2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

DUFFY

I used to live by the adage, If you want something done right, do it yourself . But having my name, Cavell Coal, next to the letters CEO forced me to hire a virtual assistant. Nonetheless, it looks like I still have to do things myself.

It’s been ten minutes. Why don’t I see the meeting on my digital calendar?

The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my mother’s, Duffy, mind your manners, and Life’s too short not to smile and eat waffles for dinner. I ignore it for now.

00M’s silence could be because it’s almost Christmas. That’s a mere technicality because everyone knows the lights remain on twenty-four-seven in corporate America.

When I hired her on the recommendation of one of my mother’s friends, I’ll admit that I appreciated the James Bond-style gig page on the virtual assistant website. She goes by 00M , possibly a combination of 007 and the head of the MI6 in the films. I don’t play favorites, but “Golden Eye” was a masterpiece.

I ping my VA with a nudge.

Cavell: Don’t forget to make the appointment.

00M: Thank you for your message. This is a friendly reminder that I’m currently out of the office with no email access.

Cavell: It says you’re online. I have to talk to Dave Lipman no later than 12/26. No excuses.

00M: This is an autoresponder.

Cavell: This app doesn’t have that feature.

00M: Away until January 2. If you receive this message, please consider completing the task yourself.

So she is replying. My jaw ticks with irritation.

Cavell: Do you want a job when you get back?

00M: This is a bot. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Yes, she’d like to keep her job.

A growl escapes from my throat. All of my previous virtual assistants lasted less than a week. She’s going on six months—a record professionally and personally, not that I’m counting how long women tend to remain in my life.

My primary job is at Peak Financial in Boston, but I’m also the CEO of Stone’s Coal Co. Unfortunately, I missed the energy boom of the early twentieth century. We sell novelty coal for Christmas stockings, ornaments, and provide wholesale shipments for the entertainment and theme park industries.

Stone’s Coal Co. was my father’s legacy, among other less savory things .

My mother used to handle the clerical work for the company before she retired.

Juggling both jobs became untenable, so I got the virtual assistant. But she’s not cooperating, and I have to leave for the airport in two minutes. With an annoyed growl, I flip my laptop closed, grab my travel bag, and leave to make the biannual trek to the other side of the country.

Am I dragging my feet? Not really. I love my mother. It’s her schemes and cohorts that make me keep my distance.

W hen the plane touches down, the snowcapped mountains sparkle like sugar. The car service my VA arranged to take me north waits as expected, but she still didn’t schedule the AccuPlex meeting.

I wasn’t amused by the pink social media image with text about kissing with flowers and hearts all over it that she recently sent. Supposedly, it was an accident. A file snafu. Keep that romantic garbage away from me. We’ve never met or so much as spoken on the phone, and that’s how I prefer it.

As the sleek black SUV winds along the familiar roads toward my hometown, I can’t help but think about last Christmas when I brought Porsha here, believing she was the one. I was going to ask my mother for my grandmother’s engagement ring and propose.

I caught her dressed as a scantily clad Mrs. Claus, making kissing noises while video-chatting with a bare-chested guy in a Santa hat. It was over.

No sooner does the enormous pine tree decked in lights and oversized bows and baubles rise from the town square come into view, than my phone rings.

Without a preamble, my mother asks, “Is that you?”

Confused, I reply, “You called me.”

“I saw a sleek SUV drive by. Figured it was my fancy pants son. We have less than a week until the big day. Tell your driver to turn around and drop you off at Kringle’s Market.”

I’m barely inside the town limits, and she already spotted me.

“I need help with the grocery bags.”

For a second, I thought she was going to ambush me with a “Meet cute”—what she calls a meet-up with a potential future Mrs. Stone. But with the company party later, her request checks out.

At this time of year, North Pole explodes from a population of about three thousand to many times that with tourists and annual visitors. I tell the driver where to find a parking spot.

My mother, Carol, fancies herself Mrs. Claus. She and her merry band of matchmaking elves are determined to find me “the one.” Tried that. Failed. I trust relationships about as much as I trusted my father, which is to say not at all, not that it matters. He passed away two years ago, leaving me with a lump of coal and memories that turned out to be lies.

In Kringle’s Market, I hear my mother’s voice one aisle deep, speaking with a female. What is this trickery? Like James Bond, I keep a low profile and study a box of waffle mix. It’s been ages since I had a waffle, a cinnamon roll, or any of my mother’s baked goods.

Casually listening, the woman she’s talking to says, “That’s right. I just arrived.” Her voice has a tinkling quality.

I shift to browse the snack display when Mom replies, but I don’t hear over a shopping cart clanking by.

Her mark adds, “It’s so jolly here.”

It’s true, and like cheesy chip dust, it kind of rubs off on you.

Mom says, “As the kids say, ‘That’s how we roll in North Pole.’”

Is that really what the kids say?

The woman says, “It was nice to meet you.”

Mom Claus responds, “Since we’re no longer strangers, I’m having a holiday gathering tonight. Why don’t you join us? Number eight, Balsam Lane. You can’t miss it.”

Lurking over here, I ought to remind my mother to be more cautious, though North Pole is nothing like the city. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and if they don’t, they will soon.

“Can I bring anything?” the woman asks.

I glimpse the edge of her dark brown hair, a red scarf, and a black coat.

My mother replies, “Just your beautiful smile. It’s only a little get-together.”

I can’t help the sound that escapes. “Pfft.” It’s not. My mother’s Christmas party is outrageous. After last year, I’d hoped to skip it, but the incoming forecast wasn’t looking favorable, so I took an earlier flight. She’d never forgive me if I missed Christmas.

A grocery cart wheel squeaks, and a petite woman with white hair and rosy round cheeks approaches. “There’s my handsome boy.”

I’m over six feet and have to bend lower than I remember for a hug.

Not wanting to give my mother an opportunity to introduce me to the potential future “Mrs. Stone,” I move us away from the meat section —not to be confused with the meet section, which is the rest of the store if you’re my mother.

On cue, she says, “I just met the?—”

“Mom—” I point to the cart.

She nods. “But she?—”

“You and your matchmaking elves can save it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not over Lexus. She was so bony and phony,” she mutters the last part.

“ Porsha said she had a fast metabolism.”

“She didn’t touch any of the cookies or toffees or?—”

“Mom,” I say measuredly.

“Duffy,” she echoes.

Oh no. Here we go .

I mount an on-the-spot preemptive strike and blurt, “Anyway, I’m seeing someone.” The words drop out of my mouth like coal—what I’ll be getting in my stocking for telling such a big, fat lie.

Her face brightens. “Really?”

I scrape out a nod, already hating myself for fibbing.

“Is she joining us?”

Scrubbing my hand down my face, I add, “She’s hoping to get a flight.”

My mother springs up and down on the balls of her feet. I downplay it, not wanting her public fuss to make the rounds on the Snowball Express, North Pole’s online community gossip group.

Through the windows of Kringle Market, a woman with dark brown hair and wearing a red scarf walks by once, then backtracks as if not remembering where she parked.

For the first time in a long time, something inside me bounces.

She appears a third time, and then, arms lifted in the air, she rushes into traffic, shouting what sounds like, “Pop Tart.”