Jingle
by Natalie Vivien
Synopsis:
Lily hates Christmas.
Last Christmas Eve, her cheating girlfriend Tasha left her. Ever since then, Lily's held a grudge against the holiday season.
But this Christmas Eve, while she's on her way to a family gathering in the mountains, Lily swerves on the wintry road to avoid hitting a black kitten--and crashes her car into an avalanche of snow.
So, carless, and with the kitten curled against her, Lily seeks shelter in a nearby cabin...and the woman who answers the door just might help her believe in holiday magic--and love--again.
This heartwarming holiday romance is approximately 7,000 words.
"Jingle"
© Natalie Vivien 2014
Rose and Star Press
First Edition
All rights reserved
No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Rose and Star Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials is illegal and directly harms the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“I hate Christmas.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t. Come on, Lily—you’re the Christmas crusader! Don’t you remember how excited you used to get about the cookies and the stockings? The—oh, how’s it go?” May pauses on the other end of the line, then sings off-key, “The brown paper packages tied up with string?”
“Ha!” I laugh sharply, jerking the steering wheel to avoid a fallen tree branch on the road. I blow an annoying strand of long black hair out of my face. “Quoting The Sound of Music, May? Not helping. That was Tasha’s favorite movie, you know.”
“Oh, God. Okay, I’ve had it. Enough with the Scrooge act. I’m sorry about what happened with Tasha, but that was a year ago, and you’re the one who started this tradition at the cabin—”
“Another fine example of my lack of foresight,” I mumble.
“—so when you get here, do me a favor, take a couple of deep breaths, and just try to be in the moment for long enough to enjoy a weekend with your family. Mom’s dying to tell you all about her new boyfriend Sam.”
“Sam?” I frown, squinting at the frosted window. “What happened to Henry?”
“He’s history, cheated with the next-door neighbor, Floozy Flo.”
“Floozy Flo?”
“Mom’s nickname, not mine. She caught old Henry sneaking out of Flo’s back door with his shirt on backwards. So she broke up with the guy then and there, blocked him from her Facebook page, too. I don’t even know how to block people from my Facebook page.”
“Me, either. Well…” My stomach twists into a knot as the tires skid slightly. “Good for Mom. I’m glad she’s moved on.”
“Yeah. I guess Sam used to be a ballroom dance instructor, so Mom’s been whirling around the living room since she flew in from Tampa. She seems really happy, Lily.”
Happy. My heart warms at the thought of our long-widowed mother finding love amongst the tropical-colored bungalows and palm trees of her Florida retirement village. She’s been alone for so long, ever since Dad died of a stroke when I was in my last year at NYU. Ten long years ago. Mom’s not the sort of person who copes well with loneliness. For her sake, I hope Sam the dancer treats her well, gives her a soft shoulder to lean on, a reason to smile when she wakes up every morning…
I draw in a shaky breath. “Tell her I can’t wait to hear about her new romance. I should be there in…” I flick my eyes to the dashboard clock. “Another hour? The roads are rough, so I can’t really predict—”
“Wait. Are you driving and talking on your cell? Lily, you should pull over—”
“You’re on speaker, May. Don’t worry. I’m always careful. You know that.” Maybe too careful, I think glumly, remembering the treacherous drive up this same mountain last year, with Tasha by my side. You drive like a grandma, Lily, she had said, sighing for the hundredth time as she scrolled through messages on her phone. We’d get there faster if we were walking.
Of course, her irritation about my driving was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. By the end of the annual Christmas get-together with my family, Tasha had broken up with me, having confessed, right after we made love on Christmas Eve, lying twined together beneath the skylight and the crisp, white stars, that she was in love with someone else.
His name, she had no qualms with telling me, was Alexander, and he was a lawyer, her co-worker, and he had promised Tasha that he was going to leave his wife of eleven years and marry her, instead.
I don’t know if he followed through with his promise.
I really, really don’t want to know.
I’ve been in deep freeze ever since that night—unfeeling, uncaring, detached from everyone and everything. Tasha took our dog Bennie with her when she moved out of our apartment. I cried more over the loss of him than I did over the loss of her, because Bennie never hurt me. In retrospect, he was there for me more than Tasha ever was. He used to curl up on the couch and watch Xena reruns with me while Tasha “worked” late at her office downtown.
God, I was so stupid… Why on Earth would a paralegal be required to work until eleven o’clock at night? Tasha had mumbled some story about the office going paperless, forcing her to pull long hours inputting old data into the network. But the truth is…she and Alexander were having sex. In his office. On his desk. She very gleefully illuminated me on that subject during our last in-person conversation, when she came to the apartment to pick up her CDs and clothes. Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed to take a smug sort of satisfaction from the pain in my eyes.
I should have listened to May. She had only spoken with Tasha a handful of times, but she told me outright, from the start, that she didn’t like her, didn’t trust her. She even discouraged me from bringing her to the cabin last Christmas. I just have a bad feeling, Lily…
Turns out my big sister really is wiser than me—a fact she’s been trying to convince me of, more or less, ever since I was born. And she’s right about my attitude toward Christmas, too. I don’t hate it, not really. I hate the memories that I associate with the holiday, and I don’t know how to detangle my heartache from the silver tinsel and those festive strings of lights.
I want to feel merry again. Honestly, I do. I want to revel in the music and the shopping and the snowflakes melting on my tongue…
But right now, that’s all so far out of reach that I would be less surprised to spy Santa Claus and his reindeer in the sky than to find myself humming along with Jingle Bells on the radio.
Oh, God, Jingle Bells is on the radio. I had purposefully chosen a station that eschewed the requisite holiday playlist, but it’s Christmas Eve. I guess, for the advertisers’ sake, they had no choice but to give in to what the listeners want to hear.
Not this listener, though.
I quickly turn the knob, pausing on the weather station, though the reception is poor.
—temperatures expected to drop below zero. It’s going to be a very, very white Christmas, folks, the meteorologist says through the static. My recommendation? Cozy up with your special someone and stay nice and toasty indoors. Light the fire. Roast some chestnuts. Baby, it’s cold outside!
“Did you bring the ‘nog?”
May’s question startles me. I’d almost forgotten she was still on the line. “Oh, yeah, I got the last carton from the grocery store. Did you bring the booze?”
My sister laughs. “Of course. What kind of party would this be without some Ch
ristmas spirits? I brought the turkey, too, and Aunt Trish brought the Tofurky for you—”
“Bless Aunt Trish.”
“Let’s see, what else… The cupboards are stocked with Mom’s homemade cookies and a sickening amount of junk food. I expect you’ve got some chocolate stowed in your suitcase, hmm?”
“Tons.”
“Awesome. Luke and Lindsay brought candy-cane flavored soda and, like, five different pies.”
My stomach growls at the mention of pie. I haven’t eaten anything all day; I was too anxious about the snowy drive…and about reliving the trauma of last December.
But that’s something positive to focus in on: pie. I’m sure Luke and Lindsay wouldn’t mind me digging into the apple pie just a little bit early… Hell, I might eat the whole thing tonight, in pathetic defiance of Tasha and her strict no-sugar diet.
“Hey, seriously, though,” May says, serious now, “be careful. Mark’s been watching The Weather Channel, and they’re predicting ten inches on the mountain before morning. I really wish you’d driven in yesterday, like we did.”
“I couldn’t abandon Lucy to the Christmas rush.” My best friend Lucy Banner and I own and operate a chocolate shop, L & L Sweets, in downtown Rochester, and the Christmas season is one of our busiest, second only to Valentine’s Day. “We were swamped with last-minute shoppers; we ran out of gift boxes at noon. By the time we closed, the place was so ransacked, it looked as if we’d been robbed.”
“Bet you raked in the green, then.”
“Yeah. But we’ll be working like Oompa Loompas to make new stock for the shelves before we reopen on Tuesday morning.”
“Oh, Lily, stop it with the glass half-empty stuff already. You love chocolate-making. And deadlines.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I sigh, gripping the wheel so hard that my knuckles begin to ache. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, May, but I’m trying to get through this. I swear, I am. It’s just…”
“I know, honey. And I don’t mean to be hard on you. I hate to know you’re suffering, though. That two-timer didn’t deserve you, and she isn’t worth a second’s thought. Try to focus on the good memories, Lily, not the bad ones. Hey, remember that time Dad spelled out our names in Christmas lights on the roof?”
I smile faintly. “Yeah.”
“And remember the Christmas morning when you got the life-size Barbie car?”
“I was so mad!” I laugh. “I wanted the G.I. Joe one. God, I could be a brat, couldn’t I?”
“You were no worse than me. I threw a fit when ‘Santa’ brought me the wrong Care Bear—which he surreptitiously replaced with the right Care Bear the very next day. Thanks, Mom,” May calls out, chuckling softly. “I still have that bear, you know. Mark thinks it’s creepy, but I keep it on our bed, along with the quilted pillow you made in Home Ec class.”
“You’re a sentimental sap,” I tell her in a fond, though distracted, tone. It’s fully dark now, and the effect of the headlights beaming into the rushing snow is making me dizzy. I feel like I’m hurtling into deep space…
“Listen, I’d better let you go,” May says. “You need to concentrate on the road. Just take it slow, all right? I’ve got my phone on me, so give me a call if you run into any trouble. Watch out for unidentified flying reindeer.”
“I will. See you in an hour or so, May.”
“With a big, cheesy, holiday-spirit smile on, right?”
I smirk. “I’ll work on that.”
“Start practicing now. Bye, Lily.”
“Bye.” I pick up my cell from the passenger seat and cut off the call, then drop the phone into the empty cup holder. I didn’t want to mention it and alarm my sister, but the snow is falling heavily now; big, fluffy flakes assault the windshield, buffeted in all directions by the sharp, cold wind. I’ve never been a nervous winter driver; I grew up in an area where lake-effect snowstorms were pretty common, and I earned my driver’s license on an icy, snow-covered road. But I do have a fear of heights, and at this elevation on the mountain, my heart would be beating double-time with or without the presence of an ambitious blizzard.
I try to follow May’s advice. Deep breaths, Lily. Deep breaths…
It was my brainchild, after all, to hold the family Christmas celebrations at the cabin, so I only have myself to blame for this acrophobic predicament. Mom and Dad bought the cabin—a simple but cozy log shack at the time—before May or I were born, intending to use it as a romantic getaway from the city. Over the years, as our family grew, Dad added more rooms to the original floor plan; now it spans 2,000 square feet, with two stories and five bedrooms and a finished basement/entertainment room, complete with a wall-sized movie screen.
After Dad died, the cabin sat unused until I came up with the idea of holding Yuletide family reunions there. We’ve spent our Christmases up on the mountain ever since, enjoying hot egg nog and fresh-from-the-oven cookies in our own private winter wonderland. With Mom in Florida, May in Ohio, and Aunt Trish and Luke and Lindsay in Maine, it’s the only time all year that the whole family comes together.
It’s special. Important.
So I’ve just got to suck up my sadness and come to terms with the fact that, yes, my girlfriend broke up with me last Christmas Eve—exactly one year ago today—but that doesn’t mean that every Christmas Eve from now on should be marred as the anniversary of her betrayal. It doesn’t mean that the holiday season is forever ruined for me. Not even close. It just means that I’ve got some hard stuff to work through and that, in the meantime, I need to remind myself to be grateful for my awesome, crazy, always-there-for-me family, my supportive friends, and my thriving chocolate shop, which is, after all, my dream come true.
When I was six years old, after my five-hundredth (or so) viewing of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, I dreamed that I, like Willy Wonka, invented my own chocolate formula and became a famous chocolatemaker, renowned the world over for my super-secret recipe. I never forgot that dream. After I graduated from college, I enrolled in culinary school, with a focus on pastry arts, and then teamed up with Lucy—fresh out of grad school with her Master’s in Business—to open L & L Sweets. Our chocolates may not be world-famous yet, but we were voted as the number-one chocolatiers in upstate New York by a national pastry magazine, so we’re well on our way to international chocolate stardom.
All in all, life is good. Granted, I come home to an empty apartment every night, but I haven’t made a single attempt to date anyone since Tasha broke up with me—despite the fact that May and Lucy keep encouraging me to register for one of those dating websites.
I’m just not ready.
And I have to believe that I’ll know when I am.
Suddenly, the rear tires swerve unexpectedly; cursing, I turn into the swerve, stomping down on my reflexive urge to slam on the brakes. After several seconds of silent, slipping-and-sliding terror, I manage to right the car and release the breath I’d been holding, but my chest feels too tight. Relax, Lily. Normally, I’d turn on the radio to calm my nerves, but the weather report will only amp up my anxiety, and Christmas carols might push me over the edge…
So I chug along at ten miles per hour, tense, leaning forward and squinting through the thick whirling snowflakes at the barely visible road. There are no other cars out tonight; I don’t think I’ve seen a living soul for half an hour, at least. Apparently, I’m the only person crazy enough to brave this storm.
A minute passes, two, without any further incident, so my shoulders ease back hesitantly, and I start to inhale and exhale at a more natural pace. I should reach the cabin in forty-five minutes, maybe less. Just think about pie. Pie, pie, hot apple pie—
“Oh, my God!”
I turn the wheel hard, and the world goes white: I’m caught in a spinning, endless vortex of white. I’m keenly aware of the nearby embankment but have lost all control of the car. Nothing I do seems to affect this skid, and I think, This is it. This is the end. Unaccountably, something my father once
said comes back to me, something I’d forgotten about until now: Lil, if you’re ever scared, really, really scared, sing the first song that comes to mind. Just sing and sing until you lose your voice, if you have to. Sing until you forget about being afraid.
Somehow, I don’t think this is the sort of fear that you can forget, but I sing, anyway, and the first song that comes to mind is, horrifyingly enough, Jingle Bells. “Dashing through the snow,” I whisper, my mouth as dry as sandpaper, my tongue thick and heavy in my mouth, “in a one-horse open sleigh…”
I don’t get any further than that, because the nose of my car rams into a massive snow bank, ten feet tall—probably the result of a past road plowing. The impact is hard, jarring, but not painful; I feel my seatbelt tighten against my chest as my neck jerks forward and I collide with the airbag.
For a still, slow moment, my head feels as if it’s full of glass, and I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—
I draw in a loud, hacking gulp of air.
And I open my eyes.
And, immediately, I remember the kitten.
It had just appeared, right there in the middle of the road—a perfect ball of black on the undulating white landscape. I don’t know how I knew with such certainty what it was; it might have been a crow, or a rock, or a discarded soda can. But, no—no, it was a black kitten. Small. So small. I saw its eyes glow in my headlights. I saw it open its mouth, as if to meow—or scream.
And that’s when I turned the wheel and careened out of control.
If Tasha were here, she would be berating me right now for risking my life for the life of an animal. I still remember the time that I swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel while she was in the passenger seat; she didn’t speak to me for three days, she was so furious with me. Furious, too, that I refused to apologize, that I insisted it had been the right thing to do, the only choice.
Just as avoiding that kitten had been my only choice.
I make a hasty inspection of my limbs and bones: nothing feels bruised or broken. Okay, next step. I test my car’s starter. No response. I take another deep breath and then turn the key again. Still, silence.
Jingle Page 1
