Fate, Snow & Mistletoe: A Sex and Lies Holiday Novella Read online

  FATE, SNOW & MISTLETOE

  A Sex and Lies Holiday Novella

  Kris Calvert

  © Copyright 2016 Kris Calvert

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material form the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at www.calvertcomm.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover by [email protected]

  Edited by Meg Weglarz and Molly J. Kimbrell

  ISBN: 978-1-943180-12-7

  Calvert Communications, Lexington, KY 40515

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Kris Calvert

  Epigraph

  December 22, 1931

  December 27, 1931

  December 10, 1939

  December 23, 1941

  December 24, 1941

  December 25, 1941

  December 26, 1941

  December 25, 1941

  December 24, 1942

  February 14, 1943

  July 4, 1943

  September 29, 1943

  December 23, 1943

  December 25, 1944

  June 1, 1945

  August 19, 1945

  December 23, 1945

  December 24, 1947

  December 31, 1947

  December 22, 1953

  December 23, 1991

  December 15, 2016

  December 23, 2016

  Connect with Kris

  Thank you to Meg and Molly for everything. You are the two best editors and grammar girls around.

  Thank you to the ladies who lunch for always making me smile and for being my friend.

  Finally, thank you to my adoring husband, Rob and the two greatest accomplishments of my life, Luke and Haley. I love you all, with all my heart.

  Sex, Lies & Sweet Tea – Book One

  Sex, Lies & Lipstick – Book Two

  Sex, Lies & Pearls – Book Three

  Sex, Lies & Lace – Book Four

  Sex, Lies & Bourbon – Book Five

  Sex, Lies & Black Tie – Book Six

  Be Mine – a Valentine’s Day Novella

  Sparks Fly – an Independence Day Novella

  Roses are Wrong, Violets Taboo

  Witchin’ in the Kitchen – Magic and Mayhem Kindle World

  COMING SOON

  Sex, Lies & Diamonds – 2017

  To Love’s End – February 2017

  The Jane Doe Series – 2017

  My Soul to Keep – 2017

  www.kriscalvert.com

  Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes.

  Because for those who love with heart and soul

  there is no such thing as separation.

  —Rumi

  December 22, 1931

  Marilyn

  My head was swimming as we took each hairpin curve going up the Blue Ridge Mountains. Outside, the sky was darker than it should’ve been for early evening, and I rolled the window down for a gulp of fresh air. The wind was wet with the anticipation of snow. Silently, I forced my breath onto the window, fogging up the glass. Staring past the condensation to the mountain range that surrounded us, I could’ve sworn I saw a single flake float past.

  “Is it supposed to snow?” I asked, anxiously twirling the new necklace my grandfather had given to me as an early Christmas present around my finger. I wanted to hear the weather forecast. A white Christmas was not on my wish list. Everyone talked about snow on Christmas, but the last thing I wanted to see was snow falling from the sky and sticking to everything—especially the roads. Southern folks didn’t drive in the snow, and my father was definitely Southern.

  “We’re in the mountains, Marilyn,” Daddy said without looking into the rearview mirror to address me. “We’re bound to see a flake or two at this elevation.”

  I ignored the response, leaning my forehead to the window of his new Cadillac, mindlessly writing my name in the clouded mist. “How much farther?” I asked it as a question, but honestly I wanted my parents to know I wasn’t a willing participant in the plans for the next two days. I hung onto each word with a petulant whine.

  He gave me a fleeting glance, turning his chin over the seat. “Just a bit longer, baby girl. I thought you’d enjoy the trip a little more this year—in the new car and all.”

  I didn’t hide my fractious attitude. “It’s still the same view. Same curvy mountain,” I sighed, speaking sarcastically under my breath. “Same people.”

  “Please stop slouching in the seat, Marilyn. Sit up.” My mother barked in the tone she saved for when she’d had her fill of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I snapped. “But I feel carsick.”

  “You’d feel better if you looked out the front window instead of the side.”

  Sitting up, I wiped my name from the glass, hoping my father hadn’t noticed.

  “Tell me again why we have to do this each year?” I knew their answer would have something to do with old friends. My parents seemed to be friends with lots of people. Too many people.

  “The Winterbournes are dear friends, and we enjoy their company during the holidays,” Mother said. “It might seem trivial to you now Marilyn, but when you get older, you’ll cherish times like these.”

  There it was. Friends.

  “The bourbon isn’t bad either,” Daddy chimed in with a grin.

  My mother snapped in disapproval. “Mr. Richardson.”

  The exquisite Maude Richardson rarely called my father anything but his name, Roger. When she wanted to make sure she was being heard, she referred to him more formally.

  She flashed him a condemning look and I watched him shrug it off before glancing back at me in the rearview mirror, looking for an ally. I gave him a smile, because that was the kind of relationship I had with my father. He was a rule breaker, like me. But he was allowed. I was female, which meant I had to act and conduct myself as a Lady. And ladies never broke the rules—but I did. It was what my mother called subversiveness. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been taught to act like a lady, I merely chose when and where to display my talent for being a proper female of the species. When I didn’t live up to the standard in which she set forth, I too was treated to the formality of my very long name—Marilyn Margaret Anne Richardson. Daddy, on the other hand, usually called me baby girl.

  “Well, Mrs. Richardson,” he replied. “We’ve nearly made it through 1931. I think we could all use a drink.”

  “Yes,” I piped up before I could stop myself.

  “Marilyn!” Mother gasped. “Why can’t you be a more agreeable young lady?”

  I learned early the easiest path with my mother was the one where I apologized for being an unruly child on a regular basis, thanking her profusely for showing me the error of my ways. If I happened to add in a dose of gratitude, I was good for a few days’ respite from her motherly advice.

  “Sorry,” I deadpanned. “I didn’t mean to tease you Mother. I should’ve known how much the comment would upset you.”

  “Surely you did. Rog
er, can you please do something with your daughter? I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “I am sorry, Mother. You are a wonderful example of what a proper lady should be. It’s my own fault for not paying better attention but I assure you, I do realize that desirable young men want an agreeable and proper young lady. I promise to watch my actions and words closely this weekend.”

  She didn’t reply, but gave me a single nod and I saw the corners of her mouth turn up in complete gratification. Success. Now I might have a few hours without her on my heels where I could partake in the festivities as well.

  What was the big deal? I was aware alcohol was illegal. I was sixteen for goodness sake and I fully intended to deck the halls of Winter Lodge no matter how it might shock my mother. The fact the Winterbourne family was in the bootlegging business was the only perk of spending the last few days before Christmas in these godforsaken mountains.

  Besides, illegal activity such as the distilling of corn mash had made the Winterbournes wealthy. Very wealthy. They were a proper family, even though what they did for a living was considered breaking the law. People need a drink now more than ever, I’d heard my father once say after the crash of the stock market.

  “Are you planning on drinking, Roger?” Mother asked.

  “The Temperance Movement is merely a way for those who would never partake to keep those who would, from partaking,” Daddy replied.

  “Roger.” She flattened her voice into a low tone. Daddy and I both knew she’d heard enough.

  “I expect you to be on your best behavior Marilyn,” Mother said, smoothing her already perfect gloves across her hands before placing them carefully back in her lap.

  My mother. She didn’t come from money, like Daddy. I’d once overheard Daddy’s sister Aunt Marie, chatting behind Mother’s back at a tea party about how no one would ever know she came from nothing. My grandfather Richardson once told me not be so hard on her. She’d had a tough upbringing. I decided now that I was older and could cypher her actions better, she put on extra airs so no one would know or think she came from the tobacco fields of North Carolina. After the stock market crashed and we watched so many families lose everything, she turned the knob, tightened her controlling stance on everything—including me. I had a kind of devil-may-care personality, like my father, and that didn’t go over so well with my mother.

  “Marilyn,” she snapped again. She had a way of speaking to me without looking at me—as if she was too busy, or perhaps she just didn’t want to look at me. Either way, for some reason I felt as if I’d played along long enough.

  “Yes ma’am. Do you mind to call me Lynnie this weekend?” I asked, forgetting I’d made a deal with myself to be agreeable until I could get away from her clutches.

  Her face showed no emotion. It was really quite impressive. I knew how much she hated me giving myself a nickname and yet here I was, poking the bear as Daddy would say. “Marilyn, I will not call you by that name.”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like Marilyn, it’s just all the stylish girls of the day seemed to possess a little extra something I did not. Whether it was the Marcel waves in their hair or the dresses that now accentuated their curves, I couldn’t know for sure. Mother had forbid me to wear anything she deemed too revealing for my age. Still, I wanted something extra and a nickname was an easy way to be different—at the very least, less formal. Marilyn was a mouthful and if I had to be the one to shorten it, then so be it.

  “I can call you monkey,” Daddy said, quickly chuckling at his own joke.

  My mother took a deep breath, ignoring us both and I watched her shoulders rise and fall as we took the last turn at the stone entrance marked Winter Lodge.

  We’d not even made it into the party and I was already dreading the next two days—ready to return home to Shadeland. The whole two-day affair reminded me of the way I felt about pancakes—warm, wonderful and sweet at first, but by the time I took the last bite, I had a stomachache.

  To make matters worse, my best friend, Elizabeth, sent me a letter just last week letting me know she wouldn’t be in attendance. Her father had been hit hard by the stock market crash and her family wasn’t traveling for the holidays. When I read the letter to my mother, she gasped saying, “This is why we should be thankful for our blessings.” Then she straightened the seam on the back of my skirt, asking me to be more mindful of my appearance.

  Elizabeth’s family staying home meant one thing. I would be alone in the sea of adults with only one other soul considered a child at the party.

  Daddy parked in the group of other cars and three men hurried to open our doors and escort us to the enormous log cabin. The lights and sounds from the outside were only a tiny indication of what I knew to be happening inside.

  We’d been coming to Asheville, North Carolina for as long as I could remember and it was always the same. During the two days before Christmas Eve, we would gather in the Winterbournes’ very large mountain home made out of logs so huge, I had a hard time believing each was from only one tree. “The trees of the Blue Ridge are as strong as the people,” Daddy had once told me.

  My father was loaded down with a stack of boxes and still my mother needed to ask, “Do you have the gifts?” while she straightened the velvet collar on my coat. All the while she never made eye contact with either of us.

  “Of course, Maude.”

  Before Daddy had a chance to ring the bell, the red double doors of the home opened and the sounds of the last stanza of Hark the Herald Angels Sing rang out. The crowded room applauded their own performance, echoing their pleasure through the mammoth three story timber home. Decorated for the holidays, the smell of pine was thick in the air. The Christmas tree set in front of the floor to ceiling window by the main entrance was so lofty, I knew I’d have to climb the winding staircase and look down on it from above. It was the only way to see the whole thing.

  “We were beginning to fret over you,” Mr. Winterbourne said emerging from the center of the crowded room.

  My father shook the husky man’s hand, “Please excuse our tardiness, Edward.”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Winterbourne replied. “There’s been talk of weather. We wanted you to arrive safely before the snow blows in.”

  I tugged at my mother’s mink coat, hoping to discreetly show her the displeasure on my face. If we were stranded in North Carolina for Christmas instead of home in Alabama because of snow, I was going to pitch a fit.

  “Marilyn,” Mr. Winterbourne said giving me a nod and gentlemanly bow. “Cecil has spoken of nothing but your arrival since last week.”

  Forcing a smile, I replied. “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.”

  I turned away from my parents, watching them glad-hand each of the guests as Mr. Winterbourne ushered them around the parlor. Scanning the room, I looked for the punch bowl—the adult punchbowl. Instead I saw him sitting in the corner.

  Last year instead of acting normal, all he did was pull my hair and annoy me. When I complained, Mother told me it only meant he liked me. “He has an odd way of showing it,” I’d replied. With Elizabeth gone this year, all his attention would be directed toward me. Lucky me. He had a difficult time understanding I was six years older than he was, and as cute and perfectly boyish as he was, he was still that—a boy. I kept my eyes on other boys, like the young men in their twenties. The problem was, they were keeping their eyes on the girls their own age. Many were already being matched by their families after performing escort duties at the various debutante balls and I was still two years away from my debut.

  I sulked around the room, my parents already celebrating with their friends. The big parlor was filled with Christmas treats, punch and alcohol. Drinking from silver julep cups, I knew they were all getting their fill of the Winterbournes’ Kentucky bourbon. If I was sneaky, I could fulfill my own plan to have a taste.

  I felt a warm puff of breath on my shoulder as someone whispered in my ear, “I knew you’d come.”

  Turning around,
I found him. Cecil Winterbourne stood in front of me. He was eleven, but had hit a growth spurt since the last time I saw him. I was now standing face to face with the sandy-haired boy instead of towering over him as I had last year. “Cecil?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “It’s just—”

  “I know,” he said rocking on his heels with pride. “I grew.”

  His voice wasn’t deep like the twenty-somethings I’d watched milling about the room. He’d gotten taller, but that was the extent of his growth.

  “You’re not going to pull my hair for the next two days, are you?” I asked under my breath as I walked away from him. If any of the older boys had looked my way, I didn’t want to be seen conversing with Cecil. God forbid someone thought we were the same age simply because we were the same size. I couldn’t help being petite.

  “I won’t pull your hair,” he said, following quickly on my heels. “Promise.”

  I’d found my way into a corner behind one of the many tables filled with food and drink and leaned back into the wall with a sigh, twirling my new necklace between my fingers. “Thank you.”

  Cecil took his place beside me. He too, leaned and sighed, in what seemed to be an innocent imitation of my frustration with the situation at hand. I was too young to mingle with the older boys, too old to hang out with an eleven-year-old and too much of a lady to sneak a drink of bourbon—well, at least in my mother’s eyes. Crossing my arms, I stared straight ahead. “What, Cecil?” I finally asked when he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me.

  “What’s that thing around your neck?”

  I scowled at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s a present from my grandfather. See?” I said, holding the small glass vial attached to a gold chain.

  “What’s that inside?”

  “That’s what you won’t understand.”

  “C’mon,” he whined.