by Becky Monson
I was going home.
CHAPTER TWO
I was home.
Thanks to the last-minute booking, I had to sit between a man who snored and a woman with a baby who cried intermittently throughout the entire red-eye flight. After, I picked up a rental car and drove the four hours from Nashville to Christmas Falls. If it hadn’t been for energy drinks, I'm not sure I would have survived the drive.
As a kid, I’d always dreamed of staying in the bed and breakfast near Main Street. Poinsettia Cottage, owned by Randall and Betty Curtis, was one of the quaintest things I’d ever seen. The Curtises, long-time residents of Christmas Falls, lived in the two-story structure and rented out the remaining four bedrooms after their youngest daughter left for college. I was thrilled when they told me they had a room available, and even more thrilled to receive a discount for staying for more than one week.
Upon my arrival, Mrs. Curtis was fussing over some poinsettias in the front room. The cottage was decked from top to bottom in Christmas décor, and the house smelled of cinnamon and apples. It was cozy, warm and welcoming, and, in a word, heavenly. Nothing like the massive hotels in San Francisco. Even the quainter lodgings out there had nothing on this place.
“Welcome,” Mrs. Curtis said when she saw me.
“Hi, Mrs. Curtis,” I said, the thrill of being here racing through me.
She looked at me oddly, like she was trying to place me. Since I knew her name, she must have wondered if she knew me. I figured she wouldn’t know me because I hadn’t spent any time with her when I lived in Christmas Falls before. Her children were older than me—her youngest, Ruby, was two years my senior—so there wasn’t much of a reason for us to be acquainted. I knew of her only because I had always wanted to stay here. I explained as much to her after I introduced myself.
“Oh, well aren’t we lucky to have you.” She gave me a little wink. Her hair was mostly gray and short, and she wore one of those bright Christmas sweaters with reindeer on them and some of those polyester pants with the elastic waist that were all the rage among the older people in this town. There was something about comfort as you aged—like fashion, with all its constricting zippers and buttons and hem lines, just wasn’t important anymore. I looked forward to that time, even though I currently loved everything about fashion.
Mrs. Curtis checked me in, handed me my key, and gave me a quick tour of the cottage before taking me to my room and leaving me to get settled.
The room was beautiful. A large, four-poster bed took over most of the space, with a poinsettia bedspread covering it. To the left of the bed hung a flat screen television over a mantle, which was above what looked like an old-fashioned wood burning stove. On one side of the bed was a nightstand with a digital clock, and a dark green upholstered arm chair that looked worn and welcoming.
After putting my toiletries in the small but clean bathroom and unpacking my clothes into the dark armoire that was against the wall across from the bed, I decided I would venture out to the downtown area of Christmas Falls. I was so full of anticipation, my heart felt like it was going to burst. I was hopeful that the spirit of the season Christmas Falls was so well known for would still be there.
And hopefully I would see some familiar faces. Maybe I would even run into some of my friends—the girls I used to hang out with when I lived here. Ashley, Piper, Lexi, Morgan, Caitlin, and Olivia. My little gang, as I used to refer to them. I wanted to know what happened to all of them. What they were doing with their lives. Was Caitlin still playing the piano? Was grown-up Morgan still wearing the silly headband she almost always wore back in high school? Was Olivia still working the pageant scene? Was Lexi still living here? Was Ashley still pulling crazy pranks? And then there was Piper. Oh, how I wanted to know how she was.
But I didn’t know if any of them were even in Christmas Falls. I’d never responded to Miss Anna Cate before I left; I didn’t have time to. My plan was to pay her a visit, maybe later today. Until I saw her, I had no idea who else was coming, no idea if I would be the only one to show up . . . I may not have thought this through completely.
But now that I was here, I knew I’d made the right decision, even if I did end up being the only one to show up. Christmas Falls had not changed much. From the architecture and landscaping to the decor, it was like I’d stepped back in time. Dasher’s Diner was still there, and so was Holly’s Café. The bookstore, the floral shop, the antique store Caitlin’s parents once owned and probably still did—it was all there.
Only a couple of differences caught my eye. One thing in particular were signs with “Kevin O’Malley for Mayor” that seemed like they were everywhere—on some of the storefronts, the trees, and the lampposts. And they looked new. Why would anyone be campaigning at Christmastime, and least of all Kevin O’Malley? That guy was the worst kind of person back in high school. A total jerk. Especially with the rumors he spread about Lexi. Rumors I never believed.
I also noticed a couple of different storefronts on Main Street. One of the stores—an old salon that used to be owned by a woman named Coraline—looked like it was now being redone. It had a “coming soon” sign for another salon and also a furniture store? I laughed when I saw that. In most towns this would be odd, but not in Christmas Falls. There was so much character in this place.
If anything, the Christmas spirit had grown even more in the quaint town. They now piped holiday music onto the street, and every square inch of the buildings on Main Street was covered with holiday lights. I couldn’t wait to see it all at night. When I lived here before, Christmas Falls—because of its name—always had an air of the holidays no matter what time of year it was. But during the season, they went all out. That was definitely still the case.
The first familiar face I saw was Mr. Wilson, the feed store owner. His hair—crazy, white, and standing up all over his head—was unchanged from the last time I’d seen him eight years ago. He always did look like a mad scientist. My heart thrilled at the sight of him. He was still here, still doing the same thing in Christmas Falls. I waved at him, quite obnoxiously, and he squinted his eyes at me like he had no idea who I was. He always was a crotchety old thing; I didn’t really expect him to remember me.
I continued my perusal of Main Street. Seeing the lit-up, carefully manicured potted bushes that dotted the street, and the care that was put into the exterior of the town, it felt so right to be here. Nothing like the streets of downtown San Francisco, with all the people just trying to get from one place to the next. There were no smiley greetings, no nods of acknowledgment. But here, everyone was smiling, minus Mr. Wilson, but that was always the case. It felt like home. And it felt like Christmas.
I couldn’t remember a time since I left here when the holidays had felt this festive. It was never like this in Phoenix. Not with the palm trees, the sand, and the rock gardens. Not to mention the weather was always in the 60s. Sure, my parents decorated the house to the brim—giving even Clark Griswold a run for his money—even so, it never felt like Christmas there. Here in the Falls, I felt Christmas all around me.
My first stop was the bakery inside the grocery store, where I’d worked both during the school year and on summer vacations while I was in high school. My favorite thing in the whole world, still to this day, was one of Mrs. Mitchem’s sugar cookies. I had never had other cookies like them since leaving here, and I’d been to some famous bakeries in Northern California. But none of them held a candle to Mrs. Mitchem’s.
I walked toward the store with a hop in my step. I could feel adrenaline pulsing through me. I was in Christmas Falls where I belonged. I had made the right choice coming here, I could feel it in my bones.
The door to the quaint grocery store opened with a jingle—the same bells that had hung around the inside of the handle were still there. Their clinging and clanging filled me with melancholy, bringing back memories of working here and coming here with my friends.
And the smell! The smell of the yeasty bread and other baked goods
wafted through the open door, and it was like I’d never left. I could almost see Piper coming through these doors and heading straight back to the bakery to hang out with me while I worked—back when things were right between us, before everything went wrong. I could picture Andy, my best guy friend at the time, trying to steal cookies when I wasn’t looking. So many memories in this store. So many heartwarming, wonderful memories. Some I had forgotten about, and some that had stayed with me all this time.
I walked to the back, up to the bakery counter, and dinged the bell that had been sitting on that counter since before I worked there. Around the corner, from where the pantry was, came Barbara Mitchem, looking exactly the same. Her hair was up in the same perfectly coiffed bun; and she was wearing one of her signature aprons. This one had a ruffle around the bottom and purple and yellow butterflies dancing across the print. Her face was round and there may have been a few extra wrinkles, but her smile was just as welcoming as it always had been. I couldn’t wait for her to see me. I couldn’t wait for the reunion that was about to happen.
“Can I help you?” she asked as she approached me, the large bakery display case separating us.
“Hi!” I practically squealed. I sounded like a cross between a drowning pig and a duck.
“Hi,” she said back, her face blank, no recognition in her eyes.
“It’s me,” I said, holding my hands out to present myself.
“Well, hello you,” she said, giving me a wink.
“Mrs. Mitchem?” I asked, my head tilting slightly to the side, hoping to possibly jog her memory a bit. She had to remember me. I’d spent hours with this lady every day. While Miss Anna Cate was my mentor and favorite teacher, Mrs. Mitchem had been like a second mom to me.
“Can I help you?” she asked again. I blinked. She blinked back.
Disappointment swirled in my belly. I had pictured a very different scenario than what was happening. I’d figure there would be some hugging, probably a dash of joyous laughter (it was the holidays, after all), and maybe even a few tears in my mind’s-eye version of how this was supposed to go down. Instead, there were a few awkward head bobs, an ever-growing awkward smile from Mrs. Mitchem, and me standing there not knowing what to say.
“Oh, I remember!” Mrs. Mitchem said, her eyes now sparkling with recognition. She remembered me! “You’re here for the cake!”
“I—”
“Hold on a second, I have it in the walk-in.” And with that, she about-faced and walked back to the large walk-in cooler.
“Mrs. Mitchem, I—”
“Hold on dear, I can’t hear you back here,” she said loudly. I watched the top of Mrs. Mitchem’s head over the large baking racks as she walked into the cooler.
It wasn’t long before she came back with a half-sheet sized cake box and promptly placed it into my arms—which apparently looked to be awaiting the cake, when in reality I was just standing there dumbfounded.
“I, uh,” I stammered as I looked down at the cake. The base frosting was white, and the whimsical swirling border was done in red. In the center, a Christmas tree had been hand drawn with icing, and round balls serving as ornaments were in bright colors of red, green, and yellow. To fill in the other space, there were red poinsettia flowers and small white gardenias, all made out of frosting. The words “Merry Christmas” were written in perfect cursive to the left of the tree.
I stared at it and my mouth literally watered. Mrs. Mitchem made the best sugar cookies I had ever had, and her cakes came in second, in my book.
I looked back up at her, the cake still in hand.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, probably due to the look of utter confusion on my face . . . mixed with a little drool.
“This isn’t my cake,” I said, handing the cake back to her.
“Oh no, oh dear,” she fussed. “Did I make the wrong cake again?” She took the cake from me, her eyebrows knitted together with concern.
“No, it’s not that, the cake is beautiful. I just never ordered a cake.”
“Oh,” she said, placing the cake on the top of the display counter. “Well, then, what can I help you with?” she asked me once again.
I let out a breath. This was so not going like I had envisioned. “Mrs. Mitchem, it’s me,” I said, pointing to myself. “London Walsh.”
“London Walsh?” she asked, a look of shock on her face as she looked my face over, even leaning in to get a better view. “My London Walsh?” she asked, now pointing to herself.
“Yes,” I said, delighted. “It’s me, Mrs. Mitchem.”
She just stared at me. “But my London Walsh had black hair.” She eyed me, as if trying to find the missing pieces to a puzzle.
“Well, yes, my hair is a little lighter,” I said, reaching up and twirling my finger through my golden-brown hair with the caramel blonde highlights.
“And your makeup,” she said, still taking in my face.
“Yeah, I stopped doing all that black eyeliner and smoky look a long time ago,” I said. My brown eyes were now highlighted by neutral colored eyeshadow and mascara. Also gone was the fake nose ring (my mom wouldn’t let me get a real one), and the black fingernail polish.
“And . . . and your clothes?” She gestured with her hand at my outfit.
Yes, gone were the ripped up black jeans, the dark colored tee-shirts, and the Converse I’d worn nearly every day of high school. I’d gotten rid of that stuff a long time ago. I was currently wearing something a lot more girly—light colored skinny jeans, a white pea-coat covering a long violet tunic sweater, and high-heeled, knee-high brown leather boots.
She looked me over again, coming back to my eyes as she took me in. As if with magic, her scrunched up face of confusion morphed into one of pure delight. She recognized me.
“Well, oh my goodness, London Walsh! My London,” she said, finally seeing me. She reached for me and pulled me into a huge hug, rocking me back and forth as we both laughed. When we pulled away, I could have sworn she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
Now that was more like it.
“Tell me how you’re doing. Tell me everything! What have you been up to these past . . .” she cut herself off as she appeared to be doing some calculating in hear head.
“Eight years,” I said, helping her add up the years.
“Eight years . . . my goodness. That’s a long time. Why haven’t you come back to see me before now?”
I shook my head. “You know, I always wanted to come back, I could just never make it with my family in Phoenix and my job in San Francisco.” The truth was I never even tried. I should have tried harder.
“You work in San Francisco?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement. She ushered me to the back of the kitchen, where she was currently frosting another cake, so we could catch up.
I filled her in on the past eight years of my life. Leaving out some of my bigger failings—never feeling settled, going through five different jobs, my parents’ impending divorce. I knew I could tell her all of these things, but at the moment I wanted her to be proud of me, even if there wasn’t much to be proud of.
“Are you still takin’ those picture thingies?” she asked.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Still taking the picture thingies.”
Back in high school I’d started taking pictures of pretty things, like flowers, butterflies, or beautiful landscapes, and then I’d put them in Photoshop and “goth them all up” as my mom used to say. I’d change the colors to deep hues of purple, black, and blue, and added overlays that were dark and gave them an air of mystery, and I suppose a little . . . goth. They were my teenage expression of how I felt about the world, or so I would tell people. Really, I just liked the art part of it all. To take something bright and cheerful and turn it into something that was moody and brooding but still beautiful in its own way, had been a great outlet for me. And it still was. So much so that I sold prints on Etsy, although I’d yet to really turn a profit. So far, I’d just made a sale here and th
ere to cover costs.
“So, what brings you to Christmas Falls?” she asked.
“Miss Anna Cate,” I said, and by the look of her crestfallen eyes, I knew right away she was well aware of the situation. I’m sure everyone knew—word got around in this small town.
“How are the other girls?” she asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.
I smiled, probably sheepishly. “You know, I don’t really know.”
“What?” she looked completely taken aback. “But you all were thick as thieves, the best of friends. What happened?”
“We just sort of fell away from each other, I guess.” I gave her one small shrug.
“Well, at least you and Piper are still friends,” she said.
“Actually, no,” I said simply.
“Not even you and Piper?” She tsked at the blob of icing that she dropped on the cake she was decorating and at the truth bomb I’d just blasted.
“I haven’t seen or heard from Piper in eight years,” I said. And even though it had been so long, a pang of sadness ran through me, settling in my lower belly. Out of all those girls—Ashley, Lexi, Morgan, Caitlin, and Olivia—I was closest with Piper. But then it had all gone wrong. I had a lot of regrets in my life, but losing her friendship was the biggest.
“Well now, that’s just sad,” said Mrs. Mitchem. She’d grabbed a small flat knife and scooped her frosting mistake right off the cake and replaced it with a perfectly piped round ball. If only I could wipe away past mistakes as easily as that.
We chatted more and she even let me decorate a few sugar cookies, just like old times. I still remembered how to frost them the way she liked. Not like I could forget. I had probably frosted thousands of them during my time in this kitchen.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said as she handed me a brown box full of sugar cookies. I planned to take them back to my room at the cottage and eat until I was sick.
I walked out of the grocery store feeling happy, warm, and wonderful all around. My reunion with Mrs. Mitchem may not have started out like I had envisioned, but it ended even better than I could have hoped.
