Just Like Magic - Softcover

Hogle, Sarah

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593539850 ISBN 13: 9780593539859

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

The holidays were never her thing, until she accidentally conjures the Holiday Spirit...before her very eyes.

Bettie Hughes once knew the comfort of luxury, flaunting a collection of designer purses and an enviable dream home in Hawaii. That was before she lost all her money. Long obsessed with her public image, Bettie boasts an extravagant lifestyle on social media. But the reality is Bettie is broke and squatting in Colorado, and her family has no idea.
 
Christmas, with its pressure to meet familial expectations, is looming when Bettie plays a vinyl record of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” backward and accidentally conjures up Hall, the Holiday Spirit, in the form of a charming and handsome (if offbeat) man. Once the shock wears off, Bettie knows she’s stumbled upon the greatest gift: a chance to make all her holiday wishes come true, plus a ready-made fiancé.
 
But as some of Bettie’s wishes lose their charm, she finds herself thrown off-kilter by Hall’s sweet nature. Suddenly, grumpy Bettie is finding her heart merry and light. But the happier she gets, the shorter Hall’s time on earth grows. Can Bettie channel the Christmas spirit and learn to live with goodwill toward all men? Or will her selfish ways return as soon as the holidays are over?
 

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sarah Hogle is a mom of three who enjoys trashy TV and provoking her husband for attention. Her dream is to live in a falling-apart castle in a forest that is probably cursed. She is also the author of You Deserve Each Other and Twice Shy.
 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

Countdown to Christmas:
11 Days

Lumpy snowflakes tumble from above, "Blue Christmas" dancing out of the speakers of Mary Had a Little Boutique. The historical brick buildings glisten like icicles in the pearly dusk that shadows Old Homestead Road, all of their names hand-lettered across display windows. This tiny Colorado valley town has a population south of two thousand, composed of six blocks neatly divided between three roads, the middle one the commercial strip. Despite having lived here for about eight months, I've never ventured into town before, since I might be recognized (wearing off-the-rack Rue 21!). Or worse: I might not be recognized at all.

Everything here has a cutesy name, usually Old West or mountain inspired, as if anyone could forget we're in the Rocky Mountains when we're literally shaded by them-Spruce It Up Hair Saloon, Frontier Hardware, Silver Mine Dining, Rocky Road Ice Cream Parlor. The boutique glowing in front of me is rustic-wedding-in-a-barn trendy. Like if the Lumineers were a store. Surely I'll find gifts for my prickly, difficult-to-please relatives in here.

I have to.

The store is small and brightly lit, so it's impossible to avoid the attention of its manager, leaning eagerly across the counter when I push open the door, its bells chiming. Her eyes squint, then widen. "You look familiar. Are you-?"

"No," I'm quick to respond, turning to run an idle finger over a cloth napkin. My stomach churns at the forty-dollar price tag. "I'm nobody."

She snaps her fingers. "Bettie Hughes! Oh my goodness! You must be here visiting your grandparents. I'm always seeing Lawrence's car whizzing around. It's such a treat, every time, always waves hello, stops for a chat if he has a minute. Couldn't be nicer." Her voice goes a bit wobbly. "Your grandmother isn't as... well, she's busy. Probably gets tired of being stopped all the time for autographs." She tries to sound cheerful about whatever memory she's reliving, in which my grandmother crushed the warm, friendly image this woman had held of her like a sorceress grinding the bones of her admirers.

I smile tightly. "Sorry to disappoint. I get that comparison a lot, but I'm not Bettie."

She's confused for a moment, and then she winks exaggeratedly. "Ahh, gotcha. Don't worry, I won't say anything. Not a peep."

We're in on a secret together as she watches me browse. I can't concentrate, painfully aware of her attention. This is what's popular now: high-quality, artisanal presents from small but expensive holes-in-the-wall. I can see my younger sister Kaia now, gifting me a secret, never-before-released album from one of my favorite bands that she procured in a water-tower-turned-musical-speakeasy somewhere in New York; Athena, my other sister, topping her by gifting me a bathtub fashioned from a rare type of volcanic rock that self-heats, which she got from a store in Denmark that disappeared the day after she made her purchase. My relatives and I don't give each other anything with a recognizable label: the more obscure and personalized, the more exclusive. I'm tired of giving the family's worst gifts. I'm tired of everyone pretending my offerings weigh the same as theirs.

"Do you need help? Hunting for a present for someone special? Look at this," the manager says, emerging over my shoulder with a clay pitcher. "I think your grandfather might like this."

I jump. "Ah!" I twist a You don't even know my grandfather into submission, because maybe that's not true. Maybe Mary from Mary Had a Little Boutique knows Lawrence Watson better than I do. After all, he's lived in Teller City half his life. "I'm not who you think I am."

"Right, right." She glances at the window, at all the cars parked along the slushy street. Business is booming at the evil shop next door. "They're gonna run me out of business," she laments. Then she cranes up at the sky, as if photographers might be dangling from helicopters. "We got this in today." She shows me a crocheted sweater with a price tag of one hundred forty-five dollars. "Beautiful. Isn't it beautiful? Handmade, too. Lady by the name of Daisy makes these, told me she only crochets one a month, they're so much effort."

"Mm."

I'm going through the motions, picking up ceramic pots, feigning interest in cakes of handmade soap. Twenty-seven dollars. I need twenty-seven-dollar handcrafted soap that costs five bucks. I suppose it's nice that everything here is sourced from local entrepreneurs, but there's nothing in this store I can afford. A tiny knife for cutting cheese would prevent me from filling my car with gas for a week.

The manager grins with dollar signs for eyes. "Do you like coffee? We sell the most amazing ground coffee you've ever tried. Here, I can give you a sample."

I'm given free samples of coffee, cologne, a bag of muffin mix, and tinted moisturizer. Eventually, I contrive an excuse to leave ("very busy, got a 'thing'") and she's visibly disappointed but expresses hopes that I'll return tomorrow.

Back out on the sidewalk in "downtown" Teller City, I force a slow exhale between my teeth, tightening my purse against my body. Wind snaps and belts like the feedback in an old home camcorder video. Next door, the mutual nemesis of Mary Had a Little Boutique and myself stares down with big block letters and Edison lanterns.

Magnolia Hope Chest.

In their plot to take over society with shiplap and oversized wall clocks, Fixer Upper home renovation stars Chip and Joanna Gaines have conquered the western U.S. state by state with their cute little stores. Even towns as bite-sized as this one have fallen prey to Joanna's love of industrial farmhouse chic and white subway tile. This location is less than a year old. I can see their thinking: the rural, down-home image looks good on their website, and they know that their star power will draw shoppers from every town in the county. That a sleek bronze glass-front building such as this one, while scaled back in comparison to its Texan motherland, is permitted to sit comfortably between Shahad's Toy Shop and Mary Had a Little Boutique is an abomination.

My mind flickers to my sister Athena, who loves the Gaines style: rustic dŽcor with an upper-middle-class price tag that makes her feel she's relatable and down to earth. I remember being in the upper upper class, trying to persuade Macy's to stock my perfume label while considering myself too good to shop at Macy's. Now I clip Dollar General coupons.

After my finances imploded, I dreaded my shopping runs for fear of being photographed perusing the clearance sections. Even though I couldn't afford high-end products anymore, I still had my pride. But with Christmas around the corner, I've been frantic to find gifts for my wealthy family, who are congregating up the mountain three days from now. A couple of weeks ago, I bit the bullet and entered the contact sport beloved by millions of American citizens known as Black Friday shopping.

There I was, skulking into Magnolia (with sunglasses and a wig) at six in the morning the day after Thanksgiving-a little bit hungover, brooding over spending the holiday alone-and I began filling my cart.

Prices were low. Adrenaline was high. I'd just nabbed an antique-style wall sconce at half off, which I knew Athena would love-the rush gave me such tunnel vision that, medically, I cannot be held liable for my actions. A woman and I brawled over a reclaimed-wood recipe box, the police were called, and we were both dragged from the store with lifetime bans.

I kept shouting "It's not me!" for some reason. I remember being devastated to lose the wall sconce, which I'd never be able to afford at regular price. I was also devastated by the teenage assistant manager, who called me...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593539850
• ISBN 13: 9780593539859
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar