The nick before christma.., p.1
The Nick Before Christmas, page 1
Praise for K.L. Brady
Publisher's Weekly calls K.L. Brady's work “comic and charming...”
RT Book Reviews calls Brady's work “Hilarious!”...and says she “draws readers in immediately...and propels them straight through the drama, humor and the various twists and turns that will leave you exhausted but satisfied.”
K.L. Brady is the Christmas story princess. ~ Apple Reviewer [Seven Minutes of Christmas Magic]
This book had all the makings of a Hallmark holiday movie. The mistaken text send to wrong/right person, then not having proper information for a meet up, a disappointing reality from missed meet up., a plan to find Mr. Right but finding out a secret that is or is not a secret. Everything about it was cute and perfect for a holiday at home flick. ~ Amazon Reviewer [The 12 Daves of Christmas]
Better than a Hallmark Movie. This story was so sweet that it reminded me of a Hallmark Christmas movie. There were parts that made me laugh out loud and others that made me teary eyed. Excellent pace of the story, very well written and I loved the chemistry between A.J. And Kristie. ~ Amazon Reviewer [Five Golden Rings]
Family and Spies. The story focuses on Allie whose career goal has always been to get into the Agency and this year is her last chance. Her final evaluation coincides with the [New Year’s] Spy Ball, a series of team challenges, a slimy ex, a best friend who has been lying to her for thirteen years, plus an undercover surveillance. ~ Goodreads Reviewer [007th Day of Christmas]
The Nick Before Christmas
A Second Chance Holiday Romance
K.L. Brady
LadyLit Press
P.O. Box
Cheltenham, MD 20623
Copyright © 2023 by K.L. Brady
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
October 2023
First Edition
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
July 25th – The Other Christmas
Chapter 2
Merry Birthday to Me
Chapter 3
The Ghost of Christmas Past…
Chapter 4
Santa, Baby…
Chapter 5
The Old Heave Ho-Ho-Ho…
Chapter 6
Countdown to Christmas
Chapter 7
The Greatest Christmas Gift
Chapter 8
Labor Day – 110 Days Until Christmas Eve
Chapter 9
A Laborious Day
Chapter 10
106 Days Until Christmas Eve
Chapter 11
A Lump of Coal
Chapter 12
99 Days Until Christmas Eve – For Goodness’ Sake
Chapter 13
Columbus Day – 73 Days to Christmas Eve
Chapter 14
Still 73 Days to Christmas Eve
Chapter 15
53 Days to Christmas Eve – Yule-a-ween
Chapter 16
Veteran’s Day – 43 Days to Christmas Eve
Chapter 17
Thanksgiving and Black Friday - 29 Days to Christmas Eve
Chapter 18
13 Days Until Christmas Eve
Chapter 19
Six Days Until Christmas Eve
Chapter 20
Christmas Eve…
Chapter 21
The Nick Before Christmas
Chapter 22
Merry Birthday – Seven Months Later…
About the Author
Also by K.L. Brady
Prologue
Obituary for Vanetta Katherine Wright - 1945-2019
by Nickie Wright
Vanetta, a 74-year-old resident of Washington, D.C., passed away peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by me, a dog named Barney, and the three freshly baked sweet potato pies she planned to gift Jesus. She was confident the incentive would compel him to allow her express entry through the Pearly Gates. Yes, her recipe was that good.
During her formative years in her hometown of Belle’s Aire, Ohio, villagers affectionately called Vanetta the “colored girl who was going to take someone’s eye out twirling that baton,” the bookworm, and the best cook since Paula Dean. She chose a job as a clerk for the Justice Department over thousands of dollars in college debt, a decision that would save her more money than Geico.
Upon attending her first cocktail party in Nation’s Capital, she met the love of her life – Domenic Wright, a U.S. Air Force communication specialist who was short on words, long on promises, and looked like “a whole snack” in his uniform.
They shacked up in a one-bedroom halfway between the Pentagon and Justice Department Headquarters and then married a year later, believing short engagements led to long marriages.
They reevaluated their long-held marriage beliefs during divorce proceedings in court five years later.
But the marriage had been a fruitful one, bearing an assortment of inappropriate Polaroid pictures taken during a visit to the San Diego Zoo, an inherited set of Le Creuset cookware used to cook up my dad “something special” during his papa was a rolling stone phase (coincidentally, he was hospitalized with a stomach ailment soon after), and a baby daughter named Gale Domenic Wright on Christmas in July because Nickie sounded better than, “Whoopsie.”
(Needless to say, I’m an only child.)
To say Vanetta loved Christmas would be an understatement. She embodied the principle of peace on earth and goodwill to men in her interactions with men, women, boys, and girls. In addition to being sweet and kind, she was the original Christmas crazy, keeping a fully decorated tree perched in her living room through the 25th of July to both celebrate her daughter’s birth and the fact that (by then) she’d removed most of the needles from her shag carpet.
As a testament to Domenic’s undying love (or poor memory), he kept Vanetta listed as his beneficiary on all his life insurance policies, much to the surprise of his second wife. However, in death, he gave Vanetta the life she deserved. She spent the rest of her life minding my business and embracing her second act—owning a successful catering business.
Vanetta loved rhythm and blues, including everything Motown, six days a week. She breathed music. She was notorious for listening to the same songs 37,000 times in a row, to the point where you’d swear you’d never listen to a song again—but those songs bring comfort to this day. I was expelled from the seventh-grade Christmas concert choir for mindlessly singing an earworm, Sexual Healing, during practice. Growing up, I thought only two music groups existed–The Commodores and Earth, Wind, and Fire; I also believed each had made only one album. But the records I once hated and swore I’d never listen to again are the ones I listen to today to keep Mom close when she feels far away. On the seventh day, she listened to Gospel music until noon—no heathenish exceptions.
Vanetta had the best sense of humor and loved to laugh. She committed most of her witty writing in messages to me during my prolonged college career. Most of the letters involved begging me to write back and finish school already; six years in undergraduate school for a journalism degree was “plenty long enough.” But she also relayed gems like “I have drawers that have been dust rags longer than you’ve been alive.” She adored cooking, and the overwhelming majority of her concoctions were not only edible but also delicious...usually. In one college letter she wrote, “I baked my first apple pie from the absolute stump. I would say it was not delicious or perfect, but it was pie. Anything worth doing is worth trying more than once.”
I’ll never forget her last piece of relationship advice about my boyfriend at the time. “[He] is as dry as burnt toast. He loves you like a pack of Energizer batteries—great while they last, but eventually, they’ll need to be replaced.”
She left this world as she came in, except she was fully clothed and off the bottle. She didn’t tell me she was dying. She didn’t even tell me she was sick – the only two secrets she ever kept in her entire life would be the two that would completely and irrevocably change my whole world. I never got to say goodbye and never had a chance to say thank you.
Before she passed on to her next life, she taught me some of the most essential lessons, including the value of finding my calling and living my truth, no matter the age.
My world will be much lonelier, quieter, and emptier without her. But she left me with a broken-down Buick, an obstinate dog, and a lifetime of memories I will cherish forever. Thank you, Mom, for giving me the one gift that keeps on giving--every breath I breathe, and with each morning I awaken, the chance to get life right another day. I promise to follow my dreams and live to the fullest.
Nickie intended to keep her word. She didn’t.
Chapter One
July 25th – The Other Christmas
Seconds before she opened her eyes, Nickie thanked God for another day (in general) and this special day (in particular). Gratefully, she viewed the sun’s rise over the ho rizon and bathed in its golden rays from her bedroom’s palatial window. The late-July blaze burned too hot for holiday snow, but the decorated, Douglass fir (the fake holdover from Christmas) had stood in the family room for seven months, signifying the hope for Christmas in July. She prayed by the end of her fiftieth birthday she’d have answers to the burning question in her life: should I say yes to Smith? Will I ever follow my calling?
Her mid-point of life milestone left her with high hopes, but a sobering reality—the vision board—greeted her when she rolled onto her side. Her calling, the creative pen, haunted her. She should’ve achieved all five goals by now—instead she accomplished none. Someone described dreams as goals with deadlines. For her, deadlines turned into expiration dates, leaving her dreams spoiled like rancid cheese.
She’d read too many articles about women who cracked life’s secret code to happiness and fulfillment in their forties. Most of these women had reached the age of fifty, crushing life and ready to take their victory laps. Nickie’s only victory belonged to nature—she hadn’t died at forty-nine.
Fifty years ago, Nickie’s mother (God rest her soul) named her only daughter Gale Dominic (Nickie) Wright. The literal translation of her first and middle names was “strong wind of the Lord.” She accepted her “Lord Wind” fate—a directionless force, never settled, never satisfied. Her mom said her name was biblical, prophetic, quoting John 3:8 “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it’s going.” Nickie was grounded but not settled, successful but not a success; she was alive but not living.
Even as she spent her adult years burying her happiness in work, the dreams of her twenty-something-self vanished like wisps of smoke. Despite the failures, Nickie held onto her faith…and her job. It owed her because focusing on work had cost Nickie much more than her calling; she lost…him.
He escaped within an inch of marriage, a memory that still stirred waves of emotions. She admired him for his courage to do what she couldn’t all those years ago but buried her fondness under a thick layer of bitterness. He forced her hand, and she despised him for it. Instead of inspiring her to new heights, her vision board served as a daily reminder of everything she never achieved without him.
Today, however, would change the course of her existence. It was written. Redemption would come in the form of a long overdue promotion and a raise. After years of ladder climbing, she’d finally have the money to prioritize herself, to fund her vision board, to setup her comeback.
A thousand thoughts cluttered her mind before she rolled out of bed.
She arose from her DreamCloud mattress with bedhead and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, judging her years. Her chestnut skin barely concealed the crow’s feet beginning to frame her eyes. And the dark circles beneath her baby browns refused to grant her a victory after her overnight battle with menopause.
This is fifty.
An early morning knock on her door came from the usual source: Sasha, her sister from another mother. Five years younger, she was youthful blonde exuberance personified—and quite fit.
Sasha squatted as Nickie’s roommate for the past few years, another situation long past its expiration date.
“Merry Birthday!” Sasha sang the traditional greeting she adopted from Nickie’s mother.
“Come in!” Nickie called. She peered out from the bathroom and smiled because Sasha breezed inside with a bowl of her must-have comfort food, Very Berry Cap’n Crunch, a glass of cold milk, and set them on the dresser. She wore the pinkest ever Barbie pajamas, which Nickie had gifted her for Christmas, and a twisted her back-length hair into a messy bun.
“My cereal. It is Merry Birthday,” Nickie said.
Miss Sunshine arrived before Nickie too her first espresso sip, aka too freaking early. Over the years, Nickie served as Sasha’s muscle to protect her from the bullies. This morning, Nickie would need to protect Sasha from her own wrath; Nickie without caffeine was the Kraken.
Sasha stepped out the room and entered a second later, concealing something behind her back. She returned and plopped on her chocolate chaise.
Sasha examined Nickie’s face and gawked at her as if she’d transformed into the Wicked Witch of the West, green and all. “So! Looks like someone had a long night. Also, you’re someone.”
“Me? What gave it away?” Nickie asked. “The black circles under my eyes after three hour-long hot flashes? The pungent stench from a night spent simmering in a pool of my meno-sweat? Or perhaps the long-sleeved flannel pajama shirt paired with the lonely sock on my right foot and shorts…because I’m as dank as a sumo wrestler on a detox diet.” She glanced at the heavens. “Thanks for the uterus, Mom!”
“Uh, perhaps I should come back…with an extra tall espresso…sometime next month.” Sasha swept her legs over the side of the chaise as if preparing to leave. Regretful, Nicki gave her “the hand.”
“I’m sorry, Sis. Rough is an understatement. One minute, I’m a human popsicle; the next, I’m hotter than a burnt rib on Grandma’s Weber grill. I wish my body would pick a misery versus all of them at once,” she said. “And before you ask—still no decision on Smith.”
“Sometimes indecision is decision, would you agree?”
“Let me guess you got that from a fortune cookie with yesterday’s lunch.”
Sasha turned to Nickie’s not-so-secret shame, her vision board, otherwise known as the cluttered collage of unrealized expectations and disappointments. “Sis? Once upon a time, this reflected your dreams; now it looks like a combination of Santa’s wish list and a failed scrapbooking exercise.”
Ouch. That hurt, but Sasha wasn’t wrong. Nickie’s vision board contained clear goals in the beginning. She achieved a lot of nothing. She blamed time, along with her dwindling motivation, for being defeated.
“You’ll recall, after your break-up with he-who-should-not-be-named, I encouraged you to start the board,” Sasha began, “you posted, what? Five pictures. Why do I recall a BMW? Six series?”
“Yes, the convertible. My name means wind. I needed some in my hair.”
“What about the Italian villa? You don’t even have your passport.”
“I support local businesses.”
Sasha rolled her eyes “Okay, the Harlequin-cover model husband.”
“I dream in muscular guns, bare chests, and tight glutes. Harlequin.”
“What happened to the NY Times Bestseller list headline?”
“That was more the result of a dream versus a dream itself. I wanted to be a successful writer.”
“Do you notice a disturbing trend? Everything you’ve wanted since you were a kid has disappeared, replaced by a Vera Wang wedding dress, Tiffany’s, and some random island. Stunning, yes, but you don’t even wear dresses. And Tiffany’s? The only jewelry you wear is an Apple iWatch. Then, there’s a Caribbean island, three different cars, some buildings…three random dudes. I mean, what happened to the dream part?”
“The dreams haven’t left the board,” Nickie whispered before her gaze traveled to the ground. “They’re just a little hidden away…under the other stuff.”
“You mean you’ve buried your dreams? Why didn’t you invite me to the funeral? Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“Fine, not buried…more so displaced. I mean, I want everything on the board. I’ll concede, however, I want some things more than others.”
She lied to herself, but the truth was she wanted it all; three years ago, her goals served as beacons of hope for her dreams, and she believed they were leading to her true calling. Somewhere along the journey, she lost sight of those dreams, and with them went the calling too. Her path had become cluttered with choices that all led back to one outcome – failure.
