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I cringed a bit. I was pretty sure I didn't need the addition of a grumpy gun-toting grandmother to my list of problems.
Before Helen could answer, Lottie leaned in, "She's Juliet Manchester's grandmother. Did you know Juliet was from this area?"
"No," I said, surprise coloring my voice. I didn't know that. "Wow." I was definitely a fan of Juliet's.
"And did you know Ryan McDonnell bought a house here? He's marrying Helen's other granddaughter, Tess." Lottie nodded proudly now that she'd listed the celebrity-related attributes of her hometown.
"And now you've got Callan Whitewood to add to the list," I said before I could stop myself. “His home is supposed to be on the show too.” Why did I constantly find myself making excuses to talk about him? Plus, I realized too late, Callan seemed to prize his privacy. But Annabelle had already known he was in town. He couldn’t hide from his neighbors for long, right?
"Whitewood?" Helen asked loudly. "The Sharks player? The underwear model with the broken leg?"
I didn't think that was the way Callan would really want to be described, but it was clear the old woman knew who I was talking about. I was about to tell her she was right, but she went on.
"That fella was my only reason for watching soccer for a while. No one wore a pair of white shorts quite the way he managed them. I liked to watch him warm up, if you know what I mean, stretching that fabric this way and that over that tight round—"
"Behave!" Lottie barked, putting a hand toward Helen in the way you might quiet a dog. Lottie wiped her hands on her pants, taking a deep breath and focusing on April again. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Whitewood is every bit as excited about having his home featured on your show as I am."
If only that were true. "Right." I pulled the folder from my bag. "Is there somewhere we can go over the contract and the schedule for tomorrow?" I angled my head toward the front door, hoping maybe the rest of the conversation might go forward without the benefit of Helen's none-too-helpful insights. Now I found myself thinking about what Callan would look like stretching in a pair of white shorts, and some very unwanted tingling sensations were breaking out in parts of my body that should definitely not be involved with work. These tingly parts were the ones that had cost me the last job, and I couldn't lose this one.
"Shall I show you the rest of the house, first? So you can be sure we're appropriately festive?"
I glanced through the front window, which was frosted with spray snow, to the living room inside. Every surface had something Christmassy atop it, and through the pungent pine garland scent, I was catching wafts of cinnamon and vanilla. "I'm sure it's all great," I said, hoping to avoid being immersed in holiday hell.
"You have to see the gingerbread village Paige helped me make," Lottie said, pulling open the front door for me. "That's my daughter," she went on as we followed a hallway toward another room where a decorated tree stood in the corner and a large table held a very realistic gingerbread village. A small round pom pom sat next to the gingerbread village looking soft and plush and somewhat out of place. And then it moved. I let out a little squeal of surprise as the pom pom turned to cast a guilty glance at us.
I realized this was a chinchilla. It was eating part of one of the gingerbread buildings, but Lottie swatted at it and it scurried away, leaping from the table and underneath the couch.
"She's a doctor," Lottie said.
"That…? The… Um, the chinchilla is a doctor?"
Lottie burst out laughing at that. "What? A doctor? No, dear, don't be ridiculous. That chinchilla is simply an adorable nuisance. That one is Apollo. My daughter is a doctor," she clarified.
"Wow," I said, turning back to the gingerbread. "Is this…?" I bent over the little model, with its big tree in a central square and buildings all around. One looked very much like the inn. "Is this Singletree?"
Lottie clapped her hands in delight. "It is!"
Despite the turning of my stomach at the thick smell of Christmas all around me, I managed a smile. "It's amazing, Lottie. Really very nice." I turned back toward the front door, deciding that sitting with Helen was preferable to lingering in the thick holiday miasma that filled the Tanner house, not to mention the chance of chinchilla bite. Did chinchillas bite? I wasn’t willing to risk it.
The scents were inspiring memories that flung themselves through my mind one after another, all of them posing as cheery and bright until the final closing of the front door of my childhood home flashed back to me, dropping a stone in the center of my chest. I swallowed hard.
"Are you all right, April?" Lottie's hand found my arm, and I was being guided back to the porch. "You look white as a snowman," she commented, settling me next to Helen.
"It's white as a ghost, dammit," Helen muttered. "Why does everyone in this town insist on over-Christmasing every little thing? Did you see the town sign? Someone graffitied it and crossed out 'Single' so now the place is called 'Christmas tree,' for fuck's sake."
I realized maybe I had a holiday-hating ally in the abrasive old woman at my side. "Too much," I managed to say, despite feeling particularly unwell all of a sudden.
Lottie had gone in to get some water and bustled back out now, shushing her friend and putting a plate of gingerbread men and a glass of water in front of me before sitting down.
"Even if you don't like Christmas, though," Helen said, snatching a cookie from the plate, "You'll like these. Lotts is the best baker in town."
"Thanks, Helen." The women exchanged a fond look, and I felt even more unwell. Something about the close bond these women clearly shared—had probably shared for years—made me feel lonely. I knew I wasn't doing very well at my job, but now I realized maybe I’d been doing a pretty piss poor job at life in general. What did I have to show for myself?
I took a cookie and bit into it, chewing and washing down the soft ginger-flavored cookie with water.
"And?" Lottie was watching me.
"These are amazing," I said honestly, feeling a bit of life coming back to me. If all else failed, maybe I could just live on my mother's couch and eat cookies. These just about made up for everything else. "You made these?" I asked, looking at Lottie with renewed admiration.
