Okay, she hadn’t even made it past the firstparagraph.
At least, not with anything that would please her editor. The words that easily flowed onto the page were fluffy and fun—words that made her smile. Not deep, profound prose worthy of a Pulitzer.
Why had she promised her editorA Christmas Carolfor the twenty-first century? Something deserving of theNew York TimesBest Sellers list that all the critics would adore. With all her overselling, she’d jinxed herself, making it impossible to string two words together let alone pen a masterpiece for the modern day.
Her windshield wipers swished, clearing the curtain of water just long enough for her to glimpse the moss-green farmhouse at the end of the gravel lane. The amber glow of a lamp in the front window welcomed her.
How long had it been since she’d visited Aunt Beverly?Too long. She’d forgotten how much she loved it here, away from the bright lights and frenetic energy of San Francisco. When she was younger, she couldn’t wait to venture to the big city, believing the poet Ezra Pound when he said “all great art is born of the metropolis.” But now, at twenty-six, she wondered if Henry David Thoreau had it right when he said “city life is millions of people being lonesome together.”
She loved her job as a media and marketing manager at Reclaim, but she often worked from home. Even with two roommates crammed into a tiny two-bedroom apartment, she spent most of her time alone. When was her last date?Oh, yeah.Almost three months ago. The guy had spent the entire meal extolling the impeccable pedigree of his teacup Maltese. She wasconvinced he would’ve rather brought his dog to dinner than her, if the Michelin-star restaurant had allowed pets.
Dismissing the unpleasant memory, she parked as close to the house as possible without blocking the front steps. Abandoning her suitcase in the trunk for later, she grabbed her overnight bag and sprinted from the car to the safety of the porch. Shivering on the stoop, she rang the doorbell and waited.
“My heavens, child. Come in, come in.” Her aunt wrapped an arm around her waist, ushering her inside like a mother hen shielding her baby chick beneath her wing.
As soon as Juliet crossed the threshold, the warmth of a blazing fire enveloped her, along with the enticing aroma of freshly baked gingerbread. A fragrant cedar garland decorated the rough-hewn mantel, dotted with flickering candles and a porcelain nativity set.
She’d been so busy stressing over her deadline, she hadn’t had the time or energy to decorate. And her roommates—a flight attendant and a nightclub DJ who both slept most of the day—considered one strand of twinkle lights and a disco ball satisfactory decor. She’d convinced herself she didn’t care, but now, taking in her aunt’s beautiful adornments, she realized how much she missed the festive touches. “Aunt Beverly, your home looks amazing.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. How was the drive?” Her aunt helped her out of her coat and hung it on the vintage hall stand.
“Uneventful.”Except for the poor hitchhiker I left stranded on the side of the road, she thought with another pang of guilt. “Is Frank home?” With his bad eyesight—and refusal to wear his glasses—it probably wasn’t wise to send him out in the storm alone. But she could drive and bring Frank along for backup.
“He’s in the kitchen. As soon as he saw your headlights coming down the drive, he went to make a fresh pot of coffee. Figured you could use some warming up.”
“How thoughtful.” Juliet smiled. Her uncle-in-law could be a little cranky—or downright ornery sometimes—but she’d quickly learned that he had a soft, gooey center beneath his crusty exterior.
“How’s your book coming along, dear?” Aunt Beverly led her into the sitting room, situating her in a plump armchair closest to the fire.
“Swimmingly,” she lied. How could she tell her aunt the truth? In her family, the ink in their veins ran thicker than blood. Her father was a well-respected poet, and her mother was a prestigious English lit professor on a teaching fellowship at Oxford. Aunt Beverly was a head librarian. And even Frank, the newest member of the family, had written two best-selling nonfiction titles—The Mariposa Methodand the sequel,The Mariposa Method: Expanded.
How could she admit that she was about to blow her first big break? The big break her mother secured by calling in every favor from every single contact she had. She couldn’t let everyone down. She’d simply have to find a way to write the hit novel she’d promised.
“I can’t thank you and Frank enough for letting me stay with you during the holidays. A quiet writing retreat away from the noise and distraction of the city is exactly what I need to finish the last few pages.” If bythe last few, she meant all ten chapters.
“We’re delighted to have you. But there is one minor change I need to tell you about.”
“Oh?”
“Before Frank knew you were coming, he agreed to host a young man from Forgotten Heroes, the veterans’ homeless shelter that Frank’s supported for years.”
“Oh,” Juliet repeated, her heart sinking. She adored Frank’s altruism, but the timing couldn’t be worse.Stop being so selfish,Juliet. It’ll be fine.“That’s so kind of you both. And definitely not a problem. I’ll mostly keep to myself, anyway.”
“I knew you wouldn’t mind. And you can have the guest room. I’ve made up a bed for Private Henderson in Frank’s study.”
Private Henderson... I wonder what he’s like?
Most of the homeless men she encountered were a little rough around the edges. Some had serious issues with substance abuse or mental illness. Others had experienced a series of unfortunate events outside their control.
What was this soldier’s story? And how would she ensure he wasn’t a distraction from her writing?
“Actually, Aunt Beverly,” she said as an idea struck her, “would you mind if I stay in the study instead?”
“Not at all, dear. But what makes you ask? The spare room is much more comfortable.”
“I like the ambiance of the study. I think being surrounded by Frank’s old books and his antique typewriter will lend some writerly inspiration.”
Beverly smiled. “You writers and your quirky superstitions. Whatever helps.”
