CHAPTERONE
PARKER
“Is there nothing I can do, Max? Maybe talk to someone higher up at the bank and explain the situation? See if they’re willing to give me a little longer to pay?”
The local diner is alive with the chatter of patrons and forks scraping against plates. My accountant avoids my eyes as he silently arranges the papers in front of him, probably to delay telling me we’ve already done everything we can.
When Max called over the weekend and asked me to meet him for breakfast today, I should have known it was to deliver bad news. Over the past several years that he’s handled my financials, he never offered to buy me breakfast if he were delivering good news. Pretty sure this is his way of softening the blow, more or less.
So sorry you’re about to lose everything you and your parents worked hard to accomplish, but here’s a delicious Belgium waffle topped with chocolate syrup and whipped cream to make it hurt less.
While it does take the sting out a little — chocolate always does — nothing can make the reality of my current situation any easier to swallow.
I have one month to come up with my overdue mortgage and property taxes or the bank will initiate foreclosure proceedings.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
“I wish there was, Parker,” Max replies with all the sympathy I’ve come to expect from the older gentleman.
“What about someone investing in the tax lien? You told me that was a thing.”
“And it is, but typically for smaller amounts. You’re looking at a tax default of nearly a hundred grand.”
“It’s thirty acres,” I argue in my defense.
“Most investors aren’t interested in offering a tax lien for that much. Not when there’s a risk they may not be able to collect on the lien.”
“We’ve seen higher numbers this past weekend than we have over the last few years. We don’t even have all the decorations up yet. Which means the next several weeks will be even busier, especially with the tree lighting ceremony and the Christmas Festival opening. You know how busy we get. People travel from all over to come to Christmas at Holley Ridge.”
“I’m aware. But with your current bookings and projections, can you really expect to make a hundred grand above and beyond your overhead? That doesn’t even take into account the amount you’re in default on your mortgage.”
“It could happen,” I say, although my voice lacks even a modicum of conviction.
While this may be the busiest time of the year for my event space and quaint inn set on a beautiful lake, it’s also my most costly with all the extras I plan for the holiday season. Some would consider it excessive, but my parents loved decorating Holley Ridge for Christmas. Loved welcoming hundreds of people from all over onto their property to celebrate the season.
I hate the idea that everything they worked hard for is about to go up in flames.
“Have you given any more thought to the offer to buy the property you received before Thanksgiving? It’s more than fair.”
“I already told you. I’m not interested in selling.”
Max pushes out a long breath laden with frustration. “Parker, you may not have a choice. I get that Holley Ridge has a special meaning to you, and unfortunately, you got hit with hard times almost immediately after you finished the construction of the inn and restoration of the barn. If the world hadn’t shut down and both the tourism and wedding industry hadn’t taken as big of a hit as they did in the months to follow, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now. The banks were willing to work with you in the beginning, but now…”
“I know, Max. I just…” I shake my head, my throat closing up. “I promised my dad I’d take care of Holley Ridge. I can’t give up. Not without a fight.” I slide out of the booth, tugging on my coat and slinging my purse over my shoulder. “When does the bank need the money?”
“January second. If it’s not received by the end of the day, they’ll be filing a notice of foreclosure with the clerk of court the following morning.”
“I’ll have it,” I tell Max with all the confidence I can muster, not allowing a single shred of doubt to creep in. Then I spin around and make my way out of the diner, pretending nothing is wrong. That I’m not on the brink of losing everything my parents worked hard for.
ThatI’veworked hard for.
As I emerge onto the sidewalk of historic downtown Sycamore Falls, everything already decked out for the holidays, I wave at several locals as they pass, smiling when they tell me how much they’re looking forward to the tree lighting ceremony this weekend. I don’t let them see my unease over the prospect that it may be the last tree lighting ceremony I ever host.
Holley Ridge has been in my family for generations, and was once a working ranch. Over the years, the focus shifted from raising livestock to breeding, training, and boarding horses. Now, the property is used to host events in the barn I spent most of my inheritance restoring several years ago. But what it’s most well-known for is being the home of the Holley Christmas Festival.
What started as my parents going all out to decorate their property for the holidays eventually grew into an annual tradition, each year’s decorations and festivities bigger than the last. Now, the Holley Christmas Festival boasts a market filled with vendors selling various gift items, an ice-skating rink, horse-drawn carriage rides, and even a polar express “train” to see Santa.
My heart squeezes at the notion of all of this going away. Of never being able to witness the joy that fills a child’s face as they meet Santa for the first time. Of not watching families make ornaments together that they’ll hang on their tree for years to come. Of not watching couples snuggle up on a horse-drawn carriage as they share a special moment.
