Chapter Two
Maggie hadn’t always hated Christmas. There had been a time when she’d loved the lights and the presents and the trees. She
knew all the words to at least thirty different Christmas carols and used to sing them in July. She had a sweatshirt with
a reindeer on it that she always wore to school on the Monday after Thanksgiving. (Did the nose light up? Yes, yes it did.
Did she wear it that way? Absolutely.)
Twelve-year-old Maggie had baked sugar cookies and organized Secret Santas and terrorized her mother with multipart questions
like (1) Why don’t we have a big family? and (2) Why don’t we spend Christmas with our big (fictional) family? and (3) Can this fictional gathering of this fictional family take place in a location that always has snow?
But Maggie was an only child born late in life to only children. Maggie didn’t even have grandparents, and it was almost always
too warm for snow in Texas.
So the problem wasn’t that Maggie hated Christmas; the problem was that Christmas hated Maggie. Every terrible thing that
had ever happened to her had occurred with a backdrop of carols and lights, and, eventually, Maggie had no choice but to start
taking it personally.
Her dog ran away when she was thirteen. When she was sixteen, their car caught fire and the next day all the presents disappeared
out from under the tree. A week later, the car was running again and Maggie never asked a single question.
Her senior year of high school, they did have snow, but it knocked out power to half the state and Maggie spent the holiday huddled around the fireplace with her
parents, hoping the water didn’t freeze.
Of course, at the time, she didn’t know that was the last Christmas they’d have together. She’d joked about how next year
would be better—telling her parents they had to wait until she was home from college to put up the tree and wrap the presents.
But twelve months later, her parents were gone and Maggie was alone and...
“I need to go.”
Deborah pushed her into a chair then moved to the other side of the desk. “You need to sit.”
“Look”—Maggie started to stand—“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m really not good at parties, so let’s catch
up after the new year, okay? Let’s—”
“Sit. Down.” Deborah didn’t raise her voice. Deborah didn’t have to. When she was nothing but a nineteen-year-old intern,
Deborah had pulled the greatest crime writer to ever live out of the slush pile, so when Deborah whispered, people listened.
Even people who hated the smell of peppermint and eggnog and pine.
“I have a surprise for you.” Deborah eased into her leather chair then tossed something onto the stack of manuscripts that
rimmed her massive desk. It was just an envelope, square and the color of eggshells, but for some reason Maggie was almost
afraid to touch it.
“Oh. I’m afraid I... uh... didn’t do cards this year.”
“You never do cards and neither do I. That’s not from me.”
The card was heavy in Maggie’s hand when she reached for it. The paper was smooth and soft and— Money. The envelope felt like
money in every sense of the word. Her name was scrawled across the front in the most pristine handwriting she’d ever seen.
Ms. Margaret Chase.
“Well. Open it,” Deborah dared, and Maggie turned the envelope over to break the wax seal on the back. The card inside was
even softer.
You are cordially invited to—
“No.”
“You haven’t even read it!”
Maggie couldn’t help but whine, “You tricked me into coming to one party just so you could invite me to another one?”
Deborah’s laugh was almost maniacal. “Oh, that’s no invitation, sweet Charlie. That is your ticket to the chocolate factory.”
Maggie had known Deborah for almost nine years, but she’d never seen her look like she looked then: giddy and sly and almost
ravenous. She imagined that’s how nineteen-year-old Deborah must have looked when she’d pulled Eleanor Ashley’s first manuscript
from the pile on the mail room floor. Like a woman whose evil plan was just getting started.
“You’ve been invited to the home of your biggest fan for Christmas.”
“Deborah—”
“In England!” Deborah said with a flourish, as if that made everything better and not infinitely worse. “All expenses paid.
Now before you tell me I’m crazy—”
“You’re crazy! Do I need to remind you that I write mysteries?”
“So?”
“So my fans like murder! And murderers! And—”
“Your last book was about a woman whose cat could smell poison.”
“Hey! The Purrrrfect Crime sold very well in Brazil,” Maggie said, but Deborah was determined. There was no teasing glint in her eye, no mischievous
twinkle.
“I can personally vouch for this particular fan. And I’m telling you”—she lowered her voice—“you want to get on that plane. You are positively dying to get on that plane.”
Maggie ran a finger over the heavy paper. It really was a lovely card. “I don’t want to spend Christmas with strangers,” she
admitted and Deborah’s eyes went soft.
“Then who are you spending Christmas with? Because you know I’m a heartless old crone but when I think of you rattling around
that tiny apartment all by yourself...”
“I’m on deadline.” Maggie held the words like a shield.
“I’m your editor, and I just decided to move your deadline.”
“But I...”
“Have nothing planned for Christmas, do you?” Deborah glanced toward her open door. The sounds of the party were a low din
in the distance, but she inched forward, arms on the desk. It was a posture that screamed you didn’t hear this from me . “Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but something is coming next year. Very big. Very hush-hush. And I think you’re
the person for the job. But I need you to get on that plane .”
Maggie fingered the wax seal on the back of the envelope. “What kind of fan flies their favorite author to another country
for the holidays?”
“The kind with money and good taste in books.”
“This can’t be safe.”
“It is.”
“This can’t be smart.”
“Oh.” Deborah laughed. “It is.”
“This can’t be—”
“Maggie. Dearest. Most prolific and professional writer I know, I say this with love. I say this with kindness. I say this
in the truest spirit of holiday cheer: you need to get a life.”
Deborah had never steered her wrong—not once in nine years and dozens of books. Deborah believed in her. Deborah wanted the
best for her. Deborah was the closest thing Maggie had to family, which was perhaps the only thing sadder than having no family
at all. And all Maggie could do was look at her mentor who would never be her mother and draw a tired breath.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I have to get a Christmas.”
“Okay.” Deborah sat back. “Then what does the next week and a half look like for you? Sitting around, thinking about your
former husband and your former best friend unwrapping presents in your former house?”
Some might have thought the words were cruel, but Maggie recognized them for what they were: a challenge and a dare. That
was her cue to start fighting, but all she could do was eke out a half smile and the words, “Presents they bought with my
former money. Don’t forget that part.”
She eyed the envelope again, imagining snowy fields and garland-laden banisters, carol singers and horse-drawn sleighs because,
evidently, to Maggie, English Christmases take place entirely in BBC adaptations. “No. I... I shouldn’t.”
“What you should do, Margaret, is trust me.”
What Maggie didn’t say was that she had no intention of trusting anyone ever again. Especially herself.