Sweet Holiday Traditions
Danielle Stewart
Random Acts Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by Danielle Stewart
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.
Cover by Najla Lamber Designs
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Indigo Bay - Sweet Holiday Traditions
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
More Stories in Indigo Bay
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Indigo Bay - Sweet Holiday Traditions
Can it still be called a family vacation if your family doesn’t show up? Frieda is about to find out. When the holiday season starts to fall to pieces in walks Milo, ready to put it all back together.
Enjoy this fast and fun holiday treat from Danielle Stewart.
Enjoy more in Indigo Bay with these short stories
Sweet Holiday Surprise - Jean Oram
Sweet Holiday Memories - Kay Correll
Sweet Holiday Traditions - Danielle Stewart
Sweet Holiday Wishes - Melissa McClone
Click here for more info
Chapter One
Can it still be called a family vacation if your family doesn’t show up? Frieda was about to find out the answer to that question. She bent down and lifted the sea shell covered welcome mat and found the key just where the owner said it would be. The five-bedroom cottage on the beach in Indigo Bay was meant to be the holiday ground zero for her entire family. Older sister Bianca with her perfect husband Leon, along with their gaggle of five children and (one more on the way!) Younger brother Rich with his supermodel wife, adorable sandy-haired four-year-old boy, and their two tiny, picture-perfect dogs. Mom and Dad hadn’t had them all together in over three years. This was supposed to finally be the Christmas that felt like the good old days – something Frieda had been longing for.
The quaint ocean décor and welcoming array of goodies on the kitchen counter only made the smack of loneliness stick more. She’d imagined everyone arriving at the cottage and spilling in with smiles and stuffed suitcases. There’d be a playful fight over who would sleep where even though we all knew the kids would beg to camp out in the living room together. Four girls and two boys, these nieces and nephews, who ranged from four years to fourteen, brought Frieda endless joy. Being an aunt was a special job that she took very seriously. Where their parents were sometimes busy and distracted, Frieda was the listener. No topic, from science project planning to a new crush, was too tedious for her to listen to. They lived far away but there was a connection of the heart that distance couldn’t sever.
The hours on the phone were as refueling to her soul as they were helpful to the kids. She always made time. As her sister frequently commented, it was easy for her since all she did was bake cookies. It was amazing how some people could take a relatively innocuous word and use their tone and tongue to shape it into a weapon. Her sister said “bake cookies” the way someone might shoot an insult at an enemy.
In truth, her small baking business hadn’t been Frieda’s first career choice. It hadn’t been her tenth either. She was a free spirit who spent most of her twenties passively searching for herself. Being the middle child, wedged between two people whose identities were so solid it could crush her, was serious business. Bianca was always going to be a mother. She was destined to kiss boo-boos and cart kids to sports. It suited her perfectly. Rich was a businessman before he was even close to being a man at all. He could broker a deal with his parents like a skilled negotiator by the time he was ten. He stepped effortlessly into the family business and in five years turned one small restaurant into a national chain.
Frieda, on the other hand, was always searching. First she thought maybe she’d be a sommelier, standing in an elegant restaurant teaching its patrons about the nuance of wine. That dream fizzled when she’d been told in the last forty years only 230 students had passed the Master Sommelier Test. And only 32 of those were women. Then she tried her hand at teaching yoga. A passion. Something she loved but there was not enough calling for it in her small town in rural Georgia. As her brother explained, rather condescendingly, the population was too low, the average age too high, and average income level too low to support opening her own studio. He projected it would fail in a year. But he was sort of smiling when he said it which summed up her place in the family perfectly.
The cottage was silent except for a ticking clock that seemed to crawl in her ear and click annoyingly against her brain. What the hell would she do here, alone, for the next five days? Her phone chirped with a text message and she was relieved for the distraction.
Mom: Sorry again we couldn’t make it. You and Morris have fun!
Frieda hadn’t had the stomach on the phone to tell her mom that her entire family weren’t the only ones to bail on her. On-again, off-again boyfriend Morris had ditched her too. And this time for the last time. She keyed in a few responses with the truth but then deleted them quickly and tucked her phone away. Christmas alone in a strange place was just about as bad as it sounded.
She circled the cottage and touched the trinkets and decorations the owner had put out. Nothing flashy, mostly just dated little baubles that must have meant something to him somewhere along the line. Niles Wisher was a kind man who’d insisted she give him a list of grocery needs and special things the family would like in the house. As she opened the fridge she saw far more than what she’d asked for. Plenty she hadn’t asked for actually. But there was one thing that wasn’t on her list she was glad to see – a chilled bottle of white wine that held the promise of guaranteed relaxation. There was wood stacked by the fireplace and she was certain she could get a fire lit.
It wasn’t long before Frieda had chiseled out a little bit of comfort in a very uncomfortable situation. Warm fuzzy holiday pajamas were on. The fire was roaring, popping and crackling. Christmas music played on the old record player and wine swirled in her glass as she spun it in her hand. Maybe a holiday alone wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. There was no one here to make her feel unworthy or lacking. She leaned over and cranked up the volume on the music as she closed her eyes and took a sip of the crisp white wine.
That must have been why she didn’t hear them. It’s how they got all the way into the house without her knowing.
As her eyelids parted a large group of people, bundled in coats and carrying wrapped presents stood at her feet, wide-eyed and confused. The shock sent her jumping and wine went spilling into her lap. The fluffy cotton pajamas soaked it up quickly as she hopped to her feet and wondered if she needed a weapon. Surely this wasn’t some kind of gang, wielding scarfs and presents.
“Are you all right?” a woman about her mother’s age asked reaching a hand out to calm Frieda. “Are you homeless?”
“Homeless?” Frieda asked, her voice layered with confusion. How would they know her current trouble with where she was going to live after this vacation?
“Yes,” the woman went on, her chocolate brown eyes warm and rimmed with concern. “Did you break in here? Are you a squatter?”
“Mom,” a man groaned as he pushed his way to the front of the small crowd. “She’s not a squatter. Just let her explain.” His broad shoulders cast a shad
ow down on Frieda and though the room was spinning and nothing made sense, she could still take in his gorgeous features. She was suddenly self-conscious of her frumpy wine soaked pajamas.
“I’m renting this place,” she choked out, folding her arms over her chest and covering as much of herself as she could. “For my family’s holiday vacation.”
“No,” a bald round-faced man said firmly. “We are renting this place for our family’s holiday vacation. We’re the Tuckers. I have an email from the owner, Niles Wisher. I have a confirmation for the next four days.”
“So do I,” Frieda explained, fishing her phone out of her purse on the counter and queuing up the message. They swapped devices and read quickly.
“Well, I’ll be,” the bald man said with a shrug as he handed the phone back to her. “It looks like they double booked two families. We’ll have to sort this out.” He walked out the front door and already had his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder.
“Oh what a mess,” the woman said, her shoulders drooping. “This was supposed to be perfect and now one of our families is going to have to lose out.”
“Um,” Frieda said, her cheeks filling with heat. “My family isn’t actually coming anymore. My sister is expecting and her doctor put her on bed rest. My mother wants to be there when the baby is born so our trip kind of fell apart already. I can get out of your way and try to find another place in town to stay.”
“It’s late,” the man who’d interrupted his mother said, furrowing his dark worried brows together. “This close to Christmas I’m sure it’s all booked up.”
“Your whole family canceled?” the woman said, putting a hand over her heart as though it might burst with empathy.
“My brother has a deal he’s trying to close by the end of the year and once he knew my mother and sister weren’t coming he just figured it would be easier to stay home. But really, I don’t want to complicate things for all of you. The Tuckers can have the cottage.”
“You sit back down,” she ordered gently. “I’m Belinda but all my friends call me Bebe and everyone I meet is my friend, so you call me Bebe. That was my husband Griff.” She spun to see the rest of her family. “This here is my daughter Melony, and her two boys, Sam and Carson. This is my nephew Kip and his wife Julie. This here, the man so worried about you sleeping on the street, is my son Milo. We are the Tuckers.”
The bright pride-filled smile was contagious and everyone behind her looked equally happy to be a Tucker.
“I’m Frieda,” she edged out, still overwhelmed by another abrupt change to her plans. “I really don’t mind getting out of your way. You have a houseful now and this is your special family holiday vacation. I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Kip go out there and tell your uncle he doesn’t need to harass poor Mr. Wishes for the mix-up. We’ll work it all out on our own.”
Kip, with his messy mop of brown hair, was quick to oblige as he bolted out the door.
“Now Frieda, you go and change out of those clothes and I’ll get something on that wine stain to try to get it out quick.”
Frieda opened her mouth to protest but Milo cut in. “I’ve been trying to tell her no for the last twenty-eight years. It’s futile. You might as well just give in now and save yourself the trouble.” His mouth curled up in a friendly smile that was punctuated with a deep dimple. He seemed just as hard to say no to.
Chapter Two
“Much better,” Bebe sang as Frieda pranced back down the steps in her best sweater and most flattering jeans. She’d hastily put on a little makeup and changed her messy bun into a combed ponytail. It was the best she could do on short notice. “Now we’ve sorted out all the rooms. The boys are camping out in the living room. Kip and Julie take the downstairs bedroom. Me and Griff will take the queen bedroom. Melony will take the one by us. Then you and Milo can fight over the two rooms at the other end of the hall. See, it all worked out.”
“I really feel bad about this,” Frieda said with a sigh. “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll go into town and see what I can find out about another cottage.”
“That’ll be tough,” Griff said, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “We’ll be taking the Christmas tree we brought down off the car in the morning and decorating it. It’s a Tucker family tradition. As an honorary Tucker for the next four days, you are sort of obligated to be here.”
Frieda opened her mouth but words wouldn’t come. Who were these people, these Tuckers who had suddenly decided she was one of them?
“Yes,” Bebe agreed with a smile as she handed a warm mug of cider to Frieda. “And after that, we go caroling. I bet you have a lovely voice. Now tonight is the kick off to our special trip and we’re running a little later than usual. Let’s get things started, Tuckers. Frieda here needs to jump right in.”
“Well,” Melony said draping an arm over her shoulder and leading her back in front of the fire. “You already started a fire for us so that means you go first.”
“Go first?” she asked with a gulp. Who knows what strange traditions they might have.
“Yes,” Milo said sinking into the couch and patting the spot next to him. “On the first night of the Tucker holiday vacation, we always sit down and talk about who we are.”
Bebe was kind enough to explain further. “Some years it might be the same as the year before, but more often than not something that year has changed us. So Frieda, who are you?”
She spoke past the nerves in her stomach. Clearly, these were persistent folks, and since she’d never see them again maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just play along. “I’m Frieda. I’m twenty-seven. My mother and father live in upstate New York. My sister has five children with a sixth on the way and my brother turned our family restaurant into a national franchise.”
“You’re doing it wrong,” Melony laughed. “That tells us who your family is. But who are you? What’s important to you? What have you learned? What do you do?”
“Those are tough questions,” Frieda laughed and then stalled by taking a sip of her cider. It smelled delicious, but nothing was more intoxicating than the cologne coming off of Milo every time he shifted next to her. “I bake,” she said simply, quickly turning the direction of the conversation away from herself. “I’ll be honest, when I meet people they always want to know how my brother worked his magic or why my sister wants so many kids. They’re both very outgoing and they don’t leave a lot of space.” Her thoughts drifted to her siblings and what they must be doing right now in their respective homes.
“What do you bake?” Bebe asked, her brows raised in anticipation. “Do you work at a bakery?”
“No. I sell cookies at some local farmer’s markets in Georgia where I live. My grandmother Elsa was my favorite person in the world. She really understood me. When she died I was the only one who had time to go and clean out her place. I found a recipe that belonged to her grandmother. It was an old-fashioned molasses cookie and on a whim, I made a batch. They were amazing. So I set up a stand at the farmers market and four years later they’re famous in my area.”
“That’s an amazing story,” Bebe commented. “What a special way to keep your grandmother’s legacy alive.
“My brother says I’m crazy because I won’t let him make a business strategy for me. He wants to incorporate them into the family franchise business and have them made at some factory, but I keep telling him no. They need to be made in small batches. The equipment is very important.”
“In two days we do our Tucker family cookie decorating. Would you be able to make us a batch?” Melony asked hopefully. “The kids normally eat half the icing before the cookies are even out of the oven, and mom and I always burn them. It would be nice to have a professional in the kitchen.”
“I brought everything to make them,” Frieda said with a shrug. “I don’t mind at all. I can make them in my sleep.”
“You next Milo,” Bebe said pointing a finger at her son. “Who are you this year?”
&
nbsp; “Same old,” he said coolly. “This year I was still impulsive and traveling the world trying to figure out where I want to land. But now, I’m thinking back home is the place to be.” His eyes fell on Bebe and Frieda assumed any mother would be happy to hear her son talk about moving back home, but the look on her face couldn’t be deciphered.
“Where is home?” Frieda asked, trying to break the tension.
“Very close to here,” Griff explained, clearing his throat nervously. Whatever tension had bubbled up in the room was starting to dissipate before Frieda could figure out what it was. “We live about an hour inland. It was an easy drive this year.”
The rest of the room went on to talk about what they’d learned or what they were grateful for this year. Frieda was able to piece a few things together. Melony was recently divorced and no one, not even the kids, seemed to be too sad that their father wasn’t there to celebrate. There was some weird energy between Bebe and everyone else who seemed to be dancing around a topic. Every time it got a little weird, Frieda felt terrible for intruding. But a moment later someone would crack a joke and everything would settle again.
“What traditions do you have with your family Frieda?” Kip asked, pushing his messy hair out of his face. His wife Julie was leaning her tired head on his shoulder and crinkling her pointy nose up again and again as though she were always about to sneeze.
“We have a tradition of my sister having babies just about every year. My parents drop everything and drive to Massachusetts to be by her side and my dad takes care of the older kids. Her husband has a really important job in finance and he can’t take much time off. Our other traditions usually just consist of us sitting around trying to figure out why I haven’t gotten married yet.”
Sweet Holiday Traditions (Indigo Bay Sweet Romance Series) Page 1