‘There are pine trees on my sweater, James, and it’s not even a sweater of Mongolian cashmere. So I’ll not have you accuse me of failing to be festive, thanks.’
‘You know, you really should get “I Hate Christmas” tattooed on your forehead.’
‘I would never get a tattoo.’ Christian turned up his nose. ‘That would be like putting a bumper sticker on a Bentley.’
‘You did put a bumper sticker on a Bentley, remember? It said “Mamma Needs Her Wine.”’
‘And mamma does,’ Christian replied. When they walked into the kitchen, he picked a wine glass off the island and took a gulp.
It occurred to Christian as he sipped his rosé that he had to host the guests of the inn. He was, after all, a Thornton, and this was, after all, Milleridge Inn. He realized this because people kept coming over and giving him their coats, not because he maybe looked cold and they didn’t want him to develop hypothermia, but because a good host takes the coats.
‘I don’t work here,’ he said bitterly to Clara as yet another person offloaded their coat.
‘No,’ Clara replied, ‘but you are family, which is better than an employee, because I don’t have to pay you to get you to work.’
‘You should pay me.’
‘Collect the coats, coat boy, and then we can discuss monetary compensation.’
‘You’re a tough boss,’ Christian said.
‘What, you thought Christmas was fun, Thornton? You thought it was the most wonderful time of the year? Ha! This is blood, sweat, and tears stuff. This is Rocky, in that Rocky movie where Rocky jogged around a whole bunch and punched his fists in the air. Did he punch his fists in the air? I’ve never seen Rocky.’
Christian frowned. ‘Then how do you know about the jogging?’
‘I’ve seen the posters,’ Clara said. ‘Rocky looks like he jogs.’
‘Faultless logic.’
‘Excuse me.’ A sweet old lady squeezed between Christian and Clara. ‘I’ve just come here for tea with my granddaughters. Where would you like me to put my coat?’
‘Christian Thornton III here loves taking coats,’ Clara said, ‘just as much as he likes giving tours of this historic inn, which his family have owned for two hundred years.’
‘I’d love a tour,’ the lady said.
‘Oh, I’m afraid Christian talks at length. Often his tours run for six hours.’
‘How wonderful.’
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Christian pulled Clara to the side and hissed, ‘I am not taking coats and I am not giving tours.’
‘If you don’t help me, Thornton, I will fake my own death. But I won’t just fake my own death. I will record years worth of fake diary entries, pointing the finger toward you as the man who murdered me.’
‘That seems excessive.’
‘I own a long-handled chestnut roaster!’ Clara cried as if this settled the argument.
Leaning against the kitchen island three hours later, the new shoes he’d bought a week earlier rubbing his feet raw, Christian felt something stirring in his heart that could only be classified as blind rage. Anywhere was better than Mistletoe, with its houses trimmed with pine and its sleepy roads overtaken with sleighs. But he couldn’t leave yet. No, he had the inn to think about. He had his inheritance to protect.
‘Am I mistaken or did I really hear that my own brother was giving cute little old ladies a tour of the inn?’ Holly said as she trudged into the kitchen.
‘Clara owns a long-handled chestnut roaster,’ Christian replied.
‘Makes sense,’ Holly said, sounding as if this very much did not make sense. ‘Hey, have you seen George?’
‘Me? Supervise children? Hi, I’m Christian Thornton III. We clearly have never met before.’ Christian held out his hand, but Holly only rolled her eyes.
‘Hey, siblings,’ Clara said brightly as she bounded into the kitchen. ‘Wow—you look terrible, Thornton.’
‘Yes,’ Christian replied sharply. ‘Thank you.’
What was he going to do? Did he not want to inherit the inn so he could make room for his luxury hotel? Did he not need Clara to play the part of his fiancée so that the Relic would not strike his name from the will? He would act from a place of logic instead of a place of feeling. He would swallow his pride. He would allow Clara to strong arm him into giving three-hour tours of Milleridge, because he had his eye on the luxury hotel prize.
But Christian’s resilience was to be tested not five minutes later, when a man named Officer Frost tapped him on the shoulder.
‘We need to talk,’ Officer Frost said. He was near handsome, with a shy and unnerving smile he used, perhaps, to frighten people into accepting fines, which Christian would not.
‘Do we?’ Christian said coldly.
‘I’m afraid that your attire is inappropriate.’
‘Is it?’ Christian looked down at his pine sweater.
Christian had to understand what it was like in Mistletoe, Officer Frost told him. You put on an ugly Christmas sweater each morning and if you need to step outside, you put on a coat and gloves and maybe a scarf. You would not be fined for putting on a coat and gloves and maybe a scarf, Officer Frost assured him, but you would be fined if you did not wear an ugly Christmas sweater beneath. And this sweater, this pine sweater—well, it was far too adorable to be legal.
‘This is the most ridiculous law I have ever heard,’ Christian said.
But then Officer Frost lectured him at great length, and finally—finally—Christian said it all made so much sense, even though it didn’t, even though nothing about Mistletoe made sense. He simply wanted Officer Frost to take his little notebook and his little pencil and vanish, which he did, but only after writing Christian a ticket.
‘It’s cheaper to just wear an ugly sweater,’ Clara told him unsympathetically.
‘What if I react badly to the wool?’
‘Back in a second,’ Holly said, sensing a fight. She left.
‘You can get a letter from your doctor, or protest on religious grounds,’ Clara replied. ‘Officer Frost isn’t evil, Thornton. He’s simply doing his job.’
Christian looked at her strangely. He’d decided to play offense. ‘So, James, why are you still single? Let me guess, you land a guy from January through October, but as soon as the pumpkin spice lattes are put away and the gingerbread lattes are brought out, he sees how weird you truly are and he runs for the hills.’
Clara smirked. ‘What are you, Christian, a millionaire?’
‘A multimillionaire.’
‘Let me guess, you refuse to commit to a woman because they only see your money and not the real you?’
‘Actually, I’ve known plenty of women who see the real me.’
‘I take it that’s why you’re single,’ Clara said brightly. ‘By the way, the Relic wants us to join her for dinner now.’
Christian’s heart pinched. He totally forgot that he had yet to greet his Great Aunt Gladys.
‘We haven’t planned what we are going to tell her,’ Christian replied.
‘We’ll wing it. We need to save the inn, Thornton. We need to keep the inn within your family.’
Christian let out a deep breath. He knew why Clara adored Milleridge. It wasn’t how the Relic piled blankets in a wooden basket by the door, how the twinkling lights made the rooms all soft and yellow, how the roaring fire in the living room set the scene for an afternoon cider. It was that Milleridge Inn had sheltered Clara’s mother, Caroline, when she arrived one Christmas Eve, penniless and holding her newborn daughter, all those years ago. She was starting over, she told the Relic. The Relic understood starting over. The Relic gave Starting Over a room and a job and a future.
‘How do I look?’ Holly said, as she returned to the kitchen.
Christian knew that Holly felt alien within her body—she’d told him as much on the phone. Salt peppered the hair around her temples now, and fine accordion lines had sprung up around her eyes. It gave her a feeling of dread, the though
t of no longer recognizing herself, of no longer knowing who looked back at her in the mirror each morning.
‘Perfect,’ Christian said. He kissed her on the cheek.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Clara said. Then she took a deep breath. ‘The Relic awaits.’
Great Aunt Gladys had decided to host the dinner in her private sitting room. When he was a little boy, Christian had referred to the private sitting room as the Forbidden Room, because children were not allowed inside, lest they break the antiques or smudge the silver or breathe on the glass cabinets.
He stepped into the Forbidden Room. It wasn’t just Christian, Clara, Holly, and the Relic sitting down for dinner—Prunella Miller had also scored herself an invitation.
‘Lovely scarf,’ Prunella told the Relic. ‘I have one just like it.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ the Relic replied, putting a napkin in her lap. ‘Christian, how nice of you to join us this Christmas.’
Christian thought of giving the Relic a kiss on the cheek, but there were people to whom you showed affection, and then there was Great Aunt Gladys.
‘I’m happy to be here,’ Christian lied.
‘I very much doubt that,’ the Relic scoffed. ‘So. Tell me. How did you and Clara reconnect?’
‘Christian was—hitchhiking,’ Clara said, her voice cracking. She looked at Christian and shrugged.
‘Hitchhiking?’ Prunella polished a fork with her napkin.
‘Oh, do be quiet,’ the Relic snapped at her.
Prunella looked down, embarrassed.
Suddenly Clara’s eyes began to twinkle. ‘Yes, did you know that your grandson cannot drive a stick shift?’
‘Yes, I can.’ Christian didn’t add that he’d taught Clara how to drive a stick shift when they were seventeen.
The Relic pursed her lips. ‘Then why, pray tell, were you hitchhiking?’
‘Yes, Christian, why were you hitchhiking?’ Clara was enjoying this.
‘Well’—Christian cleared his throat—‘I had to abandon my car, obviously.’
‘Because you didn’t know how to drive it?’ Clara said.
Christian turned to the Relic. ‘Because Clara’s house was on fire,’ he told her.
The Relic dabbed a handkerchief against her lips. ‘I didn’t know your house burned down, Clara? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It didn’t.’
‘No,’ Christian said, ‘because I put out the fire before it could spread. It was very heroic, if I do say so myself. Clara had left a scented candle burning when she popped out to the store. It caught on a curtain and the whole thing went up.’
‘Oh,’ Prunella replied, ‘Clara, you mustn’t leave candles burning unattended.’
‘I didn’t!’
Christian sighed. ‘Clara only thought she didn’t. She was in a rush to get to the store before closing time and I guess she forgot the candle was still burning.’
The Relic was not amused. ‘Whatever could you have needed to buy that urgently, dear?’
‘Adult diapers,’ Christian said at once.
‘Pathetic,’ Clara mouthed to Christian. Then she said, ‘Yes, Great Aunt Gladys. I like to buy adult diapers for the homeless.’
‘Sweet girl,’ Prunella said.
The Relic turned to Christian and said, ’Why can’t you be as charitable as your fiancée, Christian?’
‘She has cyanide pills,’ Christian blurted out.
‘Well, of course she has cyanide pills,’ the Relic said. ‘Where do you think she got them? Every girl should be given cyanide pills, especially when she becomes engaged. Cyanide truly is terribly deadly. Your Great Uncle Nicholas discovered that the hard way, Christian.’
Christian looked down at his soup. Then he looked up at Clara. Then he lowered his fork. ‘My Great Uncle Nicholas drowned.’
‘That’s my story,’ the Relic said, ‘and I’m sticking to it.’
After dinner, Christian and Clara offered to wash the dishes, mainly so they could snipe at each other.
‘I mean,’ Christian said, ‘it’s pretty clear that you never got over me, James. Imagine telling the Relic that I can’t drive a stick shift.’
‘You!’ Clara cried. ‘You are a privileged, egotistical, narcissistic, boarding school jerk who’s obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow. Yes, Thornton, I know you read GOOP. Maybe it’s you who never got over me.’
‘What, a stuck up, stick in the mud princess with a deranged obsession with Christmas?’
Christian said this just as George stepped into the kitchen. The boy started to cry. Instead of comforting him, Christian turned back to Clara and said, ‘Wow—it took you until dinnertime to make a child cry. You are losing your touch, James.’
‘Not that I care what you think, Thornton, but I happen to be very liked here in Mistletoe for my holiday spirit. You may think that clamoring after a Top Ten Santa is lame. You may think that beheading a Yuletide elf with a giant novelty candy cane is excessive. But I and the good people of Mistletoe do not.’
Christian felt this was not the time to point out that the elf had not been decapitated. ‘You are chronically obsessed with joy and it’s ridiculous. Sometimes life is not joyous. Sometimes life is the opposite of joyous, like when the Patriots win the Super Bowl.’
‘You know I don’t watch baseball.’
‘How can you not watch baseball!’ Christian didn’t know what offended him more: Clara not watching baseball, or Clara not knowing the Patriots played football. ‘It’s America’s favorite pastime! Let me guess, when the North Pole starts a team, then you will watch America’s favorite pastime.’
‘It’s none of your business what I watch,’ Clara said as Holly came to scoop George into her arms and take him off for a bath.
‘You,’ Christian replied, ‘made that pretty clear fifteen years ago.’
‘Oh, so you’re still mad about that little sleigh incident?’
‘That little sleigh incident? Oh, you mean when you broke my heart into a million stupid little pieces?’
‘You left the next morning without even saying goodbye! Talk about a broken heart!’ Clara threw down her dish towel and stormed out of the kitchen.
‘Goodbye,’ Christian called after her. Then he sulked for the rest of the evening.
Five
Christian tried not to think about The Godfather. He pushed the movie franchise to the back of his mind, and although sometimes he’d reference going to the mattresses or being pulled back in every time he thought he was out, he lived for the most part a Corleone free life.
Except now he couldn’t stop thinking about Al Pacino. How someone had spotted Al Pacino and thought yes, this man looks like he has three brothers, a sister, a mother, and a father. This man looks like he knows how to be a part of a family.
Christian could never have moved to Hollywood and taken up acting, not because he sucked at theater in high school, and not because he feared any sort of limelight, and not because he didn’t like Los Angeles. But because what casting director would think Christian looked like he belonged to a family?
Christian was twelve when his parents died. Holly would live with the Relic, but Christian would live with a family friend, Hunter, in a big house on the edge of Mistletoe. The Relic thought a boy needed a man. Sure, Christian said. But he wanted to stay with Holly. The new house, and it really was big, filled with rooms that were filled with silence, smelled antiseptic and therefore wrong. It was also cold.
Hunter sent Christian to private school, using funding from the Relic. Holly did not attend private school. Instead, she attended public school in Yuletide, something that confused Christian until he turned fifteen and realized the Relic didn’t believe girls needed an education in math and science.
What they needed, she believed, was an education in courtship and marriage and maybe a little English, so they could talk literature with their husbands while appearing neither too dim nor too smart. Holly’s dream of being an astrophysicist ended when Christian’s dr
eam of being an architect began.
And now, Holly no longer thought of the Thorntons as her family, because she had another family, one found while she was metaphorically pushed out into the cold, like an orphan from a Charles Dickens novel. The Relic didn’t understand. She was from the generation who believed family is family, and friendship is something else, and everyone must admit at least to this. But Holly did not belong to that generation. She belonged to the generation of found families, of families not bound by blood but by shared experience. She belonged to Ashley, her best friend from school, and Alice, her best friend from college, and Catherine, from her post-natal class.
All this is to say Holly didn’t want the inn. She didn’t consider herself a Thornton. She was happy to take her husband’s last name, Calhoun, because she’d chosen her husband, after all. She hadn’t chosen her father.
‘You’re the last Thornton now,’ Holly had said to Christian at her wedding reception, which was held at the Four Seasons.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘You can still be a Thornton if you want.’
‘Yeah, but I’m happier as a Calhoun.’
Christian’s phone chirped as he arrived at the Christmas tree farm on the edge of town, interrupting his thoughts about family. It was Clara, curious about when Christian would arrive.
‘So,’ Christian said after he paid the sleigh driver. ‘This is where we are going to find a tree for the sitting room?’
Clara laughed, a soft sound that flipped Christian’s stomach. ‘No, this is where I murder you.’
‘Awesome, thanks.’
‘Sure.’
Suddenly, he thought of Magdalena in New York, slipping on her Christian Louboutin stilettos before work. She’d break a rib laughing if she knew where Christian was now, standing in the soft falling snow, trying to pick out a Christmas tree.
‘You look ridiculously festive.’ Christian pointed to Clara’s hideous Santa sweater.
Clara raised an eyebrow. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a Christmas sweater?’
‘Because it’s a Christmas sweater,’ he replied sarcastically.
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