ladies still bitching about me …
It’s like they see themselves as the saviors of ChristmasFest, fending off my depredations.
The festival is going well in spite of me, according to them. Not because of me.
And that …
It hurts, honestly. Yeah, it pisses me off, but the reason it pisses me off is because it really hurts my feelings.
It ignores how hard I’ve worked, how much I’ve invested, how much time I’ve spent pouring over plans and notes from years past, comparing them to my own experiences, and working to make this the best ChristmasFest this town’s ever seen.
And … it’s just not good enough.
Not for them, anyway.
And the hurt, angry part of me that’s tired of being dismissed and overlooked and taken for granted wants to stay home, drink some wine, watch White Christmas—no Grinches or Scrooges there—and enjoy my early night off.
Instead, I’m here. Ready to brave the Karens, hoping instead to find friends.
With a deep breath, I walk the last few feet to the steps.
When I get there, I’m not sure if I should knock or just go in.
The sound of Christmas carols comes through the closed storm door—the old Bing Crosby Christmas album that’s been on repeat at ChristmasFest all month. If I knock, would anyone even hear me?
Before I reach a decision, the door opens, and Sarah’s husband—Sean, I think his name is?
—opens the door. “Hey!” He’s all smiles, decked out in a truly hideous Christmas sweater, complete with sparkly pom poms on the elves’ hats and topping the Christmas trees, mini sparkly garland on the tree, and sequins as tree toppers.
All it’s missing is a battery pack and lights.
“Hey,” I say back, gesturing at his sweater. “That sweater’s amazing.”
Propping the door open with his arm, he pulls it away from him by the hem with both hands and looks down at it.
“Isn’t it awesome? I found it last spring at a thrift store in Inglewood.
I snapped it up immediately, knowing I’d have something fantastic to wear this year.
” He lets it go and looks back at me. “Sarah bought my first couple of ugly Christmas sweaters. She still does sometimes, but I like to surprise her when I can.” At my laugh, he jerks his head toward the house.
“Come on in. The party’s well underway, but there’s still plenty of food and drinks.
I’ll take your coat.” Turning, he calls, “Sophie!”
A familiar pre-teen girl comes bounding forward. “I’m right here, Shane. You don’t have to yell that loud.”
Oops, guess his name is Shane, not Sean.
Grinning, he ruffles her hair, which makes her duck away. “Dude! No!” she protests, swiping at the hair he messed up.
“Watch it, or I’ll give you a noogie.”
She glares at him, crossing her arms. “You wouldn’t dare. I’ll tell Sarah if you do.”
That seems to do the trick because he holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Don’t tell my wife. Jeez. Can you take our newest guest’s coat and add it to the pile?”
Rolling her eyes, she turns to me and holds out her hand. “Of course. I’m the designated coat taker for tonight. Perks of being the youngest who’s out of diapers.” She looks me up and down as I take off my coat, her gaze frank and assessing. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jenna. I just moved here over the summer to take over as event planner for ChristmasFest and the other town festivals. I think I’ve seen you there. Aren’t you one of the elves?”
“Oooooh, that’s right. I thought you looked familiar, but I didn’t realize. Sorry. I’m Sophie. That guy’s my big brother. I live with him and Sarah. I’m not old enough to officially be an elf yet, but Grandma Mara got me a costume and lets me come help out sometimes.”
“Mara calls her Sparkly Sparklebottom when she’s in elf mode,” Shane loud-whispers to me.
Sophie glares at him. “Grandma Mara insisted I should get an elf name like all her kids did,” she says to me. Then to Shane, “But she’s the only one who gets to call me that.”
Trying not to laugh, I hand her my coat, the hat and scarf hastily stuffed in the pockets so they hopefully don’t get separated. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. I promise to just call you Sophie. I won’t use your elf name.”
“Thank you,” she says with relief.
“Go put her stuff away, Sparkly Sparklebottom,” Shane says, making shooing motions with his hands.
Sophie sticks her tongue out at him, but does what he says.
“Since this is your first time,” Shane says after she leaves, “I’ll give you a quick tour.
” He leads me through the crowd in the living room.
“Food’s here in the dining area with the dessert table over there.
There’s punch, of course, but also water, beer, and if you ask him real nice, Jake’s been giving out shots of whiskey.
” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I think it’s supposed to be for the eggnog, but he’s decided that’s a waste of good whiskey.
If you want to liquor up your nog, there’s also rum and vodka. ”
“Uh, I think I’m good with just punch or water. Thanks, though.”
Shrugging, he smiles at me. “Suit yourself. But if you feel the need for liquid courage or just something to take the edge off, it’s available.”
“Good to know.”
“Shane!” someone I don’t recognize calls from the other side of the room.
He nods in their direction. “Duty calls. Help yourself to food and everything. And if you have any questions, just find a Daniels.”
“How many Daniels are there?” I ask, but he’s gone before I can get the question out.
“Probably dozens, at least,” Aaron’s voice rumbles behind me, and I turn, grinning up at him.
“Are they all here?”