Inheritance for Christmas (Holly Ridge Christmas #1)

1. Avery

1

AVERY

F or several minutes, I sit in my car in the parking lot, watching random cars pull in and out of their respective spots in the small commercial lot. I don’t bother turning on the vehicle to ease the cold Montana air snaking through the thick wool of the hand-knit scarf my neighbor gave me before leaving Austin last week. She did a terrible job making the piece, bless her heart, but I appreciated the gesture. She had been worried about me catching a cold with all the snow out here and strayed from her usual cat hats to make me a winter garment when I told her I was leaving my hometown.

It was more than my mom ever did.

Absently, I stroke the dark chocolate material, dropping my head back on the headrest to ponder my next move.

Through the closed, steaming windows, I make out the upbeat Christmas jingle piping through the outdoor speakers of the mall, but it’s hard to feel festive after the meeting I’ve just come from. My stomach still aches from the loss.

A knock on the driver’s side window startles me and shatters my reverie. My head swivels, and I balk to see my grandfather’s estate lawyer smiling at me through the fogged pane. Sheepishly, I start the car and roll down the window. “Hi, Mr. Foggarty. Did I forget something?”

Alan Foggarty adjusts his wire-rim glasses and wraps his coat around himself tighter, stepping back from the car door to shake his head. “No. I just noticed you’ve been sitting out here since you left my office. Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone for you?”

Humiliation flushes my cheeks, and I dart my head downward.

“Oh… no,” I mutter. I hadn’t realized I was in full view of the law office. “I was just thinking,” I confess, feeling like an idiot.

“I see,” the attorney says. “It’s a lot to process. Maybe you should talk it over with a friend.”

I pale more. What friends? Who do I know in Holly Ridge that I can talk to about this?

He seems to read my expression with blinding clarity and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Okay. Well… why don’t we go have a chat. I was just about to grab some lunch, and you’re welcome to join me.”

I consider his offer, but only for a second. He’s only asking out of pity, and honestly, what do I have to talk about with a man almost three times my age? As nice as Mr. Foggarty is, he’s not a buddy.

“No, it’s fine. I should get going to the farm,” I tell him. “Check things out over there.”

He tries to hide his relief, and I know I’ve made the right choice by refusing him.

“That’s a good idea,” he agrees. “I don’t think anyone’s really been up there since your grandfather passed, at least not to look things over properly.”

That depresses me a bit. I wonder if Grandad had been living a solitary life since my grandma passed away. I’ve been to visit less than a handful of times, but only for short stints. It’s hard to really know what kind of life he lived.

“What about the store?” I ask. “Is anyone running it?”

The lawyer shrugs, and I stifle a sigh.

“I’ll head over and check things out,” I decide. “Maybe I’ll even cut down a tree. The house could use one.”

He smiles at me, and I return it weakly.

“Call me if you have any questions,” he says, stepping further away from my sedan as I buckle myself in.

“I will. Thanks for all your help.”

I roll the window and pull out of the spot, heading north on Hickory Lane, blasting the heater to defog the windows as I drive.

Bright red bows already grace half the lampposts leading into Holly Ridge’s downtown core as I drive, but I’m transfixed by the mountain view. The glorious triple peaks have always stolen my breath away, ever since childhood, inspiring a sense of nostalgia. A dozen fleeting images dance through my mind as the familiar sights pass by.

Grandad taking me fishing. Gran building snowmen with me on the oversized front lawn. It feels like home again, only this time, I won’t walk into Gran’s cinnamon-scented kitchen or Grandad’s off-key singing when I arrive at the farm.

Stopping at the light, my head swivels to the right, my peripheral view barely making out the entrance to Holly Ridge Park. A group of kids march across the crosswalk in heavy coats, their mothers chattering behind them as the flashing hand urges them along. One of the women turns to give me a quick smile.

I can’t help but relax, despite the sad circumstances of my return here. Holly Ridge is synonymous with peace, especially at this time of year.

Glancing at the touchscreen on the dashboard, I’m half tempted to call my mom, but my fingers falter.

Pressing my lips, I drop my hand back over the steering wheel and curl it tightly, reminding myself that she hasn’t called me, either. I can already play out how that conversation is going to go—assuming she answers at all. I have enough on my mind without hearing Mom’s opinion, even if I could do with some kind of support.

Sitting up straighter, I refocus my attention on the drive in front of me, hanging a left on Main Street, if only to distract myself from overthinking for a minute.

A faint smile touches my lips as I take in the sweet shops lined up against the leaf-dusted avenue. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it will soon, the frost promising the first flakes in the coming days.

I’m tickled to see Edna’s Gifts on the corner where it’s always been, a distinct image of the razor-tongued resident popping into my head. I hope she’s still around and running her shop. Most of the stores have begun their holiday preparations, the windows littered with fake snow and painted images, boughs of holly and garlands draped over their awnings.

At the end of the downtown area, I make another right onto Maple Lane and drive the last three miles up the road to Holly Forest Christmas Tree Farm, my grandparents’ legacy and my inheritance.

To my relief, the storefront appears well-kept, even if it’s closed now, no one manning it as I pull up and park in the paved parking lot, leaving my purse and the legal documents inside.

Using the keys the lawyer gave me, I allow myself inside the log-cabin style building, my heart panging with melancholy. The aroma of cedar and smoked wood overtakes me, the sweet furnishings and hand carved crafts calling out to me, each of them etched with Grandad’s signature. Swallowing my sadness, I amble through the shop and touch his crafts, admiring his handiwork appreciatively. Coming full circle, I perch on the stool behind the counter and look for a laptop or ledgers. There is nothing back here but a cash register, the contents empty. If there are store records somewhere, they aren’t here.

Everything must be in the safe at the house, I muse, a knot of apprehension forming in my stomach.

I’m not going to be able to keep up this end of the business once these items are sold. I have no eye for woodworking. The thought bothers me. A lot. It feels like Grandad would have wanted this storefront kept open for more than just a kiosk to sell the trees. It doesn’t feel right to shut it down.

I’m already feeling the pinch of his inheritance, and I haven’t even opened the doors yet.

My eyes fall on several saws perched in a line by the window, and I remember my idea of cutting down a tree for the house. That will get my mind off things for a minute. I need to get out there and commune with nature, talk to the trees for a bit.

No time like the present, I decide, standing purposefully to pick up one of the steel saws. I’ve never cut down a tree myself, my grandfather always having done it in the past when we combed through his acres of property. But if I’m going to run this place, I better start practicing.

I trudge into the soft, pine-needled soil, back behind the store toward the farm as I walk across the half-frozen ground. My low-heeled leather boots take me deeper into the coniferous forest, toward the twitter of birds as sunlight sinks over the horizon. There’s still enough daylight left for me to get a tree and do a quick survey of the property this afternoon… I think. The Texas sun and Montana sun set at very different times.

There she is, the perfect, not-too-tall, blue spruce, calling my name.

“You’re perfect,” I declare aloud. “You’re coming home to keep me company over Christmas.”

I crouch down to saw at the base of the trunk, struggling to position the saw properly, but no matter how I angle it, it’s not quite right. Just as my knee touches the bed of pine needles, my phone vibrates from inside the depth of my coat pocket. Frowning, I stand again and dig it out, already sensing who it is before I answer.

My mom must have sensed me thinking about her.

“Hey,” I say, cradling the device against my ear as I again crouch down.

“Hi, babe. Was the will reading today?” she asks without any preamble.

I grit my teeth to stop myself from reprimanding her for being so callous.

“Yes… and the funeral was yesterday, Mom,” I remind her gently.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” she says flippantly. “How was that?”

“It was a funeral, Mom.”

“Ugh. You know your grandparents never liked me.”

I inhale, fixating on the positing of the saw, but I don’t start moving it.

“Did your father bother showing up?” she asks when I don’t say anything.

The question bothers me. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Dad didn’t show up for his own father’s funeral, but somehow, I was dumbfounded when he didn’t appear. Even after all these years and the many disappointments, I still managed to be shocked when he did exactly what he always did.

“No,” I reply sadly. “He’s overseas. He said he couldn’t get away.”

“Shocking,” Mom snickers mirthlessly. “No doubt that wife of his has him on a tight leash.”

“Mom…”

“Well? When are you coming back to Austin?” she presses. “You attended the funeral, you stayed for the reading. What else do you need to do in Holly Ridge?”

Pressing my lips together, I gaze around the vast Christmas tree farm, my pulse quickening.

“I… I’m not coming back,” I answer honestly. My response is met with a long silence, and I wait for her to digest it.

“You’re not coming back soon?” she asks slowly.

“No, Mom. I’m staying here. In Montana.”

“What?! What are you talking about, Avery? You have a job here, an apartment!”

I clear my throat, mentally preparing myself for the backlash.

“Grandad left me the Christmas tree farm,” I explain to her. “I’m going to stay and run it.”

She laughs that hollow titter that makes me feel ten years old again, and I bristle.

“Just sell the land and come home,” she sighs in exasperation. “Don’t waste your time out there. It’s a Christmas tree farm. Your grandparents struggled their whole lives with that place.”

“So what?” I ask defensively. “It’s still property.”

“It’s worthless, Avery. Your grandparents struggled their whole lives with that place.”

I should have sent her an email.

“I have to go, Mom. I’m in the middle of something,” I tell her flatly. “I’ll call you later.”

“Call me when you come to your senses,” she retorts in a huff. “Honestly, you remind me of your father sometimes. Absolutely no common sense at all.”

The phone disconnects in my ear, and I swallow the thickness forming in my throat, shoving the device back into the depth of my pocket.

I considered selling the land at first, too, the idea of carrying on my grandparents’ legacy when I don’t know the first thing about the business daunting to me. But after talking to my mom, I’m convinced my grandfather wouldn’t have bequeathed me the land if he didn’t think I could do it.

“I can do this,” I mutter as I start to saw at the trunk, my hands gripping at the handle. The tool wobbles, and my cold fingers shake against the steel. Pine needles spray off the tree, and I slice haphazardly back and forth, my frustration mounting. I’m not making a dent. Gnashing my teeth together, I hack harder, my determination rising. “He wouldn’t have left me the farm if he didn’t think I could do it.”

The blade sticks in the wood, and I pull back harder, slipping against the hardened ground, the flat of my boot sliding. Losing my balance, I tumble backward, and I’m forced to release my hold on the saw before I can land on my backside. “Woah!”

The slight incline sends me tripping downward in an awkward interpretive dance, hands flailing as I try to catch my balance. One foot locks over the other, but I still don’t fall, somehow managing to keep upright. Finally, I’m standing straight, my heart racing.

“Oh, my gosh!” I reel backward as a man looms in front of me. His bemused cobalt eyes brighten as they lock on mine, but his eyebrows knit like he doesn’t know what to make of me.

“What are you doing here?” we say in unison. My hand rests on my chest, and I will my heart to stop hammering, but under his intense stare, my pulse races even faster, his ruggedly handsome features coming sharper into view as I peek at him from my spot. A five o’clock shadow covers his angular jaw, covering the lines of his almost perfect chin in a scruff of black.

“I work here,” he says slowly. “Who are you—oh!”

“Oh!” I echo, standing straight up, our hands extending to point at one another.

“Avery!” he laughs. “Right?”

“Blake?”

He nods and takes another step closer. “I heard voices when I was over in the other section, fixing one of the fences. I didn’t realize you were here.”

I just stare at him for a minute, gaping as I try to think of something to say. I can hardly believe this is the same kid, the teenager who used to come around and help his dad sometimes. But he’s not a kid anymore.

He’s… wow, he’s hot. He’s all grown up now, with a presence that’s impossible to ignore, and I can't help but notice just how incredibly attractive he is.

The embarrassment returns as I remember he overheard me talking to my mom, but before I can say anything, he adds, “I’m sorry about your grandad. He was a good guy. He’s going to be missed around here.”

I nod solemnly, dropping my head. “Thanks. And I’m really sorry about your dad, too.”

He waves his hand dismissively, a small grimace forming on his face. “That was a long time ago.”

“I know… but I haven’t seen you since he passed away. I never got to give you my condolences.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between us, but I’m quick to break it. “I… I didn’t realize anyone was working out here. I asked the lawyer, but he made it sound like there wasn’t anyone.”

To my surprise, he drops his head now, an embarrassed expression overtaking his face. “Well… I’m not really working. Er… as in, I’m not on payroll or anything. I just…”

He makes a noise as if he’s clearing his throat, and I continue to stare at him, my breath escaping in small plumes of white against the slowly fading light.

“There were things that needed to be done around here,” Blake starts again. “Things your grandpa didn’t get done. I just thought I would get to some of the smaller things before the property got sold.”

The statement takes me aback.

“Oh!” I shake my head. “The property’s not being sold. I’m taking it over. I’ll be running the farm.”

Surprise colors his attractive face, a hand raising to rub against the scruff of his chin as he studies me.

“Yeah?” he drawls. I’m not sure if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Uh-huh.”

He nods once and drops his hand into the back pocket of his dirty jeans, digging out his wallet. Confused, I watch as he opens it and hands me a card.

“Call me if you need any help,” he offers, gesturing with his chin toward the blue spruce where I left the saw. “Even with chopping down trees.”

Heat spikes into my cheeks, and I bite down on my lower lip as I notice him smothering a smile.

“Maybe I’ll come back for that tree tomorrow,” I mutter, looking toward the quickly vanishing sunlight.

“Good plan,” he replies, turning to disappear back through the thick of trees. Dubiously, I stare after him, realizing that he’s leaving as quickly as he came. My lips part to call out after him, but I stop myself. I have nothing else to say to him.

Instead, I look back down at the bright green business card in my hand.

Hands-On Holly Ridge

Blake Markham

Owner

His phone number and email sit underneath the title, and I tuck the card into my pocket with my cell phone and reclaim the saw.

Suddenly, I feel much more confident about this inheritance than I did when I pulled up. I have a handyman to help me.