Debbie Macomber - 1225 Christmas Tree Lane

The drive from the library to Harbor Street Gallery took less than two minutes. Olivia hated driving such a short distance when at any other time in her life she would’ve walked those few blocks. The problem was that those blocks were a steep uphill climb and she didn’t have the energy. The surgery and subsequent infection had sapped her of strength and energy. Today, however, wasn’t a day to dwell on the cancer that had struck her so unexpectedly, like a viper hiding in the garden. Today, Christmas Eve, was a day for gratitude and hope.

She parked outside the art gallery her brother had purchased and was renovating. Olivia had been the one to suggest he buy the gallery; he’d done so, and it seemed to be a good decision for him.

Will was waiting for her at the door. “Liv!” he said, bounding toward her in his larger-than-life way. He extended his arms for a hug. “Merry Christmas.”

“The same to you,” she said, smiling up at him. Her brother, although over sixty, remained a strikingly handsome man. Now divorced and retired, he’d come home to reinvent himself, leaving behind his former life in Atlanta. In the beginning Olivia had doubted his motives, but slowly he’d begun to prove himself, becoming an active member of the town—and his family—once again.

“I wanted to give you a tour of the gallery,” Will told her, as he led her inside.

The last time Olivia had visited the town’s art gallery had been while Maryellen Bowman, Grace’s daughter, was the manager. Maryellen had been forced to resign during a difficult pregnancy. The business had rapidly declined once she’d left, and eventually the gallery had gone up for sale.

Gazing around, Olivia could hardly believe the changes. “You did all this in less than a month?” The place barely resembled the old Harbor Street Gallery. Before Will had taken over, artwork had been arranged in a simple, straightforward manner—paintings and photographs on the walls, sculpture on tables.

Will had built distinctive multi-level glass cases and brought in other inventive means of displaying a variety of mediums, including a carefully designed lighting system. One entire wall was taken up with a huge quilt, unlike any she’d seen before. At first glance she had the impression of fire.

Close up, it looked abstract, with vivid clashing colors and surreal, swirling shapes. But, stepping back, Olivia identified an image that suddenly emerged—a dragon. It was fierce, angry, red, shooting out flames in gold, purple and orange satin against a background that incorporated trees, water and winding roads.

“That’s by Shirley Bliss,” Will said, following her gaze.

“It took me weeks to convince her to let me put that up. I only have it until New Year’s.”

“It’s magnificent.” Olivia was in awe of the piece and couldn’t tear her eyes from it.

“It isn’t for sale, however.”

“That’s a shame.”

Will nodded. “She calls it Death. She created it shortly after her husband was killed in a motorcycle accident.” He slipped an arm through Olivia’s. “Can’t you just feel her anger and her grief?”

The quilt seemed to vibrate with emotions Olivia recognized from her own life—the time her 13-year-old son had drowned, more than twenty years ago. And the time, only weeks ago, that she’d been diagnosed with cancer. When she initially heard the physician say the word, she’d had a nearly irrepressible urge to argue with him. This couldn’t be happening to her. Clearly there’d been some mistake.

That disbelief had been replaced by a hot anger at the unfairness of it. Then came numbness, then grief and finally resignation. With Jordan’s death and with her own cancer, she’d experienced a tremendous loss that had brought with it fears of further loss.

Now, fighting her cancer—and that was how she thought of it, her cancer—she’d found a shaky serenity, even a sort of peace. That kind of acceptance was something she’d acquired with the love and assistance of her husband, Jack, her family and, as much as anyone, Grace, the woman who’d been her best friend her entire life.

“My living quarters are livable now, too,” Will was telling her. “I’ve moved in upstairs but I’m still sorting through boxes. Isn’t it great how things turned out? Because of Mack,” he added when Olivia looked at him quizzically.

“Getting the job here in town, you mean?”

“Yeah, since that meant he needed an apartment. At the same time, I needed out of the sublet, so it worked out perfectly.”

After a quick turn around the gallery to admire the other pieces on display, Will steered her toward the door. “Where would you like to go for lunch?” he asked. “Anyplace in town. Your big brother’s treating.”

“Well, seeing you’ve got all that money burning a hole in your pocket, how about the Pancake Palace?”

Will arched his brows. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m serious.” The Pancake Palace had long been a favorite of hers and in the past month or two, she’d missed it. For years, Grace and Olivia would head over to their favorite high school hangout after aerobics class on Wednesday night. The coconut cream pie and coffee was like a reward for their exertions, and the Palace was where they always caught up with each other’s news.

Goldie, their favorite waitress, had served them salty French fries and iced sodas back when neither of them worried about calories. These days their once-a-week splurge reminded them of their youth, and the nostalgic appeal of the place never faded.

Some of the most defining moments of their teenage years had occurred at the Pancake Palace. It was there that eighteen-year-old Grace admitted she was pregnant, shortly before graduation.

And years later, it’d been over coffee and tears that Olivia confessed Stan had asked for a divorce after Jordan’s death. And later, it was where Olivia told her she’d been appointed to the bench. The Pancake Palace was a place of memories for them, good as well as bad.

“The Pancake Palace? You’re really serious?” Will said again. “I can afford a lot better, you know.”

“You asked and that’s my choice.”

Will nodded. “Then off to the Palace we go.”

Her brother insisted on driving and Olivia couldn’t fault his manners. He was the consummate gentleman, opening the passenger door for her and helping her inside. The snow that had fallen earlier dusted the buildings and trees but had melted on the sidewalks and roads, leaving them slick. The slate-gray skies promised more snow, however.

Olivia had been out with her brother plenty of times and he’d never bothered with her car door. She was his sister and manners were reserved for others.

She wondered if Will’s solicitude was linked to her illness. Although he might’ve been reluctant to admit it, Will had been frightened. His caring comforted her, particularly since they’d been at odds during the past few years.

He assisted her out of the car and opened the door to the Pancake Palace. They’d hardly entered the restaurant when Goldie appeared.

“Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Olivia!” Goldie cried. Then she shocked Olivia by throwing both sinewy arms around her. “My goodness, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Merry Christmas, Goldie,” Olivia murmured.

The waitress had to be close to seventy and could only be described as “crusty.” To Olivia’s utter astonishment, Goldie pulled a hankie from her pink uniform pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” she said with a sniffle.

“Oh, Goldie…” Olivia had no idea what to say at this uncharacteristic display of affection.