Write Before Christmas
by Julie Hammerle
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Hammerle. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Matt
December 1, nineteen days until deadline
What comes next? What comes next?
My brain chanted these words over and over again, cutting through the death metal pounding in my ears, as my feet hit the pavement. Alone on the road, I forced a fist pump in a futile attempt to jolt my creative juices into a flow state.
What comes next?
Running usually shattered my writer’s block immediately, like magic. Most of the time, the simple act of tying on my shoes got the old brain working, but not today. Nothing could silence the constant chatter of “What comes next?”
I pulled off my T-shirt as I turned around at the end of the street, where Stagecoach Run met the main road, Rogers Drive. Yes, it was December in the Midwest, but the unseasonable warmth had me sweating like a pig out here.
My fingers itched to check the mentions on my phone, even though I knew I shouldn’t bother. For one thing, there’d probably be no cell service out here on the road, and for another, not having easy access to social media was kind of the point of me being in the middle of nowhere, Illinois.
Okay. What just happened in the story? Trying to quash the desire to doom scroll through my Twitter feed, I forced my mind to replay the book so far, as if watching it happen in a movie.
Cassya, the youngest of the Bastyan siblings, was just picked up by pirates in the Jayde Sea. Her brother, Sheldyn, is now sitting on the throne in Baryos, even though he’s the second son. Markys, the rightful heir, has gone missing and is presumed dead. Petrya is on a quest to find him. She just happened upon an oracle who told her she will never marry but will have three sons.
So, now what?
Years ago, back before I’d even written a single word, I completed a comprehensive outline of the entire series, which I followed religiously through book two. But when I sat down to close out the trilogy almost a year ago now, nothing felt right. I chucked the whole outline in the trash and started over. And then I started over again, and again. I spent almost twelve months killing darlings, and now all I had to show for it was about thirty thousand crappy words and a forest’s worth of broken pencils.
I waved to an elderly woman, who was out arranging a trio of white wicker reindeer on her snow-free lawn. She waved back, hesitated for a moment, and then started flailing her arms wildly and shouting. I glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby to come to her aid. When I realized it was all up to me, I ran over to her, letting my noise-canceling headphones drape around my neck.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Wide-eyed, she released the reindeer she’d been holding, letting it fall sideways to the ground. Her mouth appeared unable to close any longer. Was that one of the signs of stroke? I tried to recall my research from back in book two of my fantasy series, when the king’s older brother died suddenly at the dinner table, leading the other characters to speculate—was it a natural death, or was it murder?
The woman clutched her heart, which was covered by a red sweatshirt boasting a Christmas tree and the words, “Let’s get lit.” I mentally prepared myself to call 911 and fumble my way through CPR. I wasn’t normally the guy who got into daring, heroic situations like this. I wrote about men and women like that, but I wasn’t one of them.
“You’re M.C. Bradford!” she squawked. “I’d recognize that face anywhere! I have all your books!”
Oh, shoot.
Again my fingers twitched to check social media, to see what they were saying about me.
Again I caught myself before I could reach for my phone.
“I can’t believe you’re here!”
I’d spent twenty years as an author living in relative obscurity, writing books that only mattered to a handful of devoted fans, but one year ago, everything changed. My fantasy series, The Bastyan Saga, premiered on TV. I hadn’t thought much of it initially. I’d been excited, sure, and I was glad to have the extra money, no doubt, but I’d experienced enough disappointment in my writing life not to bank on anyone actually watching it.
But the powers-that-be shortened the series name to the very important-sounding The Saga, and for some reason, that tricked people into checking out this odd-ball fantasy story about a bunch of siblings trying to make their way in a kingdom of corruption and depravity.
I assumed people showed up initially for the equal opportunity nudity. I liked to pretend they stuck around for the high-stakes drama.
Long story short, one year ago, only the geekiest of geeks had heard of me. Now everyone, including this woman out in the middle of nowhere, knew who I was.
“Thank you,” I said, even though she technically hadn’t actually complimented my work. Maybe she loathed my books and kept them around as doorstops or to give as gifts to people she hated. Maybe she’d seen the viral video of me…
I shuddered. Of course she had. That was probably how she’d recognized me so quickly.
She leaned in closer. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Running.” Realizing I now stood before her, not as a random jogger, but as a semi-famous person, I pulled my sweat-drenched T-shirt down over my head, covering my half-naked body. One day she’d describe this encounter in detail to her friends and family members, and I hoped it wouldn’t include information about the density and grayness of my happy trail.
“I mean, do you live here?” Her eyes widened.
“I’m renting a place,” I said, “just for a bit.”
Jane, my assistant, would want me to make sure I wasn’t alienating one of my biggest fans, but since I became famous, I was always hesitant to give too much of myself to anyone new. Letting people get too close had come back to bite me a few times. I hoped that vague answer would be enough info for this woman, and she wouldn’t try to dig into the wheres and whys and how longs.
“Wonderful! You’ll have to go to the Christmas fair at the owner’s club, and the New Year’s Eve party of course—”
“Actually, I’m here to work…”
“Right,” she said. “Oh. Of course you are. I saw that video. They treated you so—”
I raised a hand to stop her. We would not be reliving the worst moment of my life today. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
She frowned. “I’m sure.”
“And…if you wouldn’t mind keeping it quiet that I’m here.” I glanced around on instinct, making sure we were still alone. “I came to this town to get away from…you know.”
“Of course,” she said, miming zipping her lips. “It’s our little secret.”
I grinned in an attempt to keep things light, breezy, uncomplicated. “Feel free to tell everyone in January after I’m gone.”
“Sure thing.” But then she leaned in as if we were now conspiring. “Since I’ve agreed to keep your secret, do you think you could give me one little tidbit about the upcoming season? Does it end on a cliffhanger like the book?”
The second season was about to premiere, meaning the show had already caught up to my books, which was why I had to hustle to finish the next one before the start of pre-production on the third season. The season premiere was supposed to be a happy time for me, but all it meant was more stress and frustration as I tried to complete my manuscript, which I had to turn in by December twentieth, nineteen days from today. “It follows the book pretty closely is all I’ll say.”
She clapped her hands with glee. “I’m so excited.”
“Me, too,” I lied. Last year, when the show first premiered, I was excited. I would’ve gladly spent hours talking to this woman about the show and the books and anything else, but now I had this albatross above me constantly, and it colored every interaction I had with other people. “Nice to meet you—”
“Linda,” she said. “Nice to meet you, M.C.”
“Call me Matt.” I saluted her and started running again.
That chat with Linda had shattered my concentration. My mind kept trying to relive the interview at Comic Con and the fallout from that. I tried desperately to think of something, anything else. The book, the show, the cliffhanger.
The cliffhanger. The cliffhanger. The second book had ended with the king being poisoned. We didn’t actually see him die. What if the king didn’t die, like I’d originally planned? Maybe he’s still alive, but seriously ill, and his dutiful son, Markys, who should be the one on the throne, has taken him into hiding and is—
Out of nowhere, a massive black and white mutt lunged at me, almost knocking me backward. I didn’t have time to fear for my life as the dog started licking my face and slapping my legs with his tail. I grabbed his leash as a woman came huffing around the bend.
“Ralph!” she yelled, running toward me with open arms. She wore navy blue sweats with a matching sweatshirt tied around her waist. And a white tank top that left little to the imagination. “Ralph Waggum! You get over here!”
I handed her the leash, careful not to look her in the boobs, even though they were certainly staring at me. “I choo-choo-choose you,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Rosiness bloomed on her cheeks.
“Ralph Wiggum?” I said. “‘I choo-choo-choose you?’ The Simpsons?”
“Oh, okay.” She laughed as Ralph attempted to drag her off the road and into the woods. “My daughter named him. She’s the Simpsons fan.” The woman, her wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders, dug in her heels and refused to budge. I had to smile. She’d done this before with her dog. “He’s the worst.”
“He’s spirited.”
“He’s an asshole.” She grinned at me, forming little crinkles next to her sparkling gray-blue eyes. “Thanks for grabbing him. I wouldn’t know how to break it to my daughter that I lost her dog. Again. Like I said, the worst.”
On instinct, I checked her hand. No ring. Not that it mattered. She was just a cute stranger taking her dog for a walk, and I was a busy writer on a tight deadline who had holed up in this remote resort to work, work, work. I was like Jack Torrence without the family to murder.
“You should watch it, though,” I said.
“Watch what?” Her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“The Simpsons,” I told her, like I was letting her in on an obscure secret and not singing the praises of a show that had been on television and in syndication for three decades. Way to be smooth, Matt.
She wrinkled up her nose. “It’s not really my thing. TV in general, I mean.”
I blinked at her in amazement. She was a unicorn who had apparently never seen The Simpsons or, by deduction, likely The Saga. I had no problem chatting up the women I met at various comic cons around the country, women who knew who I was and were just looking to hook up with a semi-famous author. I was often happy to oblige them—in the conversation, if not the hookups. But winning the favor of a woman on my own merits—and without being able to use the pop culture knowledge in my arsenal—had never been my strong suit.
“Anyway…” I said. “Glad I could save your relationship with your daughter.”
I turned to walk away, but the woman said, “I’ll definitely check it out.”
I spun back around, and she was grinning at me, almost laughing.
“The Sampsons, was it? Thanks for the tip.” She shot me a flirty wink.
She was funny. I longed to keep the banter going, to use another Simpsons quote on her or to ask her to come over and watch an episode or two tonight, but I stopped myself. For one thing, I really didn’t have the luxury to sit around watching shows I’d already seen fifty-seven times, and for another, how could I be sure that she wasn’t pretending not to know me or The Simpsons, for that matter, and was just another person wondering what they could gain from befriending M.C. Bradford?
I shot her one last smile before flipping my headphones back onto my head and taking off running again.
…
Dani
My dad came into the dining room and set an Elvis-themed shot glass full of yellow liquid in front of me. “Moonshine,” he said. “My take on limoncello.”
I downed it, no questions asked. This was my dad’s way of taking care of me, taking care of all of us. He’d been plying me with his homemade concoctions ever since I moved in with them a few days ago, right after Thanksgiving. “Delicious.” I raised my empty glass to him. “Best yet.”
“Una?” He offered a shot to my brother’s wife.
Una glanced up from her work, a purple glitter glue stick in her hand. She was an Athleta ad come to life in her oversize open cardigan paired with yoga pants and a sports bra. Her bare stomach was on full display, and it in no way suggested she had carried twins to term sixteen years ago. “Thanks, John, but I’ll stick with my green juice.” She took a sip from her own glass, which was full of something definitely green and possibly sewage.
“I’ll have some, Pop.” My nineteen-year-old daughter Kelsie made grabby hands for her grandfather’s moonshine.
“I will not contribute to your delinquency,” he said. “At least not when your mother’s around.” He left us for the living room and his Sudoku book.
“How are you ladies doing?” Una glanced up from her own poster board to peer at mine and Kelsie’s.
So far my vision board consisted of a picture of the gorgeous house of some guy named Andy Samberg; the words “accept it” in a stylish, glittery font; some food; a pretty blue star; and a cute puppy.
Kelsie had glued a photo of a grotesque, bloodshot eyeball right in the middle of her neon green poster.
“I’m stuck,” I said, grabbing another one of the magazines Una had picked up at the Piggly Wiggly in town.
“There’s no being stuck, and there are no wrong answers,” Una said. “Cut out whatever speaks to you. That’s your subconscious telling you what you want.”
“Cool.” Kelsie pasted a picture of a banana over the eyeball like a yellow brow.
I licked a finger and turned to a page with a headline blaring, “50 is the new 20…or it can be, where your vagina’s concerned!” Well, that did speak to me, but not in any way I felt like unpacking on a poster board.
Ralph ran in, his choke chain still dangling from his neck, and did three loops around the first floor before crashing on the couch near my dad.
My mom strolled in, carrying his leash. “He was a good boy out there.”
I laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” I considered cutting out a photo of a cute pair of winter boots. Maybe someday this unseasonable warmth would go away, and we’d actually need them. I knew I’d regret thinking this in January, but I was ready for snow. It was Christmastime, after all. I was supposed to be wearing sweaters, not T-shirts.
My mom patted Ralph on the head. “He did all his business in a timely fashion.”
“He didn’t get loose and jump on anyone?” My cheeks felt hot at the memory of the shirtless Brad Pitt lookalike whom Ralph had tried to maul earlier today. Our little banter about The Simpsons was the closest I’d come to flirting in years.
I hadn’t noticed a ring on his finger…
“That only happens when you walk him, Mom.” Kelsie dumped a mound of green and red glitter onto her paper.
“Kelsie, save room on that paper for what your heart wants,” Una said.
“My heart wants glitter,” she muttered. “And besides, I’m never going to get what my heart actually wants.”
I pretended not to hear her, staring hard at the words on page sixteen of this woman’s health magazine—“Chuck your bathroom scale in the trash!” Sounded like a plan to me. I cut that out, too.
Kelsie had come to me earlier today to ask if she could move into an apartment with one of her friends near campus, and I had to tell her no, we didn’t have the money. She’d have to stay here with her grandparents and now me, her mother—the kind of living situation every college kid dreamed of.
My parents had somewhat recently moved out here to the country—to a resort in northwest Illinois where we used to vacation when I was a kid. They’d always dreamed of living in the middle of nowhere, golfing, reading, hiking, enjoying the slow pace. When Kelsie got a partial scholarship to a college near Wackernagel, it seemed like the perfect solution—she’d commute there every day while living with Nana and Pop, but only for the first semester, I’d promised.
Now I had to renege on that.
I started cutting things out randomly—a picture here, a few words there—hoping one of them would wind up being the solution to all my problems.
“I have all my clients make vision boards, and I’m telling you, they really work.” Una was an actual life coach. She had a huge following on social media and everything. “When I decided I wanted to make wellness my career, I made one, and look at me now.” She had a point. When Una first started doing the blogging thing and the Instagramming thing, my mom and I had side-eyed each other, but she’d gone and turned her passion into a mini empire. “The vision board is the universe at work.”
Who was I to question the universe?
“Let’s look at your board, Dani.” She reached across the table for my hot pink poster. For a moment, she scanned it. “Okay, you have a bank on here, and a dog. A picture of a gorgeous closet, and some…pasta?”
“Spaghetti Carbonara,” I said.
She nodded, taking in my vision board aesthetic. “What do you think this means?”
I hadn’t realized there’d be a quiz. “I’m not sure…” I had done my part and cut out pictures that caught my eye. I assumed the universe would do the heavy lifting.
Kelsie stood up. “It means she likes food and puppies.” My daughter laughed. “Mom, tell me you don’t believe in this stuff.”
“You don’t have to believe in it,” Una said. “The universe works in mysterious ways. One of my friend’s clients, who also didn’t believe in vision boards, put a car on hers, a quote about change, and a picture of that mutilated toy from Toy Story—the one that was basically just Barbie’s legs?” Una leaned in to whisper. “Three months later, she got hit by a car and is paralyzed from the waist down.” She nodded solemnly.
“That actually sounds like a really cool premise for a movie, Auntie Una, people making vision boards that predict their deaths,” Kelsie said, “but this is reality. And in reality, glue and paper aren’t going to fix anything.” She stormed out of the room and clomped upstairs.
“Ignore her,” I told Una. “I had to give her some bad news this morning, and she’s upset.” I plucked my poster from Una’s hands and looked it over, trying to feel something. I wanted to believe in this. I needed to believe in something right now, to have someone or something guide me in the right direction. Might as well be my own subconscious.
“While you look at the board,” Una said, “take a deep breath in, hold it for four counts, and exhale for six. Repeat this three times to clear your mind.”
I did what she said and then looked at the board with fresh eyes. The bank obviously meant money, which was something I needed desperately. I was newly divorced, my ex wasn’t sending us much to live on each month, and I hadn’t held a job outside the home since before Kelsie was born—almost twenty years ago. I would love to be able to pay for her to live on campus, but I needed a steady paycheck to do that. I’d sent out a million résumés and hadn’t heard back from anyone.
The puppy was there because I loved dogs, even if Ralph drove me crazy.
I’d included the pasta because it looked delicious. I knew we had most of the ingredients in the kitchen, and I thought I’d make some Spaghetti Carbonara after finishing the vision board.
I kept staring at the pasta. My mind hurtled through my adult life—me trying out new recipes on Kelsie and her dad, making brownies for the school bake sale, reading cookbooks and watching America’s Test Kitchen for fun. If anything, working with food put me in the zone. When I needed to improve my mood, I’d whip up a frittata or an emergency chocolate cake. The kitchen was my happy place.
“Food,” I said. “I love food. I love making it and eating it and thinking about it. That’s why the pasta’s on there.”
“Very good,” Una said.
I glanced up at my sister-in-law, who was beaming at me proudly, waiting for me to put it all together. “Maybe…I need to focus on food? Maybe food is the answer?” Could food be the answer? That seemed too simple.
“The universe has spoken.” Una snapped the cap back on her glue stick, like that was the end of our conversation.
“But wait,” I said. “What does that even mean? Should I try to get a job in a restaurant or open my own place or…” It seemed impossible, but I felt even more confused now than I had before the food revelation. Pre-vision board, I would’ve been happy with any job, but now I wanted a job in a specific area? An area I’d never worked in before? I had a college degree and an expired teaching license in elementary education, not the culinary arts.
“Don’t question it,” Una said. “Wait for the opportunity to come to you.” She stood up and swanned out of the room.
“But I need a job now!” I called after her. “I’m forty-five, and I live with my parents! I can’t sit around waiting for inspiration.”
My dad spun in his chair then raised another toast to me. “Don’t worry, Dani,” he said. “You’ll find a job. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I focused hard on the vision board, waiting for another lightning strike revelation, but the universe had gone silent.
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