All They Want for Christmas
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M. K. Stelmack
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19,3K
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HarlequinCHAPTER ONE
BRIDGET MONTGOMERY AND her two sisters stood around the kitchen island heaped with baked dishes from what looked like half the Spirit Lake population. Auntie Penny would have packed the lot off to the community kitchen. No outside food at my restaurant or my home.
Dead. Auntie Penny. The two didn’t belong together.
“Why did everyone think we need food?” Krista said. “We hosted the reception. At the restaurant. Just the leftovers from that filled the fridge there.” She tapped her lips and eyed a cupcake stand that had somehow survived the trip home with all the iced confections in place. “Mind you, those are begging to be eaten.”
“Giving food is a deep cultural gesture of gratitude and goodwill,” Mara said. She inhaled. “Is that lentil dal I smell?”
Bridget had worked in a restaurant for the past dozen years, and all she could smell was food. She exchanged a dubious glance with Krista. Were Mara’s other senses taking over as her sight failed?
“Maybe,” Krista ventured.
Mara sidled along the island, sniffing like a scent dog. “There it is. How about we have it for supper?” She lifted a stack of three lasagnas in aluminum foil pans—three!—which Bridget swiftly took, then reached for a ceramic baking dish.
“Bingo!” Mara swung her load away, her elbow catching on the cupcake stand.
Burdened with the heavy lasagnas, Bridget could only watch as Krista launched herself across the island to snag the stand, but not before a half-dozen cupcakes toppled to the tile floor.
Reflexes honed from a dozen years of spills on a public dining floor kicked in for Bridget. “Don’t move,” she ordered Mara and then used the lasagnas to plow an opening between the coffee machine and toaster—creating another accident waiting to happen—and joined Krista at Mara’s feet to pick up cupcakes.
“I’m sorry,” Mara said. “I saw the cupcakes, but then I just...didn’t.”
“No worries,” Krista said. “Now I’ve an excuse to eat one.” She licked the icing—white with blue snowflake sprinkles. Very Christmassy. A week into November and for the first time in almost forever Bridget couldn’t summon up any Christmas spirit. Not even a single “ho-ho-ho.” And to think that back in July, she’d sung the entire “The Twelve Days of Christmas” to a disbelieving breakfast crowd. For the fun of it.
“What are you? Four?” Bridget snapped. “You’ll clean off the icing and leave the rest.”
Krista kept looking at Bridget as she picked up a second upended cupcake and gave the festive top a long, slow lick.
Bridget retaliated with a deep eye roll. Was she the only one who saw how much Mara’s eyesight had deteriorated in a year? And why was Mara going through this alone? Then again, what did any of them know about what the others were dealing with? Three sisters, three separate roofs.
Bridget dampened a dish towel under the kitchen tap and handed it to Mara. “There’s icing on your—”
“I know. I can see that far.” Mara whisked the towel from Bridget’s hand and wiped at the icing on her skirt. She must hate this fussing, must feel humiliated. Bridget fumbled for something to say.
Krista set the mauled cupcakes back on the stand, as if no one would notice her tongue tracks. She really was four. “Couldn’t we just give the food away at the restaurant?”
“Outside food is not permitted,” Bridget said, “and besides, most of this food is from Auntie Penny’s customers. I can’t serve Mel and Daphne’s lasagna back to them. No, we have to find a place for it all.”
Krista opened the fridge. It was full. She opened the freezer drawer underneath. The same. “I’m out of ideas.”
“Isn’t there a deep freezer downstairs?” Mara asked.
“Let me guess,” Krista said. “Full.”
Full of pies and cakes made of raspberries and saskatoon berries and rhubarb. As well as casseroles, soups and stews. And a cold-storage room lined with canned pickles, pickled beets and asparagus tips, jams and jellies, salsas and sauces, chutneys and marmalades. For Auntie Penny, cooking and baking had been therapy, and in the months before she’d visited Deidre, the Montgomery sisters’ mother, she’d undergone a lot of sessions.
Bridget’s gaze strayed to the kitchen window, where it was already dark outside at five thirty.
And cold. Bridget clapped her hands. “I know. I’ll get out the coolers—and I have the big storage chest on the back deck. We’ll put everything in there.”
“Are you sure it’s cold enough?” Krista said.
“This is Alberta, not Ontario. It’s November. Yes, it’ll be cold enough.”
“Won’t raccoons get in it?” Mara said.
“And you,” Bridget said, “have spent too long on Vancouver Island. Raccoons haven’t reached here yet.”
Krista split the top off a third cupcake. Really? “Basically, you’re saying that Alberta in the winter is only good for freezing food outdoors.”
“Alberta is way better than—” Bridget stopped when she saw the growing grins on her sisters’ faces. The two always knew how to get under her skin. Common genes. She was adopted. Stranger genes. Still, she had loved Krista and Mara since meeting them at age six. Was forever grateful to her sisters’ parents for getting her out of foster care.
“You have to remember,” Mara said, “that when the three of us came as kids, it was always during the summer. Yes, we were here for high school, but we moved on. You stayed. Spirit Lake is your home.”
“Not ours” was the implied add-on. Putting her sisters back on planes, each heading in a different direction, meant she’d drive back to a house full of food and no one to share it with.
She could picture Christmas Day. Eating chocolate-cupcake bottoms and lasagna straight from the aluminum pan. Texting her sisters. Watching a holiday movie where singles meet for their happily-ever-after. Checking to see if it was still too early to go to bed.
BRIDGET HOVERED HER thumbs over her phone screen, trying to think of another way to say “Thanks, we will miss her, too.” Mara sat on the kitchen floor among oversize coolers, calling out to Krista the size and shape of each dish she was ready to pack.
They’d not wanted Bridget’s help. Just as well, with messages still popping up hourly. She’d answered no fewer than five hundred messages in the past three weeks with at least a few words. No using emojis out of respect for Auntie Penny. Never saw a smiley face I didn’t want to scream at.
Thank you, Bridget typed. Your words mean so much. She hadn’t used that one in a while.
She scrolled for anything from Jack. Out of curiosity. She’d personally messaged him the news, resisting the temptation to call. He and Auntie Penny had been close. As close as they could be when he moved from one place or another on the other side of the world. Bridget was merely the girlfriend he’d dumped a dozen years ago. Publicly, a girlfriend. Secretly, between them and Auntie Penny, his fiancée.
He had texted back almost immediately. How are you?
Fine. A stupid thing to say, considering she then unloaded the circumstances of her aunt’s death. A fatal car crash while in Arizona visiting her sister, Deidre.
Can I call you? Now?
He was somewhere in Venezuela—she knew from Auntie Penny. Only a difference of two hours. She typed Please, but then erased it and typed Thanks, but I’m okay when she could barely see the screen through her tears.
His reply took longer. Maybe he was retyping. Or he had to pause while he inoculated children against malaria or patched up wounded villagers or dug a well or whatever crisis he was single-handedly resolving. We’ll talk soon.
Talk? What did he mean? When? Which she’d deleted because it came across as needy, and went with Sounds good.
No reply. Probably for the best. She would’ve been a sobbing mess, another humanitarian emergency for him to deal with.
Two weeks ago, she’d notified him of the celebration-of-life date as part of a mass message, and he’d replied two days later, Talk then.
She’d quickly answered with Love to hear from you and then scolded herself for putting in the word love. It sounded at once breezy and weighty.
He hadn’t called today. Had she really thought he would? More than three hundred guests, and the absence of even his voice was as much of a huge gaping hole as when he’d chosen not to come home to her twelve years ago.
If she couldn’t handle his absence, what about Auntie Penny’s?
Her phone screen was peppered with teary emojis and messages of prayers, thoughts, hugs and the open-ended “If there’s anything we can do...”
Mara was up to her elbows in the cooler while Krista munched on shortbread from a cookie tin, content as always to let someone else do the work.
“Stay,” Bridget said loudly, surprising herself. “Stay awhile...for Christmas.”
Her sisters exchanged their telepathic looks.
“That’s more than a month away,” Mara said cautiously.
Almost two months actually, and her sisters had never stayed longer than six days since graduating from high school. But there was plenty of room. Mara could keep the guest room upstairs, and Krista could stay in the one downstairs.
Krista’s mouth twisted into the beginnings of a refusal.
“You’re between gigs, anyway,” Bridget said hurriedly. Krista was in the fashion biz. To be honest, Bridget didn’t know exactly what her youngest sister did, and she wasn’t sure she’d understand if she was told.
“Yes, but that means I need to hustle to get another one. Rent doesn’t pay itself.”
“I’ll pay,” Bridget blurted. How, she had no idea.
Five years ago, Auntie Penny had mortgaged the house to the hilt to finance do-or-be-closed-down renos to the restaurant. Then the economy had seriously nose-dived and everyone decided to eat their omelets at home instead of at Penny’s. Each year had gotten worse. Before leaving for Arizona, her aunt had handed her an envelope “for us to discuss when I return,” which Bridget interpreted as ugly budget stuff. She’d dropped it into the mail sorter by the fridge. She was now too scared, and too tired, to read it.
Still, surely, she could rustle up a couple thousand to cover rent.
“I believe you. It’s just that—” Krista plucked at the dangly bits on her bracelet “—it’s just that...people are expecting me back.”
Bridget sat up. “You’re seeing someone.”
Krista fiddled with her mermaid pendant, a present from Auntie Penny when she was a kid. Bridget was floored Krista still had it, considering a six-month lease was her idea of a long-term commitment. “It’s not going so well. And then this thing with Auntie Penny happened... He said—he said that I need to get back or I can just stay here.”
“He doesn’t own Toronto. He can’t tell you to stay away.”
Krista gave Bridget a meaningful look. Bridget sucked in her breath. “You’re living with him.”
“Yes.” A single word, heavy with worry.
“Tell the jerk you’re taking his advice.”
Krista rubbed the pendant over her lower lip, a thinking gesture. Bridget pressed for the advantage. “Right, Mara? You’re the psychologist.”
“As of two months ago. I’m hardly an expert.”
“You don’t have to be to know this guy has got to go.”
“He’s got to go because you want Krista to stay,” Mara clarified. “And before you ask, I already have automatic withdrawal for my rent, so you don’t need to give me a cent.”
Mara might not need money, but she needed help. “So then,” Bridget said, “you’re both staying.”
Her sisters offered up silence, which wasn’t an outright refusal.
“Look. I know you guys have your own lives. I just—Couldn’t we do this Christmas together?” She was slathering on the pity-pleading as thick as the snowflake icing.
Mara caved first. “I can’t stay for that long. Maybe another two weeks.”
Bridget looked at Krista, who said, “Philip wanted me back yesterday.”
“Tell Prince Philip you’ll be back when you’re good and ready.”
“Bridget! Stop bullying me. I’ll say it my own way.”
“But you are going to say it?”
“Later.”
“And you’ll stay for Christmas?”
“Only if Mara does.”
“Fine.” Mara thunked a lid tight onto a cooler. “Until after Christmas. But promise not to ask us to stay longer. I can’t refuse you anything.”
Bridget jumped off the couch and twirled into the kitchen. “Yes, yes, yes! This will be the first time in seven years we’re together on the actual Christmas Day.”
“We were all together three years ago,” Krista said.
“Yeah, but you brought that dude who never got off his phone,” Bridget said.
“He did when you threw it in the snowbank,” Mara reminded her.
“I don’t regret it. You can’t be with a guy who smiles at a screen more than he does—”
There was a knock at the front door. A taxi was pulling away from the curb.
Bridget threw on the porch light. A man in a parka stood there with two kids muffled in winter gear. She gasped. Was it...? No, it couldn’t be.
He threw back his hood. It was.
Talk soon. She’d never imagined he’d meant in person.
JACK HOLDSTROM WANTED nothing more than to stretch out and sleep. The kitchen table they were all sitting at seemed good about now. The girls looked ready to join him. Dark smudges under their eyes stood out even on their brown skin, and their braids were fuzzy from thirty-two straight hours of traveling. So far in such a short time. The wait at Immigration in Toronto had taken the longest, and they’d missed their connecting flight west to Calgary.
His arrival was totally unexpected, and from the way Bridget was sitting, tight and rigid, unwelcome. Mara and Krista, lined up on either side of Bridget, weren’t much better. Penny must not have told her about the adoption of the girls. She had said that she would in her own good time. Which she’d run out of.
Bridget nudged a platter of cupcakes toward the girls. “Do you want one?”
He translated. Isabella told Sofia to say no, and Sofia gave way to her older sister with a reluctant shake of her head. Isabella gave Bridget a silent, stone-faced refusal. Isabella must be so exhausted she was no longer thinking straight. He’d never seen her refuse food before.
Bridget chewed on the inside of her cheek hard enough to pull on the side of her face. Her tell signal for when she was troubled. Was she worried about his girls? With the same coloring as Isabella and Sofia, she looked the part of a concerned mother. Far more than him, with his light brown hair and blue eyes.
Hurriedly, he said, “I think they’re just tired. I know I am. Do you mind if we head straight for bed?”
“Where?” Bridget said.
“Uh, wherever will work.”
“There’s no room here.”
“There’s Auntie’s room,” Mara said quietly.
“But that’s—I mean, all of her things—” Bridget looked at the girls. “All of you in the one room?”
If she had any idea of what the girls had endured, she wouldn’t have bothered with that question. Still. It was good to know that he had brought the girls someplace where the concept of three people in one room seemed like overcrowding amounting to a human-rights violation.
“That’ll do us just fine for now.”
“For now?”
If he hadn’t been so tired, Jack might’ve chosen his words more carefully. “Until we figure out who is sleeping where in the house moving forward.”
Bridget’s eyebrows rose, along with her voice. “Moving forward?”
Yes, Bridget had just lost her aunt but she had to face facts, and not pretend that she didn’t understand why he was there. “Bridge. Your aunt wrote me. She said she gave you a letter, too. It’s in the will. I’m entitled to half the house.”
He might as well have announced someone else’s sudden death. She looked wildly at Mara and then Krista, who appeared every bit as confused.
Then Bridget’s expression cut to one of fierce certainty. She bunched her napkin and threw it on her plate. She bumped against her chair and the island to get to the mail sorter by the fridge. She tore open a manila envelope and set to reading the sheet inside. Jack recognized the writing on the back of the letter. It was Penny’s.
It probably contained much the same message as his letter. I’m sure you think my gift is unusual and overly generous. No, I haven’t lost my marbles yet... I have a simple, logical reason. Come home for Christmas, and I’ll explain to you and Bridget when we’re all together in the same room, maybe around the kitchen table, drinking my famous cider, your girls tucked warm and safe in bed.
“The restaurant,” Bridget said faintly. “You get Auntie Penny’s share of it, too.”
“I’m not interested in it. We can negotiate that.” He’d sign it all over to her right now if it would wipe that horrible sadness from her face.
She slowly refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope, then fingered the shredded top of the envelope.
“I get it.”
Bridget had whispered the exact same words into the phone all those years ago, when he’d called to say that he’d changed his mind about their future together. He had never hated three words more.
BRIDGET LEFT MARA and Krista to sort out sleeping arrangements for the so-called guests. She could hear them in Auntie Penny’s room, kitty-corner to hers—drawers opening, the flick of a bedsheet and plumping of a pillow, calls for fresh toothbrushes and towels.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her aunt’s letter open on her lap under the glow of her bedside light. Bridget could only glance at bits at a time, as if the words emitted their own brightness. Joint ownership with Jack. I’m as fond of him as I am of you. You two were close...work out something. We’ll talk at Christmas when we’re all together.
Except there’d be no Christmas together. Though Auntie Penny might’ve had a premonition when she wrote that letter, how could she have known she’d crash her rental on an Arizona highway not five miles away from her sister’s place?
Deidre had called Bridget with the news three weeks ago—the first time her mother had talked to her since Bridget’s thirty-first birthday in April. She arranged the cremation and the ashes to be sent north, but she hadn’t come for the funeral. “I already said my goodbye.”
As executor of the will, Deidre would have to say more than goodbye. “I’ll sort that out soon,” she’d said.
“Suit yourself,” Bridget had replied. How would Deidre sort it out from Arizona? Bridget realized she hadn’t specifically invited her mother north. She would call tomorrow and do her duty, though she’d no idea where Deidre would sleep. Wait. Had Auntie Penny told Deidre she was giving half the house to Jack? Was that why she hadn’t come, because she knew that with Jack there’d be no room? Everyone had known except her. Because she hadn’t bothered to read the letter.
Noises from across the hall died away, and there was a discreet knock on her door. Mara appeared. “They’re settled in.”
Yeah, for good.
Mara sat down beside Bridget and nodded at the letter. “Did she explain why?”
“Jack needs a good home to raise his daughters. She didn’t say why it has to be this one.” Bridget crushed the edges of the paper in her hand. “She planned to talk to me when she got back. The real reason required a face-to-face, I guess.”
Mara made a sympathetic noise. She was good with those. “The will must confirm its legality, I suppose.”
“Will-shmill. Auntie Penny told us both, so I have to respect her intentions.” But what were her intentions? To give Jack a house of debt? As mercenary as it sounded, Bridget hoped Auntie Penny had stocks or savings that could get them through the next bit. She had already cashed in savings to stave off the bank in the summer. “My rainy-day fund,” she’d said. The situation now was more like Noah’s forty days and nights.
Mara nudged her shoulder against Bridget’s. “Having integrity is such a drag.”
It was more than integrity. It was the girls. Jack had never acted as if he wanted a family and now here he was with two girls straight out of nowhere. She couldn’t blame him. The younger seemed so sad, the older looked cornered and both of them so...hunched. They pulled on a deep, inert part of her being, the part where she’d buried the first six years of her life before her parents had rescued her from foster care. No way would she be the one to throw these girls out of the home they’d come halfway around the world for. Even if it was a home built on rocky financial ground.
“Do you know where the girls are from?” Mara asked.
“Venezuela, I guess. That’s where he was.”
“I’m sure we’ll learn more tomorrow.” Mara sighed. “The little one is cute. She showed me her missing front tooth.”
“The other one is loose. She was wiggling it with her tongue at the table.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Probably because you were polite enough not to stare. I had a harder time.”
Mara did the shoulder nudge again. “And at Jack?” She spoke softly so there was no danger he’d hear. Krista rooting in the kitchen freezer for ice cream was louder than their conversation.
“No,” Bridget said quickly. She winced. Too quickly. Mara had always been able to read people, her sisters especially, and now that she was armed with her papers, she was all kinds of deadly.
“I admit that it’s weird to have the guy I once dated living under the same roof. But it’s not like I haven’t seen him since he left.” Seven times in the past twelve years to be precise, when he’d come back to visit his parents or raise money for whatever humanitarian project he was involved in. And every time, she’d swear her heart was mended, and then he’d take off to some forsaken place and rip a hole in it she’d have to stitch back up. He’d last come home three years ago for his father’s funeral. Also victim of a car accident, west of town.
“It’s just that it’ll take a bit to get used to, and you know how I am with change.”
Mara made another patient, sympathetic noise. Bridget, as the oldest, should’ve been the sibling to lead the charge into unknown territory. Instead she’d waved goodbye to her sisters and parked herself in Spirit Lake, picking up courses online or at the local college on an as-needed basis. Visits with her sisters or vacations had never extended beyond a week. Somewhere along the way, her sisters gave up on Bridget traveling and came out to Spirit Lake instead.
“The house will be extra crowded now,” Mara said. “Do you still want Krista and me to stay?”
Bridget clamped her arm around Mara’s shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Mara wrapped her arm around Bridget’s waist and squeezed back. Sister squeezes were the best, like putting on an old, favorite Christmas sweater. “Krista and me, we didn’t tell Jack that we’d planned to stay until after Christmas. I don’t know how he’ll feel about that.”
“Too late,” Bridget said. “He should’ve told me he was coming. Besides, if he’s happy enough to stuff himself and the kids into a room for one night, another few nights won’t matter.”
“Almost two months is not a few nights.”
“The girls can take this bed. It’s a double, right? I’ll take the sofa bed downstairs.”
“You really are determined that we stay for Christmas.”
“We’re all we’ve got,” Bridget said.
“There is Mom,” Mara said.
“And where is she?”
Mara gave a one-shouldered shrug, exactly as she’d always done when Bridget had pointed out Deidre’s shortcomings. “We are adults now,” she said quietly. “We’re allowed to make choices.”
Adults who carried hurts from childhood, deaths and a stupid heartbreak from a dozen years ago. Okay, maybe one adult who carried all that.
“You’re staying for Christmas,” Bridget reaffirmed. Then she remembered the odd little family—as odd as hers—across the hallway, and added, “Whether we like it or not, we’re all staying for Christmas.”
