The Holiday Games

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Candace “Candy” Caroline Cane

A woman living the small town

holiday lover’s dream in rural Vermont,

complete with hot cocoa, sleigh rides,

and…existential angst.

W hen you’re born and raised in a town named Reindeer Corners, several things are taken for granted…

One: You will LOVE holidays and await the annual Tinsel Time festival with a rabid fervor usually reserved for grandparents awaiting the birth of their first grandchild. (Or a transplant candidate awaiting an organ donor…)

Two: You will develop an addiction to the peppermint cocoa from the country store and crave it fortnightly. (But that’s fine. Everyone in town is addicted, and the store never runs out, not even in the endless twilight of midsummer.)

Three: You will keep the spirit of Christmas all year long and greet every stranger you meet with a cheery smile and a bright, “Welcome to Reindeer Corners, where it’s always the most magical time of the year!”

This is especially true if you work in the tourist industry, which most of us do. There aren’t a lot of job options in rural Vermont. You’re either a farmer, a remote worker, a lumberjack, or one of the many locals catering to the leaf peepers and powder seekers. Two of my three best friends from high school are ski instructors and Kayla, my bestie and I, are innkeepers. Between the two of us, we keep The Reindeer Corners Inn running like a well-oiled, relentlessly festive machine.

And I’m proud of that.

I truly am.

I’m thankful for a fast-paced job that pays well-above minimum wage, my sweet, Christmas-tree-farming boyfriend, my friends, and my loving family.

Everything would be perfect…if it weren’t for the existential dread and thoughts of impending doom.

Even as I’m showing Mr. and Mrs. Templeton a map of the county, circling various points of interest perfect for a crisp December day, inside, I’m spiraling.

My lips say, “Fat Horse Farm has an incredible maple latte and a museum where you can see how the syrup is made,” but my thoughts whisper, This is it. The rest of your life. Giving tourists directions to sugar shacks and snowshoeing trails. Is that okay with you? Does that feel like your purpose? Is it really enough?

I smile and add, “Then you can take the loop through Cavender’s Hollow on your way back to the inn for some amazing mountain views.”

Meanwhile my soul mutters, You could be dead in twenty years. Aunt Candace only made it to fifty-five. Uncle Carl was barely fifty. Heart disease runs in the family. Your one wild and precious life could be halfway over, and what do you have to show for it aside from two “employee of the year” plaques and an obscene number of Christmas sweaters?

I silently remind the voice about my friends, especially Kayla, who is more like my sister, and always has my back. I also have a kick-ass grandmother, who makes me turkey and stuffing sandwiches year-round, and amazing parents. Mom and Dad have never left our small town for more than a long weekend, but when I moved to New York City to get my degree in hotel management, they supported me wholeheartedly.

Even if they were too scared of muggers, subways, and big city rat infestations to come visit…

The inner Voice of Doom makes a smug harumphing noise. I notice Bobby Christmas Williams didn’t make that list. Add being stuck in a lukewarm relationship to the warning signs that your life is going nowhere.

I frown and counter, I was getting around to Chris. Chris is a sweet man with a huge heart. I’m lucky to have someone like him in my life.

The Doom Voice snorts. Are we still pretending you aren’t dying for a man to take you against a wall? Preferably with some hair pulling and dirty talk?

My jaw drops. Inappropriate. Very inappropriate. We’re at work!

Work shmerk. The voice sighs. But sure, any excuse to keep reality at bay. Keep the denial going, and maybe you’ll make it down the aisle before you jump off a cliff.

I clench my jaw. I’m not jumping off a cliff. And I’m not talking to you anymore. Go away, I’m busy.

“Dear? Candy?” Mrs. Templeton says, something in her voice making me suspect this isn’t the first time she’s said my name.

Realizing I’ve been caught wrestling with the void—again—I laugh and adjust the big red bow holding my ponytail in place. “Sorry. I was up late last night helping my mother make fudge for the festival. Still a little spacy this morning. Can I answer any more questions for you? Or fetch a hot cocoa and cookie basket from the kitchen for you to take with you on your adventure?”

Mrs. Templeton smiles, her fears for my sanity apparently allayed. “Oh no, that’s all right. We’ve already had pancakes and pie this morning!”

“Gotta watch the waistline,” Mr. Templeton adds with a laugh, patting the ample belly straining the front of his Santa sweater. “At least a little bit.”

“And we’re saving up calories for the festival,” Mrs. Templeton adds, clapping her hands. “We can’t wait for it to start. It’s one of our favorite events of the entire year.”

“Oh, me, too. So much fun,” I say automatically as the Templetons wave goodbye and head out to their car, though I’m honestly not sure how I feel about the festival anymore.

Back when I was a kid running wild through the booths, having snowball fights with my friends while my parents sold fudge, I adored Tinsel Time. I still love how much revenue the festival brings to town—it’s our primary fundraiser for both the library and road repair—but in the past few years, my opinion of the cutesy small-town shtick has soured.

We present a merry, magical front, but behind the scenes, Reindeer Corners suffers from the same ills as any other aging mountain town.

Our Select Board is full of grouchy old people who refuse to approve permits to build affordable housing for young people and families, insisting on “preserving the historic nature” of the town, while housing grows so scarce and prices so inflated that most people born and raised here can’t afford to stay unless they move in with their parents.

The housing crisis is further exacerbated by millionaires and investors snatching up smaller homes for cash and turning them into vacation rentals. Or, even worse, setting up a fake Christmas tree in the home’s living room and leaving it up year-round, because they only visit their “holiday place” from December Twenty-Second to January Third. The rest of the year, the homes sit empty, taunting those of us shacking up in studio apartments above our grandmother’s garage with visions of what could have been, if we’d been born somewhere else, where everything wasn’t so damned cute and tourist friendly.

“Your inner Grinch is showing again,” Kayla whispers inches from my ear, making me flinch and my heart leap into my throat.

“Peppermint sticks,” I curse, laughing as I turn to face her. “You scared me.”

She grins, her green eyes flashing as bright as the sequins on her blinged-out Frosty the Snowman earrings. “You didn’t look scared. You looked grouchy.”

I huff and flap my hand. “I’m not grouchy. I’m having a fantastic day spreading holiday cheer during the most magical time of the year.”

“Right.” Kayla crosses her arms over her ample chest and lifts her freckled nose. With her blond hair and permanently rosy cheeks, she looks like a young Mrs. Claus, even when she’s not wearing the inn’s signature red-and-white striped sweater and matching bow.

I have to work harder to look appropriately festive. I use blush to brighten my pale cheeks and add caramel highlights to my black-like-my-soul hair to brighten it up.

At least, I usually do.

This year, I dyed it all black for my Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice-inspired Halloween costume and never got around to highlighting it again. That eighty dollars was better spent on a new space heater. My tiny apartment above Gran’s garage gets chilly in the winter and my old heater fizzled out last April.

Yes, it’s still freezing cold in Reindeer Corners in April. I didn’t think much of that when I was a child and didn’t know any better. But after living in New York City for four years and experiencing how lovely a milder spring can be, I lose my sense of humor about the cold by the end of March.

“Well, you don’t look like you’re feeling the magic,” Kayla doubles down. “You look like a cat peed in your cocoa.”

“Ew,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I take that to mean the litter box training isn’t going so well?”

She sighs. “Smithers is still peeing in my snow boots. Every night. I had to wear my tennis shoes out to the car this morning and almost killed myself on the ice.”

Clucking my tongue, I mutter, “I’ve already shared my solution.”

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t fill my old snow boots with litter and buy new snow boots. Boots aren’t intended to be litter boxes.” She props her hands on her hips with a huff. “And knowing Smithers, he’d decide he liked peeing in both pairs, and I’d be back where I started. He’s a menace.”

“But an adorable one,” I add.

“So adorable,” she coos, pulling out her phone. “Look at the shot I took of him last night by the fire in his reindeer antlers! Isn’t he the most precious thing? I’m going to print this one out and hang it on the community bulletin board out front. Our guests will love it!”

As I make appropriately girly noises over the cuteness that is Smithers, Voice of Doom pipes up again, insisting, You will never love anything as much as Kayla loves this cat. Your heart is turning into a lump of coal. By the time you’re thirty-five, you’ll be completely dead inside.

“I will not,” I hiss. “Now chill out, you’re exhausting.”

I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Kayla glances sharply my way, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“N-nothing,” I stammer, my heart racing. Am I really losing it this time? Are the inside voices about to become outside voices?! Maybe I should have invested in therapy instead of that space heater… “I didn’t sleep well last night. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just want to be sure you’re okay, C.C. You haven’t been yourself this season.”

I wasn’t myself last season either, but I guess I did a better job of hiding it.

Forcing a smile and a festive wave for the Grangers as they herd their family of six through the lobby toward the restaurant for a late breakfast, I whisper, “I’m okay. I promise. I’ll pull it together. I won’t let you down.”

Kayla’s gaze softens. “Honey, I know you wouldn’t mean to, but I’ve caught you with resting Grinch face three times this week.”

“Three times in an entire week isn’t that bad.”

“It’s Wednesday,” she says bluntly, making my shoulders slump. She smiles and pats my back. “But it’s okay. I have a plan to help you get your Christmas groove back. I called the conference organizers, and they said it was no problem to change the name on the registration.”

I straighten as my jaw drops. “What?”

“And I booked a business class train ticket for you and called The Empire to change the name on the hotel reservation, too,” Kayla adds, looking increasingly pleased with herself. “Everything’s all set for you to take my place. All you have to do is pack your bags and find someone to drop you off at the train station tomorrow. I would offer, but I’ll be covering your shifts.”

I shake my head. “No, Kayla. I can’t. You’ve been looking forward to this trip all year. You were going to see the tree at Rockefeller Center and the Rockette holiday spectacular and ice skate in Central Park.”

She shrugs. “I’m still going to do those things. I’ll just do them on New Year’s Eve instead. That way Harry can come with me, and I won’t have to worry about work stuff. It’ll be all holiday fun and romantic mistletoe kisses with my boyfriend.” She sighs and her giddy grin stretches wider. “And if I’m lucky, he’ll take one of the many hints I’ve been dropping since last Christmas, propose to me by that giant tree, and make all my romantic dreams come true.”

Kayla is a Reindeer Corners true believer. Even after a lifetime of having holiday magic forced down her throat, she still loves this time of year above all others and can’t imagine a better place to say “yes, I’ll be your forever girl,” than under a giant Christmas tree.

She’s also an incredible friend.

“Thank you,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist and hugging her to my side. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she says, grinning as she returns the squeeze. “But honestly, I’m happy I won’t have to miss the Tinsel Time festival. I thought I wouldn’t mind, but the more I thought about leaving tomorrow, the sadder I got. I’ve never missed a festival, and I don’t want to start now.” She releases me with a final hug and reaches for the mouse to awaken our ancient desktop computer. “Besides, you’ll do way better at a big hotel conference. I get overwhelmed by crowds.” She glances up at the large clock above our equally massive lobby tree. “Speaking of crowds, the Baxter family reunion called for an early check-in and catered lunch. Could you run check and make sure the kitchen was able to get the banquet room set up for them?”

“On it.” I move out from behind the desk but pause on the other side to tap a finger on the polished wood in front of my bestie. When she looks up from the screen, I say, “Thank you again, babes. I think a trip to the city will be the perfect thing to help me reset and get excited about the rest of the winter season.”

“Me, too,” she agrees with a smile. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll learn some fabulous new innkeeper tricks we can incorporate into the business and the true meaning of Christmas while you’re at it.”

I laugh, too excited about my upcoming escape to my favorite city to listen to the Voice of Doom as it softly assures me that some people—people like me—never learn the true meaning of Christmas.

That isn’t true! I just need a break from all the pressure to perform holiday magic for our guests, a chance to simply experience the good vibes this time of year brings without forcing it. After a few days wandering the city holiday markets and food stalls in between conference lectures, I’ll be feeling festive and fabulous. I’ll be back to my old self, the woman who couldn’t wait to graduate from hotel management school and return home to her sweet, small town.

I believe that. I truly do.

I go about the rest of my day, putting out fires at work and hurrying home to pack for the trip with no clue that my entire life is about to change.

Or that the Voice of Doom isn’t finished with me yet.

Not even close.