Christmas Crush on Fireweed Island - Karice Bolton

Chapter One

November 24th

“I know this is completely unconventional, and I’m very sorry for your loss.” The man’s nasally voice droned through my parents’ family room. He didn’t seem very sorry, just hurried.

It was Thanksgiving week in Phoenix. Despite the air conditioner running in the background, the smell of hot cider hung thick in the air. But life felt like anything other than a holiday. It didn’t matter that my mom had painstakingly placed her ceramic turkey platter on the dining room table or the overly large acorn candleholders on the end tables. The cornstalks near the fireplace did little to lift my spirits either.

Even though those might appear like a fire hazard in most states, our fireplace had never been turned on.

I stared at the attorney, who was videoconferencing with my family, and I wondered if he liked his job. I pressed my lips together in a frown.

Just because I wasn’t fond of mine didn’t mean the entire world hated theirs.

Although, he did have to deliver peoples’ final wishes. That task didn’t sound exactly exhilarating or uplifting, especially with the holidays right around the corner.

We’d moved to Arizona from Illinois when I was a teenager, and I’d never quite gotten used to wearing shorts while eating turkey and stuffing myself with mashed potatoes.

And I was thirty-two years old.

And why was I thinking about this when I’d just lost my favorite aunt?

Who cared that it was hot outside while I ate turkey in the air-conditioning and gorged on boxes of chocolate my aunt would send us every year from her little shop?

I held in a sigh.

We were still in shock from finding out Aunt Phyllis had died. She was my quirky, fun aunt who always seemed carefree. Yet her attorney was adamant that we have this meeting today, of all days.

The man continued, “So, I’m doing as Phyllis Jones requested. She wanted the reading of her will to be the Monday before Thanksgiving.”

The balding man with wire-rimmed glasses stared at us, and we stared back until my dad cleared his throat and took a sip of his cider that he’d added some whisky to earlier that afternoon. My dad and his sister were extremely close even though she lived fourteen hundred miles away.

My dad frowned and furrowed his brows. “That would imply that Phyllis expected to die around the holidays.”

The attorney shook his head. “Not at all. If she’d passed at another time of year, she expected you all to wait until the Monday before Thanksgiving.” The attorney looked over his glasses as he futzed with something on his laptop. “She wanted this song played while I read her Last Will and Testament.”

I snuck a look at my sister, who appeared to be as horrified as I was when The Chipmunks’ Christmas Don’t be Late started playing over the attorney’s laptop.

“Such theatrics,” my dad mumbled with a curl to his lips. “Phyllis always did love Christmas.”

My mom squeezed my dad’s hand. “You’re not too far removed, Stan.”

The attorney scowled and adjusted the volume before he began.

I, Phyllis Jones, residing in the town of Fireweed on the Island of Fireweed in the state of Washington, being of sound mind and not acting under duress or undue influence and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and I hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me.

As the Chipmunks squealed in the background, I wasn’t sure how of sound mind my aunt was regardless of her written words.

I direct that all my debts and expenses of my last illness, funeral, and burial be paid as soon after my death as may be reasonably convenient, or if not convenient, just pay the darned bill. I don’t need anything lingering. You always leave things lingering, Stan. I need to rest in peace.

My dad chuckled as the attorney adjusted his tie and cleared his throat again. The Chipmunks hit a high note before he continued.

My sister and I traded bewildered glances as the reading went on.

I devise and bequeath my property, both real and personal and wherever situated, as follows:

Sasha Jones, my very single and lovely niece, shall receive the Little Shop of Cocoa & Caramel, wherein all recipes, merchandise, and furnishings will transfer to her to do with as she pleases.

My entire family turned in their seats, mouths open, to stare at me.

I didn’t even cook, let alone bake,