But not this year.

For the first time in her life, she was actually looking forward to the stroke of midnight and was chomping at the bit to get to work on the store. And soon she’d have a place of her own to live. She’d been thrilled to learn that along with the shop, Carol Boyer was looking to sell her house, a small bungalow built in the 1920s that backed up to Sweetwater Creek. The inn was lovely, and Missy’s friendship had been an unexpected boon, but it was time to put down some roots.

Both deals were set to close in a few weeks, and she hoped to open the store sometime in April, sooner if all went well. She liked the idea of a spring opening. It felt symbolic, a season of growth and renewal. A time for closing old chapters and writing new ones. She glanced at her wrist, at the trio of moon-shaped scars that had been with her for more than twenty years, a permanent part of her backstory. Was a fresh start—one shaped by choice rather than catastrophe—too much to hope for? She didn’t know, but she was willing to find out.

She tucked the thought away, waving as Missy arrived. She looked tired and more than a little frazzled as she unwound her scarf and dropped into the chair opposite Christy-Lynn.

“Sorry I’m late. The dishwasher blew a gasket or a hose or something. I spent my morning coping with a flood. So much for a day off. Oh good, here comes our waitress. I’m famished.” She wagged her brows mischievously. “I’m thinking a tuna sandwich with a big old side of pasta salad. Last chance to carb up before the diet starts tomorrow. Speaking of which, what are you up to tonight? Got anything fun planned?”

Christy-Lynn couldn’t help smiling. Missy’s boundless energy never ceased to amaze her. She was about to answer when the waitress appeared with her order pad and a harried smile. When they were alone again, Missy picked up right where she’d left off.

“So, tonight?”

“No plans. I’ll probably just read or work on the café menu.”

“You should come over and spend it with us. I hated that you turned me down for Christmas at Mama and Daddy’s. No one’s supposed to be alone on Christmas.”

“I told you, I felt funny about horning in on you and your folks. And Christmas has never really been my thing.”

Missy shook her head as if bewildered. “I don’t get it. How can you not like Christmas? Everything’s so beautiful and festive. The music, the decorations, all the yummy food.”

Christy-Lynn kept her eyes averted as she spread her paper napkin in her lap. “Let’s just say the ghost of Christmas past and I have never been terribly close.”

“Sorry,” Missy said quietly. “Sometimes I forget how painful the holidays can be for some people. I didn’t mean to drag up unpleasant memories.”

“Forget it,” Christy-Lynn said, fiddling with her silverware. She could feel Missy studying her, waiting for her to say more, and it made her uncomfortable.

It wasn’t the bike or the Easy-Bake Oven that had never materialized under the tree—not that there had ever been a tree. It was about other things, intangible things like mothers and daughters sipping cocoa and baking cookies, stringing lights and hanging stockings. The moments most people took for granted.

Her own memories were of frozen dinners or boxed mac and cheese, eaten alone in front of the TV while her mother spent the day at the local bar, slinging drinks for tips and then coming home to pass out on the bathroom floor. They didn’t write carols about those kinds of things or put them on Christmas cards either.

“Say you’ll come tonight.” Missy prompted again. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I—”

“Why couldn’t you? It’s just going to be me and the boys, and they’ll be zonked by nine. We’ll order Chinese from Lotus and get sloppy on chardonnay.” She paused, grinning. “Okay, I’ll get sloppy on chardonnay, and you’ll get buzzed on sweet tea, and we’ll drool over the adorable but sadly unavailable Anderson Cooper. It’ll be fun! Certainly better than working on café menus. And you can finally meet my little guys. Say you’ll come.”

“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But only because you said there’ll be guys there.”

And because it was better than her inevitable New Year’s Eve stroll down memory lane.

FOURTEEN

Monck’s Corner, South Carolina

January 1, 1998

Christy-Lynn sits up, blinking heavily in the flickering blue gloom of the living room. The TV is on, the sound turned down. It’s how she falls asleep most nights, curled up on the faux leather couch, in case her mother comes home in rough shape and needs help getting to bed.

Her eyes are still gritty from sleep. She scrubs at them, then pushes the hair off her face. On the screen, revelers in paper hats are swapping kisses amid a shower of confetti and balloons, a replay she realizes, as the scene cuts away to similar shots from around the world. The New Year has arrived. Not that much will change. At least not for the better.

What would it be like, she wonders, to be in the midst of all that excitement—to actually feel like there was something to celebrate? To have the kind of life where there were things to plan instead of things to dread. She’s so very tired of the dread. Of the disappointments and the small daily disasters. Pots left to boil dry on the stove. Cigarette burns on the sheets. Rent money vanishing into thin air. Another lost job. Followed by another. And the excuses. She’s heard them all by now. Always someone else’s fault. It’s not that she’s keeping score. She stopped that a long time ago. But it’s exhausting.