‘Miles Pine,’ Christian muttered to himself. Then, to Magdalena, he said, ‘That coworker of mine is a loser. He hates me, and he’s trying to sabotage my promotion.’
‘So it’s not true?’
‘Of course, it’s not true.’ Christian was silent for a moment. ‘Also, it’s true.’
‘Christian.’
‘Look, I needed to trick my Great Aunt Gladys into leaving me Milleridge Inn. She is very family oriented, even though she seems to hate her family. She wanted me to have a fiancée.’
‘So you call me,’ Magdalena replied, ‘your actual fiancée.’
‘I asked if you wanted to come to Mistletoe and you said no.’
‘Of course, I said no. Why would I want to visit this town? You know some ridiculous man gave me a ticket for not wearing an ugly sweater. Apparently, that is a thing here. No wonder you were so keen to leave.’
‘That was Officer Frost. He grows on you.’
‘Just—’ Magdalena raised a hand. ‘Just listen to me.’
He diminished her, she said. Once she was a brilliant young lawyer, but now that she wore Christian’s ring, she was little more than an architect’s fiancée.
She told him about the mommy blogs she read on her lunch break—that yes, people still had blogs, and these people were generally Mormons with marketable hair extensions and twins and husbands in twee bow ties who had quit their banking jobs to run admin. She told him about the account she’d made on a forum that criticized the Internet famous, whose anonymous characters were just as fascinating as the mommy bloggers themselves.
The criticism was endless. Why didn’t they just set up a tent in the yard? Why did they lug all that camping gear—camping gear gifted by an outdoor recreation equipment company—across the country? And look at the state of the toddlers! Of course, their own toddlers were also covered in dirt by the end of the day, but it was a different kind of a dirt, they insisted, not a disgusting dirt.
How they rolled their eyes at camping destinations and fashion choices, which were too matronly or too revealing, too colorful or too neutral. How they thought every blogger’s husband was secretly gay, which was fine with the forum, of course, but why didn’t the husbands proudly live their truth? Oh, and these secretly gay husbands were also secretly super controlling and ran each blog, which actually might have been true—the controlling part, that is.
Why did Magdalena find these bloggers, and the peanut gallery which surrounded them, fascinating? She couldn’t think of anything worse, really, than a husband in a bow tie hauling a Bugaboo Donkey 2 Twin stroller up the subway stairs, and anyway, the only people Magdalena believed were allowed to dress like lumberjacks were lumberjacks.
Perhaps she secretly wanted her husband to be the breadwinner. Perhaps she secretly wanted a man to take her hand and say, ‘Quit that job where they promoted a man over you because he’s a man. Don’t worry about money. I’ll take care of you.’ Perhaps she, a chronically tired lawyer, loved the mommy blogs because she was chronically tired lawyer. The non-lumberjack lumberjacks in the bow ties celebrated their wives without irony or shame. This was a world where it seemed womanhood had value, though it wasn’t a womanhood she would choose for herself.
Even though Magdalena understood that the facade was a facade—that, say, suicide rates in Utah outnumbered homicides by a ratio of eight to one—she liked the gigantic shininess of the facade. She liked poring over recipes for orange creamsicle pie popsicles. She liked sighing over pictures of other people’s shiny families.
In the modern age motherhood and marriage seemed fraught and judgy. Magdalena was raised to believe that motherhood was demeaning and a poor use of her intelligence. On the mommy blogs, she found shelter from this attitude.
Really, Magdalena didn’t want to be diminished by her engagement, but there she was, standing in the small office next to the slightly larger office which should have been hers, while her coworkers joked about her being Christian’s little wifey and baking for him and taking his children to piano lessons. The truth was she sometimes did think about packing in her career and settling down as a stay at home mom.
But then, what about the woman who’d left a Broadway career to ‘marry the love of her life?’ Magdalena couldn’t figure out how you worked and worked and got your butt onto the Broadway stage, just to give all that up to shill Walmart exclusives shaving cream on Instagram—captioning the post with a tired remark about craving alone time in a locked bathroom. And yet, she liked to hear for once that marriage wasn’t a trap. That marriage and motherhood were not designed to rip a woman’s soul from her body. That they, too, could be empowering.
All Magdalena had wanted was to be the one who was respected—the one who broke the boys’ club wide open. She wanted to be the one whose voice wasn’t mocked in a nasal tone after she’d offered a bright introduction on her first day of work, because apparently saying hello with an edge of excitement was a mockable offense to her new, male coworkers.
She had scooped up her dignity and left to find coffee, and the men outside catcalled and hollered, while the secretaries—of course, they were women—either smiled or vanished into themselves. ‘And she’s off!’ one of the men had called out, and Magdalena never figured out why, why this man had needed to flaunt his voice over a woman who was clearly distressed—over a woman, period. Except she knew why.
The insult of growing up as Magdalena Wheeler, the trauma of living as a woman in a world that loved to flex its hatred of women, left her feeling tight and bitter. And that is why she had liked Christian. Christian didn’t mock her. Christian was different. Christian was easy. Easy to love. Easy to step away from. She’d have stayed with him, maybe, even after the fake engagement, even after that, if not for her coworkers. Because she’d decided—the benefit of the marriage didn’t outweigh the cost of the marriage.
‘So,’ she concluded, ‘I am here to return your ring.’
Magdalena smiled. Christian smiled too. He was relieved to see that she was relieved.
Clara and Magdalena, both had shouldered the insult of loving Christian. Christian neutered Magdalena, the way Ridge neutered Clara. The way Ridge found Clara’s love of Christmas too vast and hungry, the way he thought of her hunger as desperation.
‘I wanted you because I thought you’d take care of me,’ Magdalena said then. There was a hint of finality in her voice, sure, but also sadness.
‘I would have,’ Christian replied.
‘I know.’ Magdalena kissed his cheek, and then she left. Christian knew he wouldn’t see her again.
He tried to figure out how everything turned out so wrong, how everything felt so hot and itchy and shameful. He wanted to lie down, right out there in the snow. Instead, he slipped on his watch—a Rolex inherited from his father, the second Christian Thornton—and finished buttoning his shirt.
Then he went to see Clara.
She took him into her library, where she folded her arms and stood as far away from Christian as humanly possible. ‘Well?’ she said, looking at him as if she didn’t want to have this conversation either.
‘So—’
‘Yes?’
‘That was Magdalena.’
‘Yes,’ Clara replied crisply. ‘Your fiancée.’
‘Clara, this past week has been torture,’ Christian began.
‘Yes, because you hate Christmas and you hate Mistletoe and most of all, you hate me.’
‘How could I ever hate you? Christmas, yes. Mistletoe, sometimes. But you? I adore you. I worship you. I love you.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘You think that because I am weird and intense and obsessed with Christmas that I am embarrassing. You think because you are some big shot New York architect, that there is no shame in breaking my heart. If I were half as rich as you, and a quarter as good looking, I would torture you until you couldn’t bear it anymore. I would torture you the way you have tortured me. I am equal to you.’
‘You are not equal to me,’ Christian cried. ‘You are not equal to anyone, Clara James. You are high above us.’
Clara unfolded her arms, placing them on her hips. ‘You’re still lying.’
‘I’m not lying now. I promise.’
‘What of the inn, Christian?’
‘The inn?’
‘What of Milleridge? Do you really want to inherit this place so you can preserve it for the next generation of Thorntons, or do you have something else in mind?’
Christian exhaled. ‘So, maybe I had intended to knock the inn down.’
‘Destroy Milleridge?’
‘I’ve changed my mind. Clara, you must believe I have changed my mind. Milleridge will stand for another hundred years. And a hundred after that, I’m sure. I love you.’
‘I seriously doubt you ever loved me.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because,’ Clara said, ‘it was so easy for you to leave me.’
‘Clara—’
‘Goodbye, Christian.’
Twenty
Christian spoke to the Relic. It was decided. Christian would leave Mistletoe immediately. What choice did he have? The Relic agreed that Milleridge should go to Clara now. Not to Christian, who had intended to knock it down, and not to Holly, whose awful, uninterested husband would sell it out from beneath her. Besides, Christian saw how useless it would be to stay in Mistletoe now, how painful it would be to see Clara marry Ridge or a Christmas tree farmer or perhaps a ghost. So yes, he needed to leave.
Not that New York held much promise. He’d lost the inn, which meant he’d lost the promotion. Miles Pine was now his boss, and so Christian needed to care about golf and boutique beers and UFC, or at least pretend to care, if he wanted to land a good client. Of course, he could just quit. He hardly needed the money. But then, money was never the point. No, Christian had craved the one thing he could not buy: validation.
When Christian returned to New York, he’d stroll through Whole Foods. Yes, stroll. Not trudge the way he trudged in Mistletoe through the snow, collar flipped, nose pink, cold biting at his fingers as snowflakes sizzled on his exposed skin. He’d buy pine nuts as he strolled. He’d buy aluminum-free deodorant. He’d feel hopeful, the way GMO-free food made him feel hopeful. He’d join another architectural firm, one with a storied history, and there he’d build actresses’ homes on Long Island and maybe fall in love with one of them and attend parties on her arm where Idris Elba was the DJ.
Magdalena would marry someone like Miles, a trophy husband whose job, thankfully, kept him out of her way. Clara would marry too. But Christian would never marry. He’d have two children out of wedlock. Girls, hopefully. He’d learn to braid their hair. He’d coach their Little League teams or buy them pink tights in which they’d squash their wobbly thighs for ballet class. Sure, sometimes he would bring them home to Mistletoe to play with their cousins, but never at Christmas. He’d bring them in June, or perhaps July. They’d throw deviled eggs at Ridge’s store and only purchase plastic toys from the big box store in Yuletide, because no child of his would have a plastic allergy.
Now with a plan, he began to pack his suitcase. He was looking forward to reading GOOP on the plane. What he needed were recommendations for mineral sunscreen that damaged neither skin nor the ocean reef, because sunscreen can damage the ocean reef, and who was talking about this apart from Gwyneth’s editorial staff? What he needed were lists in which items of clothing were held aloft by their definite article: The Sunscreen, The Beach Bag, The Towel. Because how else would you know that this was more than a towel which merely toweled? That this was The Towel. In GOOP, just like in Highlander, there could be only one. What he needed was to read a list about life-changing organizational tips, and then discover the tips were too basic to change lives.
Christian thought about heading down to the kitchen, but he didn’t feel like eating anything except a bagel. Finally, after a week of eating what felt like nothing but candy canes, he craved a proper breakfast. A breakfast of bagels and cream cheese and coffee—hold the peppermint syrup.
Holly knocked on the door. Her eyes landed on his suitcases. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home. New York.’ Christian zipped up his suitcase. ‘I think I’ve done enough damage here in Mistletoe, don’t you?’
‘It’s Christmas Eve, Christian. What about the Festival? You’ll miss the carols. You’ll miss the traditional reading of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas.’
‘There is not going to be a reading, Holly. Santa is not showing up tonight.’
‘I know that.’
‘Santa is the one who reads ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas. I don’t think Clara managed to find a Santa. Yuletide sabotaged her, and then Yuletide sabotaged her again, and now she is going to be the laughing stock of both Yuletide and Mistletoe when she has to announce to everyone that no Santa is coming.’
‘I know.’
‘It will be the first time in one hundred years that Mistletoe will not have a Santa at the Christmas Eve Festival.’
‘I know, but don’t you think that is even more reason to stick around, Christian? She’s going to need your support after tonight.’
‘She doesn’t want to talk to me ever again.’
‘Maybe,’ Holly replied. She sat on Christian’s bed. ‘Or maybe you are the person she’ll want to talk to most of all. Nobody understands Clara James quite like Christian Thornton III, and in case you forgot, Christian Thornton III is you, buddy.’
‘I wish I could forget.’ Christian exhaled heavily. ‘Holly, I can’t stand there and watch her announce to Mistletoe that she hasn’t found a Santa. I can’t stand there and watch her heart break. Not again.’
But before Holly could reply, Officer Frost appeared in the doorway. ‘Guys, hi.’
‘Not now, Officer. I’m about to leave town, and I’ve already got a million tickets. Can’t you just let me off the hook this one time?’
‘No, there is a writer downstairs. She says she is from Merry Living Magazine.’
Holly leaned forward and said, ‘She’s here now?’
‘In the sitting room,’ Officer Frost replied. ‘With Prunella.’
Hazel St. Clair greeted Christian with a handshake and a half smile. ‘Christian, this is a lovely inn. Prunella here was just telling me about the staircase.’
‘Thank you. It’s been in my family for—’
‘Two hundred years, yes. In any case, it’s lovely. Very Christmasy.’
‘I’ll leave you both to it,’ Prunella said. She left.
Christian smiled at Hazel. ‘Well, how can we help you?’
‘Just wanted to warm up before the Christmas Eve Festival. I heard Milleridge Inn does a mean hot chocolate.’
Holly entered the room and said she’d handle the hot chocolate, calm and cool and collected. Nothing fazed Holly. Christian motioned for Hazel to sit in an armchair by the fire, and he sat across from her. A man took a photo of the Christmas tree.
‘That’s Brady Thomas. He’s my photographer,’ Hazel explained, and Christian nodded.
‘Forgive me, but I thought Merry Living Magazine was covering Yuletide’s festivities this year, not Mistletoe’s?’
‘Oh, I am, but a little elf told me there was a story here tonight, that I couldn’t miss whatever was going to happen here.’ Hazel took out her digital recorder and placed it on the table in front of Christian. ‘Do you mind if I interview you?’
‘Was the elf named Pudding?’ Christian asked.
Hazel raised an eyebrow, as if the question was outlandish, but still, she opened her book and checked her notes. ‘Er—actually the elf was called Cuddles.’
Christian clenched his fists. That Cuddles. He was such a jerk.
‘You know what,’ Hazel pocketed her notebook and digital recorder, ‘why don’t we walk into town together? We can have a chat on the way.’
So Christian walked to town with Hazel. He became sick with nerves, or
it was just his body reacting badly to the peppermint hot chocolate, and he opened a bottle of water. He felt Hazel hum with excitement as they entered the heart of Mistletoe. The trees. The tinsel. The sleighs. So many lights, so many twinkles. Everything looked festive, bright and shimmering and optimistic.
Christian spotted an old friend. ‘Pudding, how are you?’
Pudding lowered his spangled cap. ‘Christian, we need to speak,’ he said, but then he saw Hazel. ‘Oh.’
‘Come over here.’ Christian pulled Pudding behind a Christmas tree. ‘Cuddles told a journalist from Merry Living Magazine that there was a story here tonight, and now she has shown up with her recorder and her photographer.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. The boys have been talking about it nonstop at Gingerbread HQ. Our Christmas consigliere—’
‘Sugarplum Mary—’
‘—she’s behind all the sabotage. She told Cuddles to casually drop into conversation with the journalist that Mistletoe will be without a Santa for the first time in one hundred years. Cuddles was only too happy to help.’
‘I hate that elf,’ Christian said.
‘I hate him too. Ever since he won “Choice Christmas Breakout Elf,” at the Festive Choice Awards, he’s been a real jerk.’
Christian clapped Pudding on the back. ‘Well, thanks for the heads up, Pudds.’
‘I’m sorry I’m too late.’
‘Are you going back to Yuletide?’
Pudding shook his head. ‘I can’t. Yuletide has spies everywhere. They’re going to know I betrayed them.’
‘Do you have family there?’
‘I don’t have a family anymore, and now I don’t have a job either.’
Christian didn’t speak for a minute. He rubbed his chin. ‘How do you feel about working at an inn?’
‘Oh, I’d be happy to just have a job. Although, truth be told, I love working with horses most of all.’
‘It just so happens we have two horses—Buckingham Palace and Mr. Nibbles—who are in need of some love and attention.’ Christian held out his hand. ‘What do you say, Pudding?’
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