“I’m sending a car to take you to this restaurant, we’ve been asked to have dinner—”
“Tara,” Miriam interrupted more forcefully, “I’m not flying in tomorrow. I had to change my plans.”
“You had to?” Tara asked, suspiciously. “You promised that you’d be home the second shiva was over. That you couldn’t stand to spend more than a week with your mother.”
“Oh, my mom won’t be here. She never stays when there’s hard work to do. And I know I promised, I’m sorry. Something’s come up and I…”
Shit, how could she explain so Tara wouldn’t argue? If Miriam told her the whole story, Tara would come up with a hundred solutions, want to look at the will, and give a grand jury–worthy argument as to why Miriam should come home.
So she simply chose not to explain. It wasn’t her finest moment, but she told herself there would be time, later.
“I need to stay through Thanksgiving. After that, we should have everything wrapped up.”
“Thanksgiving?!” She could hear Tara’s panic starting to rise, her voice squeaking, then her deep breaths. “Okay. You’ve spent countless hours dealing with my terrible family, I can spare you for a while for you to deal with yours.” Miriam noticed that Tara didn’t offer, again, to help her deal with her family, but she was glad. She wasn’t ready to share this.
“Do you need anything? Can I send you some clothes? What are you doing about commissions?”
Tara pivoting to action was so comforting. They didn’t have to talk about their feelings. “You can send some clothes, that would help. I’m not in the middle of any commissions, because of the store opening.”
“What are you going to do about the store, Miri?” Tara sounded exasperated. She had a right to, since it was her money paying the lease on Miriam’s dream project, now on hold.
“Just hope I can get everything together in time, I guess,” Miriam said, chewing on the side of her thumb.
“Well,” Tara drawled, “don’t be a stranger.”
And she hung up.
Miriam stared at her phone. She would have to call Cole, too, before he talked to Tara and got cranky that Miriam hadn’t told him first. He would probably be thrilled and try to move in to Carrigan’s full time. And she had to call the Old Ladies, to tell them she would be postponing her check-in visits.
An alarm rang on her phone, reminding her to post to social media. Being a full-time self-sustaining artist didn’t allow for weeks off to figure out her life. She had a brand to maintain.
That, she could do. She couldn’t yell at Cass for not telling Miriam she was sick, she couldn’t fix the years she’d missed with Hannah, and she couldn’t convince Noelle to stop hating her, but she could make content for her fans. She knew how to turn her real self off and put her Bloomer Face on.
Pointing her phone camera at herself, she started a new video.
“Hi Bloomers! Welcome to my family farm, Carrigan’s Christmasland!” Her voice sounded hollow to her ears. “You all are always asking for more insights into my life, and I can’t wait to show you one of my favorite places…”
She smiled at the camera, back on steady ground. With internet strangers who never asked her hard questions or accused her of failing her family.
Miriam and Noelle spent the next very unpleasant week trying everything in their power to not speak to each other. While Noelle transformed the front lawn into a winter wonderland and Hannah trained seasonal workers, Miriam was put in charge of the in-house decorations. This was work Miriam excelled at. She knew what Carrigan’s was supposed to look like at Christmas. When they were done, the half-abandoned ghost of a hotel was once again the Christmasland Inn of her memories.
It was magnificent.
As visitors drove through the gates, animatronic cherubs with horns blasted “Carol of the Bells.” A cacophony of trees, decorated in every theme imaginable, stretched out on either side of the lane, taking up the whole lawn. There were trees with giant bows, trees with popcorn and cranberry garlands, trees dripping with cut glass icicles. Among them were statuary—elves, reindeer, snowmen.
Inside, evergreens hung off every surface, punctuated with holly berries, clusters of white LED candles, and smaller statues in gold and silver. There were more Christmas trees in every size, grouped improbably into corners, under stairwells, on verandas. Wreaths hung from the staircase, mistletoe in every door frame.
The mantel in the great room was now home to a collection of antique nutcrackers. As a child, Miriam had named them all Steve. Big Steve, Little Steve, One-Armed Steve, Ballet Steve. Even the TV was draped in tinsel.
On day three of their week of preparations, Miriam was carrying an armful of vintage white plastic reindeer past the kitchen, thinking about ways to advertise “cut your own tree” packages to day tourists, when Mrs. Matthews stuck her head out the door.
“I have cookies.”
“Tell me about Joshua and Esther!” Miriam said, as she settled onto a chair. She avoided asking for updates on Blue.
Mr. Matthews swelled with pride from his perch on his favorite stool. “Well, you know, Joshua is with the philharmonic now.” He was a cellist. “And his son, Grant, is in the first grade.”
Miriam’s heart ached, for the loss of this easy camaraderie with the people who’d raised her, for never having met Mrs. Matthews’s grandson, for everything she’d missed while she had her head stuck up her own ass.