The Christmas Grinch - Rebel Hart
Prologue: Hazel
My heart leaped as I came around the corner from my mother’s kitchen and saw the guys kneeling around the fireplace, bickering over the best way to arrange the logs. Tom, being older, insisted on ordering Josh around on how to do it. All while my dad sat in his recliner, supervising and throwing out his own instructions here and there.
My sisters, Margo and Payton, stood in the corner with their arms crossed, smiling and giggling at their men. I surveyed the scene, sucking in a deep breath. Once the men could agree enough to get the fire going, the room would be lit up from the orange glow. I stared at the stone mantle, filled with anticipation. Soon, it would be lined with a garland of pine needles. There would be little red velvet bows for each of us with a stocking hanging beneath.
“The dishes are done,” I smiled wide to my sisters. “You know what that means.”
Mom came in behind me, plopping down on the couch. “It means we all sit and relax for a little while. Some of us were cooking all day.”
“Hey, don’t forget I’m the one who was responsible for the turkey,” Dad told her. “Cooked to perfection.”
“It was perfect,” I nodded. “And so was the cranberry sauce and the stuffing and ham...and all of it. Delicious as always. But now the real fun can begin. Does anyone want to help me?”
“Mom’s right,” Margo darkened her eyes at me, even though I was already half-way towards the stairs. “Can’t we just sit by the fire for a moment?”
I submitted to sitting in between my parents with a sigh. I had waited all year. I could wait just a few more minutes, I guessed.
“Fine, but don’t get too cozy,” I groaned.
Being the daughter of a man who owned Christmas tree farms all across the state, the holidays had always been a big time for our family. But the magic of it all seemed to infect me more than anyone, Dad included. It had always been that way. My love for Christmas started when I was just a little girl, but it seemed to be growing every year.
I only wished everyone else still felt the same. After so many years of being the primary cook and maid and everything else behind our holiday feasts, even Mom’s excitement over the holidays seemed to be waning.
Dad regarded the month of December with appreciation. It was responsible for how he made his living and supported us, after all. But his overall attitude still took on a begrudging sort of smog, like it was with most dads I supposed. He did all the tasks, grumbling every step of the way, but spiked his drinks with whiskey and was usually the first one to fall asleep, snoring loudly by the end of every gathering. Judging by how heavy his eyelids were becoming just as the warmth from the fire started radiating out into the room, I figured he was getting close to doing that very thing. Soon we’d be trying to carry on conversation over the, sometimes alarming, wort-hog sounds ripping out from his mouth and nose.
My sister, Margo, and her husband, Tom, were both lawyers and if they did love Christmas as much as I did, it must have been some kind of occupational hazard for them not to allow themselves to show it. Our little sister, Payton, only seemed to appreciate the opportunity to show off whatever new college boyfriend she had roped into coming home with her for winter break. This year’s fella was named Josh, and he was a football player who didn’t even bother changing out of his baggy, gray university logo hoodie into something nicer for dinner.
I squirmed in my seat impatiently, glancing down at my thin gold watch every few seconds. I let exactly twenty minutes pass before flying to my feet, ordering Josh to come with me to help carry the boxes.
“We really could wait until tomorrow,” Mom protested, watching me bolt for the stairs.
“No, we can’t. We always start right after Thanksgiving dinner. Why on earth would we change such a steadfast tradition now!?”
She mumbled some sort of argument, but I took off without hearing the words. I pulled down the chain for the attic door and instantly felt a flutter in my heart. My bones knew what the creaking sounds of those stairs and the musky scent of the stale attic air meant. It was time to start pulling down all the