Bright Lights, Big Christmas(3)

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Birdie hefted a cooler onto the front seat of the pickup truck. “There’s sandwiches here so you don’t have to stop to eat.” She placed a plaid thermos in the truck’s cup holder. “Here’s your coffee. Your daddy said to tell you there’s a good rest stop outside Winchester, Virginia, where he and Murphy always pull over. Clean bathrooms and plenty of room to park. Make sure you lock the doors and get a couple hours of sleep before you get back on the road.”

“Okay,” Kerry said. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The sun was rising, peeking through the fog-shrouded mountains. Nervous energy fizzled in her veins. She hadn’t slept much the night before, worrying about the trip, towing the trailer while braving New York City traffic, and yes, the prospect of living in a mouse-infested claustrophobic canned ham for the next three weeks.

“I better get going,” she said, gunning the engine. “I don’t wanna piss Murphy off by being late.”

“Have you got your phone? And your charger? Plenty of wool socks? Extra underwear? God knows when you’ll get to do laundry.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes,” Kerry said. “I’m a grown-ass woman, Mom. Not an eight-year-old going to summer camp.”

“I know,” Birdie said, leaning in and kissing Kerry on the cheek. “And I know you’ll be working, selling trees. But don’t forget what I said about the magic of New York at Christmas. Don’t forget to stop and have fun.”

“You mean, don’t forget to stop and sniff the subway platform?”

“Don’t be like that,” Birdie chastised.

“Fun. Right.” Kerry rolled her eyes.

She took a deep breath, looked both ways, and slowly pulled out onto the county road.

“As if.”





chapter 3





Google Maps told her she should reach New York in nearly ten hours, which would have put her in the city by around five o’clock Saturday.

But those maps didn’t account for an aging truck with a top speed of fifty miles per hour, towing a fifteen-foot trailer. It didn’t account for the construction delays on the interstate, snarled traffic around multiple wrecks, and it definitely didn’t take into consideration the frequent stops necessitated by a white-knuckle driver amped up by too much caffeine.

It was already past three when Kerry pulled into the rest stop outside Winchester. She found a parking spot at the back of the lot, locked the door, and, despite all the coffee, instantly dozed off.

It was nearing dark when her phone buzzed her back to consciousness. She yawned and reached for the phone, gasping when she saw the time—5:30—and the caller—Murphy Tolliver.

“Are you getting close?” Her brother never wasted time on niceties.

“Not exactly. This damn truck won’t go over fifty, and with all the construction on the interstate…”

“Okay, where are you? Jersey?”

“More like Virginia.”

“Jesus, Kerry! You’re still hours away. At the rate you’re going it’ll be close to midnight. I haven’t slept in two days and I’m freezing my ass off in this truck waiting around on you.”

“Then get a hotel room,” she snapped. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“We can’t afford a hotel in the city. Just call me when you’re an hour out. And hurry up. We need to be ready to start selling trees first thing in the morning.”

He disconnected and Kerry scowled down at the phone. “Gonna be a fun few weeks, for sure.”



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By the time she’d navigated the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged onto West Thirty-Eighth Street, Kerry’s hands were slippery with sweat and her pulse rate was sky high. If her GPS was correct, she was thirty minutes away from the corner in the West Village where Murphy had erected the tree stand.

She tapped his name on her call list and he picked up on the first ring. “Hey. You getting close?”

“According to my phone, I’m five miles away.” Her eyes burned with fatigue and her stomach roiled from the stress of the day.

“Well, I’ve got bad news. Some a-hole in a gray Mercedes parked in front of the stand. Pisses me off. Everybody in the neighborhood knows we park the trailer here this time of year. If it’s not moved, you’ll have to park down the block. I’ll put out some cones to try to block it off till you get here.”

“Okay. Whatever.” She wanted to ask Murphy why he hadn’t blocked off the spot in front of the tree stand before the rich a-hole parked there, but arguing with her brother was like howling into a hurricane. A waste of time.

As she got closer to Greenwich Village she held her breath and slowed her roll. She was terrified she’d sideswipe cars parked on both sides of the already narrow streets. As she passed street signs, old memories from those long-ago family trips to the city bubbled to the surface. Morton Street. She’d Rollerbladed down this block on a quiet Sunday, hanging on to a rope being towed behind Murphy on his bike. And yes, Christopher Street. There was a street vendor on this corner who sold roasted chestnuts, and wasn’t that the deli with the black-and-white cookies she’d never seen any place but New York?

The buzz of her phone yanked her back to reality.