Christmases after that don’t seem so prominent or scary. In fact, the idea that I have no idea of what the future holds tickles me with excitement over the possibilities. I smile up at Mum and nod at the Santa Claus that’s flashing up a peace sign as I walk towards the house. I need to find some of that peace within myself and trust what the universe is offering me. I think I’ve come to just the right place.
I can hear the low hum of The Grateful Dead playing through the house as I stretch out my legs in my bed, enjoying the soft caress of the blue velvety blanket between my toes. I feel like I’ve gone back in time to when I was sixteen years old, to when it was the norm to wake up to the voices of Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan. I smile at the memories of relaxing with my dad on a Sunday, listening to his music and learning about the bands he grew up with. I miss the days where arguing with him over which Grateful Dead song was their hidden gem was my only care in the world. Ahh the voice of Jerry Garcia could soothe anyone’s soul.
Except I’m not in my teenage bedroom. I’m in a large room with wooden beams and flower garlands draped around a stunning log fireplace. There are potted tall green plants either side of the double king-size bed and black and white photographs of mountains and trees hung up on the log walls. It’s gorgeous. Through the sheer navy and gold star print curtains I can see that it is snowing and my heart flutters back to my sixteen-year-old self once more. Why Scott had insisted we stay in a hotel when we visited my parents escapes me; this room is a dream.
Maybe I could go back in time for the day, before I became an adult, before I met Scott, to when it was just me, my parents and Madi. The Grateful Dead was already playing. I could search out my dad and finish where we left off fifteen years ago in our Grateful Dead debate and spend the rest of the day frolicking in the snow. I am just about to make good on my plan when Madi bursts into my room carrying a tray of something that smells incredible, and my laptop bag. My stomach simultaneously growls in excitement and drops with dread.
‘Right, this should be enough French toast and coffee to keep you fuelled and strong. You will not leave this bedroom until that manuscript is polished and sent and then the festivities can get underway,’ Madi announces, placing the tray and my laptop bag on my bed.
I slowly start to sit up and tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears. I feel like the princess from The Princess and the Pea in this giant bed. I want to protest but Madi moves closer. I am now sitting upright, and I see the giant stack of French toast with what can only be my mum’s diary-free whipped cream, fresh berries and agave syrup. I don’t want to say anything that will jeopardize Madi putting it in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile as Madi sets the tray on the bed in front of me, trying to make sure nothing spills.
‘I know you have a lot going on, but once this script is sent, we can see what Breckenridge has to offer in terms of festive fun and make our own traditions,’ Madi says, moving away from the tray, satisfied that it isn’t going to topple over and spill its contents. I begin to pour myself a cup of coffee from the cafetière when Madi kisses me on the head. ‘Harper Hayes, work your magic and get it done,’ she adds, dropping another kiss on my forehead and turning to leave. Though I’m not technically divorced yet, Madi has recently reverted to calling me by my maiden name and it makes me feel a little more like I’m taking charge and in control.
I take a sip of coffee and smile as the smooth flavour hits my taste buds. Guilt washes over me when I take in Madi’s excitement for being here and her desire to take in as much holiday fun as we can. She didn’t exactly have a Holly Jolly Holiday last year, what with being cooped up with me and trying to mend the pieces of my broken heart. She’d never hold that against me, but I can’t put her through the same thing this year. ‘Thank you, Mads, and thank you for being here,’ I manage. Madi stops walking and turns to face me.
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,’ she says before sauntering out the door in her pink and white polka dot dress that she has layered with a long-sleeved grey top. Talking about going back in time, Madi wouldn’t be out of place in the Fifties. She embodies the word pin-up. She is sexy mixed with elegance and modesty and absolute perfection in my eyes.
We draw quite the eye whenever we venture out of our writing caves and brave the real world, together. Madi in her bright colours, bleach blonde hair, kitten heels and tattoos occasionally on show and me with my Rapunzel locks and a hippie dress sense that I never grew out of. I had flowers in my eyes as a kid and wanted to wear everything my mum wore. The long skirts, wool cardigans and lace everything. I adore lace. Just like when I was a kid, everything is either oversized or cropped and the more lace the better.
I prop up some pillows behind me and polish off two slices of French toast dripping with agave syrup, before I switch on my laptop.
I can do this, I say to myself. I can polish up and edit this script. The characters are in love; I know what it’s like to be in love. I sigh and take another huge bite of French toast, making sure to cover it in whipped cream.
Jerry Garcia croons through my dad’s old stereo. The lyrics from ‘Sugar Magnolia’ reach my eardrums. I smile. That would also be the name of my mum and dad’s shop. They sell organic and natural, homemade, well, everything really, straight from their workshop. Soaps, candles, teas and baked goods; all beautiful and delicious. I can’t wait to test out their new products while I’m here. That was my most favourite job growing up.
I close my eyes, savouring the sweet flavours lingering on my tongue. I push any negative thoughts away and allow the happy memories to take over my brain, trying to envision Jerry Garcia singing the soulful melody to his love. Despite my not quite feeling the love myself, the music does make me feel more in tune with my creative self. I start typing.
It can’t be more than an hour later and I’m lying on the side of the bed, my hair dangling over the edge and I’m swishing it side to side, a part of me hoping that my mum dusted the floor before my arrival. I have been hit with a sudden surge of writer’s block.
My leading man is in a room with his ex. They are just talking when the ex makes her move, planting a kiss on his lips just as his fiancée walks in. I need the leading lady to believe it’s not what it seems, but I’m stuck. Why should she trust her fiancé?
I sit up, the blood rushing to my head not helping matters. Come on, back to work. I try to rally myself. Viewers want to be whisked away in this beautiful fairy tale. Who says fairy tales aren’t true? You must open your heart to love. Love is everywhere, and my job is to fill everyone’s heart with love. I choke on the sweet taste of syrup that is lingering on my tongue. I didn’t fill Scott’s heart with love. Now that is someone else’s job.
I push the laptop away at the unpleasant thought and climb out of the bed, tiptoeing to save my feet from the chilly wooden floorboards. I pick up a few logs from the wicker basket at the side of the fireplace and place them in the grate. With the matches I find on the mantel, I light the fire and sit cross-legged on the deep purple rug in front of it.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I don’t want to think about Scott and his girlfriend. I want the nightmares of seeing them kiss to go away. But why can’t my brain let go of him? I really need to finish this script. Lara has shown interest in my first original screenplay and has given me one more chance to prove myself as a romance writer; I can’t mess this up.
I take a deep breath in and watch as each log in the fireplace ignites. I get lost in the rising flames and fiddle with the fluff of the purple rug. Affairs aren’t exactly unheard of. It’s just that I never in a million years saw Scott as someone who could do that. I would have
