She can’t possibly be sweating. I know she lives in Denver, but these are arctic temperatures we’re dealing with here.
I gesture to the empty space. “There aren’t any Christmas decorations.”
Taran looks over her shoulder and then back at me. “Correct.”
“Um…why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Taran says sarcastically. “Maybe because Aunt Cindy broke her hip, and the last thing she can manage right now is decorating her house so you can feel the Christmas magic the moment you walk in.”Ah, excuse me, Miss Rude.
She blows past me again, back to the clown car to unload God knows what at this point.
“A simple answer of ‘she hasn’t had time’ would have sufficed,” I call after her.
Yikes, she’s ripe.
I tuck my pillow under my arm, take off my shoes, and then head into the living room, the bare and very odd-looking living room.
I’ve never seen it like this before. Normally where the tree would go, there’s a pink Victorian chair in impeccable shape for what I assume is its age. TheHappy Daysnativity scene, which Aunt Cindy pays homage to every year, isnotperched on the fireplace. No stockings hung, no logs by the fire, no cranberry garland draping along with her green damask curtains.
It’s just…plain.
And frankly, it’s scaring me.
I know I joked about a broken hip being a death sentence, but this decidedly barren room is making me feel like I’m visiting a mortuary rather than a place full of the Christmas spirit.
Also, color me confused because I didn’t think she ever took her decorations down. Naïve, perhaps, but thisisKringletown—well, just Kringle if you’re local—the most highly elevated Christmas town in the country. Year-round, instrumental Christmas music plays from speakers strategically placed along the main streets. Light post decorations are only switched out for a different style every month but never stray from the classic red, green, and gold hues of the jolly holiday. Twinkle lights are never taken down, hot chocolate never stops being pumped into visitors, and you can’t walk down the street without being told at least twice that Santa is always watching.
So pardon my confusion in thinking that Christmas decorations remain a fixed aesthetic in the homes as well.
Guess I was wrong.
The front door shuts, and Taran stands in the entryway, hands on her hips.
I turn toward her. “Why is it so quiet in here? Where’s Aunt Cindy?”
“With Martha and Mae at their house.”
“The Bawhovier twins?” I ask, referring to the center of gossip in Kringletown. If you want to know anything—and I mean anything—about the town, Martha and Mae Bawhovier are the people to ask.
They keep notes; I’ve seen them. Stacks and stacks of town gossip disguised as leather-bound books on their bookshelves. One day, when they both die, I have no doubt Kringletown will archive said gossip books in the town library, revealing all of the innermost secrets of those who have lived through a lifetime of holiday festivities.
“Yes, they’ve been watching over Aunt Cindy for us. Were you not paying attention to the emergency family meeting?” Taran asked.
“Kind of blacked out after I was forced to be a caretaker for my foreseeable future.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Says the one who gets to go back to the comfort of their home while I have to sponge bathe an elderly woman who I’ve only seen wear a turtleneck and slacks my entire life,” I reply.
“It should be an honor for you.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I lean forward and whisper, “An honor to see Aunt Cindy naked? What’s wrong with you?”
Taran’s jaw clenches. “An honor to take care of a relative who has provided you with many wonderful memories throughout your young years. This is the circle of life, Storee. They take care of us while we navigate life at a young age, and when they become old and feeble, it’s our turn to repay them.”
God, she’s so…annoyingly right.
“Doesn’t mean I need to be honored to see her naked,” I say with a lift of my chin.
