With her grandfather gone, her long-widowed mother had taken to spending each year with a group of friends who liked to pretend they were riverboat gamblers. Santa was old hat with the slot machine set. Her younger sister, Valerie, had married as soon as she was legal and moved to live near her husband’s large family in California. They were very traditional there, and apparently none of those traditions included inviting the in-laws for the holidays.
Though they did send beautifully handcrafted Christmas cards.
She supposed she was used to it. Being alone. As a writer, she lived alone with her dog, her wild imagination and her tendency to talk to her characters as if they were real. Her only human friends were the other writers she corresponded with online, all of whom lived in different states. And Connie, of course. She rarely had the chance to go out and meet any new friends who lived nearby, let alone a decent man. Decent, in this context, being one who didn’t disappoint her just in time for the holidays, insuring she would spend another year realizing her secret stash of mistletoe was pointless, and thinking up creative new insults to verbally hurl at those poor, unsuspecting seasonal jewelry commercials.
A part of her, she knew, still wanted all the holiday magic to be true. Still knew every carol by heart. Still believed every clichéd phrase that told her if she were really good, something amazing would happen to her—that love, like Santa himself, was real. You just had to have faith.
”Yeah, right,” she muttered, wrapping her scarf around her neck and mouth and bracing herself before opening the driver’s side door. “It is not a wonderful life and no, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. There are just people like Connie’s friend Charli, who are never alone, and people like you…who will always be.”
Which was fine with her. Who needed three demanding men always looking over her shoulder? Three men who each wanted all of her attention. It sounded like three potential heartbreaks waiting to happen. And far too kinky and complicated for someone like her to contemplate. Just the physical aspect alone boggled her mind. There were only so many positions after all.
She didn’t need that kind of company. She’d never needed anyone but her laptop and her dog. As long as she had a power source and some kibble, she’d be fine.
She got out and looked up at the clouds that blocked the sun, her eyes squinting at the sharp wind that blew shards of snow into her eyes. She was safely on the side of the road, with mountains ahead of her and a wide, snow-filled plain beside her. No trace of civilization. No passing cars.
If any miracles were going to happen, Georgia was going to have to create them for herself. First she’d fix this tire then she’d find her way to Connie’s house before Christmas. For her friend’s sake, if for no other reason. The last thing she wanted was her bad holiday karma to rub off on her dearest friend.
She had to lean against the wind to make her way to the back of the SUV. The rental place had assured her it was in prime condition for a winter road trip. They’d said nothing about the tires. At least she’d remembered to make sure there was a spare before she left Sulphur, Louisiana behind.
As she moved her bags out of the way and gathered the tire iron and car jack with fingers already numb with cold inside her leather gloves, she remembered how Grandpa Bale had taught her to change a tire when she was sixteen years old. Right after he’d given her his beat-up ’69 Chevy for Christmas.
She’d loved that old truck. She’d spent most of her summer sitting in his garage, holding up the work light so he could tinker under the hood while he told her stories.
He loved telling his tall tales. He had one for every occasion. Every problem or question she had, he would solve or answer by sharing one of his long-winded epics. And each time he told them they got a little bigger, a little harder to believe. But not for Georgia. She’d believed and never tired of hearing them. Those stories had inspired her to become a writer. Had made her believe she could do anything and be anything she wanted to be. Which explained why her first book had been about him. Her childhood hero.
Though she’d loved his tales of bayou monsters and city dwelling crocodiles, her favorite story had always been the one about how he’d met Georgia’s grandmother at a Christmas Eve dance. How he’d been with a group of friends and noticed her coming out of the kitchen with a wobbling tray. How, by the end of that night, they’d kissed under the mistletoe and he’d known she would be his wife. She’d died long before Georgia was born, but from Grandpa Bale’s vivid descriptions, she had been beautiful. Dark curly hair, like Georgia’s, but unlike her own fair, freckly hue, her grandmother’s skin was dark enough to cause a scandal when Grandpa Bale had made her his bride. But it was all worth it, he’d always assured his granddaughter. Because her smile, so brilliant and ever-present made him feel—in his words—“like Christmas morning everyday”.
She dropped the tire iron and swore, kneeling down to pick it up. She needed to stop reminiscing and focus on the task at hand or she would end up freezing to death on the side of the road, despite her layers of clothing.
Georgia heard a bark and an impatient scratch on the door nearest her head. “Are you sure you can’t hold it, Roux? You’re just as thin-skinned as I am. You won’t like it out here.”
Another scratch. Apparently she was willing to risk it. Georgia hurriedly opened the door before Roux could do any damage, and watched a blur of reddish gold leap past her and around the car, in search of a good patch of grass.
“Good luck,” Georgia called after her. “Just don’t wander too far.”
She wouldn’t. She never did. That was one of the things she’d always loved about her dog. Roux never left her behind. Which was why the idea of leaving her in a kennel for Georgia’s first road trip, her first trip out of state, was unimaginable. Luckily, Connie had known that before inviting them both over for Christmas.
Roux had been another gift from her grandfather. A wrinkly-skinned puppy he’d given her the same day he’d told her he was sick. Georgia sighed. She was sure this would be the year she didn’t miss him so desperately. Didn’t think about him constantly. The year she made new, happy memories for herself.
She got the spare tire on and rolled the old one out of the way when she heard Roux’s bark. Was it the wind that made it sound so far away? “Roux?”
The next bark sounded even farther away. Had the high pitch of anxiety to it. Not a good sign. She got up with difficulty, her limbs aching from the chill, and panicked. She couldn’t see Roux. Where was she?
Georgia cupped her hands over her eyes to keep out the icy wind, searching for that familiar reddish fur and black muzzle. “Roux, come back. Now!”
The dog’s long body was there for a moment, then disappeared again behind a sea of white. “Damn it.”
Her heart was racing. What had she been thinking? Roux never needed a leash, but they weren’t in Louisiana anymore. For all Georgia knew, there could be bears or mountain lions along this stretch of road. If she lost her…
Georgia ran. Or tried to. She swore again as her jeans were instantly drenched in the densely packed snow. With each step her feet sunk deeper. But no matter how many times she called, Roux would not come back. Or couldn’t. All the possible reasons why she couldn’t were about to give Georgia a heart attack.
The ground rose up into a small hills
ide, the snow receding to her ankles. She could see Roux clearly now on the other side. And finally, she understood. Georgia groaned. “Oh, give me strength. I thought you and I both agreed we’d stop rescuing broken men.”
She came closer, surveying the damage as Roux finally stopped barking, dancing around the prone figure with her tail wagging furiously.
“Yeah, yeah I see him.”