“Not exactly, but with the baby coming, I think she wants to prove to herself she can be a domestic wife since she and Ryan decided she’d be a stay-at-home mom while the baby is young.”
Cora laughed. “Flora was born with the domestic gene. Other than cooking, it skipped me. Why would she doubt it?”
“Pregnancy hormones can mess with a person’s mind.” Eileen’s voice came through soft and gentle. “If you really don’t want to relinquish the responsibility, she’ll understand, but it would mean a lot to her to host Christmas dinner.”
“It’s fine, Mom.” She had to choke out the words because hosting dinner was her second favorite part of the holiday, second only to celebrating Jesus’s birth. However, she couldn’t deny her sister happiness, especially not when Flora was expecting the first baby of her siblings.
“Wonderful. I’ll call her now and let her know.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll tell her myself. I planned to drop by her house with a gift after I close anyway.”
“Thank you. I know it’s not easy for you to give it up, and I’m proud of you.” Eileen hung up without letting Cora comment further, likely afraid she’d change her mind.
A heaviness hung over Cora. She dug to the bottom of her paper pile and pulled out the menu she’d perfected for this year’s dinner. For months, she’d pored over recipes and tested them until she’d found the perfect dishes.
She crumbled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. It didn’t matter who hosted Christmas dinner, as long as she spent it with her family. If she repeated it a hundred times, maybe she’d believe it. She shouldn’t be so upset, but she couldn’t stop the ache in her stomach.
Regretting her rash action, she pulled her menu from the trash and smoothed it out. There was always next year. And for now, she had her yard and store to keep her in the Christmas spirit.
Chapter Two
Gabe Newton pulled off the road, onto a constructed overlook. He stepped out of his decade-old sedan and breathed in the fresh mountain air. The sun descended quickly, and soon, he’d have to wait until tomorrow for more views of the Smokies.
After living on the Kansas plains for all of his thirty-one years, he’d pulled up roots and moved to Tennessee. Or was moving. He hadn’t gotten to his new home yet, but according to his GPS, he only had a half hour until he arrived.
What condition would the house be in? The last time he’d been to Overlook was as a senior in high school when his family had spent Christmas with his great uncle. He wished he’d spent more time getting to know him.
Two months after his uncle’s death, Gabe still didn’t understand why Frank had left him his home and property on Main Street. There had been no explanation with the will, and Uncle Frank’s lawyer couldn’t provide any insight. Whatever the reason, his uncle’s death aside, Gabe was grateful for the inheritance.
He’d finally be able to open a photography studio. Initially, he’d thought to sell the two properties, but his conscious nagged at him. Uncle Frank hadn’t left him a home and storefront to turn around and sell it. After much discussion with God, his parents, and lawyer, he decided to uproot his life and move to Tennessee.
Mom had cried and pleaded with him to wait until after Christmas. Dad had told him to follow his dreams. His sisters were neutral, wanting him near but also wishing him the best in his new endeavor. Their only stipulations were that he invite them to the mountains for visits. In the end, he’d compromised and stayed for Thanksgiving with plans for his family to join him for a Tennessee Christmas.
Excitement pulsed through him. Most photographers focused their studios in Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge, and not in the lesser known, but just as beautiful, Overlook. He’d have little competition in the town, and while he established a local clientele base, he’d also market to tourists wanting a special memory of their time in the Smokies.
Reluctantly, he left the picturesque view and returned to his car, a long-ago-given college graduation present. Once he settled into his new life, he’d see about getting a new vehicle more suitable for driving mountain passes. Until then, he’d enjoy the last months with his trusty Toyota.
The town of Overlook came into view, and it appeared exactly as he remembered it from all those years ago. A wrought iron banner with the town’s name stretched across both entrances of Main Street. Lights and supersized candy canes adorned the streetlights, and a large fir tree stood tall and proud in the town square with a gold star at the top of its decorated limbs.
Impulse took over, and he drove to the empty store his uncle had left him. Confusion crinkled his brows when he saw that a store occupied the address, and he stroked his jaw. He’d been under the assumption the business property was vacant.
Though he had the address memorized, he doublechecked his papers and glanced a second time at the brass numbers above the store’s door. Sure enough, they matched. He ran a hand through his hair, debating his next move. There had to be a logical explanation. Someone—the lawyer—would have mentioned this small detail to him.
He took a second to see what kind of a store filled the premise. When he saw Mistletoe Mercantile hanging on a shingle, it all made sense. It must be a seasonal store with a short lease for the holiday season, and that’s why the lawyer didn’t mention it to him.
But who received the rent? Unless the merchant had prepaid before Frank passed, the funds would be Gabe’s. He didn’t care about the monetary aspect—he still struggled to reconcile in his heart gaining financially from his uncle’s death—rather, he wanted to know the full situation. As the owner of the building, he could be held liable for anything that went on within the property limits.
Curiosity got to him, and he pushed open the car door. A little investigating before he called the lawyer tomorrow wouldn’t hurt. He buttoned his coat after a strong gust sent a chill through him. When he opened the door, bells jingled above him.
The store smelled like…Christmas. A woodsy scent mixed with the sweet aroma of berries and, maybe, vanilla. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact undertones. His eyes shifted from shelves of decorations to racks of stockings. He’d walked into a winter wonderland.
A middle-aged lady with an apron and red hair approached. “Welcome to Mistletoe Mercantile. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Browsing.” His gaze landed on a ceramic creche. “I’m moving into a new house here and left the few Christmas decorations I had behind.”
“Are you from this area?” The lady reached behind her and straightened an out of place stocking holder.
“No, ma’am. Lived in Kansas all my life until now.”
