“You home for the holidays? Your father will be so pleased, bless his heart.”
“Yup.” I point an awkward finger, still gripping my bag, toward the direction of said home and offer up a small smile. “See you ’round.”
I catch a glimpse of her front door featuring an oversized golden wreath, complete with angels and bells.
Urgh.Christmas. An annual reminder of all the things our family has had to live without for so, so long...
“Of course, honey! Say hello to your father for me.”
Absolutely not.
Even on a great day, making mention of anyone who’s not close family or in his everyday life only serves to send him into a confused stupor. Mrs. Matheson can keep her kind gestures,along with the rest of this town. I may have been living through his everyday via long-distance, but Marie, his live-in caretaker who has been with our family for over a decade, calls me twice a day, morning and night.
And since I’m the youngest of three, at the sprightly age of thirty, and the only one without a ‘serious career’ according to my brother, well, here I am.
Leaving Main Street, I trudge my way through the side alley that leads to MacKelvie Lane, home to one of the original families of Grafton and our only neighbors in this tiny town for as long as I can remember.
Old Mrs. MacKelvie’s apple pies are something to behold. I’m sure she bakes in edible gold to glam up her pies... They’re that stupidly good.
Mrs. MacKelvie has always been old. I swear she’s been seventy for thirty years now. However, her grandchildren—who rarely visit—would be around my age now, from a quick running calculation. Her children all left for the city, one after the other, leaving her alone after all those years.
This time of year, I can almost smell the apple, cinnamon, pie crust, and... Smoke?
Shit.
I pick up the pace. My bags slam into my thighs as I close in on the two grand homes side by side. I’m out of breath. And a whole lot confused. Outside the MacKelvies’ is a large drum, burning, legs of antique chairs sticking out of the top.
Hey, what?
Okay, that’s not?—
The front screen door of our house snaps.
Marie’s face lights up as she crosses our wide porch, drawing my attention to my own home. Leaning on a colonial-style column, she folds her arms over her chest, her smile widening. Not a Christmas decoration in sight.
We love Marie.
Without my mother, our father lost interest in the world around him. We were so little when she died. At least, I was little when Marie started taking care of us like her own children not long after we lost our mom. Then she went from caring for us to caring for my father in one seamless transition.
I drop the bags the second I make the porch, and she pushes from the column and envelops me in one of her warm hugs.
And for a minute, she feels like the mother I grew up without.
“Welcome home, Celestia.”
Her nickname for me. A combination of my name and the stars of the incredible night sky that floats above Grafton in the wintertime.
“It’s so good to be home.” The words almost get stuck.
She holds me at arm’s length. “He’s waiting for you in the sunroom. It’s a good day. Even better, now that you’re here.”
I huff a breath of relief, trying to stem the emotion that comes with the fact my father should recognize me.
I reach for my bags, and she shoos me inside before popping back out. To grab my luggage, I assume.
I walk into the foyer that has always felt far too formal for our family. The house is huge, even for a family of five, then four. Until Marie came stepped in, at least. She was Mom’s best friend.
“Hello?” I call out as I travel the corridor, a library flanking my left and the sitting room on the right. I know I’ll find my father in the sunroom at the back of the house. His favorite place.
