by Tara Sivec
I press my hand tightly over my mouth to smother my giggles.
“Jesus, Mom!” Jason complains, and I hear the crash of a few more pots and pans.
“She seems very down-to-earth, unlike Millie, bless her heart,” Joy says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Do you know she asked me this morning if I didn’t own a Chanel bag because I was poor or if it was just a style choice?”
I hear them both chuckle, but not in a mean way. It warms my heart even more that these people, who by all accounts and purposes should be totally offended by ninety percent of the things that come out of Millie’s mouth, just find the humor in what she says and don’t take it personally. They’re such good people it makes me want to stay here forever and just surround myself in their goodness, instead of drowning in the vapidness of life in L.A.
God, what am I saying? Stay here forever? Calm down, freak. You’ve been here three days.
“She’s a strange one,” I hear Jason muse as I press the side of my body flat against the wall outside the kitchen and lean closer to the doorway.
“But Allie isn’t,” Joy adds.
“Doesn’t matter. They both live in Los Angeles, and this is bumfuck nowhere West Virginia, way on the other side of the country.”
Jason sounds a little sad when he says that, and I like that he sounds sad when he says that.
Seriously, Allie, you’ve known the guy three days. Three. Days. And not even three full days at that.
“I heard you got up at the ass-crack of dawn this morning and pulled Marcus Gibson out of bed just so he could open up the general store and you could buy a bag of those disgusting peppermint nougats, because someone who lives cleeear across the country has a hankering for them,” Joy says with amusement in her voice, the taste of one of those peppermints still fresh in my happy mouth when I smile to myself out in the hallway.
“Please don’t make a big thing out of this,” Jason begs.
“Have we met? Of course I’m going to make a big thing out of this. I don’t like that she told you Christmas depresses her. No one should be depressed at Christmas, and I just want to squeeze that pretty little thing and feed her Christmas cookies until she smiles,” Joy says, making my eyes get a little blurry with tears that I quickly blink away. “And remember, just because she lives in Los Angeles, that doesn’t mean it’s her home. Don’t be a dumbass.”
Joy ends that beautiful sentiment in the best way to stop me from blubbering like a baby.
“Oh, and there are condoms in the nightstand of every room, in case you just want a little slap and tickle, but I wouldn’t suggest that. Girls don’t like feeling used, and I raised you better than that. But I’m not an idiot, and I still don’t want a grandchild out of wedlock, please and thank you,” Joy adds, my stomach starting to hurt from keeping in my laughter.
“Why are you like this?” Jason mumbles.
“Seriously, do you want me to ask her out for you? I can do it in a really cute way I saw on Pinterest last—”
“Who are we listening to and what are they saying about me?”
It’s a damn good thing my hand was already covering my mouth to hold in my laughter or Millie’s whisper in my ear from over my shoulder would have had me letting out a blood-curdling scream and alerting Jason and Joy to my presence.
Whirling around to face her, I quickly grab onto her arms and walk her backward a few feet from the opening to the kitchen. I give her the fastest summary in history of what happened in the kitchen last night, as well as what I just overheard before she came up behind me.
“Oh, I thought this was going to be about the improv singing I did as a special treat last night during the intermission of the movies,” Millie says disappointedly. “But it’s fine, we can talk about you too. What’s the problem here? He’s cute, and he’s into you. Stop second-guessing everything and just ask yourself, what would Millie do?”
“I’m not really in the mood to roofie him, fly him to another country, or get any kind of farm animals involved,” I reply drolly.
“That was one time, it was an adorable alpaca, and you said you wouldn’t judge me!” Millie says with a stomp of her foot before crossing her arms in front of her.
“Just tell me what to do,” I beg.
“That’s not how this works. I’m not the Twats of Terror,” she reminds me. “I don’t get to tell you what to do with your life or how you should spend your time. That’s for you to decide, and you to decide alone. What do you want to do? And please say something along the lines of getting naked with that cute man who called you stunning, or all of this time we wasted not talking about me will have been for nothing.”
“Who’s getting naked?”
Millie and I both let out yelps of fright when we hear someone speak from behind us in the hallway. Spinning around, I see Jason’s dad standing there with a plate in his hand. I met John Redinger when I was chatting with Joy in the entryway after lunch for a few minutes yesterday, as he was rushing back outside into the blizzard to fix some faulty Christmas lights.
“Allie and your son might get naked, if she’d pull her head out of her ass,” Millie tells the older gentleman, which makes me blush from my head to my toes and bury my face in my hands.
“Super, as long as you aren’t going to sing again,” he tells her, which makes me bring my head back out of my hands as he thrusts the plate he’s holding at us. “We can’t have two awful things happening at the same time, and right now, this breakfast has to take top billing.”
“You’re a very honest, simple man,” Millie informs him, crossing her arms in front of her.
“And you can’t sing worth a shit,” he quips right back. “Focus! This is what my wife, God love her, is serving the guests this morning, since she seems to think she needs to do everything with the cook being out. I know the two of you are guests, but you’re from Los Angeles. My wife and daughter bitched at me up and down that I’m not allowed to make a thing out of you two being Hollywood people, but I don’t give a rat’s ass that you’re supposedly famous for nothing. You’ve probably been to some nice parties and had some nice food. This is not nice food. This is not even food.”
Figuring it can’t be that bad, since breakfast is the easiest meal of the day to make, I look down at the plate he’s holding and actually jerk back a little in revulsion.
“Is that guacamole?” I ask, pointing to a mushy green lump in the middle.
“I thought it was, but it tastes more like oatmeal she dyed green to be festive, with raisins, brown sugar, tomatoes, and onions,” he says, gagging a little when he lists the ingredients.
“I thought that was oatmeal,” Millie says, pointing to another green pile off to the side.
“Nope. That’s the festive scrambled eggs,” Mr. Redinger says with a wince.
“Why are they so… gummy?” I ask, grabbing his fork that was resting on the plate to stab at the gelatinous mess.
“I understand the festive green food, but I think the two pieces of coal on the plate are a little much and not at all appetizing to look at. Garnishes should be understated,” Millie huffs, pointing to two black charred items off to the side.
“Jason must be helping.” I laugh with a nod, assuming those must be two biscuits, and he probably got distracted when they were in the oven.
“People are going to protest. We’re in a code-red situation, ladies. Please tell me one of you knows how to cook. I already asked everyone else staying here and they all laughed at me. That’s why they come here. For someone else to cook for them over Christmas. Joy cannot cook for them. Joy shouldn’t cook for wild hogs,” he mutters, shaking his head as he stares down at the green plate of goo piles.
“How badly do you need help?” Millie asks Mr. Redinger, tapping one manicured finger against her chin thoughtfully.
This ought to be good. I don’t know what exactly she thinks she’s going to do to help. Up until yesterday, Millie thought cows were just a cute “mascot” for milk and didn’t kno
w it actually came from them.
“Is your eyesight as bad as your singing voice?” John asks, thrusting the plate up closer to Millie’s face, making me bite down on my lips to stop from laughing.
No one in Los Angeles would ever dare speak to Millie Chamberlin this way. She lets me get away with it, but that’s because she loves me. It’s the funniest damn thing I’ve seen in a long time.
“I’ll help, but that will cost you four live performances during intermission, starting tonight after Miracle on Rodeo Drive,” she informs him.
“It’s Miracle on 34th Street,” I correct her.
“You have your miracle streets; I have mine. Now,” she says, looking back at John. “Do we have a deal? Time is wasting, and your guests might start vomiting.”
John studies the plate in his hands a few minutes before he looks back at her.
“Two screeching cat performances, no longer than one minute each, and I get to choose the songs. Something Christmassy. No more of that hip-hop nonsense.”
“‘Truth Hurts’ by Lizzo is not nonsense; it’s an anthem,” she tells him. “But fine, I will accept your terms.”
With that, Millie grabs my arm and pulls me into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask, right as Jason and Joy look up at us as Millie drags me around to stand next to them in front of the stove.
“Solving everyone’s problem, duh,” Millie says with a roll of her eyes, glancing at John who comes up behind me, and then over to Jason and Joy who are both covered in food and sweat and look so frazzled they want to die. “Allie is a chef and would absolutely love to help you!”
“What?” I shout in confusion at the same time John and Joy start cheering and jumping up and down. “I’m not a chef!”
John and Joy aren’t even listening. Joy has already removed her apron, and she and John are racing out the door, thanking me and telling Jason to keep an eye on things as they go.
“You went to culinary school,” Millie argues once they’re gone.
“I went for two semesters! And then I dropped out, because….”
I stop before I can spit out the truth, but leave it to Millie to pick up right where I left off.
“Because your mom guilted you into following your sisters’ every move, making every decision for them, looking over every contract, interviewing every person who came in contact with them, running their staff, the household staff, the business staff, the social media staff, and the security staff,” she rambles, and I want to crawl into a hole in the ground when I can practically feel Jason’s eyes on me from where he still stands to my right. “For twelve years, you’ve pushed what you wanted aside to help them have good lives. You’re here for a reason, and that’s to get a life. You love to cook, and you wanted to be a chef once upon a time. So be a fucking chef.”
Giving me a smile and a wink, Millie turns and walks out of the kitchen. With a deep breath, I slowly turn around and face Jason. For some strange reason that I’m not going to analyze right now, all my embarrassment melts away when I see him standing there, looking at me with so much hope in his eyes, like a lost puppy, that it makes me want to laugh instead of feel weird that Millie admitted how pathetic I am in front of him.
“I don’t care if you only know how to make one thing. If it’s edible and won’t make people sick on sight, please make a shit-ton of it and never leave,” Jason begs, folding his hands together in prayer.
I laugh, wrapping my hands around his folded ones held up in between us.
“You’re in luck. I know how to make quite a lot of things, and they are all edible.”
“Holy shit, I could kiss you right now.” He laughs.
I don’t laugh. Which makes him stop laughing and realize what he just said. I’m still holding onto his hands held up between us, we’re both just standing here staring at each other, and his lips are right there in front of me.
His full, kissable lips.
“Kiss her or ask her out already!” Joy shouts from out in the hallway. “I’m exhausted and I want to go take a nap.”
“Then go take a nap, Jesus!” Jason shouts back as I drop my hands from on top of his and we both take a step back from each other, laughing at the ridiculous situation.
We hear Joy grumble and then stomp away.
“Would you care to join me for a Christmas movie this evening?” Jason asks.
“Are you just asking me because your mom told you to?” I smile.
He steps closer to me, and I have to tilt my head to look up at him.
“Not even a little bit,” he says seriously, his eyes moving down my face and staring at my mouth. “What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?”
I’m so busy calculating the distance between our faces—four inches—and how much I want to push up and press my mouth to his—a whole fuck of a lot—that it takes me a few seconds to realize he asked me a question.
“I… uh, I don’t have one,” I stutter, my head at war with wanting to kiss him and brief flashes of every childhood holiday memory I have.
He steps even closer until my fuzzy, Christmas-sock-covered toes are touching the tips of his work boots. I can feel the heat from his body and smell the soap on his skin, and it’s completely overwhelming me.
“I think you do; you just don’t want to tell me,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping up in an amused grin. “I know you’re feeling that Christmas spirit, Allie. You’re wearing fuzzy Christmas socks and you’re even offering to help cook during the Christmas rush when we’re down a person.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just want him to say my name again, but maybe moan it next time.
“Fine, St. Nicholas night,” I admit, tearing my eyes away from his mouth to cross my arms in front of me and stare down at my feet. “It’s silly. Not a lot of people know about it. It’s a Catholic thing, and my dad’s family was Catholic. Anyway, it was always the kickoff to the holiday season when I was little, putting our shoes out by the fireplace on the night of December fifth for St. Nicholas to fill, and it was my favorite.”
God, I haven’t thought about that in ages. I remember I used to sneak down a couple times throughout the night just to check on the shoes I’d left by the fireplace and see if they’d been filled yet.
I see Jason’s hand come between us and his fingers press under my chin, lifting my face back up until our eyes meet.
“It’s not silly,” he says in a low voice, dropping his hand. “It sounds fun. I’ve never heard of it, so thank you for sharing it with me.”
His words warm every inch of my body, and with the warmth from the oven that’s still on, I feel like I’m going to turn into a puddle in the middle of the floor. I like this guy. I more than like this guy, which is insane. I just met him. I’ve never felt an instant attraction or instant anything with any man.
“Sooo…” He clears his throat. “How about that movie tonight? I’ll even spring for popcorn, with extra butter.”
“I don’t know. Will it be Die Hard?” I joke.
“The question is, do you think it should be Die Hard?”
I shake my head at him with a huge grin on my face.
“Nice try. Still not answering that one.”
After a few minutes of chatting about what time he’ll “pick me up” for the movie, I finally shoo Jason out of the kitchen, telling him to go relax.
I spend the rest of the morning creating things in the kitchen and singing along to Christmas music, that damn Christmas spirit just wreaking havoc on me.
“I wouldn’t suggest a hostage situation.”
I’ve never heard such a loud cheer go through a house like it did earlier this evening right before dinner, when the first snowplow came through. While Millie went out with a group of people after dinner to check out the boutique, now that the road was clear and the snow had slowed to just a few gentle flurries, I stayed behind to help Joy clean up from dinner. It seemed only fair, considering I made the food and the mess that came
with all those dishes.
After I’d quickly fixed the breakfast disaster with a whole new batch of perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs, unburnt, homemade biscuits, and hash browns, I couldn’t stop there. In L.A., I rarely get to experiment with the food I love making—good, old fashioned comfort food, full of butter, fat, flavor, and happiness. I play around every once in a while when I have free time, but it’s not very much fun cooking for one person.
I made a few pans of baked cream cheese French toast casserole, and a couple pans of breakfast casserole, writing down reheating instructions for Joy for the following morning and taping them to each stack of pans before putting them in the fridge. When I finished with that, Joy came back and good-naturedly yelled at me for still being there and tried to push me out of the kitchen to go relax, so she could get started on lunch. I turned around and pushed her out instead when she asked me how long it took to cook a pot roast in the microwave.
Within an hour and a half, guests were raving about the grilled ham and cheese sandwiches on sourdough I put together, with homemade tomato basil soup. I was on such a high from all the compliments and requests for seconds that I went right ahead and made lasagna and homemade garlic bread for dinner.
Now, I’m walking along a freshly-shoveled walkway that leads from the back of The Redinger House to a big red barn about fifty yards away. The wind has finally stopped blowing, and the snow is gently falling all around me as I use the white lights lining the barn to guide my way. Since I was running behind this evening, instead of meeting Jason in the entryway like we’d originally planned, I asked Joy if she could let Jason know I’d just meet him over at the barn when I finished. Which she was only too happy to do, as well as put a good word in for her son.
“He’s been single for a long time. But not like, because he’s a weirdo or anything. He’s a catch! Gainfully employed, full medical and dental, clean bill of health at his last checkup, owns his own home, and quite the romantic. He’s just picky. And thinks about work more than dating. But not since you’ve been here! It’s a Christmas miracle. You are a Christmas miracle, Allie! Never leave!”
