Chapter 26
The doors of Golding Home part the way I imagine the pearly gates would open—if I still believed in heaven. A puff of fake snow drifts down as trumpets blare overhead, welcoming each customer to a bougie North Pole wilderness of themed evergreens.
There’s the classic Christmas—red, gold, and green ornaments, twinkling white lights, and glittering poinsettias.
There’s winter glam—a frosted fir dripping pearls, pink feathers, and gilded chandelier ornaments.
And, of course, when the internet fell head-over-Instagram for grandma’s blue-and-white chinoiserie, Golding Home delivered with a ginger-jar tree so elegant it could headline the holiday cover of Traditional Home.
Beneath each tree, wicker baskets overflow with ornate blown-glass ornaments in every color and shape.
Elaborate Santa figurines ride snow-frosted sleighs pulled by Rudolph with a light-up nose.
Pink champagne bottles sparkle in glitter “ice.” Mini snow globes hold tiny ice skaters looping through a park.
It smells like cinnamon, pine, and the faintest hint of “you’re about to max out your credit card.”
I’m not much of a money girl (and the lack of zeroes in my bank account confirms it), but this place makes me want to become a millionaire just to fill a house with themed trees and obscenely sparkly ornaments. Maybe I should start playing the lottery.
And the crown jewels, the most magical touch of all—a miniature Polar Express that choo-choos around the entire store on tiny tracks embedded high above the shoppers.
Every hour on the hour, a cheerful, old-timey conductor’s voice crackles over the speakers: “All aboard the Polar Express!” I once told Ally I wanted one for my apartment.
She looked me dead in the eyes and said I was already weird enough.
No matter how many times I come here (which, spoiler alert—is a lot), it always feels like the first time. There aren’t many things that do, so I savor it.
“Mel, my fingers,” Eben murmurs near my ear.
I glance down. Yikes, I’m crushing his hand.
“Oops. Sorry.” I loosen my grip but don’t let go.
When I look up, he’s smiling at me with a softness that shakes my stomach like a snowglobe. His blue eyes catch the twinkle lights, and his smile is—dare I say it—adoring. I’m two seconds away from melting into a puddle of bliss—when a sing-song southern twang slices through the moment.
“Can I help y’all find something?”
I spin to find a bottle-blonde in her fifties—pleasantly plump, bright pink lipstick, mascara smudged into cakey concealer beneath her eyes. She’s pretty, but maybe not convinced of it.
She spots Eben and her face contorts through a slideshow of emotions—first, a flash of unpleasant surprise. Then, instant horror at her first reaction. And finally, a megawatt smile so white it could outshine the snowcapped peaks of Everest.
“Oh my goodness. Eben!” she coos, a syrupy southern twang that could say “bless your heart” and make you believe the organ had been personally sanctified.
“Hi, Mary Lou,” Eben says, voice flat as a pancake.
Oh. Stepmom. Got it.
“Let me go get your father,” she chirps, flashing a pageant smile and nose wrinkle flourish.
“That’s not—” Eben starts, but she’s already speed-walking toward the back. He sighs. “—necessary.”
I try to temper my excitement, if only out of respect for the fact that Eben’s relationship with his dad is fraught. But I’ve never met the Christmas King. And now that I know he’s Eben’s dad—
For fuck’s sake, don’t fangirl, Melody.
Ally pats Eben’s shoulder, sympathetic.
“RIP to the good day you were having.”
Ally peels off to lone-wolf shop. I hover at Eben’s side, unsure what to do. He glances longingly at the sliding glass doors, clearly debating whether to bolt. Then his eyes sweep the store, like he’s searching for a place to hide—maybe behind the life-size nutcrackers?
I squeeze his hand. His gaze finds mine, soft and vulnerable, like he’s begging me to save him from the big, bad wolf.
And the man who appears is very big.
And very wolflike.
His voice booms across the store, ornaments rattling on their branches with every step.
“Look who the cat dragged in!”
Eben is tall, but this man somehow towers over him—at least six-foot-six of hulked-out muscle with a gut earned the old-fashioned way: time, beer, and zero remorse. His hair is gray-going-on-white, his beard and mustache more silver than snow.
He looks like Santa Claus—if Santa retired from pro wrestling and picked up Big she dabs at the corner with her sleeve, trying to save the mascara.
“Can you grab me the broom, pumpkin?” she asks, not quite meeting my gaze. She motions behind the counter.
“Of course,” I duck behind, fetch the broom and dustpan, and squat in front of her, holding the pan steady while she sweeps.
She has to stop every few sweeps to dab at her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry about… that. About all of it.”
Part of me wonders—is Eben overreacting?
Ronnie seems like he loves his kid, even if Eben can’t love him back.
And Mary Lou clearly cares, even if he can’t—or won’t—see it.
Yes, what Ronnie did to his mom was betrayal, but isn’t there a point where you have to let go?
Forgive? Let the past stay in the past and try to move forward together, even if it’s messy?
I would give anything to have my family in my life—if they wanted to be there. But they don’t. They haven’t for a long time.
It’s hard to imagine the roles reversed—to be the one who doesn’t want them, the way Eben doesn’t want his dad.
It hurts, even if the situations are entirely different.
Mary Lou pauses mid-sweep, watching me like she can hear the thoughts rattling around in my head.
“I can see it in your eyes,” she says gently. “You think Eben’s nutty as a fruitcake.”
No judgment. Just understanding.
“No doubt about it—Ronnie’s a charmer,” she adds. “But he’s not great with hard feelings. He likes to sweep things under the rug, let bygones be bygones.”
She swallows. “Ebby’s always been a sensitive boy. He took it real hard when Ronnie left—stayed loyal to his mom. I don’t blame him for being mad at us. I really don’t.”
She tips the last shards into the trash and takes the dustpan from me with a sweet smile and a string of thank yous.
“Can you tell my friend when you see her that I’m in the car with Eben?”
“Of course, honey,” she says, voice soft with sympathy.
I jog out to Eben’s truck and climb into the passenger seat.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
Eben’s head rests against the headrest. He glances over and offers a weak smile. He’s devastatingly handsome even when he’s sad; I don’t know how he does it.
“Hi,” he says the word, but no sound comes out.
“Mary Lou seems nice.”
“Yeah. She is, I guess.” His eyes stay locked on the windshield.
“Your dad… seems like a piece of work.”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “Understatement.”
“Does he know your mom’s…?”
“He knows,” he cuts in. “Does he care? Different story.”
I nod slowly, letting the silence stretch.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “And yeah—I’ve done therapy. I journal. I meditate. I’ve read all the books about letting go and setting boundaries.”
He exhales.
“But when my dad left, it was just me and my mom. She didn’t have anyone else. Neither did I.”
His voice tightens.
“Not long after that, she started forgetting little things. Where the bathroom was. How old I was. What year it was.”
He swallows.
“One day, the police called. They found her barefoot a mile away from home, confused and scared. She went out for a walk and got lost. Couldn’t remember her address.”
He slumps lower in his seat, like the weight of the world is physically pressing him down.
“I was still in college, trying to figure out how to get round-the-clock care for my favorite person.”
I reach for his hand.
“Your dad didn’t help?”
He scoffs. “He’s great when everything’s easy. But in a crisis? He bails. After the incident with the police, I called him. He handed the phone straight to Mary Lou.”
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.
“Sometimes I wonder if he saw it coming,” he says. “And left before it got too hard.”
I gasp. Eben shakes his head, softening.
“I don’t think that was the reason. It was a few years before Mom got really bad. But I do think starting over is easier for people like him. New family. Clean slate.”
“You’re right about Mary Lou,” he adds. “She’s a good person. She always tried to include me—especially as I got older and my mom got sicker. But my half-brothers don’t like me that much, and my dad…” He rolls his eyes. “He never misses a chance to make everything about him.”
He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
“Mary Lou helped me figure out Forest Park. At first, we thought it’d be temporary. Insurance covers the first hundred days. After that? You’re on your own.”
I blink. “You mean you pay…?”
“We drained everything from my mom’s half of the divorce. To keep the house—and keep her at Forest Park—yeah, I pay.”
“Out of pocket?” My eyes widen.
“About six grand a month. Goes up in January.”
“Holy shit, Eben.”
His laugh is dry, humorless.
“Hence why I work for my dad.”