Page 2 of The Art of Being Merry
I wish I wasn’t at the end of her inquisition this time.
Following the GPS directions, I navigate from the highway to Winterberry Junction, sticking to the main roads because even in the daytime, Main Street is supposed to be a sight. Beckett, Willa’s boyfriend, is the resident expert on Winterberry and all things Christmas, and for the last year, I’ve had to hear all about it. Every time Willa talks about another facet of their Christmas celebration in town, her excitement is palpable. There was a time it wasn’t, and I owe Beckett a huge thanks for reigniting my sister’s joy of Christmas.
“Mama, look.” Atlas’s excited voice draws my attention from my head to him, and I quickly glance at what he’s pointing to—an inflatable reindeer and Santa. “Oh, and over there.” His gaze swings to the other side of the car, the holiday spirit oozing off.
I’m glad my piss-poor attitude and hasty decision haven’t squashed his joy. I’d feel worse than I already do for abandoning our home on Christmas.
“Wow, there’s a lot of them. Wait until it’s dark. Aunt Willa says that’s when the magic happens.”
“Can we stay until it’s dark or do we have to leave?”
My sweet boy. I hope I’m not stealing his innocence and robbing him of being a kid. My job is to always make sure their needs are taken care of before my own, and here I am, making the worst snap judgments in the history of snap judgments for my sanity.
I can’t let the guilt worm in. What’s done is done. We’re here now. Turning back at this hour would only make things worse . . .
“Yep. We’ll probably stay a few nights.”
“Until Daddy comes to get us and we’ll go home.”
My fingers slip on the steering wheel at his comment. Thankfully, the street’s empty, and I recover quickly.
His tone is indiscernible about his true feelings. It’s only day one. I’m sure there will be a lot more to contend with over the next several days.
As for Daddy coming to get us . . . most likely not. He’d have to care enough to realize we’d left.
As we drive down Main Street, I can’t help but agree with Willa. It’s breathtaking, and I can’t wait to see it at night. Because it has to be triply more gorgeous than this.
Several additional minutes have us at her driveway. I should have listened more to her descriptions of her cabin, but I admit I haven’t been the best sister. Sure, I’m over the moon she loves the holiday, but having to hear about her love story with Beckett, while my life swirled down the drain like spoiled milk, has only added to my sour mood.
And yet, here I am. Willa’s is the only shoulder I want to cry on.
Yet, as I take in the inside of the cabin from the front lawn as the boys survey the decorations, I’m not sure she’s here, despite the cars in the driveway. Wouldn’t that be my luck?
I dial her number frantically, only to find out I’m imposing on something kind of big for them. Beckett takes pity on me, giving me directions for where to find the spare key, and I usher the boys inside.
Nearly ten minutes later, a newer model truck barrels down the driveway. Through the front window, I watch with wide eyes as who I guess is Dax, Beckett’s older brother, lumbers from the truck, smirking at the setup of inflatables in the yard. He’s dressed in jeans, work boots, and a puffer ski jacket, but what gets me the most is the Santa hat sitting crookedly on his head. One he didn’t put on before he got out of the truck. One he was already wearing.
He doesn’t knock, instead letting himself inside through the front door. Jace attaches himself to my legs, hiding away from the stranger. Atlas stands next to me, his eyes assessing Dax’s every move, his head tilted to one side, his curiosity piqued.
“You must be Clementine.”
I contain my annoyance at his use of my full name. Rather than confirm, I state, “Dax. You didn’t have to go out of your way. We’ll be fine here until Willa and Beckett return.”
His hearty chuckle nearly shakes the cabin, causing Jace to tremble. The sound is deep and rumbly, like he shares it freely. “Yeah, they might be a while. Oh, Mom sent food. You must be hungry. I’ll grab it from the truck.” He turns on his heels, but soon he faces us again. Up close, his days-old scruff is on prominentdisplay. Not that I’m checking it out, but it’s hard to miss. “How was the drive?”
“Long. Dark. Tiring.” Why I give him so many answers is anyone’s guess. Probably because I’m tired and moody, a lethal combination if ever there was one.
“What food did you bring?” The question comes from Atlas, still sizing up the stranger.
Dax scratches his head, further skewing the Santa hat. “I’m not sure. My mom put some stuff in a bag and handed it to me on my way out. Whatever it is, it’s yummy. My mom only cooks good food. How about yours?”
I suck in a breath as I wait for my seven-year-old’s response. Will he sell me down the river or will he cut me a little slack?
“She makes the best pancakes, chicken tenders, and mac and cheese, but if she tries to serve you sloppy joes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He makes a gagging sound and exaggerates his full-body shiver.
I stifle my laughter. He’s nothing if not honest. You forget to omit the onions one time, and the kid won’t shut up about it.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll go grab the food. Be back in a jiff.”
