The three of them made it up the front steps, which had been freshly salted and sanded, and stomped across the porch floor in a vain attempt to shake the snow from their boots. Holiday could feel the snow melting into her jeans. Rivulets of ice snaked down the insides of her boots. As she raised her finger to ring the doorbell, Francie stopped her with a hand on Holiday’s sleeve.
“Shhh. Do you hear that?” Francie whispered.
They stilled and listened to the strains of music coming from within. Every few seconds, the music was punctuated by what sounded like raucous laughter.
“Is he having a party in there?” Janine murmured.
“At this hour of the morning? Maybe he just invited a bunch of people over after the wine bar last night and kept going with the mulled wine,” Francie theorized.
“His entire staff from Boston could be chilling by the fireplace,” Janine said.
“No, they can’t,” Francie countered. “The bridge was closed all night.”
“We’re about to find out.” Holiday took charge and rang the bell. “And let’s look on the bright side—I bet he’s got the pantry stocked with really excellent snacks.”
After waiting for at least thirty seconds for Alex to answer the door, Holiday rang again. “I’m counting to ten, and then I’m out of here,” she told her companions. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
The massive front door swung inward, revealing a petite woman with silver-streaked blond hair and sweater completely covered in copper sequins. “Good morning. Come in, come in.” She stepped back and beckoned Holiday, Janine, and Francie into a foyer featuring a soaring ceiling crisscrossed with lumber beams and a massive wrought-iron light fixture. “You must be Holiday, and you’re Francie, right?”
“Right on both counts,” Francie confirmed.
“This is Janine.” Holiday dragged Janine to the fore.
“I’m the librarian,” Janine said.
“Welcome. I’m Grace, Alex and Paul’s mom.” The woman gestured to a pile of wet boots resting on a two-tiered wooden rack as she closed the door. “Kick off your shoes and come on in.”
The party atmosphere was in full effect—Ella Fitzgerald’s “Winter Wonderland” on the stereo, underscored by the sound of glasses clinking, excited chatter coming from the next room, and the singular, delicious, unmistakable smell of . . .
Holiday gasped.
The other women turned to her. Grace looked elated, Francie and Janine looked confused.
It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
“What?” Janine hissed.
Before her better judgment could overrule her mouth, Holiday called out, “Mom?”
“Well, well, well. Look what the blizzard blew in.” Cecelia Smith strolled into the foyer, decked out in flannel pajamas and holding a mimosa in one hand.
“Mom!” Holiday flung herself at her mother, heedless of her snow-flecked coat and sopping wet hair. “I knew I smelled your cinnamon rolls!”
“Hi, honey.” Her mother gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “You girls are like bloodhounds with those cinnamon rolls.” She rolled her eyes at Grace. “I spoiled them growing up, I’m afraid.”
Grace laughed. “I can relate.”
Holiday literally hopped with excitement. “Who else is here? Is Dad here? Is Nora here?”
“There are cinnamon rolls and bottomless mimosas,” Holiday’s sister drawled as she stepped into the foyer. “So, of course I’m here. I’m here and I’m never leaving.” Nora, who had selected a jolly peppermint-stripe pattern for her pajamas, joined in on the hug.
Francie stood back, bewildered. “Is my mom here too?”
“Is my mom here?” Janine froze, one boot on and one boot off, ready to flee.
“I’m afraid not, but don’t worry. We’re all family today,” Grace assured her. “Come into the living room and we’ll explain everything.”
But Holiday couldn’t wait a nanosecond more. “Is this real life?” She pinched her own cheek before poking her mom and sister again to ascertain their physical reality. “How did you get here? When? Who? The bridge . . .”
“Only people wearing flannel pajamas get the juicy details.” Nora pointed to a powder room across the foyer. “Better hurry up.” She introduced herself to Francie and Janine with “I’m the cool sister. We have a few spare Christmas jammies if you’d like some. Would you prefer snowflakes or Christmas light design?”
“Um, snowflakes, I guess.” Francie had clearly made a decision to just go with whatever was unfolding.
“Do you have anything with yetis or Heat Miser, things of that nature?” Janine asked.
“Sadly, we do not,” Nora said.
“Then I’ll stick with my current ensemble.” Janine proceeded to take off her second boot.
“Suit yourself. So, Holiday, you get the Christmas light pattern. The faster you put them on, the faster you get a cinnamon roll.”
“Come on, Francie, you can have a few bites while she’s getting changed.” Cecelia put her arm around Francie’s shoulders and led her away. “You look famished.”
“Now that you mention it, I am hungry.” Francie motioned for Janine to join them.
Holiday was still standing and staring in the middle of the entryway. “Alex? Are you in here somewhere?”
“Stop it,” her sister admonished. “He’s not coming in here. He’s under strict instructions to stay in the living room until.”
“Until what?” Holiday prompted.
“Until you’re ready to handle the truth.” Nora gave her a little push in the direction of the powder room. “Now put some hustle in your bustle and get changed.”
Holiday stripped off her sodden jeans and shimmied into a pair of shapeless, oversized pajamas as quickly as possible. Her sister had even laid out a pair of fuzzy, white faux-fur slippers to complete the ensemble.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Holiday raced out of the powder room, holding an armful of clothes. “Spill your guts.”
“Your guest still has to put on her pajamas.” Nora, who was clearly relishing every moment of sisterly torture, shook her head. “Where are your manners?”
Holiday practically gnashed her teeth as Francie stepped back into the foyer with a little dab of icing on the corner of her mouth. “How fast can you change?”
“It’ll be like the Formula One pit stop of clothes.” Francie darted into the powder room. “Time me!”
Holiday peered over her sister’s shoulder, desperate for a glimpse of the rest of the party. “Alex? Dad?”
“Ignore her!” Nora yelled.
“I’m here, sweetie,” replied the unmistakable voice of her father.
“Dad!” Nora cried. “You’re ruining the surprise.”
“Hi, Dad!” Holiday lowered her voice and assured Nora, “Don’t worry, I’m surprised.”
“Done!” Francie burst out of the powder room, her hair swept into a neat bun and her makeup still perfectly applied. “Pass the mimosas.”
“Follow me.” Grace linked arms with Francie and led her into the living room.
Holiday’s jaw dropped. “How come she gets to waltz right in and I’m stuck in here like the TSA line at the airport?”
“She’s not my sister, so I’m not the boss of her,” Nora said. “You, on the other hand . . . here, put on this blindfold.”
Holiday evaded her sister’s grasp and darted around her. The time for blindfolds and suspense had passed. She raced into an airy, rustic great room featuring a roaring fire in the massive fireplace and a ceiling-scraping, minimalist-decorated Christmas tree towering over the proceedings.
“Told ya.” Francie had already snuggled into a plush chair-and-a-half by the hearth. “It is, in fact, a ski lodge.”
Janine sat down beside her and kicked her feet up onto a leather ottoman. “I could get used to this.”
Alex got up from the nearest sofa and offered Holiday a mimosa in a fancy crystal flute. “Merry Christmas.”
Holiday ignored the drink for a moment and hugged her father, who was standing next to the fireplace. “Dad! I’m so glad you guys are here!”
“Well, we finally accepted the fact that if we’d like to spend Christmas morning together, we’re going to have to come to you.” Her dad kissed her temple, and Holiday soaked in the comforting scent of the shaving cream he’d been using since she was a child.
“Ugh, way to ruin the dramatic entrance.” Nora trailed in, joined by Cecelia, who said, “Don’t bicker, girls. It’s Christmas.”
Holiday planted her fuzzy-slippered feet on the woven red-and-white rug and demanded, “How? How did this happen?”
Nora pointed over at Alex. “Ask the man in the high-end pajamas.”
Alex, who was wearing black-and-green-plaid pants with a red-and-navy-plaid shirt, defended himself. “Not all of us have matching flannel pajamas, okay? I did the best I could, considering I had zero notice.”
“Don’t tell him what to wear,” advised Paul, who was hanging out on the window seat across the room. “It always ends badly.”
Alex offered the mimosa to Holiday again. “Here. You’re going to need this for the story we’re about to tell you.”
Holiday took his word for it and treated herself to a little sip as she sank into a huge down pillow next to the coffee table. “Ooh, is this fresh orange juice?”
“Squeezed it myself,” Paul boasted.
“Good morning,” Holiday said to him. “Merry Christmas. I assume you’ve met Francie?”
“I have not.” But he’d been staring at her since the moment Holiday walked in the room.
“Why don’t you introduce yourself while I figure out what the heck is going on.” Holiday lifted her chin at Francie. “That’s Paul. The pilot brother.”
Paul stood up. “That’s right. I’m the pilot brother. You’ve heard about me?”
“A bit.” Francie batted her eyelashes. “But I’d love to hear more.”
“Here.” Janine got to her feet and motioned to Paul. “Switch seats with me.”
Holiday beheld Alex in all his plaid-clashing glory. “This is the real reason why you left corporate America, isn’t it? You figured out how to teleport.”
“I wish I could take credit for that, but no. The truth is much less exciting.”
“False,” Nora interjected. “Flying in your private jet is very exciting.”
Holiday put down her glass.
Alex laughed at her expression. “It’s not my jet. It’s my company’s jet. They just let me borrow it for the night.”
“But when . . .”
“In the middle of the night!” Nora clapped her hand to her chest. “He called us as soon as you found out the bridge was closed.”
“So that’s who you were all talking to when I was trying to call last night?” Holiday asked Nora. “You—and Mom and Dad—blew me off on Christmas Eve to scheme with a stranger? How could you?”
“The stranger has a private jet.” Nora shrugged. “I’m easily bought.”
“We didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Cecelia soothed.
Holiday turned back to Alex. “This is . . . a lot to take in.”
He sat down next to her. “I know.”
“I mean, last time I saw you, you looked . . .” She searched for the right word.
“Stressed?” he suggested. “Overwhelmed with logistics?”
“Yeah, but also . . .”
“Super-great in the sweater you picked out?” he volunteered.
She clapped her hand to her forehead. “I am never picking out a sweater for you again.”
“Yes, you are,” he informed her. “Every year. It’ll be our Christmas tradition.”
Somewhere in the background, a woman—Francie?—sighed swoonily at the idea of this.
“You looked relieved,” she whispered. “You practically ran away from me.”
He took a sip of her mimosa and handed the glass back to her. “I had to work quickly if I was going to pull this off.”
“We almost didn’t make it,” her mother informed her. “They were debating closing all the airports, but we managed to land in Portland.”
“But how’d you get out to Alemos?” Holiday still couldn’t puzzle that out. “Is there a private airport out here somewhere?”
“He’s got a rusty old sea plane and a pilot who likes a challenge,” Paul called from across the room.
Holiday gaped. “You all flew in a seaplane? With those winds?”
“Also very exciting!” Nora trilled.
“We made it here by . . . what? Five o’clock?” Her father checked his watch. “It was an adventure.”
“You all could have died!”
“Uh, hello, I’m right here.” Paul looked miffed. “Not to brag, but I’m really good at what I do.”
“I bet you are,” Francie purred.
“We didn’t die,” Cecelia pointed out. “We’re all here safe and sound, thanks to Alex and Paul.”
Alex locked his gaze with Holiday’s. “And you kept your promise—you’re spending Christmas morning with your family.”
Grace laughed. “You boys are exactly like your father. Full of surprises.” She told Cecelia, “Just the other day, they lay in wait and sneaked in to decorate my whole house while I ran errands.”
Alex sucked in his breath while he, Paul, Holiday, and Janine exchanged a flurry of meaningful glances.
“What?” Grace demanded. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Paul said, much too loudly.
“Don’t give me that.” Grace set her champagne flute down on the mantel with a clink. “Those are guilty looks if ever I saw them.” She rounded on Paul. “What did you do this time?”
Paul threw up his hands. “Why do you assume I’m the one who did something?”
“It’s always you,” Alex said drily.
Paul appealed to Francie. “This is what happens when you’re the good-looking maverick of the family.”
“I can relate.” Francie sipped her drink and sat back to enjoy the show.
“Well?” Grace looked surprisingly formidable for a tiny blonde clad in sequins. “Confess.”
“Nothing to confess, just another Christmas surprise.” Alex pulled out a silver gift bag from under the tree. “I was going to give this to you later, but since you brought it up . . . Merry Christmas, Mom.”
Everyone crowded around Grace as she pulled out layer after layer of white tissue paper.
Janine nudged Holiday. Holiday nudged Janine.
Francie asked Paul to explain what was going on, which he took as an opportunity to snuggle up close and whisper in her ear.
Grace gasped as she pulled out the red-glass masterpiece. After cradling it in both palms for a moment, she lifted it high to catch the morning sunlight.
“That is gorgeous,” Cecelia breathed.
“Stunning,” Francie echoed.
“Nice job,” Janine mouthed over Grace’s shoulder. Nora noticed this and waggled her eyebrows at Holiday, who made a big show of looking clueless.
“Is this . . .” Grace lowered the star to inspect it more closely. Then she regarded her sons with a mixture of love and awe. “Where did you find this?”
“I finally went through the rest of the boxes in my garage,” Alex said.
“I helped.” Paul was still speaking a touch too loudly.
“And wouldn’t you know it? There it was, underneath some tinsel.”
“Just in time for Christmas.” Paul leaned over to hug his mother. “Aren’t you—”
“Hang on.” Grace’s gaze sharpened, and she fended him off. “Don’t touch.”
The ping-pong of meaningful gazes recommenced.
“This is real.” Grace traced the outline of a glass pane with one finger. “This is a Driscoll Davidson.”
“Ooh, let me see.” Nora wriggled her way into the fray to examine the piece. “It sure is, and it’s a beauty.”
“Nora would know.” Her father’s voice was tinged with pride. “She was an art history major.”
Grace handed the glass star to Nora. “This is a real Driscoll Davidson? You’re sure?”
“I mean, I’d have to hire an authenticator to be one hundred percent positive, but it looks real to me.” Nora whipped around to Holiday. “It looks real to you?”
“Yep.” Holiday stepped sideways to hide behind Alex.
“Of course it’s real.” He kept a perfect poker face. “I told you, I found it in your boxes.”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t know where you boys found this, but it was not in my boxes.”
The color drained from Paul’s face. Francie clutched his hand in support.
“The star in my box, the star that your father and I put on top of the tree every year, was a replica,” Grace informed them. She let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “This star in my hands is a real Driscoll Davidson. We could never have afforded that.”
“But . . .” Alex sputtered. “But you said your rich uncle Morton . . .”
“My uncle Morton was a cheapskate to the core. That’s why he was so rich!” Grace scoffed. “He gave us a fake Davidson, and we all knew it.”
“We didn’t know it,” Alex pointed out.
“We sure didn’t,” Paul said.
“Well, what difference did it make?” Grace looked exasperated. “Real or replica, it was special to us because it was our first Christmas in our first house.”
“Oh.” Alex picked at the sleeve of his plaid shirt.
“Now we know,” Paul concluded. “Mom, if you’ll just let me see that for a quick second—” He reached for the glass star.
Grace snatched it away. “Don’t you dare. I don’t know what you kids did with the replica, but you’re not getting anywhere near the real one!” She turned to Nora. “You may look at it, if you’d like.”
“I’d love to.” Nora oohed and aahed over the craftsmanship.
Grace pointed her finger at Alex, then Paul. “Honestly. What were you thinking?” Before they could mumble apologies, she added, “That star must have cost a fortune!”
“Just my dignity,” Alex admitted.
Holiday had to grin at the memory of Alex in his Santa hat and elf shoes.
“Well, it was worth it.” Grace finally smiled. “But you’re never going to lay a finger on it again.”
“No, ma’am,” they chorused.
Janine watched all this in slack-jawed amazement. “Is this how normal families do Christmas every year?”
Cecelia laughed. “Did you hear that? She called us normal.”
“I mean, all this time, I thought my family was the only one that spent Christmas knee-deep in chaos and confusion,” Janine added.
“Of course not.” Grace regarded Janine with dismay.
“You could still call your mom and invite her over for breakfast.” Holiday turned to Alex. “Right?”
He nodded. “The more the merrier.”
Janine nibbled her lower lip. “Well . . .”
“Do it,” Francie urged. “I’ll sit next to you and be your conversational buffer.”
“And I’ll sit next to Francie,” Paul volunteered.
“Perfect. It’s settled.” Francie refilled Janine’s mimosa. “Make the call.”
“What the heck? It’s Christmas.” Janine pulled out her phone, setting off a round of applause.
While Holiday’s parents admired the glass star with Nora and Grace, and Paul and Francie provided Janine with moral support, Alex took Holiday’s hand and pulled her back into the foyer.
He turned to look down at her as the sunlight streamed through the skylight. It was so bright and clear that Holiday could see the exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes, the toll that pulling off a miracle through a sleepless night had taken.
She reached up to cradle his cheek in the palm of her hand. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing my family to me. Thank you for everything.”
“I have a lot to say to you.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close against his chest.
She nestled into the warm, strong contours of his body. “I have a lot to say to you too.”
“But this is not the time for a long, serious discussion.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Obviously.”
She smiled into the crook of his neck as she listened to the chatter and laughter emanating from the next room.
“You’ve given me the best present I’ve ever gotten,” she said. “Better than I could even imagine. This is . . . personal. Beyond personal.”
He loosened his hold on her just a bit. “In a good way?”
She hugged him tighter. “In a way that makes it impossible not to fall in love.” The words were out before she could think better of them, but she didn’t care. He’d done so much for her. The least she could do was give him her trust and her truth.
He took a step back and captured both her hands in his. “I’m glad to hear that, because I have a proposal for you.” His eyes gleamed with mischief as he watched her face.
She had to remind herself to breathe.
“You love your job, right? And you’re great at your job.” He squeezed her hands. “But December twenty-fifth is somewhat of an arbitrary day for a celebration, is it not?”
Holiday tilted her head as she tried to decipher his meaning. “I’d say it’s a pretty hard deadline.”
“For your clients,” he allowed. “You said it yourself—every year, we drive ourselves nuts trying to do everything and see everyone based on that one date on the calendar.” He pulled her close again. “I say we shake things up a bit. I say we take all of this—the family, the food, the chaos—and we move it to March.”
She started to laugh. “March?”
“Or May. Whenever. Your choice. We’ll pick a week in spring to get everyone together.”
“Christmas in July.” She grinned as she started to imagine what this could entail.
“Christmas whenever you say. All of the joy, none of the stress.”
“We could go to the beach. Or rent a big house in a big city every year.” She let herself dream big. “Cranberries freeze well. We could buy them in December and put them on ice until June. We could buy Christmas jammies on sale on December twenty-sixth and save them ’til August.”
“No problem,” he assured her. “We’ll just crank up the AC.”
She couldn’t stop smiling. “You know what? Everyone was right about you. You are a great guy. And a genius.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “But more importantly, I’m your Christmas concierge.”
“You are.” Her smile wilted a bit as anxiety set in. “But you . . . you don’t think you’ll change your mind about all this before March or May or July?”
“No.” There was no hesitation.
“I mean, I don’t even know where I’ll be going one week to the next. I live in hotels and airports for six months out of the year.”
He shrugged. “Okay. I can go with you, or I can stay here. I live for logistics.”
“And it’s not always luxury in Paris and New York.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Sometimes, it’s nonglamorous towns in the middle of nowhere.”
“Like Alemos Island, Maine?” he teased.
“I’m just saying I’m not exactly traditional. Whatever we have together . . .”
“You’re falling in love,” he reminded her. “Too late to take it back.”
“It won’t look like everybody else’s love story. It probably won’t feel like everybody else’s love story, either.”
“Then my wish is granted. And I have one more thing to say.” He paused. “Actually, I have something I’d like you to say.”
For a moment, they stood silently, their hearts beating against one another through a few thin layers of flannel.
“Anything,” Holiday whispered.
He placed his lips against her temple and murmured, “I want you to admit that I’ve out-wish-granted the Wish Granter.”
She burst out laughing, but he held her close.
“Admit defeat. You can’t deny it.”
And he was right. She closed her eyes and smelled the cinnamon, felt the warmth of the fire radiating across the room, listened to the laughter of the people they loved. And she had to confess, “You’re right.” She slipped her arms around his neck and added, “You may have won this round, but just wait ’til next year.”
“You’re on.” He moved his lips from her ear to her mouth to seal that promise with a kiss.
The End
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