A Very Maui Christmas

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: Anthologies; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Tara Lane has the perfect plan to avoid another hellish family holiday--fly to Maui. Too bad her family decided to follow suit. But a laid-back handyman is about to prove you don't need snow to have a sparkling, sexy Christmas. . . 

Originally published within HOLIDAY MAGIC anthology.

Release date: October 27, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 106

Sample

Good things come in small packages, but so does anthrax. This occurred to Tara Lane during her weekly phone call with her little sister, Nadine. At five-foot-three inches, Nadine was certainly a little package. And, she was using her sweet voice with Tara, at least on the surface. But Tara knew better. Nadine’s message was laced with a poison they had all learned to dread, one Tara had catalogued as “Unresolved Issues.” Alone, it was harmful, but not deadly. However, combine “Unresolved Issues” with “The Holiday Season,” and suddenly, you were dealing with a combustible situation, possibly a lethal one. Or, maybe, just maybe, Tara was being a tad too melodramatic. After all, Nadine was simply upset with Tara for cursing during last year’s Christmas dinner, and she didn’t want her to do it again.

So why didn’t she just come out and say that? Because then she would miss out on an opportunity to play professor. Thus, Nadine’s current lecture: “Substitute-Swear Words for when Children are in the Room 101, the Holiday Edition.” Tara wished she could sit in the back of the room and slink into obscurity. Unfortunately, she seemed to be the only one taking the class.

“Like you could say—‘Get the elf out,’” Nadine prompted.

Nadine had a point, and even before the lecture had begun, Tara had sworn to herself that she was going to be on her best behavior this year, no matter how crazy her family drove her. But between work and the impending holidays, Tara was stressed to the max (like she used to say in high school; geez, wasn’t there a time when everything was, like, to the max?) and if she could squeeze a tiny drop of pleasure out of riling Nadine up, she figured it was worth the price she would eventually have to pay. After all, Tara had to put up with Nadine’s shenanigans every year, and she did it with grace if she did say so herself.

“Get the elf out,” Tara repeated. She said it slowly and clearly, like a foreigner in a survival English course.

“Exactly,” Nadine said with a sigh of relief. “Or ‘elf off’ or—‘elf you,’ or you know—whatever variation shoots out of your mouth.” Nadine sighed again; this time Tara registered slight disgust in her sister’s gentle voice. “Of course,” Nadine continued, “you could give me the biggest Christmas gift ever, and not say it at all, not in any form. But I suppose that’s asking too much.”

“Get the elf out,” Tara said with a little more gusto.

“Perfect.”

“Elf you.”

“You got it.”

“Elf you and the reindeer you rode in on.”

“Too far.”

“Should I ‘rein’ it in, ‘deer’?”

“Tara.”

“Okay, okay—but seriously—I have a question.” Nadine’s silence was Tara’s cue to go on. “Get him out of what?” Tara said, throwing her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Excuse me?”

“What are we getting the elf out of? Is the little guy stuck somewhere? Don’t tell me it’s the chimney.”

“Tara,” Nadine said, dragging her name out into infinity. Uh-oh, Tara knew that tone all too well. Definitely time to stop elf-ing with her. And, yes, Tara knew she had nobody to blame but herself. As she knew, it was just last year, while visiting Nadine, that Tara had dropped the F-bomb on Christmas Eve. Her niece, Tiara, named after Tara—only with an extra i because she was slightly more precious—glommed onto the colorful new word and not only repeated it, but began singing it with gusto, to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” She was only a year old at the time. Tara thought this proved her niece was some kind of genius, but Nadine couldn’t get over her humiliation enough to see it that way. Especially when Tiara said it to the Santa at the mall.

Santa: “Have you been a good girl, Tiara?”

Tiara: “F*&k you.”

Once again Tara tried to point out how impressive it was that Tiara was using it correctly. Once again, Nadine did not see it that way.

And she was never going to let her forget it. But does she mention the fight that preceded the foul word’s shooting out of Tara’s mouth? Does she say one word about calling Tara “almost middle-aged” in front of the entire family? Almost middle-aged, single, childish, and childless, were Nadine’s exact words. It was impossible to argue with single and childless; they were just facts. Childish—yes, sometimes Tara did act a bit childish. She preferred to think of herself as carefree. But “almost middle-aged” stung Tara to the core. And slightly terrified her. Which was exactly what Nadine was trying to accomplish. Her twenty-six-year-old, married-mother-of-one sister was trying to terrify her into getting married and having children. Tara was thirty years old. Almost middle-aged. Tara was totally confused about what middle age was even considered nowadays, what with vitamins, and medical breakthroughs, and anti-wrinkle creams, and lasers, and scrubs, and injections, and dermabrasion, and MILFs and Cougars, and Desperate Housewives. Still, the prospect was terrifying.

Nadine’s suggested remedy, marriage and children, was no less daunting.

Time and time again, Tara had explained to Nadine how difficult it was to date in New York City. Nadine would point out that she could move. Then Tara would tell her how much she loved her job. Nadine would ask her if her job tucked her in at night or sang to her, or made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world.

And then Tara would tell her to elf off.

It was a pattern they were stuck in, a never-ending loop. And not only was Nadine doing it again this year, she’d ramped up her game. She was on the pulpit yet again, this time preaching, of all things, Internet dating. Nadine, who was a virgin when she married her high school sweetheart at eighteen. And even that, Tara always suspected, was just because Nadine had let her then boyfriend (now husband) Phil honk her boobs at the Sadie Hawkins dance.

While Nadine prattled on, Tara glanced at her bookshelf and calmed herself by staring Zen-like at her favorite book of all time, Great Expectations. She absolutely loved it, and used it to motivate herself whenever she was down. If little orphan Pip could claw his way out of despair, then so could she. It was fitting then, that this latest challenge was rearing its ugly sibling head during the holiday season. After all, her favorite book opened on Christmas Eve. And just because her little story opened in her studio apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and her favorite little orphan’s tale began in a village churchyard, didn’t take away her feelings of kinship; Pip was still her rock. Even if he was only seven—way under middle age—in fact, it just proved how connected they all were. Struggle, pain, and hope, were universal, timeless, and bonding.

True, Tara was speaking to her sister, and not an escaped convict (although a case could be made), nor was her sister trying to cajole her into cutting off her shackles (although a case could be made), but being the subject of another matchmaking plot was just as hideous. Tara cradled the phone between her shoulder and neck, tapped her fingertips together, and pondered how to deal with this latest upset. What would Pip do? she asked herself.

Squeak, was the only answer that came to mind.

It was beginning to dawn on Tara that expectations came with expiration dates. Now that she was thirty, when it came to her love life, certain people had expectations of their own. Namely, that she would start lowering hers. “You’re too picky” was a refrain she’d been hearing a lot lately.

“Did you get my Christmas gift?” Tara heard Nadine ask. This was the subject she’d been dreading; she’d rather listen to the lecture again than venture onto this land mine.

“Yes,” Tara said. She didn’t want to upset her sister anymore, so she forced herself to use an upbeat tone and wandered into the kitchen. There, she took her frustrations out on the poor, fat tomato sitting on the cutting board. She stabbed at it with gusto and watched slimy red juice ooze out of its fleshy, lonely heart.

“And?” Nadine said.

“Not interested,” Tara said. So much for not upsetting Nadine. The words escaped from her mouth before she could sound her internal alarm. She dumped the sliced-up tomato into a bowl and rinsed off the cutting board. Silence. Nadine was probably counting to ten.

“So you’re not even going to look?” Nadine said. “Because you have more or less three weeks. And if you just happen to find someone you like—as long as you get a thorough background check—he is more than welcome to spend Christmas here with us.”

Oh. My. God. Tara sucked in a mouthful of air and tried to hold it. She failed, and choked. Not only did Nadine expect her to go on a first date, she was assuming Tara would like the candidate enough to go on a second date. In Tara’s experience this was like trying to catch not one, but two shooting stars in the sky. Furthermore, on the off chance Tara should happen to catch two shooting stars in the sky, Nadine’s brilliant plan was for Tara to immediately invite her new two-date man to spend Christmas with her and her family in Montana. Priceless. It confirmed once and for all what Tara had always suspected. Nadine was certifiably insane.

“What a marvelous idea,” Tara said. Nadine started rattling off the list of things she had to do to get ready for the holidays. As she listened, Tara glanced at her one Christmas decoration, a miniature live pine tree on the windowsill. It was too frail to hold any ornaments, but came with a base wrapped in gold foil and topped with a fat red bow. Tara suddenly saw herself arriving at her sister’s house with the tree and pretending it was her date. She could even dress it in a tuxedo. “This is Bob,” she would say. “We’re in love.” She stifled a laugh as she imagined Christmas tree Bob sitting in one of Nadine’s mass. . .