Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella Read Online Free

came to call. And if my dad leaving was like losing our floor, Mom razed the house to shambles.
    “What’s it like living in the city?” I ask.
    “Has its pros. Anonymity, for one. But I think there’s something to be said for the ‘tribe’ mentality. The slower pace. Walking into a restaurant and the waitress not only knowing your name but what you’re going to order. The peace and quiet.”
    “Have you been here before?” I ask, thoughts immediately flying to Carol over at The Grille—with its blue and white checked tablecloths and paneled walls—who always puts in a plate of cheese fries whenever my best friend and I drop in for a weekend lunch.
    “A few times, but always during the summer. Usually around Fourth of July. And only for a day or so. This is my first Christmas here, at any rate. My grandparents are getting older, so my aunts are starting to alternate years, taking the hosting responsibilities off of them.”
    We arrive at a portion of the neighborhood that’s unusually crowded, road lined on either side with luxury cars. Just in front of us an old, white Victorian stands proudly. Every window glowing yellow, spotlights from the yard showcasing what seems like miles of greenery wrapped from one porch railing to another. Burgundy bows punctuating every center post. The front door is wide open, the storm door clouding a bit at the bottom.
    “Is this you?” I ask.
    He groans, gazes at the house looming before us. “Let me take this opportunity to thank you.” Any confidence exuded at the store—minus the “asking me to dinner” part of the evening—is gone, replaced by a new, more subdued, almost melancholy Jonathan.
    “You don’t wear pessimism well,” I point out, stepping out of the street and onto the stone walkway.
    “Tell me about it.”
    We climb the steps to the wrap-around porch together, and Jonathan opens the door for me. I am first to step inside the warm house.
    “Are we expecting anyone else?” A woman hurries into the foyer, apron tied in a knot at her waist. Blonde hair graying at the ears and hairline, like she’s due for a coloring.
    “Aunt Stacey, this is . . .”
    “Olivia! It is so good to see you!” She interrupts Jonathan, pulls me in for a tight hug.
    This is also a distinctly small-town Southern woman thing—hugging—something that arrives mid-life, deepening as the years pass—this want, this need to love as much as possible—everyone morphing into “Sugar” and “Honey.”
    “Hi, Mrs. Andrews. It’s good to see you, too. Jonathan invited me to tag along. I hope that’s okay.”
    “Absolutely! We are thrilled to have you. Here, let me take your coat.” She helps me out of my black peacoat and takes Jonathan’s leather jacket, hangs them both in the closet just off the side of the foyer—a closet already crammed full of coats from those who arrived before us.
    “And we have presents,” Jonathan adds, handing her the wrapped packages.
    “Thank you so much. I’ll put them under the tree. Drinks are in the kitchen. Bathroom is on the right at the end of the foyer. If you need anything, just holler, okay?”
    Jonathan watches me carefully as she departs, confused or enlightened—it’s hard to tell.
    My shoulders lift, shrugging. “Small town,” I remind him.
    “It just dawned on me that you probably know my aunt better than I do,” he says.
    “You really think I’d go to some random guy’s house for Christmas Eve dinner?”
    “Weirder things have happened.”
    “In movies, maybe. Horror movies,” I add.
    He laughs. “I’m beginning to think I’ve underestimated you.”
    “Kitchen is this way,” I say, passing him a knowing smile. He follows me into the room, which has been renovated since the last time I was here. The lighting is new. The floors a dark hardwood. Cabinets covered in a fresh coat of light gray paint. The counters might also be new, but right now they’re covered in pots and bowls and plates of food—a spread