“Serena is asking if you’re going to reconsider this matter of the tree,” he said in his proper English. “A small one, perhaps. She’s insisting it would ‘bring cheer to the space.’”
My mouth twitched as I fought back a reluctant laugh. Serena knew I wasn’t going for the over-the-top Christmas nonsense. “Tell Serena I said the ‘cheer’ is confined to the second floor this year. Again. The little tree is enough.”
He hesitated. “It is a very large house. One small tree in one small room does not even begin to?—”
“Mr. Benton.”
He huffed and straightened his vest. “Very good, ma’am. I shall inform the Christmas rebel that the fortress that is Ms. Kyleigh still stands.”
A laugh slipped out of me and disappeared into the high ceiling. I’d been back a year, and when my grandmother decidedto move out, the house became mine. Mrs. Amanda was off enjoying her life in one of those new, expensive assisted living places. I’d come home to be close to her during treatment for breast cancer. She’d eventually rung the bell but insisted I stay to be close to her. Make the house mine, she’d instructed me. I just didn’t know how to do that exactly. I walked through these over-sized rooms still half-expecting Mrs. Amanda to appear, cussing and offering pound cake at the same time.
But I was the one with the keys—well, the door codes—the one signing checks and authorizing purchases and emailing lawyers about buying up property. Emancipation’s residents didn’t know what to think about me. Was I going to play the generous heiress? Or was I going to use my newly-acquired land to turn the town into something they didn’t recognize? I wasn’t perfect; the petty me figured it didn’t hurt to keep them guessing.
I crossed to the front doors. Through the glass, I could see that the town was lit up down the hill. Red, green, and white lights decorated buildings, trees, and town property. Last week, the mayor’s office had sent another email about “reconsidering your generous tradition of allowing access to the Grindley pines.” I’d replied with the same language my attorney drafted the first time:Regret to inform... Liability concerns… Private land… No access…
My plan was to close my windows, block out carols and decorations, and repeat this little dance with the mayor’s office as often as needed. Christmas was overhyped, too commercial, with little real meaning anymore. Just because Mrs. Amanda let them decorate the Grindley pines didn’t mean I had to.
My phone buzzed. I received three texts from Taniyah in quick succession.
Taniyah:
u in town?
made jambalaya. bringing you some later. don’t argue.
girl stop ghosting me. i will stand outside that big house and sing christmas songs off key til u open the door
Guilt created an uncomfortably warm feeling inside me. When people heard I’d moved back, she was the first to reach out—calls, messages, brunch invites, pictures of her kids. She never mentionedhim. Stubborn as ever, she just kept trying, even though she hadn’t seen me in ten years. And I kept saying I was busy. Maybe next week. I’d been telling her “maybe next week” for a year. She should give up. I knew she wouldn’t, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted her to.
Me:
Can’t tonight. Working.
I hit send before I could stop myself. The lie just sat there on the screen and in my spirit, heavy and sad. But on to other things—I did have work. I’d written two chapters already. Pre-orders were wild. The royalties made the title “independent author” feel so good.
A happy, bright giggle floated from upstairs, breaking my reverie. I couldn’t help smiling. Max had a similar reaction, bouncing to his paws, tail wagging.
“Mama, look!”
Aziza’s voice tugged me out of my head. I looked up. She leaned over the second-floor railing, chin on folded arms, coils in two red-ribboned puffs, chocolate-brown skin glowing againstthe white banister. She wore the fuzzy reindeer pajama top Serena had bought her, though it was barely five p.m.
“Yes, ma’am?” I asked, already feeling soft.
A broken heart wasn’t the only thing I’d left Emancipation with. Two weeks into the spring semester of my senior year, I’d found out I was pregnant. My parents suggested a quick, discreet abortion. Unbelievably, I didn’t want that. They weren’t cruel. They were research scientists at heart, so they loved practical, logical solutions. They worried about what would happen to me as a single mom, even as a wealthy one. The people at the exclusive private school my parents had re-enrolled me in were appalled by the time I could no longer hide my pregnancy, for example. But I was used to being shunned and only a few weeks away from graduation, so they let me finish. I’d made the right decision for me, even if her father had moved on and had no place in his life for me by the time she was born. My baby was my whole heart, my reason for everything. She held something up, face shining.
“I made a star! For the tree!”
“Bring it down so I can see,” I said.
Her footsteps raced across the landing. A moment later she appeared at the top of the stairs and started hopping down too fast.
“Slow down,” I warned. “Put your hand on the rail.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, fingers brushing the banister, excitement still vibrating through her.
Max met her at the foot of the stairs, vibrating with excitement. She stopped to give him some good scratches and pats. When she reached me, she held the star up. It was made of two pink paper cutouts with cotton stuffed between them. The edges were trimmed in glitter. Lord! I was gon’ kill Serena for giving this child glitter.
“You did this by yourself?” I asked.
