Sinister Lang Syne: A Short Holiday Novel (Wicks Hollow)

by Colleen Gleason

  You are not going to be excited about this, he told himself firmly, even as his heart gave a little leap. Just because she’s canceling the wedding because she doesn’t want to die during it doesn’t mean anything.

  It just means she doesn’t want to die.

  “Oh, Callie, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I really am.” He really was. Because she was bereft and heartbroken and obviously the decision was a difficult one.

  She didn’t sob for very long, he’d give her credit for that—just long enough that he could feel the dampness through the sweater and the button-down shirt he wore beneath it—but even once she settled down a little, she didn’t seem interested in putting any proper space between them.

  The next thing he knew, he found himself sitting next to her on the couch, Callie tucked up against him, his arm around her waist, as she sighed and sniffled and wiped her nose.

  “Sometimes it sucks being an adult,” she said. “You know?”

  “Yeah. I know.” He resisted the urge to stroke her along the arm, and he was very aware of the fact that her soft, generous breast was resting against his chest. It felt like it was burning into his side, and he knew exactly where her hip was too, because it was bumping against his hip.

  She just needs a friend right now, he told himself. Like in When Harry Met—oh, no, no, no… that is not a good comparison at all.

  “Want to watch something?” she asked in a low, scratchy voice—surely unconsciously echoing a line from that very movie after the scene that this very moment sort of reminded him of.

  Dammit.

  “I just need some distraction. Or—oh, no—do you have work to do?” she added quickly, pulling away a little to look at him. “You must have lots to do with it being year end. I should get going. I didn’t realize how late it is!”

  “No, no, that would be good,” he replied before she could straighten up all the way. He’d sit here all night unmoving if it meant he could cuddle Callie Quigley. Work could wait, and keeping a guy’s circulation moving was overrated. “I mean, watching something is a good idea—I’d hate to waste that fire. And besides, the weather outside is frightful.”

  He felt her chuckle a little next to him, even felt her cheek move against his arm—that was how sensitized he was to her every breath. “Is it cold outside, baby?” she asked with a little giggle.

  “It’s definitely cold outside, but it’s nice and warm in here,” he said, unable to suppress his own low rumble of a chuckle.

  “The fire is slowly dying,” she whispered over another adorable giggle.

  “It is not,” he said with mock indignation. “I just stoked up that baby, and when I get a fire going, she burns for hours.”

  For some reason, those words hung in the air, settling in the silence, and Ben felt acutely aware of the double meaning one could read in them. If one should be thinking down that path.

  Which…damn. He needed to shift a little—things were getting a bit tight in his chinos—but he dared not move. Not now.

  Somehow, Callie managed to grab the TV remote and manipulate it, and the next thing he knew she’d landed on When Harry Met Sally...

  “Ooh! I love this one. It’s one of my favorite holiday movies—even though most people don’t think of it as a holiday movie. But so many of the pivotal scenes happen during the holidays,” she said. “Mind if we watch it? It’s a comfort-watch for me, you know.”

  “Sure,” he managed to say, wondering not only how he was going to get through a whole movie about friends falling in love, but also that famous “I’ll have what she’s having” scene with Callie bundled up next to him all the while.

  But somehow he managed it, and even enjoyed it. Why not, since this sort of perfect, fantasy idyll would never happen again?

  And when, during the scene with “I Could Write a Book” on the soundtrack, he heard the soft, delicate snore coming from the woman next to him, he smiled indulgently…and he was finally, finally, able to touch the soft, bright lock of hair that fell over his arm. It crackled with static electricity and gave him a little shock as Harry Connick, Jr., sang about making two lovers of friends.

  But Ben didn’t care.

  And pretty soon, he lapsed into sleep as well.

  When Callie opened her eyes, it took her a moment to figure out where she was.

  And then, slowly it dawned on her that the large, solid warmth next to her was Ben Tremaine.

  And they were on his couch.

  And she’d been really cuddled up with him. Practically in his lap.

  Her face flamed when she realized where her hand was.

  Oh my God, she thought, and began to gingerly pull her fingers away from where they’d nestled…in his lap. Like, down around a thigh…

  How did that happen?

  Ben’s eyes opened just as she fully extricated herself from him, and for a moment she was trapped by his gaze.

  He looked like he was about to say something, but she didn’t give him the chance—oh, boy, was she embarrassed. She’d practically thrown herself at him last night—and if picking When Harry Met Sally... to watch wasn’t enough of a hint for that big lug, then she wasn’t even going to give him another thought.

  Or…even worse…maybe he had got the hint, and just didn’t want to take it.

  Because she figured she had been pretty obvious.

  And since he didn’t walk through that wide-open door, it was clear he was not interested in her in that way.

  Period. End of story.

  “Oh, wow,” she said, feeling very awkward. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that.” God, she needed a toothbrush. Even in her wildest fantasies, she hadn’t imagined staying the night at Ben’s last night.

  “Me neither,” he said, shifting around then pulling to his feet. “But that’s okay. It’s nearly five-thirty. Uh…I can make some coffee. Do you want to—uh—freshen up? There’s an extra toothbrush in the right hand drawer in the bathroom.”

  Of course there was.

  He was, after all, Ben Tremaine.

  Seven

  “There’s really only one solution,” said Iva Bergstrom, looking around the table at her friends, with her attention finally landing on Callie.

  Iva was in her late sixties, and she was petite and neat and so darling that Callie had privately described her as a delicious apple puff of a woman. Her cheeks were always flushed perfectly pink—quite likely due to a skillful application of blusher—and her hair was a pure white cotton poof. She dressed the same way she probably had during her career as a librarian: in twinset cardigans and nice slacks, usually in bright colors that matched her jewelry.

  The Tuesday Ladies, as they were known—and not necessarily because that was the day they gathered on; they met up nearly every day, and usually here at Orbra’s Tea House—were ensconced at their regular table in the front window of the place. It was large and round, with plenty of room for all five of them plus one or two others who might join their clique—in this case, Callie and another Wicks Hollow local, Fiona Murphy.

  It was after eight p.m. on the 21st of December, and since the tea house closed at five every day, all the other customers were gone. As usual, a team of bakers worked in the back, preparing fresh quiches, tarts, scones, gingerbread houses, and more for tomorrow’s menu, but the rest of the place was empty and quiet.

  “You tell’er, sister.” Maxine Took, the self-appointed leader of the Tuesday Ladies, thumped her ever-present cane and nodded vehemently. Her shiny, impossibly thick dark hair didn’t move at all, either because it was a wig or because she used an entire can of hairspray every time she did her hair. No one was certain which, and no one was about to ask the acerbic octogenarian.

  “Let the poor woman talk,” said Juanita Acerita, Maxine’s best frenemy. After her husband died, she’d sold the small chain of high-end Mexican restaurants she’d started thirty years ago, and now played Scrabble with Maxine when she wasn’t trying to maneuver the town veterinarian into becoming the second
Mr. Acerita.

  Tonight she held a large tote on her lap, and from inside two large, furry, butterfly-shaped ears poked up. Between them was a pair of sharp, beady black eyes and, below, the cutest canine button nose Callie had ever seen. The little dog, whose name was Bruce Banner, was eyeing the piece of gingerbread house that Juanita was munching. “Honestly, Maxine, if you’d just keep your mouth closed for more than a minute—”

  “Well, we all know what the solution is,” Maxine groused. “Why does she have to create so much drama when she’s introducing it? Orbry, are you bringing some more of those cinnamon scones?” she called as Orbra came into sight with a laden tea cart. “Juanita’s been feeding them to her dog—”

  “I have not,” said her friend, looking around guiltily, because, of course, she had been. Callie had seen her do it when she thought no one was watching. She smothered a smile.

  “I mean, it is quite obvious,” said the fourth Tuesday Lady, a slender, youthful sixty-something woman. She had short, platinum blond hair and a compact, muscular body. Cherry Wilder was the owner of the yoga studio in Wicks Hollow and had arrived just after one of her classes and so was dressed the part. “What to do about Iva’s wedding.”

  “Of course. There’s really only one solution to the problem,” Juanita said agreeably.

  Callie sat next to Iva, nervously waiting for what the actual solution was.

  Callie had called her client on the way back from Ben’s house to Grand Rapids last week, and told Hollis Nath that she was going to cancel the wedding—at least as currently planned. To make up for it, she promised she would do all of the planning and cover all of the services herself (yikes! that would mean the cost of two weddings for the Bergstrom/Nath couple when all was said and done because there were no refunds at this late date) for the reschedule.

  But it was the only thing she could think of to do. No amount of publicity or marketing was worth anyone’s safety—and, as she’d been reminded more than once, it was Wicks Hollow.

  You couldn’t ignore the supernatural or the otherworldly here. And that was where Callie had made her first mistake: thinking she could.

  But although Mr. Nath had been very gracious and understanding about the situation, Callie hadn’t spoken to Iva herself about it…until now, when Iva had requested her to meet up at the tea house tonight. Even though she’d been super busy, Callie had juggled her schedule to be here, and she’d conscripted Fiona into coming with her because she knew Fiona and Iva were very close…and honestly, because she was a little nervous about what Iva was going to say.

  I mean, what do you say to the wedding planner who cancels on you ten days before your wedding? she’d said to Fiona. I’ll be lucky if I ever work in event planning again.

  “How about some warm-ups?” said Orbra van Hest cheerily as she wheeled up a tea cart. The owner of the tea house and the fifth Tuesday Lady, she was in her early seventies. Robust, solid, and very Dutch with iron gray hair and a will to match, she loomed over six feet tall and ran her establishment with skill and finesse. Even Trib eagerly took advice from Orbra. “Now, Iva, you’re going to have to back up and fill me in on some of this—I’ve been busy closing down in the back.”

  “Callie’s canceled the wedding on her,” Maxine informed her. “Just called her out of the blue and yanked the rug out from under the poor dear!”

  Callie’s face went hot, and she squirmed in her chair, trying to figure out how to defend herself—but there was no defense. She had really screwed up. Before she could speak, Fiona patted her hand and murmured, “Shh. Don’t worry. That’s just Maxine.”

  “What’re you two whispering about over there?” snapped Maxine, leaning across the table so sharply the cups rattled in their saucers. “I can hear everything you’re saying, you know.”

  “Then I’m sure you heard me say how everyone listens to what you say,” Fiona replied sweetly. “And no one would dream of arguing with you.”

  “That’s right,” Maxine retorted. She gave a vehement nod as if it were the exclamation point of her sentence and the cups rattled again.

  Callie couldn’t help fidgeting. Why was she here, and what was Iva’s big solution?

  “Oooh! Orbra!” Cherry had lifted the quilted tea cozy off one of the teapots only to discover it wasn’t a teapot at all, but a bottle of Crown Royal. “When you said warm-ups, I didn’t realize you were serious!”

  “I really like a good dollop in the cinnamon blend tea,” Orbra said with a crafty smile. “But it would also be good in the pu’erh. if you don’t mind the caffeine. And add a nice helping of honey, too, while you’re at it. Now, there’s some Bailey’s under there somewhere—you can put it in the chai or the vanilla oolong. And I’ve got my Honeybear syrup—you know how good that is in a hot toddy!”

  “Honeybear syrup?” asked Fiona. “You know I’m a vegetarian, Orbra…”

  “There’s no bear in it,” Maxine said with an eyeroll. “It’s got—what is it, Orbry?”

  “It’s a syrup you can add to whiskey or tea—or both, if you like—which I do—and it’s got orange, sage, and honey in it.”

  “Anyway,” said Iva, picking up the story as Orbra finally sat down, “As I was—I mean, as Maxine was saying, Callie decided it might be best not to move forward with having our wedding outside on the Tremaine Tower balcony because of the curse. She doesn’t want to risk anyone’s life, do you?” She reached over and patted Callie’s hand, her blue eyes bright and sympathetic.

  “It’s just as well,” said Orbra. “Who wants an outdoor wedding in Michigan in December anyway?”

  “But I do,” said Iva earnestly. “I always wanted to get married on New Year’s Eve—and how many people do you know get married outside on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Only the crazy ones,” muttered Maxine, eyeing the pile of cinnamon scones.

  “Then call me crazy, but Callie really sold me on the idea of an outside wedding in December. It’s so unique, and it would be beautiful—”

  “But the curse—” Juanita started.

  “So don’t have it at Tremaine Tower,” said Cherry, pouring a healthy glut of Crown Royal into her mug. “And pray for decent weather.”

  “You always have to pray for decent weather when you’re getting married outside,” said Juanita. “Practically speaking. And—”

  “Only the crazy ones,” said Maxine again, a bit louder.

  “Oh, hush up and drink this,” said Cherry, shoving the Crown-Royal-laden teacup at her friend. “Let Iva finish.”

  “You’ve been interrupting her just as much—”

  “Please. Ladies, Callie’s not used to you all, and she’s about to have a heart attack,” said Fiona with a giggle.

  “Well give her some of this,” said Maxine, gesturing to her brandied drink. “Needs more honey, Cherry.”

  “And a cherry would be good too,” said Juanita, perking up. “Cherry, can you put in a cherry too?” She tittered and Callie wondered if Juanita had already tasted some of the Crown Royal. Or something else.

  But Fiona was right—she was sitting here with her belly going in knots waiting to hear what her client, Iva, was going to say about the wedding situation.

  “All right, everyone listen up!” Iva had pulled to her feet and she looked around the table. “No talking for five minutes—that includes you, Maxine. And you, Juanita.”

  “Blah, blah,” muttered Maxine. But she closed her mouth after that.

  “It’s very simple. I’ve decided I want to have my wedding outside on the balcony at the clock tower as planned,” Iva went on primly. “It’s going to be absolutely stunning the way Callie has designed and described it—and we have plans for every weather eventuality except if there’s a crazy blizzard. The nice thing about precipitation for winter weddings is that, unlike with rain, snow is pretty and it doesn’t necessarily ruin things because it’s not wet—it just freezes. Maxine, I said five minutes. And so,” she went on as if she hadn’t digressed, “I’ve decided th
ere’s only one way to proceed in order for me and Hollis to have the gorgeous nuptials we’ve talked about. So, we have to fix things up with Brenda Tremaine.”

  Iva looked right at Callie. “We’re going to have a séance.”

  Eight

  “I can’t believe they talked me into this,” Callie hissed into Fiona’s ear as they began to climb up the steps inside the clock tower. “This is insane.”

  “I can’t believe you insisted I come too,” her friend replied. But her eyes danced and she looked remarkably at ease considering the fact that Maxine Took, of all people, was going to be the medium for the séance. “Besides, I did a palm reading on Iva the other day. She definitely has a marriage line, and her life line is long enough. I don’t think she’s going to die at her wedding.”

  “Well that’s comforting,” Callie muttered.

  “Hurry up you two,” ordered Maxine, who somehow had managed to push her way ahead of everyone and was at the top of the stairs, walking stick in hand.

  That was when it dawned on Callie that the walking stick was more of a prop than an ambulatory aid.

  “Now, Brucie, you’re going to have to be quiet during this whole thing,” Juanita was saying as she made her way up a bit more slowly than her counterpart.

  “She’s bringing her dog?” Callie whispered to Fiona. “Isn’t that going to…ruin things?”

  “Well, you know animals are more sensitive to these sorts of things,” Fiona replied. “My cat Gretchen definitely was.”

  “I’ve got the Ouija board,” said Iva, puffing a little as she caught up to Callie and Fiona on the steps. “I’m not sure if we’re going to need it, but just in case.”

  “We don’t need no Wee-jah board,” Maxine called down. “I’ve got my own way, talking to the spirits.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re a witchy woman,” snickered Juanita, and she and Cherry began to sing the refrain from the old Eagles song.