Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  “You can’t keep your hat on when you’re out and about, making public appearances on Sullivan Tree Farm’s behalf,” she says, her voice tinged with hope.

  Hope that I’ll finally agree to the proposal she and my dad presented to me a couple of weeks ago. Hope that I’ll come around and think it’s perfectly okay to go to fancy schmancy parties and shake a bunch of rich people’s hands, trying to convince them we’re rich people too and we want to be part of that scene.

  No thanks. Just thinking about it makes me want to hide out among the trees and pretend people don’t exist.

  “I can’t do it, Mom,” I say on a sigh. “I’d rather work here.”

  “You’re always working here.”

  “Because you need me here. This place is my job.” It’s my life. I live and breathe the farm, and when I’m not here, I’m up in Oregon checking out our plots of land, where we grow trees. Or looking for new plots of land to grow more trees.

  Our business is booming. In the summer, we have a fruit stand thanks to Mom’s quick thinking when I was in my early teens. Now it’s grown into a small store that’s open for the tourists from April through October.

  My sister Victoria runs our holiday store we keep open from Black Friday to Christmas Eve, and we sell a shit ton of ornaments, decorations and useless knickknacks. People eat that stuff up. With the two stores, our many lots and the farm, we are bringing in millions of dollars every year, with our profits growing annually.

  People write us off as a bunch of farmers like that’s a bad thing, but guess what? We’re rich as hell farmers. We don’t waste our money on fancy cars or expensive clothes either. I wasn’t raised that way, and neither were my parents. I don’t need to show off to anyone. I’m always here anyway, so it’s not like I get out much. With the money I make, I invest a lot of it. I own my home. I drive the same truck I’ve had since I was twenty. I have money in the bank.

  My life is good.

  “We have employees who can do your job, Charlie. We need you to perform a new job,” she says, her voice soft, as are her eyes. I hate disappointing my mother, and she knows it. The ruthless woman uses it to her advantage too. “You know how badly I want you to do this.”

  I do. And it makes my heart hurt to deny her, but I’m denying her. “I’ll make a complete ass of myself and ruin everything. You’re willing to risk that by sending me out among civilization?”

  She starts to laugh. “You make it sound like you’re some sort of primitive caveman.”

  I send her a pointed look, raising my brows. “I kind of am.”

  “You can be charming when you want to.”

  “My problem is I never want to.” I tug off my gloves, grasp them both in one hand and slap them against my denim-clad thigh. “Have Russ do it.” My younger brother thrives on this kind of shit. Or I think he might.

  “Your brother is too much of a partier,” Mom says with a sigh.

  “And that’s a problem? He’d fit in perfectly.”

  “He might get drunk and make a complete fool of himself.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to risk it.”

  “Yet you’re willing to risk it with me.”

  “I trust you more. You’re responsible, Charlie. You always have been. I can count on you.”

  It’s the oldest child trait in me. I can’t help but be responsible and do what my parents tell me.

  For the most part.

  “Going to parties and making small talk sounds like absolute torture. You know I’m not the best in crowds. I’m more of a one-on-one type of guy.” I clamp my lips shut. I sound like I’m whining.

  Because I kind of am whining.

  “What if I told you I found a solution to your problem.” Mom’s voice is so soft, I can barely hear her.

  Curiosity fills me. “A solution to my problem? What do you mean?”

  “I met a woman who I think could help you get over your—social anxiety.”

  “I do not have social anxiety,” I say vehemently, irritated she’d classify me that way. It’s not that being in crowds makes me feel anxious. It’s more like I don’t want to deal with a bunch of phony people at a party talking about bullshit that means nothing to me.

  “You know what I mean.” She waves a hand, dismissing this part of the conversation, no doubt. “I met someone who’s very well connected. She could accompany you to a party or two, introduce you to people. Give you information that could help you once she cuts you loose and you set out on your own.”

  “Who the hell would want to help me with something like that?” Whoever she is, she’s a glutton for punishment. Not that I’m going to do it.

  I’m not a glutton for punishment either.

  “She’s a very nice woman I met yesterday. She’s on the board planning the annual holiday event the Arts Council holds,” Mom explains. “She’s very active in the community, especially during the holidays. And she said she might be able to help me—and you.”

  “How exactly did this conversation come about?” I am immediately suspicious.

  The guilty look that appears on my mother’s face doesn’t help my suspicions. “I might’ve told her about…you. And our business plans for the future.”

  “Great. So this woman thinks I’m a complete freak who can’t handle social situations.” I pull my cap off again and tug on the ends of my hair, frustration streaking through me. “What the hell, Mom?”

  “It’s not like that, I promise. Let me call her, see if we can arrange for you two to meet,” Mom says, her eyes still lit with that damnable hope.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”

  “Charlie.” The warning tone in Mom’s voice tells me she’s prepared to argue. I’m not scared. I know how to argue. I learned from the master.

  Her.

  “Just let me stay here and work.” I glance around, taking a deep breath, the faint scent of pine tickling my senses. Outside is where I’m most comfortable. Everyone knows this. I don’t understand why they keep trying to push me to do something different. “Why don’t you and Dad go hobnob with all the richies celebrating Christmas? I’m sure you know a bunch of the people who go to those sorts of things.”

  “Your father and I are trying to step away from the business,” she reminds me gently. “We plan on retiring within the next five years. Hopefully sooner. That’s why we’re hoping you’ll do this. For us.”

  Hearing her say that reminds me of the enormous pressure I’ve been feeling. I’ve always just done my thing while Mom and Dad handle the more difficult stuff of running the family business. I mostly know what to do, how to run the farm and the lots. Yet I never assumed I’d take over the business this soon in my life.

  “Just meet with this woman, and after you two chat, tell me what you think. Okay?” She frowns. “Though first I need to make sure she’ll agree to our idea.”

  “Your idea,” I correct.

  “Fine. My idea.” She shakes her head.

  “If she was smart, she’d say no,” I tell her.

  “She’s very smart. She’s also very nice.”

  I snort-laugh. “Unlike me.”

  “Definitely unlike you.” Mom’s smiling, though, and I know she doesn’t mean it. She actually thinks I’m a nice person.

  Most of the time, I think she’s wrong.

  Four

  Candice

  I’m at a coffee shop, this time one I know and love. Sweet Dreams Café and Bakery is one of my favorite places to go. It just so happens that Sarah is good friends with the owner’s daughter, Stella, who is currently working behind the counter. She’s a barista and makes the most delicious gingerbread lattes ever.

  That’s another great thing about Sweet Dreams. They put gingerbread lattes on their menu before Thanksgiving. That’s a win-win in my book.

  Plus, I know Stella from when we were kids and on a dance competition team together. She’s a couple of years older, so we weren’t very close. I looked up to her, though. I thought she was
so smart, so cool, such a good dancer.

  Now, she flat out intimidates me. But that’s another story for another time.

  My meeting with Isabel and Charlie Sullivan is at ten. I have a luncheon to attend at noon, and then another planning committee meeting at three. It’s a Monday, a full day, and I have a lot of things to tick off of my to-do list. I’m pumped.

  Oh, and I’m also nervous. I’m so curious to meet Charlie the Grinch. His mother called me over the weekend, asking if I was still interested in helping her son gain introductions around society. Once I clarified with her that this isn’t a dating situation—and she agreed wholeheartedly it definitely wasn’t a dating situation—her words put me at ease and I decided to go ahead and meet with them.

  Just because I’m having coffee with them doesn’t mean I have to actually go through with this crazy proposal. The more I think about it, the more I realize it could be a total pain in my butt. I have enough going on during the holidays. I don’t need to add babysitting a grown man to my list.

  I check my phone—it’s nine fifty-six—and then take a sip of my latte, humming in appreciation at its sweet but not too spicy goodness. The café is busy, every table is filled with customers, and a short line is forming at the counter and winding through the building, making me glad I came a little early.

  At exactly nine fifty-nine Isabel Sullivan breezes into the café, her cheeks pink from the cold wind that’s blowing outside.

  She’s also alone.

  This is not a good sign.

  “Good morning.” She pauses, standing right beside my chair so she can peer down at me with a friendly smile on her face. “What are you drinking?”

  “A gingerbread latte.” I hold my cup up, giving it a little shake.

  “Ah, yes. I know everyone loves them, but the holiday drinks are usually too sweet for me.” She studies the line. “Give me a few minutes to make my order?”

  “Of course. Um, where is—” I can’t finish my question, she’s already gone and standing at the back of the line.

  I can’t help but keep my gaze trained on the front door of the café, wondering when Mr. Grumpy will finally make his appearance. A man walks in within seconds of Isabel getting in line, and my heart leaps.

  Is that him? He’s not bad looking. Rather polished for a tree farmer, with the slick charcoal gray suit and the right amount of fashionable scruff lining his chiseled jaw. He’s shorter than I thought he would be, considering his mother being so tall.

  The man settles in the line behind Isabel, not speaking a word to her. He never takes his eyes off his phone.

  I mean, I know I don’t always make conversation with my father or the rest of the family when I have my phone in hand, but I would most definitely greet them in line at the coffee shop I’m meeting them at.

  Clearly, this man isn’t Charlie.

  And neither is the next one that walks in. Or the next one. It’s rather surprising, how many lone men make their way into this place at ten in the morning, but not one of them is the man I’m supposed to be meeting. I’m actually starting to get mad. I took time out of my very busy day and he’s late? Not the way to make a good impression.

  “Sorry about that,” Isabel says once she’s settled in the chair across from me, a to-go cup in hand. “I forget how busy this place can get.”

  “No problem.” I smile. Watch as she takes a sip from her cup. Try my best to keep my mouth shut and remain polite but it’s no use. I’m annoyed and I need to know what’s going on. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid he can’t—make it today.” The apologetic look she sends me is supposed to make up for the fact that he’s not here, I’m guessing.

  But holy crap, he’s not here, and now I’m super mad at his lack of respect. He has gone from not making a good impression to making the worst, most horrible impression possible.

  “He can’t make it?” My voice is sharp, and Isabel actually winces like I cut her with my words. “Why are we even meeting then?”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she starts, but I shake my head, and she presses her lips together, going quiet. I’m surprised by my rudeness, but my brothers have always said I’m the type who takes and takes and takes—and finally blows my top when I’ve had enough.

  Suffice it to say, my top is officially blown.

  “There’s no point in the two of us talking about this if he’s not here,” I say, my gaze never leaving hers. I feel terrible for what I’m about to say, but I forge on. “If he doesn’t want to meet with me, then I don’t see how I can help him. I’m sorry.”

  “I have another suggestion,” she says as I reach for my bag, which is sitting on the empty chair to my right.

  I lift my gaze to hers. “Does he know about your suggestions?” Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe this guy has no clue his mother is doing this. And if that’s the case, this man will be reluctant to participate in her plans.

  Not that I can blame him.

  “He knew about my original plan,” she admits. “But he doesn’t know about this new one I’m about to ask you.”

  I slump in my chair, my purse forgotten. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “Well…” Her voice fades and she remains quiet for a moment. I lean forward, my ever-present curiosity piqued. “I was hoping that maybe you could help him out. Without him knowing that you’re helping him.”

  “Huh?” I don’t follow.

  “Perhaps you can, oh, I don’t know, pretend to run into him at an event. Talk to him.” She takes a sip from her coffee. “Make it seem like you’re being friendly when really we’ve planned this all along.”

  Okay. I like this woman, but what she’s proposing is just too much. “I don’t want to trick him.”

  “Not even when it would be beneficial toward him?”

  This time I do grab my purse and stand, shaking my head in disbelief when our gazes meet once more. “I can’t do what you’re asking, Mrs. Sullivan. I suggest if you want to help your son, you should be honest with him.”

  Without waiting for her to say anything in response, I turn and start toward the front door of the café. I hear Stella call a friendly goodbye to me and I wave my hand but don’t turn around. I don’t want to.

  But the moment I’m out on the sidewalk headed for my parked car, I feel a hand clasp around my elbow. Turning, I see it’s Isabel, and the pleading expression on her face makes me stop. “I’m sorry. I know what I’m asking of you is a lot.” She presses her lips together so tightly, they almost disappear. “And you don’t know me. You have no reason to want to help me.”

  “What you’re asking me to do is too much,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice soft, my gaze kind. I do feel sorry for this woman. She appears overly distraught about her son. “I don’t want to deceive him.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re a good person.” She squeezes my arm. “Really, you are. If only one of my sons would be interested in a girl like you.”

  Her eyes fill with tears and alarm fills me. She’s not acting right. “Bel, is there—something else going on?”

  She closes her eyes for a brief moment, the tears sliding down her cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

  It’s not. It has to be something. No one cries over like this when it’s nothing. “You can tell me. Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

  We shift so we’re standing closer to the building, under the awning and away from the brisk November wind. Isabel wipes at her cheeks with a tissue she pulled out of her bag, sniffing loudly before she meets my gaze once more.

  “I’m so embarrassed.” She laughs but it catches on a sob, and she presses the tissue against her mouth to contain it. But it’s there, floating between us, making me think this woman is having a moment of crisis. “Here you are humoring a silly old woman you don’t even know. I’m sorry, Candice.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.” I’m still incredibly confused. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Would you like to go som
ewhere more private so we can talk?”

  “Only if I can get to you agree you’ll help me and my son.” I part my lips, ready to say no when she shakes her head. I stop talking. “I’m sorry,” she repeats for like the third time. “Forgive me. I’m being so rude.”

  More like she’s being so desperate. “Are you—are you okay? Do you want me to call someone for you?”

  “No. Please. I’m not ready to talk to my family about this yet.” Isabel sighs. “I’m—I’m going to be okay, Candice. But I just went through the shock of my life over the last few days, and I’m still rattled. I had a doctor’s appointment last week.”

  Icy cold dread slithers down my spine at hearing her say the word doctor. I have a fear of them. One I don’t like to admit because, come on. Who’s afraid of doctors? They’re good people. They’re here to take care of us.

  They also deliver bad news. They watch people die on a daily basis.

  Like my mother.

  “I wasn’t feeling right. I had some blood work done. And my annual mammogram.” She exhales shakily. “The results came in and instead of telling me over the phone, they wanted to talk to me. Face to face. That’s never good, right?” She laughs, but it’s faint. And filled with so much sadness. I can feel the catch in my throat. “They originally thought I might have—cancer.” She chokes that last word out.

  Cancer.

  It repeats in my head. Over and over. Again and again. Oh God.

  Oh God.

  I haven’t heard that word in so long. I’m immediately taken back in time. I’m a little girl. Crying because they won’t let me see my mama. That’s all I want to do, see my mama. Climb into her bed and cuddle up next to her. Feel her wrap her frail arms around me and give me the tightest of hugs.

  No one hugs me like my mother.

  Little white dots form in my vision, making it blurry, and I shake my head. Try to shake it off. But I can’t. All I can see are those irritating white dots. I blink and blink, but my vision becomes narrower. And narrower.