Two

He was everything she'd ever dreamed of.

—Hailey Fairchild, What the Heart Seeks

I'm flying out tomorrow, a whole eight days before Christmas Eve. In addition to the bookstore appearance, Mom's expecting

me to be part of her cookie exchange, which means baking and cookie temptation. And she's volunteered me to speak to Mrs.

Wharton's freshman English class.

"Future readers," Mom had said. "It's important to be visible when you're an author. Marketing."

Mom used to sell candles on the party plan. She knows about marketing.

"Janet is delighted you're going to do this," Mom had added. "And then there's the book-signing party at Mountain Books. Everyone's coming."

"This is going to be a circus," I tell Ramona, my roommate, who's watching me pack.

"You need to face your demons."

Carwyn Davies is the first face that comes to mind. He's hardly a demon, but the few times I've seen him when I've been home

(from as great a distance as I could manage), it's about given me hives.

Then there have been those encounters with mean girls who loved to make my life miserable back in high school. I was never even sure why. Because I was smart and that intimidated them? Because I was shy and easily embarrassed, and that made me an easy target? Who knows. All I know is most of them haven't changed, and I don't care if I ever see any of them again. But it's Christmas. No matter where we've moved, everyone comes back home for Christmas, even the ones who ought to be taken captive by Krampus. And the worst of them, one of the ones who never left, is now with my brother.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Ramona says.

Like me, Ramona is pursuing creative success. In the theater. Which is why, like me, she has a side hustle as a barista. Unlike

me, Ramona is gorgeous, with long dark hair and dark eyes. She never met a brownie she didn't like but still has the most

perfect body on the planet... without enduring gym torture. When I get all jealous, she just shrugs and says she's got

good genes. The gene pool is a rip-off, if you ask me. Still, I love her, and I know she's going to be a star on Broadway

someday. She's already promised me free tickets.

If, for some crazy reason, she ever changes her mind about acting, she could be a life coach.

"What if this kills me?" I shoot back at her.

She gives a snort. Ramona is a snorter, which I love. Everyone should have one flaw, right?

"You're a successful author. Everybody's going to fawn all over you." She dives across the bedroom, which we share in our

itsy-bitsy apartment, and pulls a gift bag from behind her twin bed. "Got you a care kit."

"Aww, really? Sweetness."

I dig into it, and the first thing I pull out is a Seattle Chocolates chocolate bar. Rainier cherry. My fave.

"Got it on Amazon," Ramona says. "Save it for when you're in crisis mode."

"I'll probably be in crisis mode the whole time," I say. "Why did I let Mom talk me into staying clear through New Year's?"

"Because it's family, and family is important."

She's right about that.

Next, I pull out a small pink journal.

"I know you're going to get inspired with ideas for book titles and characters," Ramona says.

I hope I don't get inspired to write a horror story.

Finally, I pull out an Anastasia Beverly Hills lipstick. Rose-colored.

"There's not enough of yours left to dig out with a toothpick," she points out.

What can I say? I make things last. I'm thrifty. Living in New York, you have to be.

Still, it's worth it. I love the energy of the city. I love spending time in the art museums and hanging out at cozy little

dives with some of the other writers I've met.

"You are the best," I tell Ramona.

"Yes, I am," she agrees. "And I have a mantra for you."

"You know I don't do mantras," I say.

"Okay then, a slogan. Repeat it on the plane and when you land. Definitely repeat it if you go to any parties where there's

mistletoe."

This should be interesting. "What is it?"

"Say, ‘I am smart, I am strong, I can conquer any situation, and I can resist mistletoe.'"

I repeat the words, stressing the mistletoe resistance. "You're right," I say. "I've got this."

I give her a big hug and thank her. I feel like an ancient knight who's just been armored up. I am now ready to go to battle,

er, home.

***

The next day I am up before any bird with a brain and Ubering my way to the airport. I should be used to getting up early. I work a morning shift at the coffee shop around the corner, and my shift starts at a time I used to consider nighttime. But I don't like it. I dream of the day when I'm making so much money as a writer that I can wake up when I want and set my own work schedule. (It's coming soon. I hope!)

I don't really like to fly either. Every little bump and dip sends my imagination soaring, and I can see myself trapped inside

the plane with its tail on fire and its wings blown off, hurtling toward the ground. The dark side of imagination.

Happily, on this flight I am distracted by a friendly grandma–type who wants to yak. And when she learns I'm a writer, she

wants to know all about what kind of books I write.

"Ah, love," she says after I tell her. "It's what makes the world go round."

It's made mine spin pretty crazily, but not in a good way.

Her parting words to me as we're leaving the plane are, "I hope some nice young man catches you under the mistletoe."

No, no, no! If I didn't have my hands full with my carry-on and my purse, I'd be plugging my ears. Too late. I've heard her

and the first thing that swims in front of my eyes is a vision of Carwyn Davies coming up to me, moving like an elegant panther

and holding up a sprig of mistletoe.

I recite the words Ramona gave me. "I am smart, I am strong, I can conquer any situation, and I can resist mistletoe." Yes,

I can.

Both Mom and Dad are waiting at the cell phone lot at Sea-Tac International Airport to pick me up. Dad owns a masonry supply

store, and he's taken the day off so he can, as he put it, "be with his girls." He and Mom have been married thirty-nine years,

and they still like to hang out together. Now that's love.

I text them that I've arrived and make my way to the passenger pickup area. Within minutes, Dad's vintage Volvo station wagon is pulling up curbside, and he's out and running around the car to load my suitcase. Mom has ejected herself from the car, too, and is rushing to hug me like I've been gone for a million years.

Suddenly it feels like I have, and I'm so glad to see my parents. Moving away and adulting is all well and good, but their

excitement over welcoming me back into the nest, knowing they love me and always will, no matter what? That makes me go all

mushy inside and happy to have flown back.

Dad was a football player in college. The muscle has turned to flab, and he looks a little like a water heater with legs.

And he's losing his hair, poor guy. Although Mom says that's okay because he has a perfectly shaped head for being bald. She

made him shave his head because she said that ring of hair around his shiny top made him look like a monk, and she doesn't

want to be married to a monk.

Good ol' Mom. She may be bossy, but she has a heart as big as Mount Rainier.

She looks great. Except for her hair, which she's dyed an alarming shade of clown-wig red. Yikes! But that's Mom. She likes

to make a statement. I wonder what kind of statement this new hair color is supposed to be.

"Welcome home, Princess," says Dad, taking my carry-on.

I know he'd hug me, but Mom got to me first and has her arms wrapped around me like a python. "It's so good to have you back,

baby girl," she says.

"It's good to be back," I say.

With Mom's arms around me, I feel the truth of it. Texts and Zoom are great, but hugs are the best.

"Everyone is excited to see you," she says.

Everyone meaning her friends, of course. I don't have many everyones left in town, other than my best friend Scarlet's little sister. Scarlet will be in town visiting, though, and I'm looking forward to seeing her. And, of course, I have my brother, Sam. But he'll be obsessed with his new someone. Who will probably be obsessed with making me feel gauche.

"Your brother's already talking about a Wii bowling marathon tonight."

"I'll lose," I predict. I always do.

She chuckles, then hurries on. "Then I promised I'd bring you by the bookstore tomorrow to see Eloise. She wants to talk to

you about your book event. She's ordered fifty copies of that Christmas anthology you're in. I hope it will be enough."

"I hope there won't be a ton of books left over," I fret. Author humiliation when that happens!

"There won't be," Mom assures me. "Everyone's coming."

This is almost scarier than the idea of ending the evening with a pile of unsold books. Being the center of attention in a

large group is not an introvert's idea of a good time. And remember how much I hate reading in front of people.

"Gram's knitting group alone is going to take up one row," Mom continues.

I can't help but smile at that. "Gram's the best."

She loves romance novels. She keeps begging me to write something super steamy. My grandma and sexy books—sometimes it's hard

for me to make the connection.

"And the women's Bible study group from church will all be there," Mom adds, which makes me glad I'm not listening to Gram's

advice. The last thing I want is the pastor's wife buying a book of mine and stumbling on a scene I've written where clothes

are flying everywhere and my characters are too busy doing all kinds of stuff to each other to bother shutting the door.

"Then there's the talk to Mrs. Wharton's freshman English class on Monday," Mom hurries on.

More torture. I groan.

"They'll love you," Mom assures me.

According to Mom every girl at Cascade High wants to grow up to be me. "Glad I can inspire someone," I mutter.

I just hope none of them ask about my personal life. I'm not exactly taking vacays to Tahiti and dating celebrities, something

I always envisioned successful writers doing. But we can't all be Danielle Steel.

"And we have the cookie exchange on Friday, the Davieses' Christmas party next week..."

Where there will be mistletoe. Don't think about it!

"And tonight Gwendolyn is coming over for dinner. She's looking forward to seeing you."

I'll bet. More like looking forward to looking down her perfect, pert nose at me and finding a way to make me feel like a

loser.

I am smart, I am strong, and I can conquer any situation. I can certainly conquer sitting across the kitchen table from Gwendolyn

Payne.

I half want to tell Mom what a horrible creature Gwendolyn is, but I keep my mouth shut. I mean, she is Sam's girlfriend.

"Gram and Grandpa will be joining us. Gram's already at the house, baking the gumdrop cookies."

"My favorite." Gram's motto is "Cookies say love." It's a great motto.

"Lasagna for dinner," adds Dad.

"We figured we could lure you back with your favorites," Mom says, and I know she's talking about more than Christmas.

But I can't leave New York. It's where I have a whole new life. A safe life. I know some people think big cities are dangerous,

but let me tell you, small towns can be just as deadly when sharks from your past are swimming in the water.

As we head north on the freeway, the cities like Seattle and Lynwood fall away. Soon we come to farms and pasture, and then we bear east and we're heading toward the Cascades. Foothills, mountains, and the famous Seattle rain turning to snow. Trees are shrugging on a shawl of lacy white.

We come to the town of Cascade and it could be a movie set, with the snowy trees and the houses with colored lights strung

along their rooflines, waiting for dark and their time to show off. And, in the background, the Cascade River.

Like a lot of the houses in town, ours is a Craftsman with a long front porch. Blue with white trim. Seeing it brings back

memories of family movie nights complete with popcorn and root beer, of baking cookies with my mom and grandma, of sitting

in that swing on the front porch with a bag of chips and a book. Of watching Carwyn from behind the pages as he and Sam shot

hoops.

Surprisingly enough, Carwyn never left Cascade. He's now the principal at the high school. And I bet he looks as gorgeous

as he did the last time I saw him, which was from a distance. For one crazy moment I imagine running into him downtown—not

here at the house, that's too boring. No, I'm out by myself, having a cup of coffee that someone else has made and looking

elegant in a sleek, red winter coat (I don't own one), looking like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn.

Not that that will ever happen. I'll never be as elegant as Audrey. And I probably won't have one minute to myself, not with all the things

Mom has planned for me. But still... in my imagination it's a quiet, perfect moment. He does a double take and says, Hailey, is that you? You look amazing.

"Here we are," says Dad as we slide into the driveway. The streets are still icy, I can tell, but Dad's thrown rock salt around like birdseed, so we make it into the house without anybody going down. I'm going to have to bag wearing my cute shooties and dig out my trusty old winter boots if I want to stay upright around here. Not very glam, though. I'll at least wear my good stuff when I'm out trying to look impressive. For sure when I go to the high school to talk to the kids.

But here at home... I'm suddenly ready for jammie bottoms, slippers, and a sweater.

The minute I walk into the house, the aroma of baking cookies skips over to meet me. What is it about the smell of something

baking that says home?

Not so welcoming is the sight of mistletoe hanging in the front hall. Really, Mom? Naturally, with Sam's new love there must

be mistletoe. I'm sure staying away from it, though.

"We're here," Mom calls, and a moment later my grandma is in the hallway, short and round, wearing a red sweater to match

her red-rimmed glasses, coming toward me with arms outstretched.

"Look at you, all New York and elegant," she says. "You look fabulous, chickie-boo."

Ah yes, family always sees through the eyes of love. "Thanks," I say.

"Give me your coat," Mom says.

"I'll take your bags to your room," Dad says.

"Come have a cookie and some peppermint tea," Gram says.

For a moment I do feel a little like Danielle Steel, like someone important. Yep, it's nice to be loved.

Of course, once Sam comes over after work—he works with Dad in the business—he does his brotherly duty and pops my fat head.

Mom and Gram have insisted I stay out of the kitchen, like I'm some kind of visiting royalty, and he finds me reading in the

living room.

"Hey, geek-o," he teases and gives a me a brotherly punch in the arm. "About time you came home. You better not have eaten

all the cookies."

"Ha-ha," I say.

He plops down on the couch and sprawls out his long legs in front of him. "Glad you're back. We miss you around here."

"You just miss having someone to bug," I tease. Heaven knows he did enough of that when we were growing up.

"There is that. Seriously, though, you know we're all proud of you."

"Thanks," I say.

Sam is such a good bro. We had our share of fights when we were kids, but he also got me through algebra, helped me practice

for my driving test when I was sixteen, and always bought me romance novels for Christmas and my birthday. And, of course,

bought copies of my books. He's a good guy. Way too good for Gwendolyn.

He clears his throat, a sure sign that he's about to step into an awkward conversation. "Look, I'm sorry about—"

I cut him off. "Don't even say the name."

"He didn't deserve you."

"You're right," I say and mean it. "But hey, New York's a big place. I'll find my perfect match." Just not under the mistletoe.

"New York isn't the only place with men, you know."

"I know."

"Lots of men around here."

I think of Carwyn. There's an impossible dream.

"Just sayin'. You could move back."

"Maybe someday," I say. Except I don't see that happening. New York is where my friends are. It's where I found myself.

Sam nods. Topic closed. "Guess you heard about Gwendolyn and me."

I try not to wrinkle my nose. "Yeah, that was a surprise."

"Ran into her at Pete's Pizza and we got to shooting some pool and"—he shrugged—"it just exploded from there. She'd broken

up with that tool Denny Morris and needed comforting."

Reptiles need comforting? Who knew?

"You remember her, right?"

Do I ever? I remember her and her mean girlfriends hovering over me in the girls' bathroom, pointing out the big zit on my

nose.

"Can you see it with your glasses on?" she'd teased, and they'd all laughed.

I could see it just fine. I could also see what a bucket of barf she and her friends were.

"I remember her," I say. I'm sure Sam's hoping I'll add something positive about the woman, but I can't.

Maybe she's changed.

Just like a leopard changes its spots.

"She's pumped to see you," says Sam.

Pumped to torture me, more like. But I've got to put on a brave face for Sam. Come on, muscles, lift those lips .

Sam's brows lower. "What?" he prompts.

"We weren't exactly friends in high school," I say. That's putting it mildly.

"Hey, high school. Everybody's awful in high school, right?"

"I wasn't."

He smiles at that. "No, you weren't. You were a good kid. Still are. And, man, look at you now. You're a star."

Twinkle, twinkle. I hope I can manage to shine just a little tonight when I have to face Gwendolyn.