Rebel Without a Claus
A Mistletoe Miracles Novel
Keira Candace Clementine
Clementine Christmas Books
Rebel Without a Claus
Copyright © 2019 by Keira Candace Clementine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is not dedicated to my dad,
who told me that the puppy in John Wick was fine.
(He knew I would refuse to watch the film otherwise.)
The puppy was not fine, Dad.
The puppy was very much not fine.
‘I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.’
Jane Austen, Persuasion
‘There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away.’
Bruce Springsteen, Thunder Road
Contents
Santa’s List
Town of Mistletoe
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Connect With Keira Candace Clementine
The Next Book In The Series
About the Author
Santa’s List
(Cast of Characters)
Naughty
Christian Thornton III, a New York architect who hates Christmas.
Great Aunt Gladys, also known as the Relic. Christian and Holly’s great aunt, and the owner of Milleridge Inn.
Ridge Brooks, the Aussie hunk who gets between Christian and Clara.
Miles Pine; Sugarplum Mary; Etc.
Nice
Clara James, Mistletoe’s Christmas consigliere and the woman who broke Christian’s heart.
Holly Calhoun, née Thornton, Christian’s big sister and mother to the Gs.
The Gs, also known as Grace, Grayson, George, and Gus. They are Holly’s children and Christian’s niece and nephews.
Pudding; Magdalena Wheeler; Henri; Nikolai; Etc.
Town of Mistletoe
OFFICE OF THE MAYOR
Dear Friends:
Welcome to Mistletoe, the town known around the world as Santa’s home away from home.
We are delighted that you are visiting us during the happiest time of the year. Each December, our community comes together in the spirit of the holidays to practice giving, gratitude, and grace.
Here you will discover that we are vibrant and welcoming folk, famous for our boundless spirit, unrivaled heritage, and holiday cheer.
However, Mistletoe’s reputation as the world’s favorite Christmas town would hardly be possible if not for the following laws. Failure to comply with these laws will result in a fine.
From the first of December until the twenty-sixth, cars are outlawed and one must travel by sleigh. If you do not own a sleigh or if you are unwilling to drive one, complimentary sleighs are available twenty-four hours a day.
From the first of December until the twenty-sixth, it is mandatory that one wears an ugly Christmas sweater.
Seasonal beverages—like gingerbread lattes or peppermint mochas—are to be served instead of nonseasonal beverages. Those with allergies can be issued a certificate from their doctor.
It is illegal to die on Christmas Day. If you must die, please do so on the twenty-forth or the twenty-sixth. Thank you.
Although these laws may seem silly or excessive to some, they are fundamental in spreading that famous holiday cheer which put Mistletoe on the world map. Please follow the law while you are staying with us, and you will receive our heartfelt thanks.
From all of us at the Mayor’s Office to all of you, we wish you the happiest of holidays and the most prosperous of New Years.
Sincerely,
Shepherd Hamilton
Mayor of Mistletoe
One
Christian Thornton III was an architect, which is a job people only have in film and television, like mystery writers who help the police solve crimes, and yet one that Christian had in real life.
But then, Christian’s life was a film—a romantic comedy in which he never starred.
Christian always played the supporting character. Christian did not look like the type to play the supporting character. He was tall and dashing, and he radiated luxury. And yet, in every single one of his New York romances, he played the role of the emotionally distant, work-obsessed boyfriend who never participated in his relationship, not really, not enough, because that big case needed closing or that promotion loomed.
He played the role of the super-rich boyfriend who turned up at the start of a romantic comedy and maybe again briefly at the end. The big city guy the heroine left for the small town hero who might just be a Christmas tree farmer.
This had happened so many times that Christian began to think of himself as a Hallmark Christmas Widow. Once upon a more innocent time, he thought of Hallmark Christmas Widows as the men whose wives abandoned them during the holiday season. The men whose wives snuggled up on their couches in their big, cozy blankets with their mothers and sisters and best friends, to watch Hallmark’s Holiday lineup with a box of chocolates and perhaps a glass of wine. But no, this kind of Hallmark Christmas Widow-ness was far, far more nefarious.
‘I can’t take you for granted if you’re running a Christmas tree farm in your cute little hometown,’ Christian had said, only half joking, the first time he became a Hallmark Christmas Widow.
‘Chip taught me about love, Christian,’ Beth had said in reply. She spoke slowly, as if Christian were an exasperating child. ‘I hope one day you find your Chip.’
‘He doesn’t exactly sound my type,’ Christian replied with an edge of bitterness. After all, Christian Thornton III was a man. Not just any man, but a man who was extremely wealthy and handsome and dominant. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get what he wanted. Other men hated him, but only because their wives and their girlfriends dreamed of becoming the first Mrs. Christian Thornton III.
Who did Beth think she was, dumping him—Christian!—for some hometown hick?
Still, Christian hadn’t loved Beth. He hadn’t even liked Beth. If she wanted to waste her life away on a Christmas tree farm, then fine. Goodbye. Good luck.
Beth was the first of many girlfriends Christian lost during the happiest time of the year. There was Carol, a ruthless book publisher who insisted to Christian that she was visited by the ghost of the company’s kind and loving founder, who showed her the true meaning of life. The true meaning of life, it turns out, was settling down in a small town to make juniper garlands. Apparently, you could live off juniper garland sales, even in July.
But Carol wasn’t the only girlfriend to see ghosts. There was also Catherine, a workaholic lawyer, who had three weeks to get a haunted Bed and Breakfast appraised and sold. According to the message Catherine left on Christian’s answering machine, she’d fallen in love with the ghost who haunted the Bed and Breakfast and would not return to New York. Christian didn’t even believe in the spirit of Christmas, and now the spirit of Christmas had stolen his gi
rl.
Christian dressed in one of the expensive suits he’d worn his entire adult life and which was suddenly too tight around his shoulders. He was taking his fiancée out for dinner, so maybe that accounted for the uncomfortableness? As he laced his shoes, his sister called to tell him about her yoga class and how her oldest child, Grace, had left one of her middle children, George, at the park that afternoon.
‘Did you ever find George?’ Christian asked.
‘No, Christian, I did not find George. I just let him stay out there, roaming the streets of Mistletoe. Of course, I found George. I’d sound a little more upset if I hadn’t.’
‘Would you?’ Christian asked absentmindedly. He laced up the other shoe. They were Italian loafers. Beautiful, elegant. Expensive. The kind of loafers a man buys when he doesn’t need to buy children toys.
‘Yes, Christian.’ Holly tried to sound patient with her younger brother. She was always trying to sound patient with her younger brother, but it never worked. He was an idiot; he knew she felt completely certain of this.
‘Okay, but I don’t have children,’ he said defensively.
‘You don’t need to have children to know a mother would feel upset if her child vanished, Christian.’
Christian didn’t reply. He was thinking of all the women he knew who went to yoga class, how good they looked in those tight leggings.
‘Christian, you need to come home for the holidays.’
Christian almost dropped the phone. ‘What—why?’
‘Because the Relic called me tonight and she wants you to come home for the holidays. You need to bring that fiancée of yours, too. Apparently, the bringing of the fiancée is super important.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know. The Relic doesn’t tell me anything. You’re the favorite, remember? You’re the Marcia, and I’m the Jan.’
‘I’m only the Marcia because I carry the Thornton family name.’
‘It’s about the inn, Christian.’
‘What about the inn?’
‘I have no idea,’ Holly snapped. ‘The Relic isn’t going to tell the Jan anything.’
‘You know, for a mother of four, I’d think you would be a little more patient,’ Christian replied.
Holly hung up the phone.
An hour later, Christian and Magdalena sat in silence through dinner, sending emails from their phones.
Christian frowned as he replied to an actress who wanted to build a house in the Hamptons. He shouldn’t have taken the night off. He was aiming for a promotion and he didn’t want his architecture firm to offer the prize to Miles Pine. But also, Magdalena hadn’t wanted the night off either, and she blamed Christian for tearing her away from her newest client. She had a promotion in the works too, you know, her eyes seemed to say as she put away her phone and stared blankly at him over their baked lobster fideo pasta.
Magdalena Wheeler hated children. Christian loved this about her. He hated children, too. He hated their sticky fingers and their small, beady eyes. He hated his nephews, how they always pointed out the most embarrassing part of a stranger’s body, while Christian pretended he didn’t hate children when they came to visit him in New York and he took them out for ice cream. His niece was an exception.
Christian refused to believe that children were people. They were not people until they turned twelve and you could bribe them with their very own cell phone to stay out of the way. He didn’t know why his sister liked them, or why their Great Aunt Gladys was so desperate for Christian to have children of his own. Children only smudged her beloved antique silver.
Christian didn’t want any smudges on the antique silver—or on any of the antiques he’d inherit when the Relic died. That was Christian’s nickname for his Great Aunt Gladys, a nickname she would perhaps support if she ever found out about it, because before coining the Relic, he and Holly had called her GAG—for Great Aunt Gladys. Still, Christian called her the Relic, but never to her face.
When the Relic eventually died, he’d planned on offloading everything she owned, from the antiques to her musty old inn. Especially her musty old inn. The place gave Christian the creeps. And on the near priceless land where the inn once stood, he would build a luxury hotel. Already, his architectural firm knew of his plans.
‘I have to return to my hometown,’ Christian said to Magdalena as they finished their pasta. He continued to speak, while Magdalena made the noises of someone who listened when Christian spoke, only he could tell she was emailing a coworker with whom she was currently negotiating an emotional affair.
‘Magdalena?’
‘Say again?’
‘Come with me to my hometown. It’s cute. It’s called Mistletoe. Everyone there is obsessed with Christmas and there are all these weird laws. We’ll have fun.’
‘I’m a lawyer,’ Magdalena said, disbelieving. She looked up from her phone for the first time since the waiter had brought the second bottle of wine. ‘I don’t visit small towns called Mistletoe.’
‘That’s why I fell in love with you,’ Christian replied. He meant it, too.
A part of him had hoped she’d agree. Yes, Mistletoe was tiny and boring and packed with mouth breathers who obsessed over Christmas, because they were sad and had no life, but he, Christian, her fiancé, had spent his childhood in Mistletoe. Didn’t Magdalena want to smell what Christian had smelled as a child, the woods and the smoke and the pine trees and the cinnamon that laced every hot chocolate sold?
In truth, Magdalena had never wanted to know anything about Christian’s childhood. When he’d told her his parents died in a car crash when he was fifteen, she’d replied, ‘Thank goodness.’ Magdalena didn’t do parents. She hadn’t spoken to hers in five years, and she had no plans to speak to anyone else’s.
‘Are you staying away long?’ Magdalena asked now. She almost sounded as if she cared. Almost.
Christian could tell she wanted to move her emotional affair with this coworker into a physical affair, and maybe his penthouse apartment would give her the perfect romantic setting. He almost asked if they could dispense with the pretense and have an open relationship. But Magdalena seemed to like secrets. She liked how they made her feel bad in a good way.
Christian told her, ‘Just until Christmas Eve.’
‘Good,’ Magdalena said firmly. ‘I mean, I’ll miss you and so on.’
‘Thank you.’
Magdalena hadn’t come from a quaint little town like Christian. She was born and raised in New York, which meant no one called her away for the holidays. In fact, this was the reason Christian had proposed to her on their sixth anniversary. Magdalena didn’t believe in anniversaries, and neither did Christian, but there he was on one knee, pretending he thought anniversaries were a thing, and there she was shouting yes while pretending she thought anniversaries were a thing, too.
He’d proposed in front of her work colleagues, not because he thought this was romantic, but because he knew Magdalena wanted a very public proposal. He knew this because she’d told him as much on their first date, so confident she’d score a ring from New York’s most eligible bachelor that she’d put everything out there, just like that. Christian liked that confidence. He felt like he could invest in that confidence.
Magdalena had shown off the ring—some yellow diamond thing—while Christian drank enough to convince himself that the engagement wasn’t a mistake, that he wasn’t still in love with the woman who’d broken his heart fifteen years ago.
Clara James.
Lovely, stubborn, opinionated Clara James.
Of course, when Clara had broken Christian’s heart, she wasn’t yet a woman any more than he was a man. They were kids, both eighteen, childhood friends who’d grown into childhood sweethearts.
Clara James was the girl who had rejected Christian’s proposal on Christmas Eve. Clara James was the girl Christian had abandoned without a word the following morning, when he packed his worldly belongings and fled Mistletoe. Clara James was the g
irl who had made all the other girls Christian had dated since pale in comparison.
Christian understood why he had loved Clara, and yet he couldn’t identify his own attraction to Magdalena beyond her lack of small town history. She was blonde, sure, and didn’t gentlemen prefer blonds? Hadn’t Marilyn Monroe starred in a film with that very title? Fine, Magdalena didn’t run cold, which meant Christian never had to take off his blazer and place it around her gently trembling shoulders. Men get cold too, you know, Christian wanted to shout every time a woman shivered in a movie and her suitor took of his own jacket to warm her. Men get cold too!
‘If we get a divorce,’ Magdalena told him in the limousine on the way home after the proposal, ‘let’s be the kind of people who consciously uncouple and then vacation with our new significant others.’
They were not even married yet and Magdalena was already planning their divorce.
‘We don’t want children, do we?’ Christian had replied.
‘Gosh, no.’
After dinner, Christian had his driver take them to Magdalena’s building. They kissed goodbye in the car more out of habit than attraction. The kiss had felt like love, though Christian was absolutely sure that they did not love each other. Yes, they loved the idea of each other. They loved being rich together, being careless together, laughing together as they strolled past the beggars and the losers and the cheats. They loved not having to pretend to care about poor people when they were together, because who can be bothered keeping up that politically correct pretense all day long? But was any of this love? Probably not, Christian surmised. Probably not.
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