Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I shift my glare his way.
He lifts a hand in surrender. “Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just saying—people with cranky, holiday-hating hearts are more susceptible to the cold. It’s been proven by science. Half of all hypothermia deaths occur in people with Grinch-itis.”
Arching an unamused brow, I take another slow sip of my whiskey-soaked nog.
The Grinch…
I remember the cartoon about the grouchy green creature who hates the holidays, but only the broad strokes. The last time I spent Christmas with my brothers and sister in the mountains, watching cartoons and frolicking in the snow, I was ten years old. The next year, my father decided it was time for me to learn the family business, and playtime for this Ratcliffe was through.
I haven’t ‘frolicked’ a day since, and I’m not about to start now.
When Dad had his midlife crisis, running off to Tahiti with Stepmom Number Four, it was my rigid, structured, some might say “humorless” personality that held our family together. Bran and Ashton were still in high school when I was granted custody of my siblings. I was the one who ordered groceries, scheduled doctor appointments, and took over the reins at Ratcliffe Universal. I funded both Elliot and Bran’s start-ups, as well as Ashton’s six years at an Ivy League University.
I learned to put foolish things aside in the name of taking care of my family, and I see no reason for that to change.
And no reason to budge from this bench…
The only thing worse than staring down this tree in the bitter cold would be staring down my siblings as they trim the nearly-as-massive fir in our home, while listening to them recount memories from which I am conspicuously absent.
I don’t want to think about all the summer vacations and winter holidays I missed while trailing my father around New York City, from the offices to the warehouses and back again, while my brothers and sister retreated to the mountains with Gramps. I don’t want to think about how much time I lost with the people who matter most, or the fact that my grandfather singled me out in his will as “the brother most in need of a full month surrounded by nature, peace, and loads of holiday cheer.”
I’m not in need of anything—except another eggnog.
“Sounds like I should definitely stay, then.” I lift my empty cup into the air. “And drink until my Grinch side is under control. Go ahead without me. I’ll find my way home before the sleet sets in.”
Elliot rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Luke. The shops and the café are all closed, and you know I was only teasing. I just want you to loosen up and enjoy yourself.” His tone grows more pointed as he adds, “Or to at least stay alive to ring in the New Year. It’s not safe to sit out in the cold, getting drunk by yourself. Silver Bell Falls hasn’t had a corpse in the park since Captain Herbert and his parrot kicked the bucket in 1812, and I, for one, think we should keep that trend going.”
My lip curls at the mention of the Captain, the founder of Silver Hell, whose rancid peg leg serves as the town’s tree topper every year. “And whose idea was it to shove a sea captain’s peg leg on top of a damned tree in landlocked Vermont?” I demand, incensed all over again. “It looks like a giant middle finger. Or a prehistoric dildo.”
Elliot snorts. “It does kind of look like a dildo. Awfully splintery, though. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of any peg-leg-dildo-love, that’s for sure. Or on the giving end, for that matter.”
“Someone should have torched that ridiculous thing a hundred years ago,” I insist, the fire in my chest blazing higher.
I don’t know if it’s the whiskey, the ghosts haunting this town, or truly the dildo tree topper that’s set me off, and I don’t care. I finally see a reason to be in Outer Bumfuck, Vermont, wasting five weeks away from my business concerns in the city, humoring a dead man.
I have a mission, a purpose, and I won’t rest until it’s been fulfilled.
I stand, clapping Elliot on the shoulder. “Send the car down in thirty minutes. Tell Arthur to wait for me by the gazebo.”
“Where are you going?” Elliot asks as I toss my cup into a nearby trash can.
I start across the empty square.
“Luke, seriously,” my brother calls after me. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
I pause, turning back to him with an arch of my brows nearly as icy as the frozen grass beneath my feet. “Regret? Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“To my responsible, hard-working, generous brother who’s grieving,” he says, his brow furrowed. “We all do dumb things when we’re grieving. Please, just come back to the house with me. We can skip the tree trimming and just…talk. Or play pool or whatever. You don’t have to go through this alone.”