Something twists in my chest, and I shake my head. Nope. No, I do not like that feeling. Hell, I rather feel nothing at all. Not pain, not joy, not good tidings or anything else for that matter. Frowning down at her, I send a glare at the others behind her, before I hold a hand up.
“This is cute. You all sound wonderful. Go take it somewhere else, to someone who wants good tidings and has kin they give a damn about.”
The brunette’s face falls, the glow in her eyes dimming. I hate that. Hate that I was so harsh, that my words spit out like bullets, hitting her and anyone in their path. Behind her, the group shuffles off, a flurry of apologies muttered as they go. I wave them off carelessly. Only the pretty brunette with the beautiful voice and shining eyes does not move.
Staring up at me, she seems to be assessing me. Reading me. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Roth. Your praise is thanks enough for all of us.”
Turning on her heel, her shoulders going back as her spine straightens, she stomps off my porch with a little huff. I can’t help it. I smile as I watch her go, catching up to the others. There was a flash of fire in her pretty eyes as she wished me a Merry Christmas.
Watching her go, I find myself wondering how they find my place, how she knew my name. I’m almost a mile off the main road. If they were truly making the rounds of the mountain, they had to make quite a hike to get to my place. I chuckle to myself as I imagine them showing up at all the other asshole lumberjacks and mountain men on this mountain.
Surely I won’t be the first or the last to send them off in ahuff.
Heading back inside, I can’t shake a nagging tug in my gut. Those eyes keep flashing in my head. Those pretty, sad eyes. One moment they were bright, joyful, then I opened my damn mouth. Why do I have to shut people out? What am I hiding from up here on this mountain?
Back in my office, I take another pull on the cold beer. Peeling the label off I shred it in my fingers. They’re shaking. Dizziness makes my vision blurs, and I am glad I am sitting down. My chest is rattling still. Ihatethis. Who gets triggered from some damn Christmas carolers?
“Calm down. Deep breaths,” I tell myself, just as my therapist would tell me to. “Count to ten, calm down.Asshole,” I spit the final word emptying the beer in one long drink.
It is more than another panic attack. Not the first and won’t be the
last of those, I am sure. This is different. I cannot get that woman’s face out of my head. Those sad eyes. Pretty eyes that I made sad. Also, not the first or last time I upset someone. This is so different, and it takes me two more beers before I can figure out what it is.
I amashamedthat I made that pretty girl sad.
I must be drunk because I decide I must make it up to her—no matter what it takes.
Chapter Two
Serena
Christmas is about more than one day to me.
It starts before the first snowfall, before the first light is strung, or a tree is decorated. It is more than presents or even tradition. For me it is about the goodness we find in one another. In a world full of struggles, a world pulling us in hundreds of directions, it is about real connections.
Growing up, we had very little in the way of presents or traditions. No lavish meals were had at our dining table. What we did have was laughter. Love. We made a banquet of whatever we had, because we were together. My parents taught us that life is not simply about grandeur.
Life is about the little moments we hold on to.
“We doing this, Serena?” One of the group calls above the ruckus.
Turning to the other members of the Welcome Committee, I nod. Yes, we’re doing this. With less than a week before Christmas, we’re out trying to bring joy to the folks of Driftwood Peaks. Tonight, we venture up onto the mountain. We’re hesitant because it is full of grumpy mountain men and lumberjacks who live up there to stay away from people like us.
“Yes. They need this more than anyone, if you ask me,” I answer with a smile that I am not sure they buy.
I am a people-pleaser by nature, I suppose. Besides my real estate work, I run things at the shelter in town. We’re a small enough town, with less than a thousand residents, so it is well serviced by the kindness of others. I have always tried to take care of others, to do for others, to give back because I know how it feels to have nothing.
Going up on the mountain, taking small gifts or bakedtreats, while we sing Christmas carols is a way to give back. To give some joy to those men who work hard and never ask for anything in return. They’re the ones who keep the town thriving, who keep it going, so they deserve this and more.
“We’re going up there, we’re going to knock on doors, hand out sweets, thank you Imelda for these,” I thank our resident baker, thanking her for all the mini loafs of bread and baskets of muffins. “Sing a song or two, then thank them for all they do. They deserve a little joy, I think. No matter how grumpy or grinchy they might be up on that mountain!”
The others wholeheartedly agree before we climb into two vans to head up the mountain. It is a cool night, with the sun setting slowly, as if it wants to hold on a little longer. The skies darken as we reach the top of the mountain, forewarning of the promised storm that is coming. Driftwood Peaks claims to have all seasons, but if you ask me, we get winter and spring, and little else. I love all the snow and the cold, it suits me, so I don’t mind.
Driftwood is a beautiful place with so much to offer. Besides brutal winters and too-short springs there is plenty to love about our town. Beautiful snow-peaked mountains, dense, sprawling forests, fresh cool water springs, and a lovely town where we all care about one another.
“They won’t expect us,” I remind the group as we park at the furthest house we mapped out, planning to walk down as far as we can. “Because no one remembers them this time of year. Which is just why we should.”
“Did you mean what you said about gifts, Serena?”
