*When Holiday opened her eyes the next morning, there was sufficient sunlight to see the cascade of pink ruffles surrounding her. She turned over on the sofa, which, despite all the tufting and tassels, had proved a cozy little bunk for the night.
The bed was rumpled, but empty. Francie was nowhere to be seen. Holiday checked the time: 7:12 a.m. As she sat up, the door opened, and Francie strolled in with two pottery mugs stacked precariously in one hand.
“Special delivery.” She handed a cup of coffee to Holiday. “Santa brought you caffeine.”
“God bless us, every one.” Holiday sipped the warm brew and felt her synapses spark to life. The sun filtering in through the lace curtains boded well for the weather. “I wonder if they’ve opened the bridge yet.”
A cursory check of her phone revealed no updates, either about the status of the bridge or her family. Frowning, Holiday dialed her sister and mother in succession—still to no avail.
“Okay, I’ve got to go.” Holiday threw the covers aside and stood. “My whole family has ghosted me, which really isn’t their style. I need to get on the road and figure out what the heck is happening.”
“Not so fast,” Francie said. “We promised we’d stop by Alex’s place, remember?”
“Eh, I remember.” Holiday rubbed the back of her neck, which had apparently gotten wedged amid the throw pillows at an awkward angle. “But I don’t want to.”
“Because there’s nothing going on between you two?”
“There’s either nothing going on or too much going on, and I don’t know how to deal with either scenario.” Holiday’s phone chimed, sparing her from any further interrogation. “Thank goodness—it’s my sister.” She pressed the phone to her ear. “Proof of life?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Nora shot back. “The bridge closed? A likely story.”
“It’s true! I have witnesses!”
“Yes, well, tell all your witnesses to prepare to be deposed when we put you on trial for blowing us off after all those empty promises. Mom is a formidable prosecutor.”
“I will be home by dinner,” Holiday vowed.
“Stop right there,” Nora commanded. “Can we not do this again? Instead of making unkeepable promises about where you’ll be and when, just take a breath, get yourself together, and come home at a reasonable pace when it’s safe to do so. How about that?”
“How mad is Mom?” Holiday asked.
“You know Mom. She’s not mad, just—”
Holiday cringed. “Disappointed?”
“Bingo.”
“Kill me now.”
“No need,” Nora trilled. “Mom will take care of that when you finally get over here.”
“Well, I can’t say I didn’t earn it.” Holiday took another sip of coffee. “And, Nora? Next time I swear up and down and left and right that I’m going to make it home for Christmas—”
“Tell you to shut your lying mouth?”
“Yeah. That’d be great.”
Nora laughed. “Will do. We’ll see you when we see you. And drive carefully.”
“Well, that was humiliating.” Holiday finished her coffee in a few quick gulps. “My New Year’s resolution is going to be to look at my life, look at my choices.”
“I did that last New Year’s,” Francie said. “That’s why I’m here. Snowed in on an island, about to spin-off a blind date. Here’s an idea—look at your life and your choices while you get dressed. Time’s a-wasting.” She paused, her coffee mug halfway to her mouth, as she noticed a small, gilt-framed cross-stitched peony tucked away in the corner. “Isn’t that beautiful? The stitches are so tiny, it almost looks like watercolor.”
Holiday hadn’t even noticed the piece due to the profusion of toile and pastels covering every inch of the walls. “It is beautiful.” She stepped closer to examine the piece. “It’d be a great gift for someone who likes cross-stitch pieces.” She tapped her fingernail on the gilt frame as inspiration struck. “Hey, when you went down to the lobby for coffee, was Michelina at the front desk?”
“I don’t know her name, but there was a lady with white hair and lots of jewelry.”
“That’s Michelina.” Holiday threw on a fluffy white robe, eased the cross-stich off the wall, and grabbed her wallet. “I’m going to go make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
“But what about breakfast?” Francie cried.
“I’ll be right back.” Holiday grabbed her cell phone, too, as she headed for the door. “Because it turns out, the Wish Granter is never truly off duty.”
She dialed the phone on her way down to the lobby. “Merry Christmas to my favorite small-town genealogist. Let me ask you a question, just out of curiosity . . . Did you ever find a great gift for your mom? No? Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m heading out of town as soon as possible, but I’ve got something for you before I go . . . I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Meet me at Alex’s house at eight o’clock.”
*
“Are we getting close?” Holiday asked as she and Francie slogged down the middle of the snowy road. “GPS says we’re getting close.”
“Okay, the address is 17 Spruce Street.” Francie peered at the houses, which were increasingly widely spaced as they approached the shoreline. “It would be helpful if everything wasn’t covered in snow.”
“Maybe it’s that driveway down there?” Holiday pointed out a mailbox in the distance.
“I can’t believe you haven’t been to Alex’s house yet.” Francie shot a sidelong glance at Holiday. “It sounds like you’ve been everywhere else with him.”
“Just New Hampshire.”
Francie smiled slyly. “In the olden days, that would mean you’re now engaged.”
“Thank you, Edith Wharton.” Holiday started brushing snow off the mailboxes to discover the addresses and realized that Alex must reside at the end of this long and winding driveway that disappeared behind a thick copse of pine trees. She took a tentative step off the main road. Her leg sank into the snow, which completely enveloped her knee-high leather boots. “Next time I come to Maine, I’m definitely bringing a snowsuit. With mitten clips and everything.”
Francie tromped into the snow right behind her. Luckily, there were two fresh tire tracks, which provided an easy trail to follow all the way to the front porch of the expansive house constructed of timber and rough-hewn logs. A small curlicue of smoke rose from the stone chimney, lacing the breeze with the slight smell of burning wood.
“So, the man basically lives in a ski lodge,” Francie observed. And indeed, Alex’s home, while rustic and welcoming, was undeniably large. Double walls of windows offered glimpses of the icy ocean on the opposite side of the house.
“The heating bills must be astronomical,” Holiday said. “But it’s lovely.”
“Hey!” Janine rounded the corner, jogging in an attempt to catch up. She’d traded in her customary flannel pants and high-tops for black pants, black boots, and a black mohair coat. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Francie. “Hi. Who are you?”
“Francine Penewate.” Francie offered a handshake and a dimpled smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“She’s the blind date from last night,” Holiday explained.
Janine took a moment to absorb this. “And now you two are both having breakfast at Alex’s house?”
“It didn’t work out,” Holiday said.
“Don’t be so hasty.” Francie fluffed her hair and announced, “Alex isn’t the right match for me, but I have high hopes for his brother.”
Janine turned to Holiday. “So what’s the big reveal? This better be good. I got up early on a holiday and dressed like a real person.”
“You sure did.” Holiday grinned. “What are you, the Noël Ninja?”
Janine flushed and adjusted her coat lapels. “I’ve never been to a multimillionaire’s house, but I figured you can’t go wrong with basic black.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Francie assured her.
“I look good,” Janine informed Holiday. “And ninja chic is what I’m going for. Always.”
Holiday reached into her purse and pulled out the framed cross-stitch, which she’d hastily wrapped in a few old pages of Michelina’s ledger.
“What’s this?” Janine regarded the package with open suspicion.
“A very thoughtful present from you to your mother.”
Janine untaped a corner of the wrapping with the precision of a seasoned gift-peeker. “Holy kittens, she’s going to love this.”
“I thought she might.” Holiday basked in the glow of a gift well given.
“No, seriously, she’s going to love it. And she never likes anything I give her.” Janine almost looked as though she might shed a tear.
“Until now.” Holiday’s excitement got the better of her. “And you know that cute little craft store next to the bakery? I saw a sign in the window—they’re offering some embroidery classes this spring. Maybe you could sign her up for a Mother’s Day gift.”
“Genius.”
“Maybe you could take the class with her!” Francie exclaimed.
Janine balked at this. “No offense, but you’ve never met my mother.”
“Well, if she raised a daughter like you, she must be . . .” Francie trailed off as she saw Janine’s expression. “I’ll just worry about Paul and leave your mother to you.”
Janine gave her a thumbs-up, then turned back to Holiday. “What do I owe you?”
Holiday recoiled at the very suggestion. “Nothing! You helped me hunt down Driscoll Davidson’s long-lost grandnephew”—she tried to remember the exact familial link—“or something. You drove me all over Maine and helped me find the best spot in town for the blind date. You dressed up like a real person to meet me here! I couldn’t have done any of this without you. A measly cross-stitched peony is the least that I can do.”
Janine started to protest, so Holiday conceded, “But if you insist, you can come to breakfast with us. It’s going to be awkward, but it’ll be slightly less awkward with you there.”
“All hail the Noël Ninja.” Janine tucked the package into her coat pocket.