chapter one — poppy

“In five hundred feet, make a left.”

 I jump at the robotic voice that cuts through my music.

“As if anyone can gauge how far five hundred feet is that easily,” I mutter to myself.

Switching my turn signal on, I look over at my dog, Lola, who is still sound asleep in my passenger seat. She sleeps through this, sure, but the wind blows wrong outside and she barks for hours.

I keep my music turned down as I turn onto the familiar street before me. Familiar, yes, but not familiar enough that I trust my navigation skills in the dark after not being here for over three years.

A weathered sign reading Welcome to Hollyridge stands at the edge of the road, snow falling in the most picturesque way around it. I could quite literally take a picture of it right now and it would make the perfect postcard. There’s a light dusting of snow on every surface I can see, yet it hasn’t stopped anyone in this town from going out tonight.     

As I coast down Main Street, I take in the busy sidewalks full of people despite the frigid weather. On the outside, this place hasn’t changed at all since the last time I was here. The same mom and pop restaurants hold their spots, bustling with people, as well as the other miscellaneous shops along Main Street. Martin’s Coffee & Sweets, Hollyridge Gifts, and Spot & Dot Pet Company are a few I remember well. It’s refreshing to see, really, considering I live in a city so large I’m not sure a mom and pop shop could even stand a chance of surviving. Come to think of it, I don’t know of any that have.
Living in the city is nice, sure, but it’s nothing like Hollyridge. Hollyridge is full of character, charm, love and joy. Coming here for the holidays every year growing up was like a big, warm hug. An embrace from a friend you haven’t seen in awhile. But this year, despite the joy it brings me to see the town thriving, I don’t feel that same warmth I used to.
     Through the falling snow, I spot the small green sign in the distance—Evergreen Street. A knot forms in my stomach at the sight. Am I ready for this? Probably not. But there’s a part of me that knows I never will be, and that same part knows this is my last time here, ever, so I have to rip the band-aid off.
     As soon as I turn onto the quiet street, I’m met with an onslaught of Christmas light displays on nearly every house. One house even has a full nativity in the front yard, while another has a sign that tells you which radio station to tune into so that the lights synchronize with the music. And at the far end of the street, at the center of the cul-de-sac, is a single house, shrouded in darkness. A house I could find my way through no matter what even if you blindfolded me. A houses that contains the memories of my childhood, holidays spent with family, and the mother I lost. The only visible light on the entire house is the one flickering on the front porch, clearly about to go out for good. Seems fitting, honestly.
     “Home, sweet home, girl.” I whisper to Lola as I pull into the dark driveway and shift my car into park. “Home, sweet home.”


CHAPTER TWO — POPPY

A tiny wet nose nudges the arm thrown over my face. 

“Not yet,” I groan. “It’s so early.” I attempt to roll over and pull the covers over my head, but Lola has other plans, jumping right on my chest, anchoring the blankets beneath her weight.

What is it about small dogs that makes them feel so huge when they’re laying on you? Like seriously, she may as well be two hundred pounds right now. She let’s out a small, playful bark, and I crack my eyes open to look at her. Her tail wags curiously behind her as she stares at me.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get up.”

Her ears perk up at that and she bounces off me, perching at the end of the bed to make sure I’m really getting up before she bothers jumping down.

It’s nearly nine in the morning, and I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I slept in this late. Usually I’m up by five o’clock, one coffee down by six o’clock before I head to work shortly after. Maybe my friends were right, maybe this time away from the city and from working full time will be good for me.

But it feels weird, if I’m being real. It feels odd to have an entire day…or more like weeks ahead of me with only one task at hand—clean up and sell this house.

I yank open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream in through the windows. Yeah, it’s official. It’s super strange to wake up after the sun for once. I’m the kind of gal who usually gets up and gets my workout in before six in the morning. I think it keeps me sane, but sometimes I think maybe it’s just because the older I get, the more neurotic I grow.

I look around at the small room, the light purple paint on the walls so faded from how bright it once was. When I was seven, my grandma deemed this room mine. Whenever my mom and I would come, grandma would have a mini Christmas tree set up just for me in the corner of this room, one tiny present under it for me to open as soon as I got here. There’s no tree now, though, only boxes piled up onto what furniture remains in here.

My grandparents and my mom always did the most for me every holiday. As my mom’s only child, and the only grandchild, there’s no denying I was spoiled. They made my life so magical, did everything to make me feel special, and then one day I chose to let go of that. To focus on my career and try to be an adult. To let go of the magic.

I used to want all of those things for myself, too. A partner, a few kids to dote on. My own family to make memories with. But eventually that started to feel like a pipe dream, like I could either be successful or I could give up my career for a man and a family. Both didn’t seem feasible.

Sighing, I throw on the same sweatpants I was wearing last night and leave the room with every intention of heading downstairs to feed Lola and take her on a quick walk, but I find myself pausing at the bedroom door next to mine. Steeling myself, I gently push the door open.

My chest tightens at the sight of the large wooden bed against the far wall. The bed mom and I would snuggle in for movie nights, the bed she’d carry me to when I’d have nightmares, or that she’d bring me to when she caught me trying to sneak downstairs to catch Santa in the act. I smile to myself at the memory, but it doesn’t last long. Seeing her room like this, so empty, and void of anything her, makes my heart ache.

I turn, closing the door behind me. This can wait until another day. First, I need coffee and some fresh air. And maybe one of my favorite apple cider donuts from Martin’s around the corner.

I got here so late last night that I hardly had time to look around. To see what I needed to take care of over the next few weeks. But in the light of the morning, I’m overwhelmed by the number of boxes piled in the corners of each room, the furniture still strewn about.

I always knew the Evergreen house—as we have always called it—would eventually belong to me, I just didn’t think it would be so soon. When my mom passed away six months ago, the last thing on my mind was this place. I hadn’t been here for the holidays in years, so I’ve never had any intention of keeping it. That I’d deal with it when I was ready to deal with it. My connection to this house seems to have fizzled out long ago, but being here still feels oddly nostalgic.

When you’re an only child and you lose your parent—a single mom, at that—the weight of the loneliness feels crushing. There’s no handbook on how to handle death, how to move through life after. So I did what I always do, I buried myself in my work and did my best to stay busy and distracted. Sweeping my feelings under the rug to be dealt with another day. I could write a master class in that, truly.

Naturally, when I make it to the kitchen and pull the fridge open, it’s empty. Not sure why I even bother to check, knowing this place has been vacated for months. With one thing on my mind—coffee—I scoop some food into Lola’s bowl and grab her leash, slipping my shoes on as she eats.

She meets me at the front door, happily wagging her tail.

“Alright, time to brave the town, old girl.”

The smell of fresh coffee hits my nose as soon as we round the corner onto Main Street. Martin’s Coffee & Sweets is easily my favorite place here and always my first stop in the morning. Maybe buying a coffee every day is crazy, but I justify it because we gotta support small businesses, you know? And Martin’s is one of the oldest shops in town. Plus they make the best peppermint mocha latte. I can’t resist, I’m literally just a girl.

Since I have Lola, I walk up to the window carved out along one side of the store for walk up orders and pick ups. The line out here is non-existent, but through the window I can see they’re slammed inside.

“Hey there! Be with you in just a minute,” a young girl with a sharp, black bob chirps from inside before turning back to another customer.

“No worries,” I reply.

As I watch the hustle and bustle behind the counter inside, I smile. Even on a busy morning, everyone seems so cheerful and polite. It’s so different from the city, where everyone is in such a selfish rush that they barely spare a second to use any manners. My phone vibrates in my hoodie pocket, but when I go to pull it out, something from inside Martin’s draws my eye. There’s a man—a muscular man, might I add, who fills out his t-shirt and flannel rather nicely—standing at the counter. I assume he’s waiting for his order, but what caught my attention about him is that he’s staring at me. His eyes widen just slightly when our eyes meet, but I blush and look down at my phone, reading my most recent message from Betsy, my mom’s best friend.

Betsy: I’m on my way, sweetie!

Warmth blooms in my chest. Betsy is now the closest thing I have to a mother, and the person who knew my own mother better than anyone else. She lives on the other side of Hollyridge, she and my mom became friends when they were teenagers. She insisted on coming over today to see me, and since I’m Betsy’s honorary daughter, I couldn’t say no.

When I slip my phone back into my pocket and look back through the pick-up window, the man is still looking at me, one side of his lips quirked up, a fresh coffee in his hand. He’s looking at me like he knows me. Like we know each other. But I’ve never seen him before in my life.

I smile back, not really knowing what else to do, but that’s the exact moment the young barista pops into the window to take my order.

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am! What can I get you?”

Ma’am. Cringe. I’m only thirty.

“Just one peppermint mocha latte, please.”

Lola barks, as if to remind me of her presence, and of her demand.

“Oh, and one dog candy cane, please,” I add on, laughing at my bossy little sidekick.

She shouts out my order to her co-workers, then takes my payment. While she’s busy, I attempt to look around her, looking for the mysterious beautiful man, but I can’t see him anywhere. Probably for the best, I tell myself. I don’t need to get distracted by anything—or anyone—while I’m here.

The girl hands me my latte, my hands immediately welcoming the warmth from the cup.

“Have a great day! And make sure you stop by our tent at the holiday festival this weekend, we’ll be serving spiked hot cocoa!”

“Thanks! Have a good day.”

As nice as spiked hot cocoa sounds, I’m not sure I’m interested in attending a holiday festival alone. Especially after just being called ma’am. Am I a spinster? What’s happening here?

The festival is one of the best things about this town, though. So I’ll heavily consider it. Maybe I’ll grab a spiked hot cocoa and walk home. Now that’s sad. My mom and I used to go together every year. We’d spend hours there—trying all the festive treats, buying handmade ornaments and all sorts of other trinkets we totally didn’t need. Maybe I should go, for her. But I could also stay in and get some work done.

Sighing, I head back in the direction of the house. As much as this old spinster would like to stroll around with Lola all day, I have things to do.

As we walk back down Evergreen Street, we move at a leisurely pace. I take my time looking at all the cute decorations on each house that are much easier to see in the daylight, and Lola takes her time sniffing every single blade of grass we pass. Someone once told me that sniffing things is like doom scrolling for dogs, so ever since then I’ve just let her get her daily fix. I spot an elderly woman on the front porch of the house just a few down from Mom’s. I instantly recognize her as Mrs. Adams, an old friend of my grandma’s. From here I can see that she’s rummaging through a few large boxes labeled “Christmas.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Adams!” I give her a cheerful smile and wave from where I stand on the sidewalk.

“Poppy? Is that you?” Mrs. Adams straightens, turning towards me and trying to block the sunlight from her eyes.

“Yes! I came in late last night.”

“Oh, it’s just so good to see you, dear. You look wonderful,” Mrs. Adams says from the top of the stairs to her porch.

“Do you need help with those boxes?” I ask.

She waves a hand at me. “No, no. Hunter Whitlow is coming to set them up for me, but thank you.”

I smile and nod, because she drops that name like I should know who she is referring to, but I have zero idea who that is.

“Well, I’m meeting Betsy at the house so I’ve got to run, but let me know if you need anything while I am here, Mrs. Adams!” I call out, nudging Lola forward with a gentle tug of her leash.

“I will, dear, thank you. And call me Cheryl.” She gives me a stern look, but a smile cracks her face just seconds later. “Bye, now!”

Betsy arrives literally minutes after I get back in the house, giving me no time to decompress at all. Which is generally necessary with dealing with someone like Betsy, because while she means well, she can be a lot.

“Where’s my girl?” Betsy calls from the sunroom, the door to the garage slamming behind her. “I brought your favorite!”

“In the kitchen!” I answer.

Seconds later she crosses the threshold into the kitchen, a large pastry box from Martin’s in her hands.

“Your mom always hated when you made the drive at night, you know,” she scolds me before pulling me into a hug.

Betsy has always been family to me. She practically raised me with my mom, essentially being the dad I never had. She was at every sporting event of mine growing up, every play, every school dance, you name it and Betsy was there for me. My mom was only able to work as hard as she did and take care of me because she had a fierce village of women at her side, and loving and supportive parents.

“It’s so good to see you, too,” I say, breathing in her scent. Her curly, grey hair rubs against my face and I smile at the memory of her trying to teach me how to tame my own curls. My mom had straight hair, so when I came out with curly hair she had no idea what to do with me.

When she pulls back from me, she keeps her hands clamped on my shoulders, giving me the typical motherly once-over that she always gives me.

“You look good, kid. How you hanging in there?”

I give her a soft smile, careful to not let the stress I feel like I’m drowning under seep through. “Good. Yeah. Ready to get things moving.”

She opens the box from Martin’s, handing me an apple cider donut and grabbing one for herself. She pulls out a dog candy cane for Lola, who of course notices it right away, but I throw a hand up.

“No way! She just had one. Wrap it up.”

Betsy’s mouth falls open, eyes darting between me and my begging dog. “Sorry, Lola. Mom is mean.”

“I’ll give it to her later!” I protest.

Betsy leans against the kitchen counter, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of donut before saying, “So you’re still dead set on it? On selling this place?”

I pick at the sugar on the donut in my hand, avoiding eye contact with her. “Yeah.”

“You know I’d take care of it for you while you live in the city. Keep an eye on things,” she offers.

I let out a frustrated sigh, placing my donut back on top of the box. “I know, I know. You’ve told me before. And I appreciate that, but what do I need all of this house for, Bets? I’m so busy. Too busy to even make it out here enough.”

“You’re just like her, you know,” Betsy muses.

A moment of silence. Then I breathe, “I know.”

She continues as if I didn’t even speak. “Workaholic, hyper-independent, too busy for anything that doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Well—” I start.

“At least your mom had me to bring her back down to earth. But you’re surrounded by people like you. People who only care about the hustle. Who is there to bring you back down to earth?”

“I think I bring myself back down to earth just fine,” I argue.

“You won’t even date because you can’t be bothered making plans that may interfere with whatever future plans you’ve already made for yourself.”

I hold a finger up. “Not true. David and I were together for months.”

She levels me with a pointed stare. “By together do you mean only physically and after nine pm on weekends?”

My jaw drops open, but my lips fight the smile that wants to form.

“I’m just calling it like I see it!” Betsy exclaims, eyes lit with amusement.

“Ugh, I know, I know. You’re right.” There’s no use arguing with her. I haven’t had a single serious long term relationship in my life because I’ve been so focused on becoming independently successful. Which I don’t regret, by the way, I just wish I had a better work/life balance.

Betsy steps forward, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, all I’m saying is that you’ve got a little bit of time off right now, maybe use some of it to live a little. In the moment, I mean. And not on your phone or laptop.”

“I’ll do my best.” I force a smile, giving her two thumbs up and she laughs at me.

“Anyway, what’s the plan for today?” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, I’m going to box up whatever is left in the bedrooms, I think. Go through the closets, though they’re pretty cleared out from what I’ve seen. Tomorrow I’ll go into town and pick out some paint colors.”

“Oh good, the Whitlows are just the best, I don’t think you’ve met them, have you? They’re just the sweetest family and sheesh—” she stops speaking momentarily to dramatically fan herself. “That Hunter Whitlow…he is something.”

There’s that damn name again.

“I mean what is everyone’s obsession with this guy!? That’s the second time in the last thirty minutes that I’ve heard that his name.”

Betsy raises a brow at me. “Have you met him yet?”

“No,” I answer flatly.

She winks. “You’ll understand when you do.”