Page 5 of Mistletoe Sky
Amelie searched for the disappointment etched in his features. But she read only love and worry.
Things sped up after that. Their parents closed down the shop and bundled their girls in numerous layers of winter clothing. In a flash, they were outside, strolling through the newly fallen snow. The precipitation had stopped, and the sky was clear, spackled with stars. Amelie watched her sugary breath, steaming out in front of her as they went along the edge of the frozen lake. Amelie had the sense that this was the final day of her childhood, that everything would change after this.
“I did it once,” their father was saying, smiling as they crunched through the snow. “My brother and I ate pounds of fudge when we thought our parents wouldn’t notice. We both spent all afternoon getting sick in the bathroom upstairs. My mom grounded us both for a week. We couldn’t do anything. And it was the summertime! We were miserable.”
Amelie and Willa were too sick to laugh. But their mother did, taking their father’s gloved hand.
“I think how you feel right now is enough punishment,” she said. “I just want you girls to get better. Fresh, cold air is the perfect antidote.”
When their father was sure it was safe, the three Caraway women followed him out onto the ice, where they stood beneath the starry sky and watched the frozen moon. Amelie took her sister’s hand, and Willa squeezed it. Amelie knew that Willa wanted to grow up so badly that she was ready to date boys and have womanly opinions. She wanted to own the shop and buy a house and get married and have kids. Amelie wanted those things, too, but she also wanted to treasure the here and now. She didn’t want to let time speed past.
She didn’t want her parents to grow older. She didn’t want to lose anything she loved.
“Christmas is coming,” their father said to the night sky. “It’s the most magical time of the year.”
Chapter Three
Amelie
December 2025
Tucked away in the little wooden cabin in Big Sur, California, Amelie could pretend Christmas wasn’t coming. Outside, the river rushed and bubbled past, and the trees and grass were green and warm-looking, resplendent beneath a cerulean sky. Amelie, in her dark blue flannel and a pair of sports shorts, drew her hands over her head and stretched her back over the top of the chair. She’d been here at her computer for the better part of eight hours, perfecting the edits for her most recent novel. She was done. She had to be done.
She sent the newest draft to her agent with the following email: I think this is it. Let me know what you think. Can’t wait to send it to publishers!
Amelie got up and rummaged around her kitchen for something to celebrate with. Technically, it was a sublet, so most of the products weren’t hers. Someone had stocked up on beans, corn, and other canned goods that were months past theirdue date. Perhaps the same person had bought the expensive-looking whiskey, which was stored on the top shelf. Surely, the owners wouldn’t notice if she poured herself a small amount? She did that and took the glass onto the porch to breathe the fresh California air and toast to herself and the career she felt sure would find her.
Amelie had been living in Big Sur for the past four months. For money, she did odd jobs—waitressing at the little diner down the road when they had shifts to hand out, gardening, and babysitting rich people’s children. She was thirty-seven but prided herself on not being too good for anything, provided it paid a living wage. Her entire MO was to make enough money to live and have enough time to write.
Since she’d graduated from college fifteen years ago, it had been more or less this way. She wasn’t too tired for her vagabond lifestyle yet. She had something to live for: the words on her page.
The whiskey was too strong for Amelie, who only ever had the odd glass of wine with friends. Friends was a loose term, as well. Amelie rarely stayed in a place long enough to form lasting relationships.
A California condor swooped overhead and disappeared over the treetops. Amelie’s heart was in her throat. They hadn’t had birds like this out in Michigan, where she’d grown up. They hadn’t had cars either. She’d had to learn how to drive at age nineteen, taking lessons from an old boyfriend before going through driver’s ed with twelve pimple-covered fifteen-year-olds.
It was eight thirty when her agent called.
“Hey! How are you?” Amelie’s voice was bright and happy. She hadn’t spoken with Penelope in a few months, not on the phone, and she was so starved for human connection that shewould have talked to anyone right now. But she liked Penelope. Penelope had given her a chance when nobody else would.
“Hey,” Penelope said. “I’m fine, you know. Getting ready for Christmas. My kids are crazy excited. I hope you can’t hear them?”
Amelie listened hard, eager to hear Penelope’s children’s wild celebrations across the line. She heard nothing but Penelope’s empty office, probably.
“I can’t,” Amelie said. “Sounds like fun, though.”
“It’s fun. But it’s driving me up the wall,” Penelope said. Her voice was strained. “Listen, Amelie, I don’t want to beat around the bush.”
Amelie’s heart stopped beating. “Okay.”
“Thanks for sending the newest draft of your book,” Penelope said.
Amelie wanted to protest before Penelope said anything else. She tried to point out that Penelope hadn’t had time to read the whole thing. She wanted to say that if Penelope didn’t like the first chapter, she could take it out. She could take everything out. She could fix it.
But before she could say anything else, Penelope continued.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving the business,” Penelope announced.
Amelie closed her eyes. A soft breeze played over her cheeks.
