Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Epilogue
Author bio:
Christmas Inn Maine is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental. | No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved. | Copyright © 2019 Chelsea M. Cameron | Editing by Laura Helseth | Cover by Chelsea M. Cameron
One
If someone called me a grinch one more time, I was going to lose my shit. So what, I hated Christmas. Was that a crime now?
“So you’re going to be alone?” my coworker, Betty, said with horror on her face, as if I’d said I was going to murder and dismember a litter of puppies.
“Yes,” I said, through gritted teeth. Betty shook her head and made disappointed noises with her mouth while I tried not to scream.
“That just doesn’t seem right. Christmas is for family.” I didn’t feel like explaining to her that my mom had run off and abandoned me and dad, and that he’d died a few years ago and I was an only child with relatives that didn’t really care about my existence. It was kind of a conversational downer, so I just let people believe that I was a bitter bitch who hated joy and togetherness.
I was distracted from dealing with Betty by the arrival of a person who annoyed me even more than she did: Laura. Just thinking her name made me want to snarl.
“Hey, did you finish those subs yet?” she asked me, tossing her long spiral-curled brown locks over her shoulder. Laura was the kind of girl who could wear her hair down all the time and it always looked perfect. Mine was up constantly, today in a lazy braid.
“I will this afternoon,” I said, as Betty went back to her desk. All I wanted was to drink my coffee in peace, but no. Laura couldn’t let me do that with her perfect hair and her heeled boots that made a clicking sound on the linoleum.
“Great, I just wanted to remind you so you didn’t forget.”
“I won’t,” I said, my voice thick with fake cheerfulness. Either Laura didn’t notice, or she chose to ignore it, as she thanked me and went back to her desk.
We both worked at a small literary agency in Boston as assistants to the head literary agent. My goal was to work my way up and maybe get to New York, if I could ever save up enough to afford it.
I thought about having another cup of coffee to make it through the afternoon, but instead I went for some tea. I was trying to be better about having too much caffeine in the afternoon. I glopped some honey into my cup and braced myself to go back to my desk. It was right next to Laura’s, which was just . . . not great.
Fortunately, she kept her head down most of the time, but that also worked against me because if she worked hard, I had to work twice as hard. I fell short a lot.
This was a competitive industry and she was my competition and my enemy. I had heard through the grapevine (Betty and her big mouth), that one of the junior agents might be moving to New York, and her position would be open. I wanted it, and I knew Laura would too.
It was ON.
First up was getting through these last submissions. Our boss, Ping, had already left for the holidays (as most of publishing did in the month of December), but here Laura and I were, along with the rest of the lower rungs on the ladder, still working our butts off to get through the backlog of submissions. Everyone and their uncle thought they had The Great American Novel in them, and it was my job to sort through the garbage and find a diamond to show Ping.
I’d discarded everything so far today, and I was hoping to have one that I wanted to show her when she got back, but it wasn’t looking promising.
“Anything good?” a voice asked from behind me, and I almost had a heart attack.
“No,” I said, as I tried to calm my heart. “And you shouldn’t lurk like that, it’s creepy.” Laura had the habit of reading over my shoulder, yet another thing that made her the most annoying person on the planet.
“Bummer. They today, huh?” she said, pointing at my pronoun pin that had THEY/THEM printed on it.
“Yeah,” I said. The one thing that could be said for Laura was that she always respected my pronouns, at least to my face.
“Cool,” she said, and went back to her desk. I wasn’t sure what the point of that interruption had been, except to show me how good her hair looked when she tossed it over her shoulder like she was in a shampoo commercial.
I went back to reading submissions and put in my earbuds so I could block out the noise of the rest of the office. Just three more days of work until I was off for two whole weeks. I was out-of-my-mind excited. I’d rented a cottage on the coast of Maine and I couldn’t wait to get there and not talk to anyone for the duration of my trip. It was going to be heaven. I’d already planned out my reading schedule to the hour and packed my books in my car. A cottage by the sea called for reading physical books, as far as I was concerned.
I made it through the rest of the day and decided to clock out. Laura was still working while I gathered my stuff up to leave, but I was going to let her have this one.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, as I wrapped myself in my jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves. Boston winter winds could be brutal. Strip the skin right off your face.
“Bye,” she said, her eyes glued to the screen. She’d recently gotten some of those glasses that were supposed to help block the blue light from computers and they looked really good on her, which was totally annoying. I wore contacts because I looked goofy with glasses on, but she looked like a freaking model.
I headed out to the freezing, icy sidewalk and headed toward the train. I was lucky to live only a few stops away from work. I wasn’t so lucky that I had to live with someone else, but my roommate was fine. She did her thing, I did mine, and we rarely interacted. She worked nights as a nurse and slept during the day, so it was pretty ideal.
She’d already left when I got home, so I had the kitchen to myself to make a quick dinner and grabbing my eating book. I had different books for different activities and moods. A dinner book was one I could have in front of my face and eat with one hand and not have to focus on too much. I read a little bit at a time. These were most often my re-reads.
Post-dinner books were new releases, or books that I really wanted to finish. Pre-bed books had to be soothing, so I didn’t stay up all night. I also didn’t allow myself to start a new book within an hour of going to bed. That had bitten me in the ass one too many times before.
Before I started my post-dinner book, I checked out the listing for my cottage again. I’d even bought long underwear and pajamas with lobsters on them. I was going to make a bunch of soup and stare at the snow and read with mugs of hot cider warming my hands.
This was going to be my new Christmas tradition, after forcing myself to try and fit in for years. This Christmas would be mine, and mine alone.
I counted down the moments until I could reasonably leave on Friday.
“Got somewhere to go?” Laura asked.
“Yup,” I said, my knees jiggling in anticipation under my desk as I watched the seconds tick down.
“What are your holiday plans?” she asked.
“Being alone,” I said. I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was going, just that I was going away.
“Oh,” she said, and I could feel her wanting to ask more, but she didn’t. I finally clocked ou
t and nearly skipped to the door.
“Uh, have a good holiday. See you,” I said. I didn’t stay to see if she replied. I was OUT of here.
It started snowing as I drove up I-95 and into the state of Maine. I’d always had an affinity for Maine, but hadn’t been here much. I finally headed off the highway and stopped to get enough food to feed me for two weeks and ignored everyone else who was all hopped up on holiday energy.
“Are you sure about this?” I said to my GPS as it told me I’d arrived at my destination a half-hour later.
“You have arrived,” the robotic voice said, but there was no cabin here. I peered through the falling snow, which had gotten thicker as I’d driven. Usually, when it snowed in Boston, I would just park my car in a local garage so I wouldn’t have to clean it off and then just use public transportation. I didn’t mess around with that shit. I probably should have looked at the weather or thought about this ahead of time. At least I had snow tires so I wasn’t going to end up in a ditch, but as I stared out at the empty lot where my beautiful cottage was supposed to be, I was wishing I’d stayed in Boston.
Fuck.
“Fuck!” I yelled, and slammed my hands against the steering wheel. I got on the app where I’d booked the cottage and tried to find a contact number, something. All I got was a “live chat” that was wholly unhelpful and just told me to cancel and rebook and they’d “look into it.” No contact info for the people I was supposed to be renting from. Just an email. I tried that, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
I was completely fucked. I’d have to go back to Boston and see if I could somehow get my money back for the imaginary cottage. I didn’t particularly feel like driving back in this, but what else was I going to do?
Panicking a little, I started driving slowly in the snow, looking for . . . I don’t know. Anything. Anyone. Someone to save me.
A black iron sign loomed out of the whiteness: THE STERLING INN. It was perfect. As if it had appeared just for me. I pulled into the drive and parked in the lot. The inn was a lovely white farmhouse with a red barn. They must do a lot of weddings here in the summer.
I got out of my car and walked up the front porch of the inn and through the double doors that were hung with wreaths. It was like stepping right into a postcard.
The inside was warm, with a cozy fireplace to my left and a desk to my right. I stomped off my boots in the entry so I didn’t get snow all over the plush rugs covering the hardwood floors that creaked just a little when you walked, as if they were original.
Garland hung from the bannisters of a staircase that had probably seen its fair share of grand entrances, and I counted at least five fully decked Christmas trees in the entry. They didn’t mess around here.
“Can I help you?” a voice said to my right at the desk.
“Oh, yes, uh, I am in a bit of a pickle. I was supposed to be renting a cottage, but uh, the cottage doesn’t exist. Have you heard of this?” I pulled the listing up on my phone and showed it to her.
“No, I’m sorry. That doesn’t look like a place I recognize. Do you need a room?”
I was just about to say that I did and cringe at the cost when something hit me in the back of my legs.
“Minnie, no!”
I almost fell over as I turned to see what the hell was happening, and I swore I saw . . .
“Is that a pig?” I asked, as something large and round and black ran through to the dining room with someone right behind it.
“Yes, that’s Minnie,” the front desk person said with a rueful smile. “She’s part of the family.”
“Family?” I asked, turning back to her as the echo of squeals faded away.
“Yes, the Sterling family.”
“Sterling family?” I asked.
“Yes, we, I mean, they, own the inn. I’m just cheap labor because I’m related. I’m Michelle Sterling,” she said.
“Uh, yeah. How much is it going to be?”
“Let’s see,” she said, going to a computer monitor.
“We don’t have a ton of availability, but The Nautical Suite is available at three fifty a night, and there’s also The Schooner Room for three hundred.”
I closed my eyes and counted to five so I didn’t scream. This little Christmas trip was really going to pile on the credit card debt.
“Would you like to see the rooms before you decide?” Michelle asked.
“Sure, yeah, that sounds great.” I put a smile on my face and tried to suck it up. Hey, at least I was going to spend a night at this gorgeous inn. Hopefully one of the rooms had a bathtub I could soak my whole body in.
Michelle took me upstairs and I saw even more charm. There were photographs of people everywhere, which Michelle pointed out as various Sterlings.
“We’ve lived in this town for generations. We all live within a few miles of each other.” That was probably supposed to sound heartwarming, but I shuddered and she laughed.
“It’s not always bad. We always have interesting people around. And Portland isn’t that far away.” I couldn’t imagine living this isolated, even if it was close to the beach.
Michelle showed me The Schooner room, which was fine, but then we went to The Nautical Suite and I was ready to throw myself on the California King canopy bed in the bedroom. There was also a little sitting room and a small kitchen area with a hot plate, a microwave, and a small fridge. Plus, the bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub that I was going to spend at least an hour in.
“I’ll take it,” I said, putting my bag down on a chair.
“Great. I’ll just run your card information. Do you need any help with your luggage?” I wasn’t going to need all my books for just staying a night, but I didn’t want to leave them in the car, so I said, “Yeah, that would be good.”
A surly teenage boy huffed my suitcase full of books up the stairs, along with the rest of my luggage, into my room. He just stood there waiting and I wanted to ask if there was something wrong with him, but he was waiting for a tip. I just happened to have some cash in my wallet, so I gave him a fiver and that seemed to do the trick.
He shut the door behind him and I flopped on the bed. So, maybe this wasn’t a complete loss. If I wasn't so fucking broke, I might consider staying here for Christmas. They’d probably haul me downstairs to sing carols and eat gingerbread cookies, though, so it was probably for the best.
The room was so pretty, done in shades of light and dark blue and cream, with pictures of knots as well as two lamps that were made from giant knots on the dark blue nightstands. It was so classic and so Maine and I adored it. There was even a fucking rocking chair with a pillow that had blue knots printed on the fabric.
I realized I was starving. They’d just started serving dinner in the dining room, and it seemed silly to order room service since I could walk my ass downstairs.
I left the beautiful room and went downstairs. There were already a few people in the dinning room, including an older woman who might be sixty and might be three hundred and the most enormous black pig I’d seen in my life. Not that I’d seen a lot of pigs. She was feeding it scraps from the table like a dog. That was something I definitely hadn’t seen in my life.
“Granny, you can’t do that,” I heard a familiar voice say, and I turned to see none other than Laura. The coworker I’d seen yesterday. I stood there gaping for a second, sure this was a mirage. She couldn’t possibly be here, at this random Maine inn. What the fuck? It had to be someone who looked like her.
Then the pig turned around, saw me, and ran over. I put my hands up to protect myself, but it skidded to a stop right in front of me and looked up, making soft noises.
“Uh, hello?” I said, unsure of what to do. Did you pet pigs like dogs? What was pig etiquette?
“Colden?” the raspy voice said, and I looked from the pig to the approaching Laura. Yup, definitely her.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I said as the pig wiggled in front of me as if it wanted me to do something.
“This is my family’s inn,” she said, looking just as stunned as I probably did. Her face had gotten pale.
“Oh,” I said, because what else was there to say?
“She wants you to pet her,” she said, pointing at the pig. “Right on the top of her head or under her chin.”
This was the most bizarre moment of my entire life, and that was saying a lot.
“Your last name is Sterling,” I said, finally making the connection.
“Yeah,” she said, leaning down to pet the pig. “What are you doing here?”
“I was supposed to rent a cottage that turned out not to exist and there was a lot of snow and now I’m here and you’re petting a pig.”
“Yes, I am,” she said, and I could feel her irritation. I wasn’t too happy either.
“I should go,” I said, but one look outside told me that my car wasn’t headed anywhere.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll stay out of your way. Go, have dinner.” She grabbed the pig’s collar and tried to drag it back to the table with the older woman, but the pig wasn’t going to go. The thing weighed several hundred pounds at least.
“Will you just pet her so she’ll be happy?” Laura said, still struggling with the pig.
“Okay?” I said. I leaned down and scratched the top of the pig’s head. It was dry and covered in wiry little hairs. Not exactly soft, but the pig made little happy noises and wagged its tail like a dog.
After a few moments, the pig dashed back to the table, as if satisfied.
“She has to greet everyone who comes in here whether they want to greet her or not,” Laura said. “Excuse me.” She left and I realized she had a white shirt, black pants, black apron, and black bowtie on. The dining staff uniform.
Did I want to hop in my car and risk death rather than sit down and be waited on by Laura? Yes. Did I? No.
I sat down at a damn table and she came over to fill my water glass and give me a menu.
“The specials today are the lobster pot pie, the fennel, cranberry, and goat cheese salad, and the cinnamon bread pudding,” she said in a robotic voice, not even looking at me. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
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