Page 1 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Chapter One
Sara
I’ve been at my family’s new lake house for less than an hour, and a dozen smoke detectors are already wailing. Or maybe it onlysoundslike a dozen smoke detectors. After all, I’m in the middle of the Adirondacks. In December. The snow-covered mountains, towering pine trees, and frozen lakecouldbe causing an echo. Then there’s the fact that I’m hungry, which—let’s face it—makes everything worse.
Either way, what could possibly be burning?
I swear I was only preheating the oven.
Oh, Sara. Curse you and your obsession with fresh-baked brownies.
Thanks to my goal of single-handedly supporting Betty Crocker—not to mention avoiding a certain lifelong resident of Abieville—I’d made a pit stop at a market outside of town before I even got here. Along with enough grocery staples to help me survive my current mission, I bought a box of chocolate fudge brownie mix.
What can I say? I’m a big fan of fudge.
That is, when my ears aren’t exploding.
As smoke snakes across the freshly painted kitchen, I snatch the fire extinguisher from the pantry and haul open the oven door. Clouds of gray smoke billow out like an appliance tornado. Unfortunately the burst of oxygen only riles up the flames. Coughing and choking, I try to engage the fire extinguisher, but nothing happens.
“Nooooo!”
The thing should be brand new, but it must be defective. Which issonot convenient. My parents bought this house six months ago and renovated every inch of it, hoping to turn the home into a high-end rental property. So burning the whole place down right before Christmas would be a less-than-holly-jolly glitch to everyone’s holiday.
Grabbing the stainless steel bowl I’d planned to use to mix the batter, I quickly fill it at the sink, then I spin around and toss the water directly into the flames. Unfortunately, half the liquid doesn’t reach the oven, and the other half just seems to anger the fire gods.
Still, I refuse to give up without a fight. So I refill and toss another bowlful of water at the fire. Then a third. Half blinded by waves of smoke, I listen as steam sizzles and pops in the blackness. That, at least, sounds promising.
Stepping forward—gasping and waving—I peer at my results. The flames seem to be out, so at least the immediate emergency is over. But there’s a mystery pile of … something … still smoldering inside.
Wait … are those … dish towels? And cloth napkins? Placemats? Yep. And they’re all printed with Santa’s reindeer. Make that Santa’svery charredreindeer. Which means this is the full set of matching kitchen linens I gave my mother last Christmas.
So how did they end up in the oven here?
I suddenly flash back to my mom telling me she was sending some of our “extra” home goods off with the movers so future guests could enjoy them in Abieville. She explained peoplevacationing in the Adirondacks would expect rustic appointments, not Waterford and Limoges. And apparently deer placemats equal rustic.
So in this moment, I’ve learned a few important things:
Moving companies sometimes stick stuff in ridiculous places.
Impulse brownies come with unexpected risks.
Katherine Hathaway thinks my Christmas gift is … “extra.”
I guess I shouldn’t betoosurprised. My parents love me a lot—almosttoomuch sometimes—but they’re also sticklers for appearance and tradition. Our family traces its roots back to the Mayflower, and their appreciation for pedigree knows no limits. So while this particular set of linens came from a luxury store, the pattern is definitely on the kitschy side.
Not exactly repping that Hathaway life.
