Page 2 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

The producers called me last week to tell me they’d hired him. They said they’d done it because they thought it would be best if we had two hosts—male and female—to appeal to both demographics. But I didn’t need my brother, Zach, to tell me that’s bull. They hired Harry because he’s funny and sweet, and Nana Mayberry is a cold, dour woman who probably spent her last life as an icicle.

I know her type. I was birthed by a woman just like her.

I don’t question their decision, I’m just happy for it, because they’ve assigned Harry to personally handle me, which means I won’t have to spend much time with Nana. She’ll be hanging around with the men, I guess.

Peering into the mirror, I turn my face from side to side. Yes, still orange, especially against the peach of the dress. “Okay, well, obviously we need a different dress.” I lift a finger. “Let me ask Olive for advice.” I give him a plaintive look. “Can I use your phone?”

Mine is in a drawer somewhere, and it won’t be returned until filming is done. Still, I know her number by heart. He sighs and looks around the room, which is unnecessary since the door is closed and it’s just the two of us in here, before unlocking his iPhone and handing it over.

I snap a photo and send it to her, along with the text.This is Harry’s phone. No time to explain, but I’m orange. The premiere starts filming in half an hour. HELP.

Bless her, she answers within thirty seconds, while Harry paces the floor nervously, nearly tripping on a navy rug with a border of unicorns.

Black dress. Wear a veil. Maybe they can make it a whole thing where they’re hiding your identity until the second episode? HIDE THE ORANGE.

I glance at the time on Harry’s phone. Twenty minutes. We have twenty minutes before I’m due to film my TV debut. We’re staying in an enormous mansion that I’ve visited before but don’t know well. For the production, we’re calling it Labelle Manor, though the title seems too noble for the house. My first meeting with the eight guys Nana Mayberry has hand-selected for me will happen in the ballroom, because of course it has to be something “appropriately glamorous,” to borrow her vocabulary. She’s probably with them right now, making sure they have perfectly aligned pocket squares, little suspecting her leading lady has turned orange.

Even though the holidays are fast approaching, and it would be wonderful if this place were decorated with enormous trees and velvet ribbons and nutcrackers as tall as Harry, it’s not. It’s like Christmas forgot to visit this one corner of Highland Hills, North Carolina, because the small town we’re nestled in has its decorating gamedown. I had a day to visit and soak in the holiday cheer before I was locked away in my castle like the heroine of a Disney movie. The show won’t be airing until March, and it would look strange if the holidays were represented, so the joy will be kept to a minimum.

I love the idea of Christmas, although it’s always been about gift cards and one-upmanship with my family, not hot chocolate, sleigh rides, and caroling.

I shake off the thought because I have a mission to accomplish, and mooning over the holidays, or lack thereof in this house, won’t make it happen.

“Harry, we need the black dress in the wardrobe. Is there some kind of veil or something?” I show him the text from Olive because it’s easier to do that than offer an explanation, and he brightens like someone lit a bulb inside him.

“Yes, yes, I like the way she thinks,” he mutters to himself, taking the phone from me and tucking it into a pocket. He hoists me up from my chair at the ornate vanity table and, to my surprise and delight, gives me a twirl. “You, Kennedy Littlefield, are going to be a woman of mystery. We won’t tell them who you are in the first episode. They’ll be guessing. God knows they’ll guess, but they won’t guess correctly. Then you’ll make your big, non-orange debut on the second episode after we send two of the guys packing tonight.”

I laugh, delighted by the thought. “Okay, but where are we going to get the veil?”

His expression turns fierce, that of a man on a mission. “My roommate helped get this set up and running. He’ll know where Evelyn Labelle stored all her things before they rented out the house. That woman looks like the kind of person who’d own a black veil. I’m sure he can help me find one.”

The Labelles are the owners of Labelle Manor, a place that is over the top to the point of tackiness. The guest rooms where the men and I will be staying all have themes—there’s a rooster room, a cupid room, and so on. I have the distinction of staying in the princess room, which must have belonged to one of their daughters decades ago, because, at the risk of sounding like the princess fromThe Princess and the Pea, the four-poster bed has a mattress so lumpy that I had to have someone special order a mattress pad just so I could get more than a few hours of sleep. Still, it’s huge, and there is an enormous head-to-toemirror showing me that I look like someone who spent hours being naughty in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, only I’ve been turned orange instead of blue.

“Nana Mayberry’s grandson?” I ask with a frown, because I know Harry lives with two of the Mayberry grandchildren.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging the guy. I’m the last person who’d blame a person for their relatives. But I wasn’t under the impression that any of the Mayberrys were involved in the production. In fact, Tina is friendly with a couple of them, and they made it very clear to me that they want nothing to do with their grandmother.

Again, I can’t blame them, but why would a Mayberry be helping with the show if they all find it, and their grandmother, so objectionable?

“Is he here?”

“He is!” Harry says, rushing over to the wardrobe to retrieve the black dress. I take it from him. “It’s worth a try, I guess, although I can’t think Mrs. Labelle would appreciate it.”

It amuses me to think about Evelyn Labelle recognizing her veil on television. She probably would. Maybe she has a motion tracker sewn into all her things.

“I’ll be back in a jiff!” Harry says. “Wait…is that something people still say?”

Laughter spills out of me, probably partly from nerves. “I’m not sure anyone’s said that ever. Wait, though. Can you unzip me? I’m not sure I can get out of this thing by myself.”

It’s a mermaid-style dress, tight enough that there’s not a whole lot I can do mobility-wise.

He does the deed graciously, then exits the room in a flurry of motion.

I work on extricating myself from the dress. It’s a dance I know well enough, and before long, I have the peach dress on thehanger. It’s too bad, really. It’s a confection of gold and peach that did all kinds of things for my natural complexion.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was trying to sabotage me, but I can’t imagine why the makeup artist would do that. After all, she’ll see me again soon enough.

The only reason she left when she did was because one of the guys got himself punched at the local brewery last night, on our final day of freedom. He has a black eye that desperately needed her attention. Being orange is more of a problem, obviously, but the transformation happened gradually, and by the time I’d noticed, she was probably halfway across the house. Given the size of this place, looking for her would have been like searching for one particular pin in a box of them.

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