“1999” was etched onto a glass snowman with an ill-fitting top hat. I’d never forget that one. It was the Christmas we had to call the police out because my father had left the house after a terse exchange of words. He’d drunk too much whiskey and my mother had been worried once she saw the car had gone.
Turned out he’d driven two hundred meters down the road and passed out.
2001’s bauble was covered in green, glittering holly leaves—the first Christmas after my parents divorced. It was a particularly grueling Christmas because I’d stored up an unreasonable amount of hope that their separation might mean we could enjoy the holiday for once. It was the worst year I could remember. My mother had bought my father a gift but he hadn’t reciprocated, and to make matters worse, he’d muttered a comment about her not “getting him” under his breath. Things escalated to a point I spent the afternoon under my bed. Neither of them noticed until it was time for my father to leave.
“2008” caught my eye, painted on a large red bauble. I picked it out of its cardboard nest. That year, I’d spent Christmas day snorkeling with Griffin on the Ningaloo reef in Western Australia. I couldn’t believe I could be so fucking happy at Christmas. Each of the eighteen Christmases before that had been awful—the ones I’d been able to remember anyway, and no doubt the ones I couldn’t. 2008 was the year I’d realized I had to let go of any expectations I had about the holiday and just do whatever I wanted to do.
And so I had—until this year.
This year, I was surrounded by people whose belief in Christmas magic had never been corrupted by bickering parents and drunk driving and calls to the police. Here, no one dreamed of escaping their family at the holidays. While I likely wasn’t the only person in Snowsly with baggage, chances were good I was the only one without Christmas-themed china or festive pajamas.
All I could do now was stay strong in my convictions and not let the Snowsly Christmas fever throw me off course. I’d keep my expectations for the holiday as low as they ever were, thereby ensuring I wouldn’t be disappointed. My version of a happy holiday didn’t align with Snowsly’s—but I’d be gone before anyone had the chance to figure me out.
Four
Celia
Fingerless gloved hands on my hips, I surveyed the scene. The Christmas hut people had arrived before the misty sun rose. They’d unloaded the unassembled huts onto the village green to begin to build our gingerbread-meets-alpine-village-style market. I’d learned my lesson from last year when I had to make decisions in the dark about where all the huts should go. Yesterday I put neon markers on the ground. It was working, and the first hut was almost up and in perfect position. The day was off with a bang.
The frigid air drew ribbons of white breath around the four workmen and I shivered, getting colder just by looking at them. Coffees distributed, it was time to get to work.
I unzipped my long, padded coat from the bottom and pulled out a hammer from my toolbelt.
“Is that a . . . Christmas-themed toolbelt under your coat?”
I looked up to find Sebastian in front of me. What was it with men who could roll out of bed and look like . . . well, Sebastian? It just wasn’t fair. Suddenly a little self-conscious of the red and white candy canes sticking out of my hat, I straightened its headband.
“Well, it doesn’t fit over my coat.”
“Not my point. I’m interested in the fact that you have a specific toolbelt for Christmas. Or maybe Christmas is a year-long obsession for you?”
“Good morning to you, Sebastian,” I replied, painting on the biggest smile I could muster. I was developing a theory that Sebastian was pretending not to like Christmas. The way he’d taken control of the room yesterday when we were all spiraling with panic about the website was impressive and more than a little sexy. My dad always said you saw the heart of a person in times of crisis, and if that were true of yesterday, Sebastian was more complicated than he first appeared. He was grumpy, yes, but obviously cared enough about Christmas in Snowsly to help. “It’s so nice of you to be up so early.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss this,” he said, his sarcastic tone suggesting that here was the last place he wanted to be.
“You want a coffee? I have a flask and cups all set up on the trestle table. And I baked breakfast flapjacks with added cinnamon, which, if you squint, is almost healthy.”
“I’m fine. What can I help with?”
“Take your pick. There are twenty-three wood huts to build. And another two to pull out of my hat.”