Page 2 of The Christmas Eve Delivery

Aunt Ruth’s death was nothing if not complicated. To the outside world, it was straightforward. The aged great aunt who raised me after my mother’s death died, and she was leaving me everything. A mixed blessing, an unfortunate loss culminating in a reasonably generous inheritance. But people on the outside didn’t know the truth of our relationship. I was young enough to believe that adults who took care of children should actually alsolike them a little bit. I spent years hurt and confused, and then I spent more years trying to figure everything out. I was still in the figuring things out part of my life when all of this happened.

Her illness wasn’t a surprise, and honestly, neither was her death. But this reaction, or anti-reaction, I was having was sending me into a tailspin. I didn’t know whether I should sign all the papers and pop open a bottle of champagne or eat a pint of ice cream. I was leaning toward the ice cream. Drinking too much gave me a muzzy feeling.

“Sorry about all of that,” I said as I returned toward the conference room. Mr. Blake stood at the door to the conference room, probably wondering where I had gone. “I’m ready to sign everything.”

We sat down and he began his speech about what I needed to sign and how these documents officially transferred ownership of Sweet Mountain Inn to me. The rest of the documents were granting permissions for transfers of funds between accounts and changing the names on the accounts from Ruth to me, her only surviving relative. Everything was straightforward, business, business, business.

It still sounded like a lot of “Wah, wah, wah,” but this time, I was able to listen and comprehend his actual words. I still felt like a shell of my former self. I wasn’t complete. My grief left me without a sense of wholeness.

When I emerged from his office into the daylight, it really felt incongruous that the sun was out. There were still some slushed up, muddy piles of snow that had yet to melt. The world was trying to shake off its icy winter coat and let spring take its turn. A sharp, cold breeze caught me off guard, and with a shiver, I stopped walking long enough to zip up the front of my coat. Thesunshine had fooled me into thinking that it might be warmer outside than it really was.

I walked the few blocks of downtown Brookdale back home. The inn sat back from the road and looked more like a run-down mansion than a once fancy hotel. There was one sign on the lawn and a second one across the entryway naming itSweet Mountain Inn. And I knew there were very clear signs on the door stating that we were currently closed to guests.

The inn had no visitors when Aunt Ruth took ill, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to juggle her needs and take care of visitors. I hadn’t felt like dealing with running a hotel throughout the process, so the signs stayed up.

So when the man in the expensive wool trench coat was waiting for me on the porch, I was caught off guard.

“Are you Miss Walsh?” he asked as he got to his feet.

“I am.”

“You were highly recommended to me,” he started.

“Look.” I cut him off. “I don’t know who told you to come here, but the inn is closed. I’m not taking guests. There’s a hotel out by the freeway. They usually have rooms.”

He held out a business card. I took it without thinking.

“That’s not why I’m here. I wanted to see if you had thought about selling this old place.” He twisted and looked around the porch. It needed some visible repairs.

“It’s not for sale. I’m not selling.”

“I heard you recently inherited, and it looks like a lot of work to take on for someone as young as yourself.”

I thrust my arm out, finger extended, pointing to the road. “Get the hell off my property, you fucking shark.”

“You have my card if you change your mind.”

I crushed the business card in my hand and feebly hurled the wadded up paper at him.

“How dare you try to take advantage of someone in their state of shock and grief, you charlatan!”

2

MILES

Dreary, late winter clouds hung low over the city, obscuring my view. Instead of sparkling diamond walls of glass towers, all I saw was bleakness and gray and dead. I didn’t expect the weather to reflect my mood so perfectly, but it did. Any minute, I anticipated storm clouds to roll in. My temper was rising, and my mood was not improving.

I spun on my heel and turned my attention to the small team of men sitting around in my office. I let my disappointed glare rest on each of them, one by one, not saying anything until I was certain they felt the weight of my wrath before shifting my vitriol to the next victim.

I let my glare burn into Jackson Philips the longest of all.

“Explain to me like I’m four. How was it that you were unable to secure even a meeting with the owner of the hotel? What the hell was it called?” I paused and checked the notes scattered across my desk. “Sweet Mountain Inn. That should have been a no-brainer.”

Jackson shrugged. “She’s a viper, Miles. She attacked me before I even got a word out.”

“I thought you reviewed public records on that property. The owner just died, right?”

He nodded.

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