Page 4 of Mistletoe & Mischief

Maya’s stomach ached with jealousy. “And you’re spending Christmas with him this year?”

Phoebe arched her eyebrow. “Like I always say, I would love to spend Christmas with you for a change. But you won’t let me.”

“You know it’s for the best,” Maya said.

“That’s what you always say.”

Maya and Steve, Phoebe’s father, had gotten divorced when Phoebe was six. It had been more or less amicable, the sort of divorce where they only needed one lawyer, and neither of them avoided signing papers. They hadn’t had much money, so there hadn’t been any arguments about who got what, either. But like all divorces, it had crushed Maya. She supposed she would never fully get over it, even though she knew it had been for the best.

Every year since the divorce, Maya had arranged for Phoebe to spend all her Christmases with her father. Maya didn’t like to decorate; she didn’t like Christmas movies or music, and she refused to bake cookies. It had been her mother’s favorite holiday, so much so that their house had been called The Christmas House on their block, and her mother had baked up a storm the entire month of December. But when she’d died— on Christmas— Maya had resisted the holiday. Even as a child, she’d locked herself in her bedroom at her adoptive parents’ house and colored pictures in the shadows.

The next day, Maya drove Phoebe to the airport and hugged her until tears dropped from her eyes.

“Let me know when you’re on your way to Hollygrove,” Phoebe said.

“I’ll leave this week,” Maya promised.

Maya had been slightly depressed enough times to know that it often felt like there were weights in your shoes. In the days after Phoebe went back to Philly, Maya wandered around the hotel, packing intermittently and thinking about Hollygrove. Just to make sure it was real, on the day after Thanksgiving, she contacted Mr. DeWitt via phone, half-praying the phone would ring and ring without an answer, thus proving this was all a farce.

Instead, a young woman answered the phone and said, “Attorney DeWitt’s office. How may I help you?”

Maya stuttered. “Hello! I recently received a letter from Mr. DeWitt regarding my Aunt Veronica Albright’s estate.”

“Oh! Wonderful. We’ve been expecting you. Are you in town?”

Maya dropped to the edge of the bed. “I’ll be there on Sunday,” she said.

“Perfect,” the secretary said. “Mr. DeWitt will be in the office that afternoon. How about four-thirty?”

With that, Maya’s fate was sealed. She was officially leaving the city.

And when she finally did check out of that hotel, thus eliminating her connection to Nick Collins forever, she felt a sense of freedom she’d forgotten was possible. She lodged her suitcase in her trunk, opened the windows of Phoebe’s car, and drove out of the city, whipping down the highway at full speed. It had been nearly a year since she’d driven a car, but her reflexes came back easily, reminding her of all the eras of her life in which she’d needed a car.

Abstractly, she thought to herself,if I actually get that inheritance, the first thing I’ll buy is a car.

Maya arrived in Hollygrove at two in the afternoon, which gave her two and a half hours to kill before her meeting with the lawyer. She parked on Main Street, which looked as though an entire Christmas store had exploded onto it. Garlands were hung everywhere, as were wreaths, Christmas lights, and Christmas banners. A nativity scene was set up in front of the courthouse and in front of the one-screen movie theater, and the passers-by were dressed in warm and fuzzy mittens and hats as though they’d been taken directly from a Christmas catalog. Snow drifts gripped the edges of the sidewalk and lined the rooftops. Maya walked slowly, her hands in her coat pockets, taking in everything. How was it possible her aunt had lived up here Maya’s entire life, and she hadn’t known?

“Afternoon!” A few people greeted Maya as she passed them, as though they’d known one another all their lives.

“Hi?” Maya was accustomed to the frigidity of New Yorkers, who usually greeted one another with expletives and anger.

Maya passed the post office, elementary school, high school, gymnastics, and ballet centers before she finally reached the diner. Maya’s mouth watered at the smell of grease and fried onions. She checked the time; she still had enough before the meeting.

Maya entered the diner and smiled nervously at the waitress, who refilled an older man’s coffee mug. “Grab a booth wherever, honey,” she said.

Maya sat by the window and studied the menu. It was exactly what she thought it would be, with grilled sandwiches, pancakes, egg platters, fries, burgers, and milkshakes. She imagined this was the meeting point for teenagers, as it wasn’t too expensive. The perfect date for a sixteen-year-old with a few dollars to his name.

Maya ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with tomatoes and a Diet Coke. When the waitress returned, she’d thrown in fries “on the house.” When she saw Maya’s expression, she laughed and said, “What’s that look about?”

“I’m sorry,” Maya said. “I came from New York. Nothing is free there.”

The waitress cackled. “I’ve never been to the city. I’ve heard it’s horrible.” With that, she whisked back toward the kitchen.

Maya realized she’d hardly fed herself a proper meal since Phoebe left. She was suddenly ravenously hungry, and she ate the grilled cheese quickly, trying her best to mop up the grease on her face with a napkin. The fries were delicious, crispy and home-cut. When she finished, she leaned against the cushion of the booth and gazed outside at the snowfall, feeling a tremendous sense of calm. She had the sudden desire to scrub Nick Collins from her mind. He would have made fun of this place; he would have said it was “too cute,” too stupid. But even though the Christmas decorations annoyed her, Maya was drawn to the town’s charm. Maybe, even if the inheritance didn’t come through, she could rent a little house here, write a book about food criticism, and wait for spring.

Mr. DeWitt was waiting for Maya in his office. He was seated at his desk with Veronica Albright’s will spread out before him, and he dotted his fingers together under his chin and leaned forward. He was probably around Maya’s age— fifty or so— and he had an intensity that probably worked well for him in court. Maya sat nervously and realized too late she’d left the office door open. The secretary wasn’t in, and there was no one in the lobby. It was probably okay.

“Thank you for meeting me today,” she said.

---