A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese
CHAPTER ONE
I glared at the incessant blinking of my cursor and groaned.
Eleven months of the year, I lived in a perpetual state of holly-jolly fanfare. But by the time the first of November rolled around, I was completely Christmased out. I know I sound like a Scrooge to admit such a travesty, but believe me, when you build a career on Christmas cheer and holiday hype, the warm fuzzies of nostalgia fade faster than Hollywood’s latest scandal.
When I wrote my first Christmas pageant at nineteen, I had no idea I was actually sealing my fate. But seven years, a few dozen screenplays, and three Hallmark movies later, Christmas had become exactly that. My destiny.
Ironically, December was my only month off. And I took full advantage of those blessed four weeks, which magically buoyed me for another year of fa-la-la-la-la-ing.
Since I had moved to LA seven years ago, my Nan—short for both Nancy and Nana—and I had traveled to a new tropical destination each year, enjoying sunshine instead of snow, and hulas instead of caroling. Last Christmas it was a two-week Caribbean cruise, but this year our nontraditional holiday extravaganza would be a remote getaway in the Hawaiian Islands.
Clicking out of my latest work in progress, entitled Noelle’s First Noel, I navigated through my newest temptation to procrastinate, a travel website that flung me into a cyclone of palm trees, sandy beaches, fruity drinks, and—
My phone did the cha-cha across my desk.
Nan.
Today was Tuesday—volunteer day at the senior center. She never called on Tuesdays.
An alarming icy-hot sensation crawled up my throat. I grabbed my cell. “Nan?”
“Georgia! I’m so glad you answered.”
The balloon of air I was holding inside my chest released. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine, darlin’. But I did just hear some distressing news.”
“Is it Mom?” The muscles across my shoulders tightened.
“No, I just spoke to her yesterday. She, Brad, and the twins are all doing fine.” In true Nan fashion, she threw an extra dollop of happy onto her last phrase, as if that were all it took to rewrite history. “You know my little piano student I brag to you about all the time—Savannah?”
“Yeah, sure.” My mini panic attack subsided. I clicked on another picture of a Hawaiian bungalow wrapped in the warm glow of a setting sun.
“She was just diagnosed with leukemia.”
I stopped clicking. “Oh, Nan. That’s awful. How old is she again?”
“Only five. And her mother is a widow—I’ve grown very close to them.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, yes, actually . . . I was hoping you’d ask.” Her voice climbed twelve stories. “I need you to come home for the holidays.”
And I fell twelve stories. An image hit my mental screen. Me, in my Hello-Kitty jammies, splayed on a busy sidewalk, broken and bloody.
“What? What are you talking about, Nan? I’ve already booked our vacation.”
“I am coordinating a holiday fundraiser for Savannah’s medical bills.”
I pinched my eyes shut and tried to ignore the tantalizing sound of crashing waves that seemed to lap against my eardrums in perfect time with my pulse. A part of me wanted to throw a tantrum—as fading images of tiki torches and spit-roasted pigs danced across my vision—but who could dismiss a child with cancer?
Scrooge, maybe. But not me.
“But, Nan . . . I really miss you.” The emotion inside my throat threatened to unclog.
“And that is precisely why you are going to come to me this year. I’ve worked out everything.”
“Does everything include a place for me to sleep?”
“Eddy will help me fix up your old room.”
“You mean the world’s smallest library?”
Nan had turned my old closet of a bedroom into a storage space for all her books after I moved to California. I’d seen some pictures. If Eddy and Nan managed to organize the toppling stacks around the bed, the feat was nothing short of miraculous.
“Now, don’t you get sassy with me, Little Miss Hollywood. Your homecoming will be perfect. And it would be the best Christmas present you could give your old granny.”
“First of all, no one would dare call you old—at least not to your face. And second, you don’t believe in Christmas gifts.”
“Say you’ll come home, Georgia. Please. You never know when it could be my last year.”
The dying granny card has officially been played.
“Oh, Nan. Stop it. You’re probably in better health than I am.” The only good thing in Lenox, Oregon, was my Nan, and I could have her anyplace else. The list of pros and cons knocking against my skull was ten miles long. “Maybe . . . um, I could . . .” Fly her to LA in the spring?
Nan let out a squeal, as if my incomplete answer had timed-out. I felt like a contestant on Jeopardy! who got buzzed. “Ooh, I’m so excited! We’ll have so much fun together. Why don’t you head up for Thanksgiving and just stay on through Christmas.”
“Wait, I didn’t say—”
“Perfect, perfect, perfect. Everyone will be thrilled you’re coming home. It’s been, what? Seven years? It’s time I get to show off my celebrity granddaughter. I’m putting you on the calendar now. In red Sharpie.”