Home for Christmas

Four

Three solid hours of writing later, I c***k my neck as I look away from the computer screen for the first time. Outside, the sun is already descending over the mountains while still shining brightly. I check my watch: two-thirty. My stomach growls in response.

I pat my belly. “Yep, it’s past our lunchtime, buddy.”

I could grab a burger at the local pub before I drop by the rental agency and catch two birds with one stone.

I snatch the car keys from a bowl on the kitchen island and, as an afterthought, pick up my phone as well. As I turn it on, it buzzes with a million notifications, mostly from my sister.

I have half a mind to ignore her and not call her back until later tonight. I already agreed to go home. What else could she want? But then I find a missed call also from my dad. He never calls unless something is up—he, contrary to everybody else in my family, understands why I had to get away from LA and how important my writing time is.

I call Dad back first, but he doesn’t pick up. With a sigh, I tap Tess’s contact next.

She answers on the first ring. “Where were you? Why was your phone off? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.”

I was WRITING!!! I want to scream. They all assume that since I can work from home at any hour of the day, my job doesn’t warrant the same respect or boundaries of a nine-to-five desk gig. I bite down my retort and ask instead, “Has something happened? Is Dad okay?”

“Yeah, he is. But his house isn’t.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Busted pipe. I just came back from Dad’s and it’s a disaster. The lower floor is flooded. The contractor said he has to replace all the pipes, break the floors, the walls—it’s going to take weeks.”

“Where’s Dad staying?”

“With us. The kids will bunk together for a few weeks but we can’t have Christmas dinner at our place. Our house isn’t big enough. Did you already book your flight to come home?”

“No,” I say. “Are you telling me not to? I thought the Clarks couldn’t skip Christmas.”

“And we can’t, but what if we came to you? The cabin is huge, right? It’d fit us.”

I make a quick count of the bedrooms. If I leave the master for Tess and her husband, Dad and I can each sleep in one of the singles, and Tess’s kids can sleep in the bunk beds. But what about Skeeter, our younger brother?

I move to the couch and tentatively lift the seating. It gives. It’s a sofa bed. Skeeter can sleep here. College kids aren’t too fussy about sleeping arrangements.

Yeah, I could host the Clark clan, but… “Shoot, Tess, I told the real estate agent she could sublet the cabin while I was gone.”

“What? Nooo!”

“Don’t despair yet, I only agreed to the deal a few hours ago. I doubt she’s already rented the place. Listen, I’m going into town anyway to pay my rent, I’ll check with the agency right away and let you know, okay?”

After we hang up, I put on my coat and boots and hurry out of the house. I lock the door behind me and feel silly as I pause on the patio, checking the edge of the woods surrounding the cabin.

Come on, Riven, the big, bad wolf isn’t coming to get you. Not today.

Still, I cross the yard at a faster pace than usual and am relieved when I make it safely to my Grand Cherokee. The old Jeep is so battered, it’s the only thing Cassie won’t fight to keep in the divorce—she’s already taken the Mercedes.

I grab the wheel, not caring how cold it feels under my palms. This car and I, we’ve been on many adventures together. This ancient Jeep is the only memento of my life as it was before my soon-to-be-ex-wife hauled me into an upscale neighborhood with posher houses, posher friends, and a posher lifestyle that I hated and that never seemed to be enough for her. More, more, more. She wanted more clothes, more jewelry, more restaurants, more expensive trips…

And, thanks to California’s fifty-fifty divorce laws, I guess I’ll be the sucker who keeps financing her swanky lifestyle even after our marriage is over. At least until she marries another sucker.

Unexpectedly, the thought of Cassie re-marrying hits me in the guts with brutal force. I push her, the divorce, and her future imaginary husband out of my head. She’s wasted enough of my life for me to keep pining after her.

As I reverse the car and turn into the snow-covered driveway, the reflection is blinding in the mid-afternoon sun. I should tell the agency to send the plowing service more often. Until November it was manageable. But now, it snows every other day, and even when it doesn’t, the wind pushes the old snow around forming snowdrifts down the road.

At least the Jeep doesn’t have a problem overcoming the rough terrain. I’d like to see Cassie drive her precious Spider up here. She’d get stuck in the first mile. But I’m not thinking about my ex-wife, right?

***

The real estate agency is located in my favorite part of town, the Park City’s Historic District. I love its quaint buildings and unique restaurants. And now, with fairy lights crisscrossing over the street and sparkling from every shop window, Main Street is even prettier.

I find a parking spot right in front of my favorite pub, and my stomach begs me to go in, but I prefer to sort the subletting business first. With great effort, I ignore the smell of grilled meat coming out of the pub and cross the street toward the Richter Real Estate Group’s offices. I push the glass door open, prompting the wooden reindeer above the entrance to fill the room with the tingly notes of Jingle Bells.

Charlotte, a young administrative clerk, looks up from behind her computer screen and smiles. “Riven.” She blushes. “I mean, Mr. Clark.”

I approach her station. “Hey, Charlotte. No worries, I told you Riven is fine. How are things going?”

She pouts her lips and puffs out air. “This holiday season is pure madness. Every single house we manage is rented back-to-back throughout January. The number of check-ins and check-outs we have to deal with is insane.” She gestures at the empty office around her. “As you can see, it’s all hands on deck. I have to hold the fort alone. Have you come in to drop off your monthly check?”

“Yes, that…” I hand her the check and scratch the back of my head with my other hand. “And also, Kelly Anne called me this morning…” I explain the whole sublease business and why I have to cancel.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your father,” Charlotte says when I’m finished. “What a horrible time of the year to have a burst pipe. At least in LA, all that water won’t freeze overnight. Up here, it’d be a complete disaster.”

“That’s California for you,” I say as my stomach growls.

Did she hear that?

“Hungry?” Charlotte asks.

Yep, she did.

“Yeah, sorry. I skipped lunch.”

Her lips part in a bright, wholesome smile. “Let’s sort your house situation, then, and you can be on your way to the pub. I won’t even bother you to ask for an update on the new book.”

Charlotte, I discovered, is a fan and has read all my novels. Whenever I come in, she begs me for spoilers on the story I’m working on, and I promptly refuse to give up anything. “Thank you, Charlotte, and you know you never bother me.”

“Ah, you’re too kind. I bet you get sick of all your fans pestering you.”

“Actually, it never gets old. I love my readers.”

Charlotte blushes again, and I’d better stop talking if I want her to be able to work.

“Let me just pull up the calendar.” Her eyes shift from me to the computer. She clicks on the mouse a few times and frowns. “I don’t see any openings in your rental. Kelly Anne must not have had time to free up the slot yet.” She turns the screen toward me, showing a monthly view of December where all the days are colored in red. “I’ll just add a note saying you no longer wish to sublet, and you should be fine.”

She types a quick memo and looks up at me. “You’re all set. Have a great lunch…” She scrunches her face in an eager but embarrassed expression. “And please finish the book soon, I can’t wait to read Preacher’s next adventure.”

Nothing strokes a writer’s feathers better than an avid reader. I smile at Charlotte and give her a mock military salute. “Will do, ma’am.”

If I keep writing like today, my manuscript will be completed in no time.