1
Crosby
The imposing, festively decorated mansion on the highest hill in town looks like something on the set of a Christmas movie. It’s supposed to look warm and inviting. But, assuming I know all there is to know about the people inside that house, that warmth is only for show.
My stomach lurches at the sight of it and my mind immediately starts planning my escape.
Dad steers the car up the long, winding driveway and chats me up about the plans for the week. It’s been years since I’ve been a passenger with him driving; it only happens around the holidays and always makes me feel like an awkward kid again.
“I hope you remembered to pack something other than that Star Wars tee-shirt,” Dad says, parking the car in front. A young man appears in the doorway, descends the stairs and approaches. My dad hands the keys over to him like he’s done this before.
I realize this kind of fancy living has become normal for him, even though this is definitely not how our family normally lives. This house has staff, and he’s already acclimated to it. It’s worse than I thought. He’s totally forgotten where he came from.
I run my palm down my front, where my zip hoodie hangs open despite the cold. “This shirt is not from Star Wars,” I say.
“Well, whatever. You know what I meant,” Dad says as we ascend the stairs. At the top, another staff person of the house holds the door open for us while another takes our bags from the trunk of Dad’s car.
It doesn’t matter how successful I am at game design, I’ll always feel like a nine-year-old at Christmas and not entirely in a good way.
My eyes scan the ornate and festive front parlor. If for some reason I can’t bug out of here, maybe the house has a basement in which I can set up a temporary office. Maybe I can hole up there and pretend to miss by accident all the fancy festivities my dad’s fiancée has planned.
The first things I notice are the cold marble floors, grandiose staircases, and spindly, uncomfortable-looking furniture. And dozens of white Christmas trees. Every single one of them is white with blue and metallic ornaments. A little bit of blue can be a welcome contrast to the traditional red and green, sure. But somehow this person has made her already ostentatious house feel even colder at Christmastime by splashing every surface with wintry colors.
None of this bodes well for the person I’m about to meet.
“So where is she?” I ask. I would have thought she or someone in the family would be there to greet us at the door like normal people do.
Dad shoots me a scolding look.
The staff person who showed us inside answers me. “Ms. Rushmore will be with you shortly; she’s just finishing up with the Christmas Eve party planners.”
Multiple event planners, in addition to the existing house staff? Good grief.
Truth be told, I’m predisposed not to like the woman. My predisposition is not totally unfounded. My father was a bit of a womanizer in the past. Easy to do when he meets all kinds of rich women at the overpriced yoga classes he teaches at his studio. I’ve run into several of them from time to time while visiting my dad, and they all seemed to look down their noses at us and our small farmhouse out behind the barn yoga studio.
The only reason I have to hope that my dad might have finally found the real thing is the fact that I’ve never seen her. He’s been keeping mum about her, until today. He flaunts his conquests, but he gets quiet when he’s genuinely serious about something or someone.
“Don’t look so glum, son,” Dad says with an elbow nudge. “You won’t be the only young person hanging around the house. From what I understand, Bianca’s daughter will be joining us this week, so this will be a great time for you to get to know your future stepsister. And you’ll get to meet her friends at the Christmas Eve party. Won’t that be fun?”
The young man who greeted us at the door shows us to the guest wing up an echoing hallway. Why do they need so much staff when this house looks and feels that nobody actually lives here? He opens a set of double doors and gestures to me.
“Stepsister? Hardly,” I scoff as I step into my room, which, with a four-poster bed, a sofa and its own bathroom, looks more like a hotel suite. “I’m 24. Just because you’re marrying her mom doesn’t make us a blended family.?
?
Dad offers, “Look at it as a chance to take a break from video games. You work too hard.”
I snort. “Sure, sounds like a blast,” I say as I picture a spoiled rotten princess and her mean girlfriends all sitting around, glued to their phones. But then, maybe that’s to my advantage. Maybe this Ridley character will be so bored by me, I’ll have plenty of time to be alone and work.
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m wrong; I don’t know how any of this works. I’ve never married into an existing family before, but I’m gonna to go with the flow. I find it’s best to do just that. The Rushmore family prefers it that way. You might start by relaxing your shoulders a bit, son.”
I hadn’t even noticed I was holding them that close to my ears.
Dad gives me a nod and follows the house staffer away to what I assume is Bianca’s room, where he’ll be staying.
I shake my head at the opulence of the room, wondering why I agreed to fly in from California to meet this family. Why couldn’t we all meet somewhere—I don’t know—more normal?
Sure, I grew up around here, but I never expected that I’d have to come back and play house with the richest family in town.
Hooking my thumbs in my belt loops, I examine a sheet of vellum paper on the nightstand that outlines the week’s activities. Nothing against the Rushmores and their exclusive A-list holiday parties, but this is not my idea of holiday fun.
What does sound fun is spending to Christmas alone at my office in Silicon Valley. I was hoping to grab all of the Thai carry out I could fit into my car and spend the entire week in the empty office.