by Meg Muldoon
She wasn’t alone. Marie was never alone. I swear, when she walked in a room, everyone within a mile knew it.
It was an old-fashioned kind of charisma that she had. She always had the right thing to say at the right time. And people loved listening to her talk.
Growing up, I had idolized Marie. Though she was rich, she never dressed like she was. She always dressed more like an 80s rock star rather than the wife of a wealthy jeweler. She wore black leather jackets with stilettos, and had a string of animal tattoos on her back that made her hands down the coolest gal in Christmas River anytime she came home to visit.
When I was a kid, she used to smuggle me teen magazines with the latest fashion trends and demo tapes of the hippest music coming out of the LA music scene. Unfortunately, I never really took to any of it. But whenever she blew into town, it seemed like my life got that much more exciting.
These days, she was older, but still had that youthful spirit about her. Her dreams of being a big star hadn’t panned out, but she didn’t seem to be bitter about it. And even though she had more wrinkles than she used to, she could still turn heads.
When I walked up, the group of old timers were laughing heartily around her. Some had tear streaks down their faces, like they’d been laughing for hours.
“There ya are, Cinnamon, hon,” she said, her face lighting up when she saw me. “That shop sure takes some hard work.”
“Sure does,” I said. “I hope you weren’t waiting here too long.”
She shook her empty glass, which, knowing Marie, had once been filled with rum and Diet Cherry Coke.
“Just finished number one,” she said. “So don’t feel sorry for me. Besides, I’ve got my friends here who’ve helped me pass the time.”
“Well, you ready to head over now?” I asked.
“You don’t want a drink first?” she said.
“Aw, I’m trying to cut back,” I said, patting my gut. “That wedding dress isn’t going to zip itself up.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that hon,” she said. “C’mon, live a little.”
She hailed Harold, and tapped the table, signaling two more.
“Marie…” I started saying.
“It’s the Thanksgiving holiday weekend for Chrissakes,” she said. “You’re supposed to enjoy yourself. And you, my dear, barely had any turkey dinner yesterday. You ought to treat yourself tonight.”
My willpower quickly evaporated under her sound logic.
“Well… make it a Wild Turkey for me, then,” I said, giving in.
“That’s my girl,” she said, grinning.
“You’re the devil, Marie, you know that?” I said, shaking my head.
“Believe me, you’re not the first to say it, honey,” she said, laughing.
Harold slid a neat whiskey my way, and a fresh rum and Coke hers. I had no choice but to take a seat next to her and drink what was in front of me.
She was right. It was the Thanksgiving holiday, and on top of that, it had been one of the longest days of the year at the pie shop. My feet were killing me, and the whiskey was promising a remedy.
The first sip hit my taste buds hard, and I made a face.
“Are you turning into a lightweight on me, Cin?” she said, knocking me lightly on the shoulder.
I shrugged.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” I said.
She chuckled and took a long sip from her rum cocktail, which was disappearing rather rapidly.
Marie was legendary for drinking just about anyone under the table while still being able to hold her liquor.
“So I’ve been meaning to ask, does this wedding mean you’re gonna go by Cinnamon Brightman from now on?” she asked.
“To be honest, I haven’t decided yet,” I said.
“Cinnamon Brightman,” she said, dragging each syllable out. “I think I like it. Sounds downright cheerful.”
“Well, the name Peters hasn’t ever let me down,” I said.
Marie’s straw hit air as she swallowed the last of her Coke. She cleared her throat and stared at the empty drink like she was contemplating whether or not to order another.
“So, Marie, how’s life treating you these days?”
In all the madness of Thanksgiving, Marie and I hadn’t really had a moment to talk about our lives. I was too busy cooking for what felt like all of Christmas River.
She rested her chin on her hand and sighed.
“Such a big question,” she said. “I’m not sure how to answer. Good, I guess? Maybe it’s not treating me as good as you. I don’t have a hunky Sheriff I’m getting hitched to or anything like that. But I do all right.”
She smiled faintly.
“Aw, don’t try and make me feel sorry for you now,” I said. “When I came in here, there were at least a dozen men listening to you talk. You’ve still got it Aunt Marie, and you know it.”
“Yes,” she said, looking off into the distance. “But where are they now? Those types never stay long, and I’m too old to go chasing them around anymore.”
She pushed her ice-filled glass across the counter.
“Besides, Victor’s a hard act to follow.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Even though it felt like he’d been gone a long time, Victor really hadn’t died all that long ago. I’m sure that for Marie, his passing still felt very fresh.
I finished the rest of my whiskey.
“C’mon,” she finally said. “It’s the holidays. I’m not going to mope around. Besides, there is one very special man in my life these days I haven’t told you about.”
“Oh?” I said.
We started standing up. I pulled out some dollar bills and placed them under the glasses.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s a little dangerous. Some might call him a rogue. And he’s got an affinity for wearing an eye patch.”
I shook my head and started laughing.
“He wouldn’t happen to live on the side of a bottle, would he?” I said.
She grinned.
“Why yes, yes he would,” she said, grabbing a hold of my arm. “Most people call him Captain Morgan, but he lets me call him Morg. He’s an old flame of mine, don’t you know. Me and Morg go way back.”
We threaded our way through the crowd. As we passed familiar faces, Marie was constantly stopped by old acquaintances. You would have thought Elizabeth Taylor herself had come back from the dead and made a special visit to the Pine Needle Tavern, the way people carried on. It took us 20 minutes to get out of the bar.
That was just Marie all over. She still had that spark, that bit of magic that drew people to her, some kind of electromagnetic energy that people found irresistible.
Growing up, I always wanted to be like her.
But watching her now, I knew that I never would be.
Chapter 6
I stood in line at the hot pretzel stand, glad that I’d had the whiskey earlier to help battle the cold.
The line was long and there was a blistering mountain wind running through the center of town. I’d come to the Christmas tree lighting ceremony armed with my trusty down jacket and fur lined boots, but they just didn’t stand up against the chill.
I rubbed my arms, wishing that old Mrs. Carrick would stop asking Leon Marston, the pretzel stand owner, so many questions so that I could just get Warren his annual pretzel and get back to the group before the tree was lit.
Warren took me to the festival every year when I was kid, and every year we’d share a ginger cinnamon sugar pretzel. It was our annual tradition, and nothing was going to get in the way of that. Not even subzero winds, or an old lady who liked to ask pointless questions.
I stamped my feet on the ground, trying to get the numbness out of my toes.
“Well, I’ll be,” somebody suddenly said from behind me in line.
My heart dropped.
I knew the voice right away.
And I wished to God that I didn’t.
&nb
sp; I thought a second about ignoring it, about adhering to the “hear-no-evil, see-no-evil” philosophy.
But I knew that that wouldn’t do.
It was a small town. The kind of place where you didn’t just ignore people. No matter how badly you wanted to.
Or how much they might deserve being ignored.
I took a deep breath and turned around.
When I saw him, I let out a disappointed grunt that I just couldn’t suppress.
The smug grin, the dishwater brown pepper-colored hair, the snowboarding jacket. The jeans and tan boots.
He still had those stupid boots.
“It’s been a while, Cin,” Evan said, his eyes crawling up and down me. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw you, girl.”
I wanted to vomit when he called me girl, but somehow I managed to keep it down.
“I remember,” I said, thinking back to the Gingerbread Junction two years ago, when he tried to get me back.
He smiled wryly.
I felt my stomach twinge in disgust.
I could say with certainty that Evan, my ex-husband, was a bad man.
Of course, I hadn’t figured that out until it was too late.
Until many years after I’d married him. Until he’d cheated on me with Bailey, my good friend and bakery assistant.
Just being in his presence now made my skin crawl more than a centipede.
“Well, anyway you look at it, it’s been far too long since we’ve seen each other,” he said.
I clicked my tongue against the top of my mouth.
“Not long enough for me.”
He laughed.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that. We had some good times together, didn’t we?”
“I heard that you moved away,” I said.
“I did,” he said. “After I broke up with Talia. But I’m back now. I just don’t belong in a city. You know me—I’m just a country boy at heart.”
Mrs. Carrick finally took her pretzel from Leon and the line moved up. I quickly followed, moving away from Evan.
But he didn’t take the hint.
“So, uh, I heard that Bailey’s little shop didn’t work out too well and that she left town,” he said.
I didn’t respond at first, surprised that he’d bring that up himself.
That he’d utter her name like that, like we were talking about a distant neighbor instead of his one-time mistress.
Like that name hadn’t wrecked all my hopes and dreams once.
He had a lot of nerve.
“What do you care?” I said.
I had been feeling generous over the summer, and after Bailey had asked me for help with her ailing pastry shop, I had done my best to give her some tips about how to keep it running. But it ended up being a hopeless matter. People just weren’t going into Wicked Pastry. And nothing was going to save her shop from sinking.
She finally closed the store in October, and last I heard, she’d moved to Missoula.
When she left, I had a strong feeling that I’d probably never see Bailey Jackson again. And that was perfectly A-Okay with me.
I had hoped the same thing about seeing Evan, but it looked like not all of my wishes were coming true this holiday season.
“Well, it didn’t surprise me to hear that her business folded,” he said. “I always knew your baking was better.”
My skin felt like it was trying to crawl to the other side of the plaza.
Marie suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
“Cin, what’s the hold-up here? Warren’s waiting on that—”
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw who I was talking to.
“Well, well, Aunt Marie,” Evan said, smiling and leaning back on his heels. “I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s life in the one percent?”
Marie narrowed her eyes at him.
“Don’t you talk to me, Evan,” she said, stepping forward aggressively. “Not after the fool you made of yourself with poor Cinnamon here…”
The line finally cleared in front of me, and I went up to Leon, quickly ordering a ginger cinnamon sugar pretzel. I pushed a few dollars across the counter, and he handed me a hot, fresh one wrapped in wax paper.
When I came back to get Marie, she was still ranting at Evan.
“C’mon, Marie,” I said, pulling at her arm with my free hand. “Warren’s waiting on this pretzel.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, giving Evan one more dirty look. “Your fiancé’s waiting for us too.”
“Fiancé?” Evan said, lifting his eyebrows and looking at me.
I nodded, pleased that Marie had dropped that little bomb on him.
“Who?” he asked.“That sorry excuse for a cop? What’s his name… Brightman?”
His face caved into a sour, disappointed expression.
“Yes,” I said. “Sheriff Daniel Brightman.”
A wonderful feeling of revenge coursed through me.
Evan stared back, speechless.
Maybe I had been wrong earlier when I had told Marie that she was the devil.
Maybe I was.
But it felt oh-so-good being the devil at the moment.
“You’ve been away from Christmas River a long time, Evan,” I said. “You’ve missed out on a lot.”
He struggled to speak, but he didn’t get a chance to say whatever he was going to say.
I was already walking away.
Chapter 7
Warren tore off a piece of the steaming pretzel, dipped the soft dough into the small container of melted butter, and chowed down.
He licked his fingers.
“It just gets better every year,” he said. “I don’t know how Leon does it.”
We stood by the railing that circled the large Christmas tree, which was still shrouded in darkness.
Each year, Christmas River’s Christmas tree seemed to get bigger and bigger. The city must have seen the size of the tree as an investment in tourism.
When I was just a kid and Warren would take me, the tree was only a meager 15 feet tall or so. A working man’s tree, Warren used to call it. And while the tree-lighting event had always been big for the locals who lived here, it had really exploded into an all-out tourist attraction over the past few years.
It used to bother me that the festival had become overrun by out-of-towners, but these days, it didn’t seem to matter so much. It felt more festive with so many people.
An icy breeze cut right through my down jacket, and I shivered.
“Sure is cold out here,’ I said, trying to zip it up farther than it would go. “After this, I’m going home, sitting by the fire and having a pint of that pumpkin ale of yours.”
“Doesn’t sound like such a bad plan,” Warren said. “I might just join you there.”
I clapped my gloved hands together, trying to warm them up.
“I wonder what’s taking that Marie so long,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “She’s going to miss the big moment if she doesn’t hurry back.”
After we had run into Evan, Marie had said she was going to the ladies’ room. She’d been gone a while.
I considered telling Warren about Evan showing up, but I decided to spare him from that knowledge. While I had been able to move past what Evan had done to me, Warren still held a grudge that burned as bright as the North Star on a clear winter’s night.
I knew that Evan didn’t stand a chance against Warren, but I would have rather avoided a spectacle at the annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony. Plus, Warren really needed to save his energy for his beer brewing endeavors.
I glanced over at the giant clock that counted down the minutes to when the tree would burst into lights. There was less than two minutes, and Marie wasn’t the only one I was worried about getting back in time.
I scanned the crowd, looking for that trademark cowboy hat. But I didn’t find it.
As sheriff, Daniel was working at this event. But he had promised to find us in time for the tree lighting.
It was just the tree lighting. It didn’t matter if he made it in time or not. Not really.
But I had hoped we would have been able to see it together. It seemed like good luck to me. The right way to start the Christmas season.
And it was important to start this season off right. More than most.
“I’m here, I’m here!”
Marie came up beside me, out of breath and flustered.
“There you are,” Warren said. “We were starting to get worried about you.”
“It’s just so unfair being a woman,” she babbled. “The line to the ladies’ room stretched all the way to Holly Street, while the men’s bathroom line was an in-and-out deal.”
“You’re just in time,” I said, nodding to the clock. “We’re down to less than a minute.”
I bit my lip, scanning the crowd once more for the cowboy hat.
“Where’s that hunky sheriff of yours?” Marie asked, noticing my worried expression.
“Beats me,” I said, trying to make light of it.
The crowd hushed as the clock wound down to the last 20 seconds. The last ten seconds, everybody counted out loud like it was New Year’s.
I let out a short sigh and tried not to let it get to me. I rested my arms on Warren and Marie, and stared up at the dark, looming tree.
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”
The tree exploded into bright reds, magentas, blues and greens. A round of oohs and ahhs rose up from the crowd, and everybody started clapping.
The city had really outdone itself this year: the tree was absolutely beautiful. Between the Whoville-esque lights and the dozens of giant glittery ornaments, I imagined it gave the Times Square Christmas tree a run for its money.
But even though I tried, I couldn’t enjoy the moment properly.
I found myself scanning the crowd again, trying to find Daniel.
But he was nowhere in sight.
I told myself that it didn’t matter.
Not really.
Chapter 8
“Sorry again that I missed it, Cin,” Daniel said, leaning down and retying the laces of his boots.
