Page 3 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

The cheerful voice and sound of jingling bells startled me, and I turned to see a petite figure with wispy silver hairbounding down the driveway, waving at me enthusiastically. I’d wondered what type of woman would want to turn a dilapidated mansion into a rescue home for felines, and Edna Twinkleberry did not disappoint. I estimated her to be in her early to mid-60’s and wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t reach more than five feet wearing heels. She was pleasantly plump, with pink cheeks and a button nose, and clad in a neon-green sweater with embroidered cats wearing Santa hats attached with tiny silver bells—the source of the jingling sound. A green beret was perched on top of her head, and a pair of oversized, red-framed glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, her breath forming little puffs in the icy air.

I managed a polite smile. “Good morning, Miss Twinkleberry.”

“Edna will do, dear,” she said, grabbing my hand with surprising strength and leading me toward the house. “Isn’t it magnificent? Just look at it! A bit of paint, some new shingles, and voila—a treasure restored to its former glory!”

Her enthusiasm was endearing, even as I stared at the rotting steps and imagined the lawsuits waiting to happen. “It’s… certainly got potential.”

“Exactly!” she said, beaming as she bravely grabbed the cracked railing and marched up the porch. “I knew you’d see it. Come inside. There’s so much I want to show you.”

The moment I stepped inside, the scent hit me—a combination of mildew, dust, and something faintly metallic, and I felt my nose wrinkle reflexively in response. The entryway was vast, with a high ceiling and a grand staircase that had definitely seen better days. Dust coated every surface,and cobwebs stretched between the chandelier and the crown molding like ghostly tinsel.

Edna was unfazed. “This is the foyer,” she announced, spreading her arms wide. “Picture it: garlands wrapped around the banister, a nine-foot Christmas tree sparkling in the corner, and cats lounging elegantly by the fire.”

I eyed the crumbling plaster and the warped floorboards. “It’s…quite the vision.”

She laughed, a warm, gravelly sound that echoed in the empty space. “Oh, I know it’s a bit rough around the edges, but that’s what makes it exciting! Come, let me show you the parlor.”

She practically skipped across the dusty floor, her bell-covered sweater jingling merrily as I followed.

The parlor was worse. The wallpaper hung in peeling strips, revealing the cracked plaster beneath, while a fireplace dominated one wall that had a mantel covered in grime. A once-grand chandelier dangled precariously from the ceiling, its crystals dulled by decades of neglect.

Edna clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

I hesitated, trying to find something positive to say. “It’s…unique.”

“Yes!” she crowed. “Unique is what we need for the sanctuary. Imagine it: cozy armchairs upholstered in red velvet, twinkling fairy lights strung across the room, and kitties curled up everywhere—happy, purring, and festive!”

I tried to picture it, but my mind stubbornly clung to the present reality of broken windows and a sagging ceiling. “Um, it’s certainly ambitious.”

Edna beamed and pulled a small notebook from her bag. It was covered in stickers—cats, of course—and filled with notes inlooping handwriting. She flipped it open, showing me sketches of cat trees shaped like Christmas trees, paw-shaped cushions, and a detailed schedule for “cat adoption tea parties.”

“It’ll be magical,” she said, her voice softening. “This house deserves to be loved again. It’s been forgotten for too long.”

For a moment, I saw a flicker of vulnerability, realizing that she wasn’t just chasing a dream—she was holding onto something deeply personal.

“Why this house, Edna?” I asked gently.

She hesitated, her green eyes suddenly clouding. “Oh, I have my reasons,” she said, her tone evasive. “But that’s a story for another time. Now, let’s see the dining room!”

By the time I returned to the Wintervale Resort, my scarf was dusted with snow, and my boots were caked in mud. I dropped my bag by the door and flopped onto the bed, exhausted. My coffee from earlier had gone cold, but I sipped it anyway, savoring the faint taste of nutmeg.

The day had been… overwhelming. Edna’s passion was infectious, but the sheer scale of the project was daunting. As much as I admired her vision, the practical side of me couldn’t stop listing the obstacles: permits, funding, safety hazards. It was obvious she had no idea what she was getting into with the property.

I kicked off my boots and opened my laptop, ready to dig deeper into the case. As I scrolled through the files Marjorie had sent me, a familiar name jumped off the screen: Jacob Wilder.

My stomach dropped. It couldn’t be….

Jacob. The boy who had once promised me forever. The man who had left without so much as a backward glance. And now, apparently, the attorney representing the opposition.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. The idea of facing him again—of seeing those piercing blue eyes and that maddeningly confident smirk—made my chest tighten.

“This is going to be the worst Christmas of my life,” I muttered to myself, feeling like I’d just discovered a piece of coal in my stocking.

With a resigned sigh, I shut the laptop and curled up on the bed. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Wintervale in a quiet stillness. But inside, my thoughts were anything but quiet.

Chapter Two

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