The Château sits on five acres of land, surrounded by trees and water. It's my own little slice of heaven here in Mistletoe, Montana. My home away from home after years of living with my parents. Not that they minded. Hell, if my father had it his way, I'd live with them forever.
The wind picks up, and the tip of my nose begins to go numb from the cold, so I head back inside. Removing my coat, I toss it and the blanket on the back of a kitchen chair. Cleaning up, I empty the dirty water from the bucket into the sink, wash my hands, then pull the ingredients I need for my mom's famous chili from the fridge and pantry. The sound of a truck horn honking from outside lets me know my dad is here with my new truck battery.
While finishing with the task at hand, I hear the front door open and my dad stomping the snow off of his boots before hearing the door slam shut. "Is that your momma's chili I smell?" my dad says as he strolls into the kitchen. "Morning, baby girl." He comes up beside me and kisses the side of my head—I breathe in his scent. My dad always smells like Brut cologne and black coffee.
"Since mom has been so busy preparing food at the soup kitchen this week, I thought I would have her some dinner already made by the time she got home today."
"Your momma will appreciate the help," Dad says.
"I thought mom was coming with you." I chop more onions.
"She wanted to do a little Christmas shopping at Mistletoe marketplace. You know she likes supporting local businesses. That, and she's had her eye on some new snow globes Tracie had on display the other day." Dad helps himself to the coffee.
There's a pause of silence as I mill about the kitchen. "Thanks for driving out here, Dad." I taste the chili and then add a little extra dash of salt and pepper before placing the lid on top of the stew pot and turning the burner down to simmer.
"Just taking care of my baby girl," Dad says, and I smile. "Now, where are the keys?" he asks.
"Hanging on the hook over there above the potato bin," I tell him.
Ten minutes later, I've bundled up again and walking out the front door. My dad is under the hood of my old red 67 Chevy. I love the old truck. My grandad gave it to me before he passed away two Christmases ago.
I wrap my arms around myself as the winds gust. "Drop the truck off by your brother's shop tomorrow on your way to work and have him change the oil and put a new carburetor filter on," Dad says as he tightens the cable wire bolt. Wiping his hand on a bandana, he steps back and closes the hood. "Oh," Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a white business card. "I've heard about this new construction company in town and that they specialize in restoration projects." He hands me the card, and I pluck it from his gloved fingers. "Give them a call, but make sure you get an estimate beforehand. I don't want to have to bust some heads if someone tries to take advantage of my baby girl."
"Daddy. I'm smarter than that." I stare down at the card and run my thumb across the raised lettering, smiling because the colors are gold and green—Christmassy.
T & N Restoration.
"I know you are," he says as I walk with my dad to his truck. He turns to face me. "I'm proud of you, Winter." My dad pulls me in for a hug.
"Thank you, Daddy. I'm pretty proud of myself too."
"As you should be." He pulls back. "Give that number a call. Also, I told Greg you were having trouble with the furnace. He'll be by first thing tomorrow morning to check it out."
"Thanks again, Daddy." I slip the business card into my coat pocket. "I love you." I kiss his cheek before he climbs behind the steering wheel of his truck.
"I love you too, kid." He closes the truck door, and I watch him pull away before retreating inside.
While dinner cooks on the stovetop, I decide to go upstairs for a long soak in the tub. As the claw tub fills with warm water, I remove my clothes and let loose the braid in my hair, only to pile it in a messy bun at the top of my head. Lighting a lavender candle, I sit it on a small table nearby beside my cell phone before slowly sinking into the water beneath the bubbles. "Thank God the water heater still works," I say out loud. Closing my eyes, I soak in the warmth from the water and relax.
I hear the bell on Mr. Jingles' collar as he enters the bathroom. I open my eyes to see him perched on top of the toilet lid, staring at me. He meows. "We survived our first week alone in a brand-new home. What do you think about that, Mr. Jingles?" He blinks before lifting his back leg and licks where his balls once were. "That bad?" I humph. "You're just mad that you've been forced to diet since you no longer have an endless supply of kitty treats and catnip at your disposal," I tell Mr. Jingles, who's the most spoiled fattest cat in town because of my mom and dad. My parents' excuse for spoiling him? Because they have no grandbabies to spoil yet. Honestly, I'm surprised my brother Nick hasn't fulfilled their dreams of grandparent status with the way he spreads his Christmas cheer around town. He's the smooth-talking, tattooed, Harley-riding mechanic of Mistletoe and all the ladies in town trip over their feet for him.
I look around the bathroom, taking in the shellac, and exposed pipes in the walls where pieces are missing. A shriek leaves my mouth the moment two beady eyes look at me from the hole in the wall. "Jesus." I flick the bathwater and suds across the room, trying to shoo it away. Another thing that came with the property—a mice problem. Just another thing to check off my list of people to call. I glance at Mr. Jingles, who hasn't budged. "A whole lot of good you are. Aren't mice supposed to be your natural enemy?" Mr. Jingle yawns, jumps to the floor, and stretches out on the shaggy bathroom rug, utterly uninterested in anything I have to say.
Hours later, the sun is setting, and I'm heading to work after dropping off a pot of chili at my parents' home on the other side of Mistletoe. I turn my truck down Main Street.
Everything is illuminated in a warm glow as I drive beneath the canopy of twinkling lights. There is pine garland wrapped around every light pole. Red, green, and gold decorations adorn storefront windows, all of which have different Christmas themes that tell a story of Christmases past.
Christmas is Mistletoe—Mistletoe is Christmas. I don't know any other way to put it. Our quaint little town looks like a Hallmark movie 365 days a year. We're a tourist town, attracting thousands of visitors every year, especially during December. I've lived here my entire life. So have my parents and my grandparents before them.
At the end of the street, I park my truck in front of Whiskey Holiday. Our family-owned tavern. I haven't changed one thing about the building since my grandad passed. Built to look like an old log cabin, it gives the bar its signature charm of an old country Christmas. Climbing out of my truck, I toss my bag over my shoulder. The warmth from the massive fireplace hugs my body as I step through the front door. It's, without a doubt, my favorite feature here. The amber light from the fire casts dancing shadows on the walls as the flames flicker. The air smells of cinnamon and cinder. The exposed beams above my head add to the rustic décor. Beside the fireplace sits a massive Douglas fir, decorated with old-world glass ornaments and bubble lights.
"Hey," Brinkley greets me.