If Meredith doesn’t get this manuscript, there won’t be another advance coming.
I’m not just experiencing an epic case of writer’s block, I’m broke. If I don’t figure out how to write abelievable love story in the next few weeks, I’ll be living in my Honda, assuming it doesn’t break down first.
After leaving Omaha, I head into Cobbiton, which feels like driving into a live-action holiday movie. Part of me wants to put on the brakes.
I’m not opposed to Christmas. It’s that I don’t feel the holly jolly merriment the way so many people do. Since my parents didn’t do much to celebrate the holiday, I never had that bursting-at-the-seams anticipation like so many kids did.
I’m certainly not Mrs. Grinch, but the sparks of joy just aren’t there. Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with me. Or perhaps I just haven’t had the right Christmas celebration yet.
The quaint Main Street is dressed in twinkling lights, evergreen garlands, red ribbon, and enough holiday cheer perfumed with baked goods to make the Grinch develop diabetes.
I have to keep my window down, otherwise, the defogger on the windshield won’t work. I’m just lucky my Civic, circa 1992, made it. Purchasing a new vehicle is high on my to-do list. First, I have to pay off my college loans, including my master’s. I would’ve had a college fund. However, because I wanted to study English literature with a minor in journalism, Mom used the money to move into Golden Years Village—the cost of all those daily activities adds up.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, reminding myself why I’m here. The plan is to spend some time with Mom, hide from the world, and somehow conjure up a story with a happily ever after for my current work in progress, which is a mail-order bride romance set in the Old West, before my editor sends a search party—or worse, I lose my contract. I haven’t read the fine print, but I’m sure there are dire penalties if I fail to come through.
Hockey Town has transformed itself into Christmas Town,USA. I pass the European-style market with vendors selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to gourmet hot chocolate. Families and couples wander among the stalls, their laughter carrying on the cold December air.
When I finally turn onto Cornsilk Drive, my childhood home comes into view, and my heart sinks.
The once-charming Victorian is now a neglected shadow of itself. Peeling paint, a sagging porch, and—is that a tarp on the roof? Mom mentioned a leak, but this looks bad.
It hasn’t snowed yet, but when I let myself inside, I can vaguely see the night sky when I look up. As I walk from room to room, I see so much neglect—and evidence of mice—that I don’t have time to clean with my looming word count requirements. The cobwebs don’t bother me, but with a shiver, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to stay here. Turning in a circle, I bite my lip, wondering what to do.
I pull out my phone and check for nearby hotels. The affordable ones are booked, likely due to the Christmas Market vendors and tourists, never mind the hockey madness since the state team adopted Cobbiton as their own. The only rooms available make my credit card wither up and die when I see the booking prices.
So I call a friend. I didn’t tell her I’d be in town. Guilt chills me like the draft in this house. However, I will make it up to her with chocolate—once I can afford the fancy, imported stuff.
One of my oldest and dearest friends answers on the third ring with a resoundingly cheerful hello.
“Nina? It’s Bree.”
“I know. Please tell me you’re home for Christmas.”
“Home is a loose, vague, non-applicable term, but yes.”
She squeals into the phone.
“Remember how you said I could always crash at your place if I ever needed to?”
She breaks into a flurry of concern mixed with excitement. “Are you on the run from a rogue cowboy? Did you make off with booty? Wait. That’s pirate-ese. Um, did you rob a bank?”
I chuckle. “Thankfully, nothing illegal.” I tell her about the status of the house on Cornsilk Drive.
“The house you grew up in was so charming. That’s sad to know it fell into disrepair.”
“So, um, I kind of need a place to stay. Like tonight.”
An hour later, I’m sitting on Nina’s overstuffed couch, wrapped in a throw blanket and nursing a cup of cocoa that’s bigger than my current bank balance. If Nina someday has kids, she’s going to be the best mom. To be honest, this is exactly what I need right now. Actually, I need to be typing a hundred words a minute, but perhaps the chocolate will motivate me.
She plops down beside me and tucks her feet under her. “So let me get this straight. You gave up your apartment in Cheyenne and planned to stay in your childhood home while you finish your book because you’re tight on cash. Now you’re essentially homeless because your roof risks collapsing at the fall of the first snowflake?”
Sighing, I wish it weren’t so. “That about sums it up. Plus, I blew my emergency fund on four new tires because, apparently, they were as bald as?—”
“—as the last guy who asked you out,” Nina finishes, recalling a text I sent her about my dating woes.
Eager for a change of topic, I ask, “Was a Christmas elf turned loose in here after gobbling up an entire container of marshmallows?”
Nina runs the Busy Bee Bakery and makes her own marshmallows. When she was preparing our hot chocolate, she apologized profusely because she was fresh out. Instead, she topped my mug with homemade whipped cream, candy cane bits, and chocolate shavings.
