Page 1 of Merry Mended Hearts

GRACE

After everythingit took to get here, I refused to believe I’d come to Harper’s Inn by mistake.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist insisted. Her curly, shoulder-length brown hair was held back by a brightly colored headband with reindeer antlers. The red band brought out the flush in her cheeks and the freckles across her nose. “But I have nothing under the name of Grace Eastland.”

“That can’t be right.” I gripped the edge of the reception desk and worked to tamp down my frustration. “Check again, please.”

My suitcase tipped over on its side. Frazzled, I reached to steady it. In the process, the leatherbound notebook I had tucked beneath my arm slipped and clattered to the tile, narrowly missing the puddle where snow was melting from my boots.

Boots I’d boughtjustfor this trip, for the record.

Because I didn’t need them in Arizona.

My panic hiked. I dove, hoping the water hadn’t touched the pages I’d been scribbling on during the flight here. Inspiration had really struck from ten thousand feet in the air. I couldn’t lose that progress just because I was currently living in my own version of the movieInception.

When I saw it, that movie had played with my mind so thoroughly that by the time it was over, I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake. Or dreaminginsideof a dream.

This felt a little like that emotional vertigo.

I cast my eyes around the lobby. The inn looked like the pictures Mom had showed me. Itsmelledlike a Christmassy getaway, all cinnamon and spice plug-ins.

But was it possible I was imagining everything?

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, her attention on the screen near the wall. “Your name isn’t anywhere in our records.”

Placing the notebook on the counter, I frowned and peered toward the inn’s quaint lobby. A woman seated on the couch across from the fire glanced in my direction.

Feeling feverish, I swallowed the painful tightness in my throat.

“What do you mean my name isn’t?—?”

My suitcase tipped over again.

I bent to right it.

“—in your records?”

This wasn’t possible. My parents had booked this trip for me. Mom had outlined everything last night, showing me my plane tickets, the inn’s beautiful setting, its many accommodations.

She and Dad had made all the arrangements. They’d talked up Harper’s Inn and its charming setting and what an amazing writing getaway it would be for me.

Was it possible that between all the planning, Mom had forgotten to actuallybookthe room?

Merry Christmas to me.

“Grace Eastland,” I said, telling the receptionist my name one more time.

I had to give this one more try.

“Or maybe check Donna Eastland,” I said. “That’s my mom. She’s the one who made the reservations. She gave me this trip as an early Christmas present so I could get away and have some quiet time to work on my book.”

The receptionist smiled. I knew I was oversharing, but like a swarm of caffeinated monkeys breakdancing in my brain, my panic was getting to me.

I’d flown all the way from Arizona to Montana. It was days before Christmas. Days before my round-trip flight would kick into gear and take me back where I’d come from.

And this book wasn’t going to write itself.

I needed a calm, peaceful setting. A getaway from my frantic, overworked life. I hadgoals,people.

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