I get two texts the next day before I leave. The first is from my agent, asking me to take a look at a new script while I’m on holiday. I ignore that one for now. The second is from Natalie:
If you’re absolutely sure about this, keep your eyes peeled for that handsome truck-driving hero. I expect regular progress reports during your escape from real life.
The concept of ‘real life’ is something I think about a lot on the drive to Honeywell Hollow. I haven’t had much experience with real life. Growing up as a child star on one of the most popular family shows of the ’90s before moving on to a well-known soap opera through most of my teens meant I didn’t exactly have a ‘normal’ childhood. Luckily, most of the filming for both shows was done in the Toronto area, so I was able to live at home.
When my mom got sick, I took a hiatus from acting to be with her and eventually take care of her. After she died, I craved more normalcy, so I extended my break and enrolled in college. I was lured back into acting a few years later by an incredible deal with the From the Heart Network. I’ve worked for them ever since, with occasional side projects in film and television.
I’ve been known to the public in some form or other for most of my life. To this day, people tend to have a set idea of who I am—or more accurately, who they think I am—based on the roles I’ve played. First it was sweet little Mary Lynn Thorn on Our Thorny Family, the youngest of six siblings being raised by their single, childless uncle. Then it was sassy, confident Cassandra Layne, daughter of daytime goddess Erin Layne, on This Life We Lead. For almost a decade now, I’ve been known as the Queen of Christmas. I’ve starred in non-holiday movies for the From the Heart Network, but for some reason it’s the Christmas ones that appeal most to viewers.
I’m grateful for my success and, while I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I’m hoping several weeks in Honeywell Hollow will allow me to be Just Joss. And maybe in that time I’ll figure out who Just Joss truly is, because when it comes right down to it, I don’t actually have a clue.
The minute I enter Honeywell Hollow, with its old-fashioned welcome sign boasting a population of a whopping five thousand, unease settles in my gut. This place looks like something directly out of a From the Heart movie. We typically film in small towns just like this, but it’s usually the middle of summer and everything from the snow to the decorations to the happy people milling around in stylish winter wear, carrying shopping bags and beautifully-wrapped gifts, are all part of the production. I’m sure the towns are perfectly charming all year round, but I’ve never purposely visited one to know if that’s the case.
It’s not the middle of summer now, though. And the giant, fluffy flakes of snow that are fluttering from the sky and hitting my windshield aren’t from a snow machine. And…I lean forward over the steering wheel, squinting out the window as I enter the downtown area…are the shops and restaurants already decorated for Christmas? In November?
This is exactly what I hoped to escape. I wasn’t naive enough to think I could completely avoid Christmas and all its trappings, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with it the moment I drove into town. It’s not that I hate Christmas. I really don’t. I don’t walk around muttering “bah humbug” to passersby, and my heart doesn’t need to grow three sizes to understand that many people think of the holidays as a time of magic, hope, and love. It’s simply never been that way for me. The movies I star in encapsulate those things perfectly, but the feel-good plots are far from my reality.
My eyes are drawn to a pair of six-foot-tall nutcrackers flanking the door of a café called Sweet Escapes. The sight almost makes me laugh. I’ve seen countless nutcrackers of every size imaginable over the years, but only ever in stores or on the sets of my Christmas movies. Seeing them now feels surreal; they’re like some strange embodiment of everything I was trying to outrun by coming to Honeywell Hollow.
“I see you over there mocking me,” I mutter as I drive past. My eyes return to the road, where the car ahead of me is slowing to a stop to let a woman and two children cross the street. The kids are in no hurry, shuffling along as they turn their faces to the sky, catching snowflakes on their tongues.
A flash of blue draws my attention to the opposite side of the road where an old pickup truck is parallel parking. Thinking back to my conversation with Natalie last night about hot, truck-driving men, my gaze lingers on the driver, whose head is turned the other way. Broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and—
A horn honks behind me, startling my gaze back to the road. The vehicle ahead of me is long gone, and I realize the car behind me was giving a friendly little toot toot of their horn rather than the long, angry-sounding blasts I’m used to hearing in Toronto. I glance in the rearview mirror to see the woman behind me smiling broadly and waving. Yep. Surreal.
It takes less than five minutes to reach Cherry Lane, where my rental house is located. Turning into a driveway when the GPS indicates I’ve arrived at my destination, I park my car and take in the two-story house with its bright red trim and matching front door. A door that happens to be holding the biggest, most elaborate Christmas wreath I’ve ever seen. I groan, just barely resisting the urge to drop my head to the steering wheel and thunk it a few times. So much for escaping Christmas.
I sit in the silence of the car, looking up at the house and giving myself a mental pep talk. This will be okay. The town may be decked out for Christmas and there may be the mother of all wreaths on the door of my temporary abode, but I’m not planning to venture out much. I’m not here to take in the sights or join the local festivities—of which I’m sure there are many—I’m here for some much-needed solitude.
With that in mind, I grab my bags from the back of the car and head for the house. On the front porch, I find the key exactly where the owner, Mrs. Murphy, said it would be: under the ceramic hippo to the right of the front door. Inside, I abandon my bags along with my shoes and coat, and venture past the front hall to check out the house. I only make it as far as the doorway to the living room before freezing in place.
“You have got to be kidding me.” The room itself is small and cozy. A beautiful stone fireplace is set into the far wall with a basket of wood in front of it. The furniture looks comfortable, especially the big squashy armchair near the fireplace. But it’s the six-foot Christmas tree in front of the window that my gaze is drawn to. I inch forward, narrowing my eyes at the full branches, which I quickly realize are fake. Makes sense since a real tree would be a pile of dried-up needles by the time Christmas arrived. The tree is strung with lights, but it’s otherwise undecorated.
My chest tightens. I whirl away from the tree, not wanting to examine the cause of the pang in my heart. It’s too late, though. I know this feeling well. It’s like nostalgia mixed with grief, and this time it’s accompanied by an underlying current of irritation. All I wanted was to get away from this very feeling. I knew spending all this time alone would lead to at least some introspection; I figured it would be good in a weird way to finally have the time and space to confront the emotions I’ve stuffed down for so long. But I didn’t expect to have those emotions rise to the surface only minutes after arriving, threatening to cut off my air supply by tightening my chest and throat.
I stride away from the tree while pulling my phone from my pocket. This was a mistake. A stupid idea. I could just as easily hide out in my condo in Toronto until the new year arrives. At least there I’d be able to order anything and everything I could possibly need and have it delivered to my door. I wonder if I’d even be able to get a pizza delivered in Honeywell Hollow.
I pull up Mrs. Murphy’s number on my phone. My finger hovers over the call button. It took a lot of convincing, along with a non-refundable deposit, to convince the woman to let me rent the house for over a month. She said her properties were in high demand, especially for families around the holidays, and most people didn’t stay more than a week or two. I could absorb the loss easily, but having grown up in a single-parent family with a frugal mother—one who wanted me to save and invest my income from acting—there’s still a big part of me that hates wasting money.
With thoughts of that frugal, single mother contributing to the growing ache in my chest, I imagine what she’d say if she were here: “We Hazelwood girls are no quitters. You can face anything, Joss. Never forget that.” And so, with a sigh, I swipe back to my list of contacts and hit Natalie’s number instead.
“Hey, girl!” Her loud, breathless voice tells me I’ve caught her on the treadmill. I switch to speakerphone so I don’t have to listen to her panting in my ear. “Did you make it to Honeybunch Corners?”
I don’t even bother correcting her this time. “Yep, just got here. This place is a trip, Nat. Looks like something straight out of a From the Heart movie.”
“In which case you should be meeting your hot hero any moment. Spot any pickup trucks on your way into town?”
I’m half tempted to tell her about the guy I saw parking downtown, but I don’t want to encourage her. “How long have you been on the treadmill?” I ask, venturing further into the house. I don’t come across any more Christmas decorations, but I do find a plate of cookies waiting for me on the kitchen counter with a note of welcome from Mrs. Murphy.
“Going on half an hour,” Natalie says. “I’m auditioning soon for that new movie the Pascal sisters are doing.”
“That’s fantastic, Nat.”
The Pascal sisters are an up-and-coming writing/directing duo in the Toronto indie film scene. My agent sent me one of their scripts a few months ago. Despite the role sounding like something I’d love to try, I turned down the chance to audition because I was worried my fans would have trouble seeing me in an edgier role after years of being type-casted as the sweet, sunny romantic lead in feel-good movies.
I eye the plate of snowflake-shaped cookies on the counter as Natalie huffs and puffs from my phone. They’re decorated in intricate swirls with white and pale blue icing, and dusted with clear, sparkly sprinkles that catch the light and shimmer like ice. I reach for one, hesitant, then give in and snatch it from the plate. I nearly moan in pleasure as the almost-foreign flavors of butter and sugar hit my taste buds. I’d normally be with Nat at the gym doing anything from cardio to weight training to Pilates. Staying fit is part of the job, but I’m not on the job right now and I won’t be for another couple of months. With that thought in mind, I grab another cookie and leave the kitchen.
“What’s on the agenda for after the gym?” I ask Natalie. As she tells me about the wardrobe fitting she has this afternoon, followed by an evening event at the Royal Ontario Museum, I meander back toward the front of the house and peer through the living room window.
The second cookie freezes halfway to my mouth. The blue pickup truck I saw downtown is now parked in my driveway.