Page 17 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

“There were Christmases I squandered,” he continued in a low voice after another pause. “Moments I let slip away because I was too sure of myself, too convinced I had all the time in the world. People I didn’t appreciate fully. Chances I never seized.”

My chest tightened at his words, suddenly seeing in him a reflection of my own regrets.

“It’s easy to think we can always do better tomorrow,” I offered, my gaze drifting momentarily to the hall that led toward the library, where Bailey had disappeared earlier.

Theodore nodded. “Exactly. But tomorrow arrives, and sometimes the people you thought would be there…well, they’re not. Things change.” He sighed, then forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, that’s old man talk. Christmas does that to you, brings back memories and ghosts from the past.”

I thought of Bailey—how I’d let her slip through my fingers years ago. Back in high school, she’d been my safe harbor in a life of turmoil and unpredictability. I remembered those freezing December nights when I’d walk her home through quiet streets, cutting through fields dusted with snow, boots squeaking in the hush of starlight. At the time, my only goal had been to escape my father’s suffocating presence, his sneers, and put-downs. Not to mention having to witness what he did to my mother, who was too much a victim to fight back. With Bailey, I forgot all that. She was kind, brilliant, and fierce in ways that still took my breath away. When I’d left Wintervale, I told myself it was necessary—that ambition required sacrifices. I didn’t realize I was sacrificing the one person who truly mattered.

Now I had what I thought I wanted: money, prestige, a fancy Chicago condo overlooking Lake Michigan. But every relationship since Bailey Pace had been hollow, more about my image than my essence. Bailey knew me before any of that mattered—when I wore secondhand clothes and dreamed of scholarships. She understood the threads of my history: a father who never believed in me, a mother too wrapped up in her own drama to pay me any attention, and a longing to run as far awayas possible and start over from scratch where nobody knew who I was or where I came from.

Back then, Bailey’s family had always shown me kindness. Her mom, Linda, had worked hard scrubbing floors and dusting mantelpieces to help make ends meet, and her dad, Roger, a navy veteran with a back injury and a quiet smile, kept their home stable. I knew they missed Linda now. If I could do something to ease that burden for them, I would. But I wasn’t sure how. I wished I could turn back time, help more, be there, not just vanish in pursuit of personal glory.

Theodore cleared his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “We used to pass the time playing games—cards, checkers. On snowy evenings, we’d sit by the fire, much like we are now. It wasn’t always grand parties. Sometimes it was just two people, a deck of cards, and a bottle of something warming.”

“That sounds nice,” I said. “Simple pleasures.”

He swirled the wine in his tumbler. “Maybe that’s what we’re missing these days, all of us chasing something bigger, forgetting the small joys.”

Edna, who had just wandered in carrying a handful of candy canes—who knew from where—caught the tail end of this. “Are we waxing poetic about the good old days, Theodore?” she teased, setting the candy canes in a little cup on the sideboard.

Theodore glanced up and huffed, but not unkindly. “I was telling Jacob how we used to play cards until the wee hours. How about we find a deck and give it a go, Edna? Unless you fear I might beat you again.”

She raised an eyebrow and patted her hair. “Oh, I don’t fear that at all, dear. I recall winning more often than not.”

I laughed softly, amused by their banter. Theodore’s face softened at her teasing, and he glanced at me. “See what I must endure?” he asked, faux-aggrieved.

“Be careful, Theodore,” I said, standing to rummage in a chest of drawers that looked like it might yield a deck of cards. “If we find a pack, you’re both going down.”

Edna giggled, and I couldn’t help smiling at how the tension between them had eased. Maybe the mansion’s magic extended beyond just Bailey and me—maybe it was melting old grudges and regrets everywhere it touched.

In the second drawer, I found a deck of cards with a faded pattern on the back and a small wooden box that contained checkers pieces. “I’ve got cards and some checkers here,” I announced, holding them up triumphantly.

“Oh, splendid,” Edna said, coming over. “Jacob, have you any idea how to play Rummy? Or should we try something simpler?”

“Rummy’s fine,” I replied. “Though it’s been a while.”

We cleared the coffee table and set about dealing cards. The radio in the corner offered a gentle soundtrack—Bing Crosby’s mellow voice crooned softly about a white Christmas, as if we didn’t already have one.

Theodore and Edna settled into a rhythm of mild trash-talk and fond recollection. “Do you remember that one year,” Edna said at one point, “when the storm knocked out the power and we played by candlelight for hours? I think that was the Christmas you tried to cheat by hiding a card under your sleeve.”

Theodore feigned shock. “I never cheated! It must have been static cling holding the card to my cuff.”

I chuckled at their new rapport. Each barb they exchanged seemed to hold a kernel of affection, as if they wereremembering not just the games but the bond that once existed between them. Perhaps second chances could appear in the most unexpected places, if only one had the courage to seize them.

Eventually, Edna excused herself to fetch more mulled wine—only one glass in and I could feel its warmth spreading pleasantly—and Theodore followed, muttering something about ensuring she didn’t water it down. Their departure left me alone for a moment, staring into the fire. The flames danced across the logs, sending shadows flickering over the evergreen boughs. I thought of Bailey, how I’d nearly kissed her under the mistletoe yesterday, how she’d pulled away, her eyes conflicted. A year ago, I would have told myself it was better not to complicate things. But now, seeing what we had lost, I realized how foolish I’d been. I couldn’t let this slip through my grasp a second time.

I rose, running a hand through my hair, and decided to find her. She’d mentioned earlier she wanted some quiet time, said something about exploring the library. I followed the corridor lit by the soft glow of the string lights and the occasional flicker of candlelight. The mansion’s hush enveloped me—no city horns, no cell phones chirping, just the distant murmur of Edna and Theodore in another room, the whisper of my footsteps, and the muffled hush of falling snow outside.

The library door stood slightly ajar, and I paused, hearing a faint rustle of pages. Inside, it smelled of leather bindings, old paper, and tobacco. The space was all warmth and shadow, shelves climbing high, and a small Christmas tree—probably one of Edna’s touches—stood in a corner, adorned with delicate glass ornaments and a single strand of rainbow lights that cast tiny rainbow shards against the spines of countless books.

Bailey sat in an armchair near the tree, a blanket draped over her legs. She held a hardcover book open, its gilt edges catching the lamplight. She hadn’t noticed me yet, so I took amoment to appreciate the scene. Her profile was lovely—jawline softened by the glow, hair tumbling over one shoulder. My heart squeezed at the memory of us reading each other a collection of poetry in the park.

Stepping forward, I cleared my throat gently. “Am I interrupting a holiday reading marathon?”

She looked up, startled, but then smiled lightly. “Not at all. I was just reading some classic Christmas tales—Dickens, a bit of O. Henry. You know, reminding myself of the old stories.”

I moved closer, easing into a chair beside her. The library’s lamps and tree lights gave the room a magical air. “Those are some of my favorites,” I said, tilting my head to see the page. “The Gift of the Magialways gets me.”

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