Christmas With Granny McPherson

by Nellie K Neves

  If only I’d taken the time to get to know her behind the scenes. The woman is a shark. She sinks her teeth in and tries to drain me every chance she gets. Every time we’ve negotiated a new contract, it’s the same song and dance. More money, less responsibility and typically…

  I search the contract and find the line. “New car. She’s getting predictable.”

  The oven beeps, telling me it’s ready for the cake I hadn’t planned on making. I steal one last bite before I jam it in the oven and slam the door closed.

  “What’s the verdict?” Andrew’s bowl is clean, and he’s ready to hear my answer.

  “I’ll sign it. With the new Christmas cookbook coming out in two weeks, and appearances scheduled between now and then, I don’t have room to argue with her.”

  Andrew nods as if he knew the answer. “Probably for the best. I don’t think you’d fill out the Mrs. Claus outfit in quite the same way.”

  Chapter 2

  Brooke

  I don’t know how I’m going to repair the kitchen. New oven, new paint, and I lost two cabinets when they caught fire. Which means I need new mixing bowls because the old ones were reduced to a pile of plastic goo.

  My laptop screen stares back at me, account numbers glowing red where they should be black. Grandpapa always said this place would make a fortune if he could get it up and running. I really thought I’d be the one to pull it off, but with debt mounting and everything coming due, it’s not looking good.

  Unwilling to deal with it any longer, I vacillate between taking another shot at the blackened kitchen cabinets, or taking a break from my dismal future and binge watching some primetime TV instead.

  My willpower is occasionally weak, and I end up slouched on the couch in my empty farmhouse inn. I flip through some channels. It’s dumb to pay for extra service when nothing is ever on. I bounce from one infomercial to the next, debating whether the mop of the year will solve all my problems or not. I land on not, because a mop won’t make me talented, smart, or lucky. It might get the soot out of the tile. I click to the next channel before I get tempted to buy one.

  “She started stripping right there in the frozen foods aisle! Clothes flying everywhere!”

  My attention perks. I read the caption at the bottom of the news broadcast feed. “Cooking empire queen exposed!”

  A blurry security tape feed pops onto the screen. It’s easy enough to see her, a grandma-type standing next to the frozen entrée section. Out of nowhere, she starts pulling off her dress, ripping it from her body. She pulls open the door and sets a foot inside the freezer case. Two women move to pull her out, but she smacks one clean across the face. I lean closer. It can’t be real. She shakes one of the women off, climbs out of the frozen food case, but runs, underclothes only, down the aisle, arms swinging wildly over her head.

  “If you’re just joining us, we’re watching this story unfold.” The screen cuts back to the reporter. “Household name, Granny McPherson, was caught stripping off her clothes in a local grocery store, and attempted to climb inside a frozen food case.”

  The picture cuts back to the news office. The lead anchor frowns. “Oh that’s too bad. We all love her so much. Is she okay, Maria? Are they worried this is dementia or—”

  Maria, the street reporter, fills the screen again. Her finger presses against her ear as if she’s getting a message from another source. “This just in, Granny McPherson tested positive for MDMA, better known as the street drug, Ecstasy. It’s been known to cause hot flashes and erratic behavior.”

  “That explains the frozen foods section.” I move to the edge of my seat. I have two of her cookbooks in my kitchen. I can’t cook to save my life, or my inn for that matter, but the times I’ve succeeded it’s been with her insightful and sage wisdom. Everyone knows Granny McPherson, she’s America’s Grandma. And she’s high on Ecstasy?

  “Maria,” the main anchor cuts off the street reporter, “we need to switch to James at the police station. We’ll be back, hold on.”

  I’m so glad I didn’t choose to be productive. Watching this live is better than any reality TV I’ve ever seen. What could the Granny on a bender do next?

  The screen shifts to a reporter outside a brick building. He starts to speak, but a wail cuts over the top of his voice. The camera jerks left, then right, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

  There she is.

  In all her glory.

  Granny McPherson.

  Two cops try to hold her, but she worms away, tossing the blanket they’d used to cover her. The gray-haired woman sprints down the street with surprising agility. She pauses for a second, manages a sloppy cartwheel, and falls into the grass. Cops, reporter, and cameraman chase her down.

  “Stay back!” the cop yells at the camera crew.

  Of course they don’t listen, not with pure gold spinning from the near-naked grandma in front of them.

  “Granny, what’s going on?” The reporter shoves the microphone in her face. “What’s happening? Did someone give you these drugs? Was it all an accident?”

  Makes sense. Maybe she mixed up her pills with something her granddaughter was taking.

  A string of curse words, so foul they’d make a flower wilt, pour from the old woman’s mouth. I can’t imagine the fees the studio will have to pay to the FCC. Sound cuts out completely, but it doesn’t take much to know what the old woman is saying. Cops manhandle her into cuffs, no longer willing to be gentle.

  Sound comes back as the reporter asks, “Granny, but why’d you do it?”

  “Oh, stop calling me that! I ain’t no one’s granny. My name is Hattie Hewbacker. I’m sick of hearing Granny this, and Granny that. I’m a stooge. I ain’t cooked nothing in my whole life!”

  She’s dropped the sweet angelic voice I’ve come to associate with the wholesome granny I thought I knew, and instead she sounds like a backwoods hillbilly.

  “Here’s a bombshell for you. Granny McPherson doesn’t exist! I’m just the face for the real author, Evan Skruggs. Look him up. Violate his privacy. I’m done. Granny out. Take me away boys.”

  The camera cuts back to the main anchors. Ten seconds of dead air go by before the woman tries to speak.

  “Breaking news. Granny McPherson, the Granny we’ve all come to love, is a fraud.”

  Her partner’s mouth gapes open. Someone off camera snaps their fingers repeatedly. He jars free of his trance. “I guess the real question is, who is Evan Skruggs?”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Evan

  “Get me Winnifred Donaldson on the phone. I don’t care if she’s busy, we need her now.” Andrew slams my landline down and sinks onto the leather couch in my study.

  I can’t look away from the TV. It has to be a nightmare. I’ve had this one before, minus the drugs and the half-naked cartwheel, but I’ve known for a long time that at any point Hattie could spill our secret and my empire might come toppling down.

  “It’s not that bad yet.” Andrew’s said the same thing at least seven times now. I think he’s telling himself, not me.

  Smart. I’d never believe it.

  “It’s over. It’s all over. I’m ruined.”

  Andrew leans forward, trying to console me. “You’re not ruined. I’m waiting on a call from your publicist. She’ll have ideas on how to spin this.”

  “Publicist? I don’t have a publicist.”

  “No. You’ve never met your publicist. Granny McPherson has one, and—”

  A knock at the door cuts him off. Anna, my secretary, pokes her head inside looking for Andrew. “Mr. Mickels—”

  Andrew strides toward her. “Do you have Winnie on the line?”

  “No. She’s her—”

  “Don’t come back until you have her on the line!” I’ve never heard Andrew raise his voice. Anna cowers back. I move to intercept her, because the fifty-year-old woman has been with me since the start of all this, but the door swings wide. A slender brunette steps through, hair cut harsh at the jaw, g
reen eyes flashing.

  “Hi, I’m Winnie. Which one of you is Evan Skruggs? Apparently, I work for you.” She shoves a hand out in front of her to shake the guilty party’s hand.

  I clamp my mouth shut but push to my feet and take her olive branch, so to speak.

  “I’m Evan. It’s good to meet you, Winnie. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know you existed either.”

  Her grip falls away after one shake. “You should have told me a lot sooner what was really going on around here. I would have handled everything differently. We could have introduced you as the CEO, or the CFO, or a dozen other scenarios. As it stands, you have no social media presence at all. No one knows who you are.”

  “That’s how I like it.” I don’t mean to sound gruff, but from the way she balks, I must have come off that way.

  “Obviously, since you hired a pill-popping grandma to be the face of your company.”

  “We had no idea that Hattie was—”

  Andrew takes a step toward her, effectively cutting my sentence short. “How bad is it? What are we looking at here?”

  Winnie looks me over with distrust but turns her laser eyes back to Andrew. “If it was just the cookbooks, it wouldn’t be that bad. We’d spin pen names, talk about privacy and marketing, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “But it’s not just the books,” I say, bringing us back to the reality at hand.

  “No, it’s the cookbooks, the merchandizing, the frozen food division, the pre-made cake mixes, and the app that launched last month. There are three more grocery items being introduced for the holiday season.” Winnie’s eyes narrow to slits. “Do you realize I had Granny in talks for a reality TV show? She was going to judge a bake-off, name America’s next best baker. The network was going to call it American Food Empire.”

  The news shocks me. I knew about the food, for the most part, but the reality show? An app? How much of my own enterprise has slipped by me while I hid in the shadows?

  “The main problem we have is that Granny McPherson is a household name. It’s not just about the products or the recipes now. You paid me to make her a big deal, and that’s what I’ve done. That means this scandal is a big deal. People feel betrayed. They want answers. They want to know the man behind the curtain.”

  “You have a plan?” Andrew shifts with impatience. It was his idea that I stay on the back burner. It’s starting to look like a bad plan.

  “I’m not sure your boy is going to like it,” Winnie says.

  “Try me.” I steel my jaw, hoping I look tough instead of nervous.

  “I’ve already talked with three networks, they all love the idea. We can sell it to the highest bidder. It would land square on your shoulders to pull it off though. At least you’re decent to look at.” Winnie’s eyebrows rise as if she doesn’t believe I’m capable. “Here’s the rub. The world doesn’t know who you are. We need them to get to know you, or your stocks and worth will keep free falling.”

  “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  “A Christmas special.”

  My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Not one bit.”

  “So what? I play house for an hour? Kiss a reindeer or something?”

  “No. They want a whole lot more than that. They want morning show spots. They want Christmas cookies and sleigh rides. They want a Christmas party and singing by the fireplace while you wait for Santa to come down the chimney.”

  “This sound extensive.” Andrew puts up his hands like he might stop her. “You’re saying they want Evan to stay in a studio for a few weeks? That’s not fair to him.”

  “I forgot that part.” Winnie draws in a deep breath. “I have this cousin. She has a bed and breakfast out in the countryside. When I told the executives, they were basically drooling over the idea. They want cameras all over the house. They want you filmed every minute. The world wants to know Evan Skruggs.”

  “No way.” I reverse for the window, seriously considering throwing myself from the fifty-third floor. “I’m not going along with that.”

  “It’s this or watch your empire fall apart. The people need a new Granny McPherson, and all they have is you.” She tosses her card on my desk. “You have twelve hours. After that, the deal expires. I don’t even know if it’s going to work. I still have to convince my cousin.”

  She tacks that last bit on like an afterthought before she ducks out the door. I sink onto the couch again and bury my face in my hands. It can’t be real. This can’t be my only option.

  “Evan—” Andrew is about to tell me I need to say yes, but even he can’t get out the words.

  “You know I can’t. There’s a reason you wanted someone to stand in my place. I’m not likeable. One morning special, and I’ll be worse off than before. I play like I’m confident, but you know I shouldn’t be around people.”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  “No one likes me. Man, you barely like me, and I’m nicer to you than anyone.”

  “You’re willing to give it all up? The whole brand? Everything you’ve worked for?”

  I groan and sink back into the cushions. “No, I’m not.”

  The couch shifts under his weight. His palm slaps down on my knee. It stings almost as much as the truth. “Then I guess we should find you a Santa suit, because you’re coming home for Christmas.”

  Chapter 3

  Brooke

  I might have hit the limit for pine bough decorations, but with the forest all around me, it’s the one decoration I can get for cheap. The whole house smells like Christmas, or maybe a taxi cab’s interior. It’s a toss-up. I hope there’s no such a thing as too many twinkle lights. If there is, it’s possible that I’ve hit the limit there too.

  “The inn might be visible from space by now.”

  Winnie elbows me. “Stop being dramatic. TV cameras need all the extra light. The crew is gonna love you for making their lives easier. The place looks great.”

  She’s trying to make it sound like this mess she’s talked me into will be a walk in the park, but the park is under three feet of snow right now, and I’m pretty sure my life is as well.

  “You’re sure this is a good idea?” I think I’ve asked her ten times, not including the first five on the phone when she breeched the idea. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had Granny McPherson as a client all these years.”

  “I had non-disclosures to think about. Plus, it’s not like I met my real client until a few days ago. What I really deserve is thank you for saving my inn, Winnie. Plus, some gratitude because the network renovated your ashtray kitchen.”

  I’ve said thank you at least fifteen times, though how a TV show or two will help to save the inn, I’m still not clear on that part yet.

  “Look, he’ll be here tomorrow morning in time for—” Winnie stops mid-sentence and stares at her phone. “Okay, don’t freak out.”

  “What? He’s not coming at all?”

  A knock at the door says otherwise.

  “He’s here now, early.” Winnie scrunches her face in apology. “I’m sorry. They texted me two minutes ago. I must not have seen it.”

  “Two minutes? They gave you two minutes’ notice?”

  The knock sounds again, more insistent this time. I draw in a shaky breath and straighten my button top, trying to look like maybe I’m an adult. I yank open the door, ready to give the intruder a piece of my mind, but hand to my heart, I’ve never seen a man that gorgeous.

  “Hi. I’m Evan.”

  If only the voice matched his face. He acts as though I’ve dragged him here. Like this was my idea, and I’m holding him hostage or something. Hardly the case. Still, I’m determined to be professional.

  “I’m Brooke Cratchett. Good to meet you.” I stretch my hand out to him, but he stares like I’ve lost my mind. Is it celebrity thing? Do they not shake hands?

  “You gonna let me in, or am I sleeping outside in the snow?”

 
Caught off guard once more by his gruff manner, I step back, allowing him entrance. Only, it’s not just Evan. About ten more people follow behind him, all carrying wiring, cameras, suitcases and gear. My wide eyes stare at Winnie across the room, hoping she sees my distress.

  “What’s all this?” I motion to the team of burly men and black wires.

  “Brooke, this is the rest of the filming crew we talked about. They’re going to install some cameras, set up some lighting,” she waves her hands around like it answers my questions, “you know the drill.”

  “No,” I say it slowly, “I don’t, because I live in an inn in the middle of nowhere, Winnie.”

  Evan sighs like one of the horses, loud, intrusive, and out of patience. “My room, want to point the way, Bree?”

  “Brooke.” My good nature is slipping away and fast. “My name is Brooke.”

  “Yeah.” His eyebrows bounce once. “Brooke. My room? I’m exhausted.”

  Heaven forbid the celebrity be left waiting while I supervise a team of strangers drilling into the hundred-year-old walls of my grandparent’s farmhouse.

  “Winnie, will you watch them?” I ask my cousin.

  “No, they’ll be fine. I’ll help you get Mr. Skruggs settled.”

  Either she can’t see my distress, or she’s ignoring it, likely the latter knowing her. The first drill rattles the walls as I escort Mr. Skruggs up the west wing staircase, one of his many bags in my hand.

  “We’re not booked up at the moment, so in reality you can have your pick of any one of the rooms here in the west wing.”

  “Awesome,” Evan mumbles.

  I stop at the top of the stairs and motion to the five available rooms. “I was planning to put you in the navy room. It has its own bathroom, plus a nice view of the pastures and the barn.”

  “Well, heaven’s stars, a barnyard view. What more could a guy ask for?”