“I’m not sure there’s enough gift wrap left in Mistletoe to cover all these toys,” I said, setting another heaping bag of donations onto a precarious pile in my office. The amount of toys collected already outnumbered our town’s population, and folks were apparently attempting to double that. “On second thought,” I said, stepping cautiously away, “there might not be enough wrapping paper in the entire state of Maine.” With only eleven days until Christmas, I wasn’t sure I could get them all wrapped, even with enough supplies.
Cookie, my dearest and literally oldest friend, lifted two more bags of teddy bears. “Where do you want these?”
“I’m keeping plushies and soft things over there.” I pointed to a stack of animal-shaped pillows and stuffed creatures of every kind.
She hurried to the growing mound beneath my bay window, her keen blue eyes going bright with excitement. “There are going to be a whole lot of happy children on Christmas morning!” Cookie balanced the bags carefully, then spun back to me with a grin. “Now, before the doorbell rings again, I have something I want to give you. Don’t go anywhere.”
She darted away, and I waited. She’d volunteered to answer the door each time someone arrived with another delivery, and the job had kept her busy. Cookie never divulged her age, but it was somewhere between sixty-five and eighty, as best I could tell. My guess varied severely, depending on the story she was telling. Regardless, she was as spry as anyone half her age and had at least twice as much sass. I often had trouble keeping up with her, and I was only twenty-eight. Cookie had lived a full and adventurous life, making her by far the most interesting person I knew, and her heart was good to the core. I couldn’t imagine life without her. Though she was, admittedly, delightfully odd at times, and I was a smidge concerned by her announcement of a surprise.
Cookie could easily return with a plate of warm cookies or a reindeer in a Santa suit—it was really anyone’s guess.
I fidgeted as I waited, staring through open French doors into the foyer. The inn had been built only a year ago but was modeled after the sprawling Victorian homes of the past, and dressed eternally for Christmas. Red carpet runners spanned the hardwood floors, holly or pine greens rested on every table, windowsill, and stand. Images of Santa, elves, and snow-covered villages were on display in every work of art. A decked-out tree stood tall in every room. And scents of cranberries, vanilla, and cinnamon hung perpetually in the air.
The inn was my parents’ newest addition to Reindeer Games, our family-owned Christmas Tree Farm in Mistletoe, Maine. The farm was a town attraction people flocked from all around the country to see, especially this time of year. Visitors could do so much more than pick their perfect tree. They could grab something warm at the café, shop at the craft store, enjoy a horse-drawn sleigh ride, or even participate in holiday-themed events, our own unique set of Reindeer Games, during the twelve days leading up to Christmas.
My new office was situated to the right, just inside the front door. A parlor sat opposite me, adorned in shades of rose and cream, with a fire crackling in the hearth. A sweeping staircase rose from the back of the foyer, carrying visitors to six well-appointed guest rooms upstairs. The first floor had a number of areas available for relaxing and entertaining, including a formal dining room, a massive eat-in kitchen with breakfast nook and walk-in pantry, a laundry room, a mud room, a gathering space, and a library. My personal suite was also on the ground floor, just beyond the kitchen, and equipped with a master bedroom and bath, plus a sitting area with a couch, television, and Christmas tree.
The bag of teddy bears shifted on its perch and I dashed to the rescue, narrowly avoiding it turning into an avalanche. My new role as innkeeper required me to wear many hats, and gift wrapping a million toys wasn’t technically one of them, which was why I’d convinced my friends to join me for a wrapping party after dinner. “This outpouring is bananas,” I marveled. “Incredibly generous, but definitely nuts.”
“Did someone say nuts?” Cookie asked, pulling my attention back to her. “Merry Christmas, Holly.” She held out a rectangular box wrapped in cheery red paper and topped with a pristine white bow.
I set the bag of bears on the floor and accepted her gift. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
“You haven’t seen what it is yet,” she argued. “Maybe I should have.”
I laughed. “True.” I pumped it up and down a few times, listening for sounds inside. “It’s heavy.”
“Yep.” Cookie rocked back on her orthopedic boots, practically vibrating with urgency. “You’re going to love it. Open it!”
A flutter of voices rose above the soft holiday music in the foyer, and the grandfather clock began to chime. Inn guests were making their way down from their rooms, rested after a late afternoon break and ready for another delectable meal.
“Dinnertime.” I nodded to the bustling mini-crowd, and Cookie huffed, clearly put out by the interruption.
Twice a day inn guests made their way to the Hearth, Reindeer Games’ adorable, candy-themed café and hot chocolate shop. They were on their own for lunches, but I kept a buffet of snacks on hand in the kitchen in case someone preferred not to go out. But no one ever stayed behind when the Hearth was an option. My mom was the cook, chef, and baker, and anything forged in her kitchen was not to be missed.
Couples donned coats, hats, and gloves for the trek across the snowy property, chatting merrily in anticipation.
My dad did his best to manage the snow on our roads and walkways, but during December in Maine, there weren’t always enough shovels for the job.
“Open it!” Cookie demanded, small hands wringing. “If you love nuts, you’re going to love this.”
“Sorry.” I tugged the satin bow and slid a finger beneath the transparent tape on top. “I don’t have your gift yet,” I told her. “I haven’t had time to shop.”
“Open it,” she repeated, giddy and refusing to be distracted. Cookie’s trademark enthusiasm was contagious and part of her charm. It was one of the many reasons I’d been so drawn to her as a child and why I adored her so completely today.
I peeled the paper off a green cardboard box embossed with an unfamiliar logo. I set the box on my desk and lifted the lid.
Inside, a metal nutcracker stared up at me, the overhead light gleaming off his shiny body and sword.
Cookie clapped her hands, then shoved them both into the pockets of her silver cardigan. “He really works! Watch.” She opened her fingers, revealing a variety of shelled nuts.
I held out my palms in acceptance while she righted the nutcracker and tossed the box aside. I stuffed a walnut in his mouth, then Cookie used a lever on his back to crush the shell in one easy move. “Nice.”
“Yep,” she said, gathering the broken pieces and tossing them into the trash bin under my desk. She worked the nut free from the shell with nimble fingers and popped it between her lips before pitching the shell. “You love it, right? I thought you could keep it in your office for festive snacking. Maybe put him out with the finger foods for your guests once in a while.”
“He’s perfect,” I told her, pulling her into my arms. At five foot eight, I easily towered over her, and I rested my chin on top of her puffy white hair.
“Told ya,” she said, and I squeezed a little tighter.
Behind Cookie, a middle-aged woman named Meg Mason glared across the foyer. She had a teddy bear tucked under one arm and seemed a little miffed.
I released Cookie and went to see if I could help. I waved as I approached, putting on my most inviting smile.
She turned with a start, and I realized she’d been staring at another guest.
Karen Moody, New England Magazine’s most infamous travel journalist and hospitality critique, chatted quietly on her phone, oblivious to Meg’s intense scowl. Karen was in town to review the inn, and I couldn’t afford to let anyone ruin her experience.
“Hi, Meg, anything I can help you with? Maybe I can take that teddy,” I offered. “It’s so generous of you to contribute.”
Meg wheeled back, clutching the bear tighter and looking as if I’d offended her somehow. “Don’t touch me.”
I flipped both palms up, confused and horrified as Karen took notice of the exchange. “I’m so sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’d assumed the teddy was for the toy drive.” I motioned to my office so she wouldn’t think I’d planned to steal her bear.
She pressed her lips tight, then shook her head. “It’s for … someone else.”
“Oh,” I returned brightly, seeing my way out of the awkward moment. “I didn’t realize you knew anyone in town. Are you meeting them for dinner?” She was, after all, coming from her room at dinnertime and heading out the door.
“No,” she said flatly, hoisting her chin into the air.
Before I could think of a response, she turned on her heel and left.
A puff of cold air and snow swirled into the foyer as she yanked the door shut behind her.
I forced a tight smile and looked to Karen. “Everything okay?”
“Everything is not okay,” she said, tossing thick salt and pepper hair away from her puckered face. “I have to walk halfway across creation to get my meals. Twice a day. There’s a chill coming through the fireplace in my room, and it took ten minutes for my turndown service last night. How can you call this a full-service inn?”
I opened and shut my mouth like a fish out of water. Explanations and apologies raced through my mind, but words failed to form.
Cookie patted my back and cleared her throat, urging me to speak.
“I understand completely,” I said, my stunned senses returning. “Why don’t I request a horse and sleigh to take you to and from your meals? And I was unaware of the chill in your room, but now that I know, I’ll look into it. Perhaps we can keep a fire going through the night, until I can speak to our handyman.”
Karen pulled her chin back, expression blank.
“I apologize, again, for the delay in your turndown service last night,” I said, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep me from saying what I wanted to.
Karen had called me out of bed at half past midnight to fold her comforter and sheet back. I’d assumed she wouldn’t want to see me in my pajamas and blue moisturizing mask, so it’d taken an extra few minutes for me to dress and wash my face before running up to her room. “If you’d like, I can turn down your bed while you’re at dinner. Then your room will be ready when you return.”
“I’m not going to bed at six o’clock for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “And if I have to wait for you to call a horse and sleigh now, my meal will be cold, if it isn’t already.” She flung a thick wool scarf around her neck and huffed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better start hiking.”
“I don’t like her,” Cookie said, the moment Karen Moody was gone. “There’s a lot in a name, you know?”
I did. My parents had named me Holly White, a nod to their Christmas obsession and eternal holiday spirit. Cookie’s real name was Delores Cutter, but she’d gotten her adorable nickname from her late husband, Theodore, because she loved to bake. With a name like Cookie Cutter, what wasn’t to love?
I stepped back into my office and Cookie joined me, pulling the doors shut behind us. “She’s difficult,” I said, “but I really need her to have a good experience. A positive review for the inn in New England Magazinewould make the perfect Christmas gift for my parents—not to mention an excellent way to keep this place making money.”
“Hogwash,” Cookie replied, reaching for the nutcracker and cracking a few more nuts. “This inn’s been full since it opened, and there’s a waiting list some weekends. You are a delight, and Karen is a bully.”
Cookie smashed another walnut in the nutcracker’s jaw, then scooped the shell into the trash. “I guess every Christmas has a Grinch,” she said.
“But look at all the elves,” I said, surveying all the donations around us. “You’re coming back here after dinner for the wrapping party, right?”
Cookie tossed the nuts into her mouth. “As long as Karen’s not coming. She’s a real bummer, and I don’t need it.”
I grabbed the shapeless down ski coat off the back of my chair and threaded my arms into the sleeves.
Cookie tugged a knit cap over her head, then hefted the nutcracker off my desk with a mischievous smile. “Maybe we should bring this guy along. In case anyone needs to shell some nuts or maybe knock Ms. Moody over the head with a little Christmas spirit.” She tapped the figure against an open palm like a weapon.
I swung the office doors open with a grin, then froze as Meg’s open-mouthed face came into view.
Cookie yipped, then swung the nutcracker behind her back.
“I forgot my phone,” Meg said, brows knitted and gaze locked on Cookie. She shook her head as she marched back into the snow.
“Oops,” Cookie said, putting the nutcracker down and bundling into her coat.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll talk to Meg later.” Meanwhile I’d cross my fingers and hope she hadn’t overheard too much.
We stepped onto the porch with a simultaneous shiver.
Cindy Lou Who, my calico rescue cat, meowed from the porch railing.
“Goodness!” I grabbed her before she could run or claw me, then set her on the rug inside the door. “No more sneaking out,” I scolded, but she was already on her way to the kitchen, probably to overturn her food bowl.
I pulled the zipper on my parka up to my nose and burrowed inside. “She’s getting out all the time since we moved to the inn. Guests come and go, and she just goes right along with them. The lunatic is going to freeze out here. Why on earth would she keep running off in snow up to her shoulders?”
Cookie sighed as she tied the belt on her coat a little tighter. “Freedom is nature’s call to all of us.”
“I like nature as much as anyone,” I argued, “but I wouldn’t want to be out here for more than a few minutes without a coat, boots, and shelter.” I stopped mid-rant to groan at the giant gift-shaped donation receptacle on my porch. “When did these get here? You just emptied this.”
“Leave it,” Cookie said. “All those nuts made me hungry. I want dinner.”
“Okay.” I followed her down the steps to the walkway.
“When did Christopher say he’s picking up the toys?” Cookie asked, her breath coming in tiny white puffs.
“Christmas Eve.”
Christopher was the contractor who’d built the inn for my dad and refinished the Hearth’s kitchen for my mom. He was gray-haired and a little portly, with a nice white beard and a hearty laugh. He had a crew of men about Cookie’s size, and they’d finished both jobs in the blink of an eye. My best friend and Cookie’s business partner, Caroline, thought Christopher might be Santa Claus, but I tried not to think about that too much.
Cookie’s step gained a little bounce. “I’m coming over that day so I can run into him,” she informed me. “He’s a real looker. You know I’m a sucker for a nice beard, and I can’t resist a man who works with his hands.” She went a little doe-eyed, then added, “I’d better wear my new lipstick.”
I nudged her with my elbow and laughed as we trudged through the snow. “Maybe he’ll let you make a Christmas wish.”
Cookie worked her brows. “What would you wish for?” she asked, her tone light but serious.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My life is pretty great right now.”
“Mine too,” she said, linking her arm with mine.
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