Page 58 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas

MARISSA

Finding a parking space at Trader Joe’s during the holiday season was basically the equivalent of landing a seat on a spaceship to get launched into actual space.

“Come on, you can do this.” Marissa waited patiently in her own car, nodding encouragement to the woman unsuccessfully attempting to back over a snow berm.

It was questionable whether the spot she was vacating was a bona fide space, but at this point, Marissa would have parked at the summit of Mt.

Bachelor and trekked through a blizzard just to get inside.

Tonight had to go well.

Her entire future was riding on the success of the Graff family Christmas party, and she had no time to waste.

A car skidded behind her. Marissa clutched the steering wheel and braced for impact.

But, instead, the car screeched past, narrowly missing her bumper.

As it passed, Marissa saw the driver, clearly overcome with the bustle of the holiday shopping season and the ridiculously narrow parking spaces, wincing in distress and waving an apology.

“You’re good. Happy holidays,” Marissa shouted over Bing Crosby crooning on the radio.

She wished she could fully embrace the holiday spirit, minuscule parking spaces and all.

This was supposed to be the happiest time of the year.

But her business was weighing heavily on her mind; if she didn’t turn things around, she would be out in the cold—literally.

She shifted down and steered her car as the shopper in front of her finally vacated the space. One thing had to go right today. She needed a victory, even if it was just a parking space at the most popular grocery store in Central Oregon.

A frigid wind blew the snow sideways as she grabbed her reusable bags from the back seat.

She tugged the zipper on her puffy buffalo plaid parka all the way up and trekked toward the front of the store.

Pre-cut noble firs, blue spruce Christmas trees, and garlands of evergreen and fragrant wreaths adorned with dried berries and clementines flanked each side of the entrance.

A youth choir serenaded shoppers with their rendition of “Jingle Bells” while a volunteer in a Santa hat shook his bell in time with the music, encouraging people to drop their spare change in his shiny donation kettle.

Marissa dug through her pockets, added what little she had to the pot, and made a beeline for the shopping carts. It was just her luck that the only available cart dripped with soggy, wet snow.

Classic.

She chuckled as she wiped the handle with the sleeve of her parka as best she could and set off on her familiar route through the crowded aisles.

Within thirty minutes, she was inching toward the cash register with a cart overflowing with Manchego, Brie, and cranberry goat cheeses, salami, prosciutto, crackers, baguettes, veggies, berries, pesto, chocolates, gingersnap cookies, and bouquets of Christmas lilies, holly, rosemary, and crimson roses.

She held her breath as the cashier rang up her total.

Please let me have enough to cover this.

She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip and avoided eye contact with the cashier.

Tonight’s party was going to drain her bank account for sure. Thankfully, her client had paid half up front, so if she had added correctly while loading her cart and didn’t run out of gas on her way to the Graff mansion, she should be back in the black when they settled up later tonight.

The thought sent a twitch rumbling through her stomach. Her self-imposed deadline for vacating her parents’ house was looming.

The steady beep of her bill growing larger with each item the cashier scanned taunted her.

Please come in under budget.

Please come in under budget.

She offered a silent prayer to the universe.

This was Yes, Cheese’s last shot.

When she’d made the bold move to leave her stable yet miserable corporate job to follow her dream of owning a food-arranging business, her parents had been incredibly supportive.

She had shown them her business plan and pricing guidelines for custom cheese boards, charcuterie, grazing tables, and specialty dessert and brunch boards.

They’d readily agreed to let her move home while she got the business off the ground and established a clientele.

She had assumed it would take her six months to save enough to support herself, so she set a firm date of the end of the year to either make it on her own or drag herself back to her soulless corporate job.

Her parents had been nothing but generous.

They would let her stay indefinitely, but she refused to take advantage of their hospitality.

And frankly, she couldn’t stomach her bank account constantly hovering near zero.

“That’ll be five hundred and seventy-eight dollars and thirty-one cents,” the cashier said, shaking Marissa back into the moment.

Marissa swiped her debit card and gulped hard.

Come on, let there be enough cash to cover this.

The last time she had checked her balance, she had five hundred and eighty-five dollars in her account, but that was before she had splurged on a holiday peppermint-bark mocha and a double chocolate biscotti.

“You want a copy of your receipt?” the cashier asked.

Marissa exhaled in relief.

Thank goodness.

The payment had gone through. She took the receipt and whistled with a new spring in her step as she returned to her car. The Graff party was on!

That’s a win for me.

Tonight’s luxurious bash was the most significant account she’d landed to date. If she could impress the Graffs and their guests, then maybe—just maybe—Yes, Cheese had a shot.

December was the busiest month of the year for holiday parties. Tonight could be a turning point, an opportunity to take Yes, Cheese to the next level.

But doubt quickly crept in again as she loaded supplies into the back of her car, her cheeks feeling the sting of the cold mountain air.

Could she do this? Was it worth it? Or was she just fooling herself—dragging out the inevitable?

You can worry about that later, Marissa.

She gave herself a pep talk as she tucked the last of the bags into the back. Regardless of whether she decided to try and make a go of Yes, Cheese on her own, she had a contract that she had to fulfill. Time to get moving.

After a quick trip to her parents’ house to arrange supplies and repack the car, she found herself back on the road and heading toward the Graff mansion.

The estate was located about ten minutes outside of town on the banks of the Deschutes River.

She drove like a California transplant experiencing winter in Oregon’s high desert for the first time, staying in the slow lane on the highway even though odds were good that she would get stuck behind a snowplow.

As she drove, she admired the twinkle lights and holiday ski banners that lined the main thoroughfare.

Red lava rock had been scattered across the snow-packed highway like Christmas confetti.

Nothing compared to Bend in the winter. The majestic Cascade mountain range, painted white with fresh powder, served as the centerpiece for the diverse landscape dotted with ponderosa pines, junipers, and quaking aspens.

Marissa smiled despite feeling a flutter of eager nerves as she steered through the black iron gates that led to the Graff estate. She had seen photos of the mansion in the newspaper but had never had an opportunity to visit the rustic mountain lodge in person. It was quite a sight to take in.

The fir trees lining the long driveway were wrapped with golden Edison lights, casting a soft glow on the snow.

The house was constructed from ancient redwood and walnut with a sloping forest green roofline and grand entrance.

More lights, enough to illuminate the entire city, had been strung across the eaves.

A massive, covered porch extended the length of the house.

It was decked out with garlands, poinsettias, and vintage lanterns.

This is amazing.

I’m catering this party. Me, Marissa Henry.

Marissa wanted to pinch herself, but she had bigger issues.

Three delivery vans were parked in front of the estate, completely blocking her from going any farther.

She had been directed to bring the food to the side entrance, but there wasn’t an inch to spare to squeeze past the vans, and she didn’t want to risk getting stuck, or worse, bumping into one of them and ruining her perfectly crafted boards.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The party started in an hour. She needed at least forty minutes to set up, so she parked behind one of the vans, carefully lifted a heavy charcuterie board box, and hurried to the porch to see if she could find someone to direct her where to go.

Steadying the box with her left arm to ring the doorbell made her glad she’d been doing online Pilates. The three-foot-long cutting board probably weighed two or three pounds by itself, but loaded down with meats and cheeses and dips, it felt like she was carrying ten-pound sacks of flour.

While she waited for someone to answer, she gaped in awe at the extravagant yet welcoming décor on the porch.

Fragrant wreaths hung from the front windows with velvet ribbons.

Tidy stacks of birchwood had been placed on either side of the doors.

A vintage wooden sled was propped against the side of the house, and swags of evergreen with cranberries swept across the railing.

Someone had gone to great lengths to make the porch feel like a movie set.

After a minute, a frazzled employee dressed in a black uniform answered the door. “Yes?”

“I’m Marissa with Yes, Cheese. I’m supposed to set up the grazing table, but I can’t get my car past the vans.” She pointed behind her.

The employee rolled her eyes and sighed. “I told them to park in the back. No one listens.” She nodded toward a hallway to her right. “The ballroom is that way.”

Ballroom?

The Graffs have a ballroom?