Resigned, I do my best to inject enthusiasm into my smile before Nefeli clocks my resistance. “I’m sure that’d make a terrific article. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I’m screwed.
KENTUCKY
TWO WEEKS LATER
Auntie Min has always been a believer in Mary Poppins’s “A Spoonful of Sugar” philosophy, which is why she plied me with my favorite Christmas eggnog muffins before we had to redecorate the guest room.
We’ve been at it for hours. I’m sitting on the floor, screwing together a bed frame. A new queen-size mattress leans against the wall, plastic stripped off, airing out. Minnie’s on the glider rocker near the window, supervising.
I check the directions again and fish another bit of hardwareout of the bag. “This big bed isn’t necessary. I don’t mind the twin when I’m here for the holidays.”
“Who says I won’t have other guests?” She combs the end of her thick silver braid with her fingers.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you seem nervous?”
A memory comes back: her odd tone over the phone when I was in my little London flat, packing my suitcase after meeting with Nefeli, preparing to fly here to Kentucky. Auntie Min told me she has “special news for Christmas,” but isn’t sure if I’ll like it.
Could it be… Oh my God, maybe she’s getting married? What if the veterinarian fell for Minnie instead of Naomi?
A grin spreads across my face. “Auntie Min, ‘other guests’? Do you have a beau who occasionally stays the night? Because I suspect you’d make him sleep in the guest room until he buys you a ring.” I stand and flop the mattress sideways onto the bed platform, sliding it into place with my knees.
“Child,no.” She chuckles, flapping a hand at me. “Focus on your task and hush. I’ll fetch the linens so I don’t feel useless.”
“Useless?” I give her a hug. “Before I was even up, you spent hours packing sack lunches for the shelter. Give yourself a rest on Christmas Eve.”
“A rest feels better after you’vedone things,” she asserts.
I follow her into the hall. “After the guest room is tidied, can we have cocoa and watch movies? I wanna do the first presents.”
It’s our tradition to open just one the night before, then watch holiday films. Minnie has always spoiled me, despite her image as a practical woman. A dozen perfectly wrapped gifts await me beneath the tree, which is loaded with ornaments I made in childhood or bought on my travels.
“Get a fire going,” she says. “I’ll pop these sheets on and heat up cocoa.”
I make a fire in the woodstove, then curl up on the floral sofa with my laptop. One of Minnie’s crochet blankets is tucked around me, lights twinkle on the tree, the scent of white pine and spices hangs in the air. From the kitchen comes the comforting sound of Minnie fussing about, talking to herself.
This is the house I grew up in. I can’t recall a ton about the apartments where I lived with my parents until I was seven—there were several. I remember I had an orange cat named Gingersnap at one, and my parents left it behind when we moved again.
It should’ve been a warning to me, that cat.
I pull my focus back to the document on my laptop screen:
Within the high-stakes world of Formula 1, a team principal holds the critical role, guiding the team to victory both on and off the track. This “superboss” oversees everything from strategy to hiring to budgets, but perhaps the most important role is ensuring effective communication between experts who are all part of a precisely functioning machine of over a thousand “parts.” This complex, demanding position requires extensive knowledge and skill…
Ugh, my writing here is undeniably boring. It might as well be a ninth-grade essay. Lacking in clarity, full of facts and padding, but no damned soul.
So much for the alleged “Natalia Evans sense of fun” Nefeli lauded…
I clap the cover shut and set the laptop aside, snuggling into the sofa cushions with a sigh. I don’t know why I’m botheringwith this before the season has even started. Whether I type five words or five thousand before things kick off in Bahrain, I’ll be stuck with that maddening, haunted, gorgeous man formonths. Reminded, practically every time I look at him or catch his tempting scent, of how close we came to making it work…
Auntie Min comes into the den and sets a tray on the coffee table—cocoa and spritz cookies—before flopping onto the sofa with a soft groan. “It’s so good to have you here.” She combs her braid end. “Nothing feels quite as nice as… coming home, does it?”
Driving past the blue barn at the Marshall farm was as wonderful this week as it always is—that relief, the simple joy of homecoming. Part of me longs to stay, I have to admit. Everything is moving so fast now in my life. I’msupposedto love theARJjob, the travel, the prestige. And mostly I do. But… a slower pace—a quiet home office with a bird feeder outside the window, maybe working on one of the many book ideas I outline as they come to me—it sounds pretty damned good some days.
Minnie’s expression does a sudden U-turn, as if she’s afraid she’s said too much. She gives a soft laugh. “But enough of that corny claptrap. Let’s do our gifts.”
I jump up and beeline for the tree like I’m thirty-five going on seven, playing it up and shaking presents. “Hmm, this feels like… a sweater? Ooh! And this is rattly.”
