Christmas at Eden Manor

Brie Graves sat in an outdoor café in downtown Savannah and wondered why doing exactly what she wanted for a month had turned out to be so boring.

Two weeks ago, when she’d come to the resolution to spend December having fun, indulging any random whim and not worrying about the future, she’d expected to actually enjoy it. Instead, she’d spent the past twelve days wandering around Savannah, brooding about what she would do after New Year’s.

She’d been under contract as a restoration artisan for a variety of church-restoration jobs for the past few years—working primarily with the stained glass, which was her specialty in her historic preservation degree—but her last contract had ended a few weeks ago. She couldn’t find any other jobs, even with her skill and experience.

She’d had to give up her lovely apartment and move in with her brother last week, and for all she knew she’d be living there for the foreseeable future. She loved her brother, and they actually got along really well, but he was busy with his career and his wife, and he didn’t need a single, jobless sister hanging around all the time.

If no position had opened up as of New Year’s, she was going to have to start applying at restaurants and retail stores, which was such a depressing thought she could hardly process it.

Taking a sip of cappuccino, she turned her head to gaze at the small painting she’d been admiring for the past three days.

There was a holiday art festival going on in Savannah this week, and she’d spent hours wandering the stands and exhibits scattered through the historic neighborhood streets. But she kept coming back to this one painting. She loved it so much she would have bought it in an instant, but even five hundred dollars—which was moderately priced for the art at this festival—was far too high for her current budget.

She was about to descend into a full-fledged mope when her phone rang.

She stared down at her brother’s name for a full thirty seconds until she finally connected the call. “Hey, Mitchell.”

“What are you doing?” he asked rather brusquely. Mitchell had never been known for any particular civility or grace in his manners.

“I’m downtown looking at the art again.”

“By yourself?”

“What does it matter?”

“Why don’t you hang out with your friends or something?”

She sighed, understanding now the purpose of his call. He might sound rather abrupt, but he was worried about her. “They all have jobs that keep them busy during the days.”

“You’ll find something else. You always do.”

“Contract jobs in historic preservation aren’t very easy to come by. I’ve been lucky these past few years.”

“You haven’t been lucky. You’re good. So you’ll find something else.”

“We’ll see.”

“You know you can stay with me for as long as you need. Deanna and I don’t care at all.”

“I know. I appreciate it.” She made sure to sound patient since she really did appreciate her brother and his wife, but she was getting tired of having these conversations. Lately everyone she knew seemed to want to have one with her.

She hated feeling needy that way.

“Deanna thinks you’ve been avoiding her.”

“I haven’t been avoiding her!”

“Then why do you spend all day away from the house?”

There was some truth to her sister-in-law’s suspicion, but it had nothing to do with not wanting to hang out with Deanna, who was friendly, practical, and kindhearted. It had more to do with the fact that seeing Mitchell and Deanna—who were so happy and satisfied both in career and in their marriage—made Brie feel more like a loser.

“You’re not still moping about that bastard Chase, are you?” Mitchell asked, his voice a little rougher, as it always was when he referred to her ex-boyfriend.

“No,” Brie said with a sigh. “I’m not.”

“You sound mopey to me.”

“Well, if you want the truth, I’m not having the best year of my life, but I’m not still hung up on Chase. I know what an ass he was. I don’t want anything to do with him anymore. But it’s still depressing to know that you were stupid enough to fall for someone like that.”

“Everyone falls for the wrong person occasionally.”