Rebel Without a Claus Read online

  Christian always wore a uniform. If this uniform, with its loafers and its slacks, seemed particularly unseasonal during this, the most wonderful time of the year, that’s because it was. Christian didn’t allow the seasons to define him. If he didn’t drink a peppermint mocha in June, he didn’t drink a peppermint mocha in December. If he wanted to eat two corn dogs by himself on a Friday night, he ate two corn dogs by himself on a Friday night, even if this Friday night coincided with New Year’s Eve.

  Most men, Christian had often noted, dressed as though they were still fifteen. When he saw them in their ratty band shirts and ill-fitting jeans, he felt sorry for them, for their lack of sartorial knowledge, but he also felt superior to them. Just like he felt superior now to Clara in her ugly reindeer sweater.

  ‘You know, I can help you with these anti-Christmas feelings,’ Clara said in a voice that was all matter-of-fact. ‘I am Mistletoe’s Christmas consigliere.’

  Christian wondered why anyone would need a Christmas consigliere. Couldn’t they pick out an ornament on their own? Couldn’t they deck the halls with boughs of holly without Clara holding their hand? Of course, Clara assured him, but also no. Because an ornament is never just an ornament, and Clara knew this, and Clara’s customers knew she knew this, and that’s why they paid the big bucks for her to work as their Christmas consigliere.

  Clara hadn’t just woken up one day and decided to become Mistletoe’s Christmas consigliere. Clara looked hard at the season and hard at herself and realized yes, I can help a newlywed navigate her father-in-law’s need to fill the fridge with beer when he came to visit. She realized sure, I can help a woman whose sister stole her festive color scheme fight back.

  Clara once thought that by living in Mistletoe, her Christmases would always be wonderful, that just by being magic-adjacent she’d have the perfect season. Then her mother fell ill and she realized nobody was going to drop the perfect Christmas into her lap. She’d have to roll up the sleeves of her reindeer sweater, and elbow grease the magic into existence herself. Her first Christmas after this realization started small—a stocking emblazoned with her mother’s name, a selection of sentinel ornaments she planned to reuse every year.

  Now, Clara didn’t tell people what to do. She told them to trust themselves, that out of this trust would arise the perfect location for that Christmas tree, or the perfect eggnog recipe. But there was more to being a Christmas consigliere than all this, than ornaments and tinsel and finding the perfect eggnog recipe, because there was more to life than this. Her job wasn’t about helping people buy things, really—it was about helping people live their truth.

  Clara tilted her face toward the Christmas tree near the entrance of the farm as if it were the sun. ‘If I were your Christmas consigliere, Thornton, I would tell you that you need a tree just like this one,’ Clara said finally.

  ‘Fine,’ Christian replied, ‘we’ll get this one.’

  ‘It’s not for sale, Thornton.’

  ‘Everything has a price.’

  Clara ignored Christian as she scooped the map, compass, and water bottles into her arms. She told Christian she knew for sure where to find the greatest Christmas tree, that no one had chopped this tree down yet because nobody dared venture too far onto the tree farm. In fact, Clara was so obsessed with finding this tree that twenty minutes later, she’d gotten them both lost. Christian sighed, and then he sighed for a second time, because Clara didn’t respond to the first time.

  ‘Still a double sigher,’ Clara said, raising an eyebrow. She could put so much emotion into a single eyebrow. It was an admirable skill.

  ‘Still incapable of reading a map,’ he retorted.

  ‘I know the cold is hard on your delicate constitution, Thornton, but this is important, so you’ll just have to deal.’

  ‘Been thinking a lot about my constitution, have you?’

  ‘What woman could resist?’

  ‘Can we just get this tree and go home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Christian said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘We’re lost.’

  He said this because they were lost, and because he knew it would annoy Clara.

  ‘We are not lost. You know, I was thinking that this year I want a Norway spruce,’ Clara said.

  Christian snorted. ‘No, you do not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  It became the sort of joke Christian shared with himself back in New York every time he stepped out with a girlfriend to buy a Christmas tree for her apartment. She’d coo over a Norway spruce, even though Christian knew Norway spruces dropped sharp needles, and sharp needles did not mix well with bare feet. Or she forgot to check a tree’s trunk for signs of a slight stickiness, and since this slight stickiness revealed the freshness of the tree, Christian would have to check when she looked away to study a Scotch pine.

  Maybe if his relationship with Clara had ended amicably, he would have told Kate that a White Pine is a good tree for people with allergies, because they have little to no fragrance. He would have told Riley that the blue of a Colorado Blue Spruce is dependent on the pH of the soil in which it is grown. But he didn’t, because his knowledge of Christmas trees belonged to him and Clara. It was a part of him he didn’t want to share with anyone but Clara. It was a part of his life with Clara that meant something important in ways he could neither articulate nor understand.

  ‘You’re going to pick a Fraser Fir,’ Christian said.

  ‘Am I just?’

  ‘Its needles are a beautiful silver green. They are also soft. The branches are well spaced, meaning it is easy to hang ornaments, while also being firm, which means you can hang heavier ornaments. The shape of the tree is lovely, not to mention its needle retention is second to none.’

  ‘Who could ever believe that you know about needle retention, New York?’

  ‘We have Christmas trees in New York, James.’

  ‘Not like these,’ Clara said, just as they rounded a corner to discover the world’s most perfect Christmas tree. ‘Here she is.’

  ‘A Fraser Fir,’ Christian said, pleased with his guess.

  ‘A Fraser Fir,’ Clara confirmed. For a moment they stared at each other, grinning. Then Clara moved to mark the tree with a red ribbon.

  ‘James, why are you wearing six hundred dollar heels in the snow?’ Christian said suddenly.

  ‘Because going barefoot would be silly.’

  ‘We need to get you a pair of boots.’

  ‘You are more than welcome to go shoe shopping for me, Prince Charming.’ Clara elbowed him in the ribs.

  ‘Sure, but only if you promise to run away at midnight so I don’t have to put up with you for a whole entire night.’ He elbowed her back playfully.

  ‘Done,’ Clara replied. ‘I’d rather hang out with a couple of rodents anyway.’

  They returned to Milleridge where Clara called Holly, and Christian made everyone hot chocolate.

  ‘Don’t forget the tinsel,’ Christian called out as Clara vanished into the cupboard to find the Relic’s Christmas ornaments for the new tree.

  Christian could not have cared less about the tinsel, but he knew Clara had very passionate tinsel-related feelings.

  ‘I love tinsel! Clara called out.

  ‘Who doesn’t!’ Christian said.

  They drank, and Holly arrived minus the Gs, which meant Christian could blast the records his niece and nephews hated. Mostly Elvis and a little Sinatra.

  ‘What do you play at home?’ he asked Holly.

  ‘The Wiggles have several Christmas albums.’

  Christian let Clara and Holly decorate the tree. Is Christmas too much? Christian found himself wondering this very thing. Is Christmas too much, and is this why Christmas comes with candy and songs and miracles, because otherwise it was just loneliness and money worries and dread?

  He found himself wondering about those in mourning, those whose relationships had recently, or not so rece
ntly, collapsed. He found himself wondering if they were okay, even though he knew they were not. When the holidays came, they no longer could deny that they were lonely or friendless. They had ads and movies and jingles they couldn’t stand and stores that closed inconveniently and cheap candy and enforced happiness. None of this was inescapable.

  Christian thought back on Christmases past, eating a cold apple pie in a cold house filled with empty rooms. He thought of the antiseptic smell of Hunter’s home and the warm golden lights of Milleridge Inn, which he could see twinkling from across the lake. He longed to love Christmas now, just as he loved Christmas when his parents were still alive. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe all unfulfilled longing eventually turns to hatred.

  ‘It’s late,’ Christian said, though he really didn’t want Clara to leave. They’d never spent time together like this as kids, Christian and Clara and Holly, because Holly was two years older and thought they were annoying.

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ Clara said.

  ‘I’m sorry about this stupid tradition,’ Christian said to Holly when Clara left. ‘You should inherit the inn.’

  ‘There must always be a Thornton at Milleridge,’ Holly said. ‘It’s like the Starks and Winterfell. And I’m no longer a Thornton. Besides, my husband would just sell the place. And to be honest, I never liked it. Remember you told me there was a ghost?’

  ‘There was a ghost.’

  ‘I’m too old to believe in your lies now, Christian.’ Holly nudged him. ‘So…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You and Clara seem to be getting along. Does the New York fiancée know?’

  ‘I haven’t told Magdalena anything. I expect she’s too busy romancing that coworker of hers.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can take such a practical attitude toward love, Christian. It’s love! The whole point of love is that it’s impractical.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about you breaking up with that fiancée of yours, because you two clearly are not in love. I’m talking about getting back together with Clara and running Milleridge together.’

  ‘I have no interest in Clara. Not like that.’

  ‘Of course, you do. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Christian. It’s all wide-eyed adoration.’

  ‘That is completely over. I’ve not thought about Clara in years, and if I’m being perfectly honest, she’s not even as pretty as I remembered.’

  ‘Oh,’ Holly said.

  Clara was standing in the doorway. She was clutching her coat, and her mouth was wide open. ‘Um—sorry,’ she muttered, pink faced. ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow or whatever. Bye.’

  ‘Oh, Christian,’ Holly said sympathetically.

  Christian could not acknowledge to himself that perhaps the best course of action was to find Clara and apologize. Instead, he sipped his warm cocoa and thought yes, it’s better if Clara hates me. It’s better to avoid any sort of attachment, because any sort of attachment would make the demolition of Milleridge and the construction of a luxury hotel in its place if not impossible, then certainly uncomfortable. So, yes, for the sake of comfort, he would not apologize. He would sip his hot chocolate. He would not think about Clara.

  Six

  Christian could not stop thinking about Clara.

  He didn’t like to upset anyone, and he didn’t want to die alone, but he didn’t want to change himself, his lifestyle, his dinner reservations, his sweater of sustainable Mongolian cashmere. If someone didn’t love him, that was their problem. Except—wasn’t he the one suffering? Wasn’t he the one who inhaled cartons of chicken chow mein while binging Netflix every night, alone, bored, curled up in his cold New York apartment? Didn’t he want more from life than the life he had chosen? How could he not?

  Clara knocked briskly on the door. ‘Dinner is ready.’

  ‘Er—hi.’ Christian felt awkward. He hadn’t seen Clara all day, and he didn’t know how much she had caught of his conversation with Holly the night before. ‘You know, I don’t think I’m all that hungry.’

  Her mouth lifted into a smirk.

  ‘Do you really hate Christmas, Thornton? Because if you hate Christmas so much, you don’t have to open your presents this year.’

  ‘Suddenly, I am overcome with seasonal joy.’ Maybe Clara hadn’t heard anything, he thought. Relief rippled through him.

  ‘Also, there’s pie,’ Clara added.

  ‘How much pie?’

  ‘All of the pie.’

  ‘Pie and presents, hey? We have known each other a long time, James. Do you really believe you can bribe me into falling in love with Christmas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  But when Christian reached for the green bean casserole at dinner, Clara pushed away his hand with a huff. ‘Sorry, Scrooges only get to eat a bowl of gruel. That’s the law here in Mistletoe.’

  She was annoyed about last night.

  ‘The laws here in Mistletoe are completely and utterly bananas,’ Christian replied, his heart pinching.

  ‘How very Scrooge-y of you to say, Thornton.’

  ‘James, why does your sweater have a velociraptor wearing a Santa hat on it?’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly going to be wearing a deerstalker, Thornton. It’s Christmas. Besides, he’s not Sherlock Holmes.’ Clara passed him the green bean casserole. ‘Hey, please tell me you picked up the marshmallows like I texted.’

  Christian exhaled heavily. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d read the text, but also he’d taken a nap right after sending a reply. ‘I picked up the marshmallows like you asked.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  Clara glared at Christian. ‘We can hardly serve our guests hot chocolate with marshmallows if we do not have any marshmallows.’

  ‘True, there’d be riots in the streets of Mistletoe.’

  ‘Am I just one big joke to you, Thornton?’

  Christian threw up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Of course not, James. You know, I heard this rumor that the Christmas Tree Farm Bed and Breakfast in Yuletide once served hot chocolate without marshmallows. The family who ran the Bed and Breakfast disappeared the very next day, never to be heard from again.’

  ‘Thornton—’

  ‘Personally, I believe the family members were being held in prison by the elves, but since Yuletide’s prison has bars made of candy cane, the family simply licked their way to delicious, peppermint-y freedom.’

  Clara slammed a fork on the table. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘Go and buy the marshmallows.’

  ‘I’m eating.’

  ‘Not anymore.’ Clara scooped up Christian’s plate and placed it on the floor in front of Boxer, who was thrilled.

  Christian stood with a huff. Fine, he’d get Clara her ridiculous marshmallows. He’d get her a million ridiculous marshmallows.

  On the walk to the store, Christian found himself remembering his botched proposal. Clara hadn’t been ready, and she had told Christian a gigantic no, right there in that sleigh. Since then, Christian didn’t go in for this whole sleigh deal. He couldn’t hear sleigh bells ringing without thinking of his heart shattering, which meant when his niece and nephews put on ‘Jingle Bells,’ Christian left the room. He would never forget his rejected marriage proposal, even though he tried.

  ‘I bought three packets of chocolate peanut butter cups,’ Clara had said as they settled into the sleigh.

  Christian said, ‘You know I can’t eat chocolate peanut butter cups.’

  ‘That’s why I bought them,’ Clara replied.

  ‘No one breaks my heart like you, baby.’

  ‘What did you get me for Christmas?’

  ‘Now, I’m fairly certain you’re on the naughty list this year, Miss Clara James.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain the reason I’m on the naughty list this year is because of you, Mr. Christian Thorn
ton III.’

  Christian laughed. ‘In that case, I best get you a really, really nice present.’

  ‘I’m glad you and I are on the same page,’ Clara said, but her expression turned to shock when Christian reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out a ring box.

  ‘I’d get down on one knee,’ he said, ‘only this sleigh is moving so dang fast.’

  ‘Christian—’

  ‘Now hold up. I know we’re young—’

  ‘We’re eighteen.’

  ‘I know. I know, and getting married at eighteen is crazy. I get that—which is why I want to wait until we’re nineteen.’ Clara didn’t smile. Christian cleared his throat. ‘Bad joke. Bad time for a bad joke. Clara, look at me.’

  Christian fought himself. He fought with himself to shove the ring back in his pocket and never speak of the proposal again—but stubbornly, he found himself cupping Clara’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, Christian. I love you, but—’

  ‘Do not say but, Clara. Whatever you do, don’t say—’

  ‘We’re eighteen.’

  ‘So what?’ Christian felt desperate now. ‘Next year we’re going to be nineteen, and the year after that we’re going to be twenty, and then soon enough we’re going to be dead. Someday, you and I are going to be dead. Look, I know we sometimes fight.’

  ‘We fight all the time!’

  ‘We rarely fight.’

  ‘We’re fighting now!’

  ‘See, we’re already married,’ Christian cried softly. ‘Practically. Hey, I don’t have to go off to college.’

  ‘You want to go to college, Christian.’

  ‘I want you,’ he replied. ‘I want you and I want to stay here in Mistletoe with you.’

  ‘You’d resent me.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’d resent you.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I would. I’d resent you for resenting me. I’m not saying I want to break up. That’s the last thing I’m saying. I’m saying we should wait. I’m saying you should go to college. After you’ve graduated, then we’ll talk about this stuff.’