Chapter
ONE
Making a list
Checking it twice
Need a good scotch
With a lot of ice.
Julia Bennett checked Schedule Santa’s Elves off the bullet-point list in her calfskin Montblanc agenda and closed the book. She eyed the remaining action items she still needed to execute for the Deck the Halls show. When she checked off the final bullet point, she would finally be free from the shackles of tinsel and red ribbons.
Not a moment too soon.
Less than two weeks until Christmas, and Julia was sick to death of forced cheer, candy canes, and those blasted holiday ear-worms slithering through her brain. If she heard “Frosty the Snowman” one more time, she’d take a flame-thrower to the fat little creature. And if one more person offered her a stale gingerbread cookie, she’d grind it beneath the heel of her pointed-toe suede Balenciaga.
Yes, it was a shitty attitude for the woman who was coordinating the extravagant show for the final night of the Indigo Bay Holiday Festival. Every year, the coastal California town hosted a cherished two-week festival involving a gingerbread house contest, arts-and-crafts fairs, musical events, and children’s activities—all culminating in Deck the Halls on Christmas Eve, held onstage in front of the town Christmas tree and Santa’s Sleigh.
Julia had been more than confident in her ability to coordinate the show of Indigo Bay’s resident talent. After all, she owned a successful styling company, organized fashion shows and high-end photo shoots, had worked at top fashion magazines, and hosted numerous events for her sister’s charity foundation. She was experienced, gifted, skilled.
But she’d underestimated the festival committee’s urge to micro-manage her while knowing perfectly well that Julia Bennett refused to subordinate to anyone. Not to mention the show’s lack of budget and the differences between corralling models and corralling thirty acts involving bell ringers, five-year-old tap dancers, poodle acts, a barber shop quartet, amateur magicians, and heaven knew what else.
While the townspeople made up for in enthusiasm what they lacked in actual talent, the whole event had Julia ready to dive into the spiked eggnog and not come out until summer.
She also hadn’t considered the fact that all six of her nephews and her adored niece would be in town for the holidays and that they would expect every single family tradition to be carried out to perfection since, of course, Aunt Julia had it all planned. Just like she did every year.
Except every other year she hadn’t been reeling from a catastrophic business failure that had her questioning her entire career.
Every other year, she hadn’t been facing a milestone birthday looming like a boulder at the top of a cliff, poised to crash down on her like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.
Every other year, Warren Stone—president of the Sugar Rush Candy Company and the man Julia would have called her BFF if she were prone to employing teenage-girl terms—hadn’t been hiding something from her.
Every other year, her composure hadn’t been fraying at the edges like a badly made pashmina scarf.
Julia turned her attention back to the sketched design and photograph on her desk. She crossed her arms and tapped her French-manicured fingernails on the sleeves of her Chanel suit. Then she sent a lethal glare to the young woman seated across from her.
“Is this a joke?” she snapped.
“Er, no.” Her assistant Anisa fidgeted in the chair on the other side of the desk, tugging at the hem of her miniskirt. “Well, I was trying to be fashion-forward.”
“This doesn’t even qualify as fashion upside-the-fuck-down.” Julia placed her fingertip on the photo and pushed it back across the glass desk. “Here’s a bit of advice, dear. Pairing faux-fur and sheer chiffon is the visual equivalent of drinking red wine with peppermint schnapps. In other words, it’s a vomit-inducing disaster. And even your mother knows that if you look in the mirror and can see your pussy through your dress… don’t wear it.”
Anisa mumbled an apology, two bright spots of embarrassment appearing on her cheeks as she grabbed the photo. “I’ll try again.”
“See that you do more than try. Now please brighten my day with your absence.”
Anisa scurried across the room on her four-inch stilettoes, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Julia made a huffing noise of contempt and skimmed her hands over her skirt. Faux fur and sheer chiffon, for God’s sake. It was especially annoying coming from Anisa, who had shown great promise in the months she’d been working at Julia Bennett Style.
Of course, no one knew better than Julia that fashion was subject to varying degrees of criticism from…well, everyone.
Her phone rang with a call from Minnie the Pitbull, one of the councilwomen on the Holiday Festival committee. Julia steeled her spine before responding.
“Hello, Julie,” Minnie said.
“JuliA.”
“Sharon from the Jingle Belles acapella group called me with questions about their costumes for Deck the Halls,” Minnie continued. “She claims you haven’t responded to her email.”
Julia attempted not to grit her teeth. Her email inbox was about to self-implode with messages. “I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
“I suggest you get to it soon, considering your rehearsals are coming up.”
“I am aware. Thank you for the reminder.”
“What about the fireworks?” Minnie asked.
“We don’t have the budget for fireworks. I have explained that to you.”
“Well, everyone will be extremely disappointed if you can’t make it happen,” Minnie informed her.
“I can’t pull money out of thin air, much as I would enjoy that talent.”
“I’m just saying that people have expectations for the finale, so I hope you will meet them,” Minnie said. “I’m going to email you Howard’s rider. He has certain requirements, such as Evian water and Sugar Rush Chocolate Crunchies.”
“He’s Santa,” Julia said. “Not Kanye West.”
“Exactly.”
Julia hung up the phone with restrained force and took a few cleansing breaths. She was controlled, self-possessed, efficient. She’d always been cool under pressure. All right, not always, but her youthful ridiculousness was forgivable.
After moving to London at twenty-two, she’d been determined to reinvent herself as a woman of poise and sophistication. She’d thrown herself to the task, starting as an intern at Tatler and working her way into positions at Harpers & Queen, i-D, Look, and British Vogue. She’d done her time under editrixes worse than Anna Wintour and had made more than her fair share of mistakes.
But she’d learned from them, and after returning to Indigo Bay thirteen years ago, she’d started her own successful company. Now she was renowned not only for her expertise and career, which had also included stints at Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, but also for her position in the wealthy Stone family. Owners of the Sugar Rush Candy Company, the Stones had long dominated the commercial and economic status of Indigo Bay and surrounding towns along the California coast.
As the family matriarch for the past thirteen years, Julia used the position to her advantage. She was aunt to the six Stone brothers and their youngest sister, and she was director of the Rebecca Stone Foundation, which she and Warren had created after Rebecca’s death. Julia’s many fundraising events had catapulted the foundation to one of the most well-known and funded charitable organizations in the state.
But still…not even that prestige was armor against recent events.
Julia sat in her white leather executive chair and turned to her computer. Her office was usually her sanctuary—a pure, clean space where she could sharpen and focus her mind and creativity. White carpeting, glass and steel étagères, Scandinavian bookshelves. Framed copies of Julia’s magazine shoots, awards, photographs, and articles lined the walls.
At the moment, however, the room seemed cold and unforgiving, a direct contrast to the anger that had been ricocheting through her since yesterday.
Her phone’s ringtone started playing the song “I Want Candy.” The familiar tune made her heart jump, the ringtone assigned to the man she’d missed during his two-week trip to Switzerland.
She reached for the phone, then stopped. She’d ignored Warren’s usual 1:00pm call, and she hadn’t responded to his texts since his return yesterday. She couldn’t put him off much longer without raising suspicion.
She also couldn’t talk to him yet, even though she was accustomed to telling him everything.
Letting the phone go to voicemail, she turned back to the slew of emails in her inbox. The failure of the Evermore deal had hit her hard in multiple places—her company, her reputation, her self-confidence.
What if the Evermore president had been right? What if she had lost her design skills? What if she was out of touch with what younger women wanted? Any other time, such criticism would have rolled off her back, but this had exploded through her like a grenade.
Julia blinked against a sting of tears just as a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she called sharply.
Marco appeared with a white china bowl containing a kale salad. Her assistant crossed the room, his elegant, olive-toned features drawn into an expression of mild scolding—which made her remember the horror of faux fur and chiffon.
Julia sighed. “Do not tell me she’s crying.”
“Okay.” He set the salad at her elbow and placed a silver fork and cloth napkin beside it. “I won’t tell you that.”
“Fine.” Julia tossed the napkin over her lap and picked up the fork. “Tears build fortitude.”
“Then you must have cried a river in your time.”
Julia glared at him. Of all her employees, Marco had been working for her the longest and had earned—or taken—the ability to speak to her bluntly without fear of reprisal.
“Did you see what she came up with?” Julia stabbed the fork into the kale. “Camel toe isn’t even a fashion don’t. It’s a fashion no-fucking-way-oh-my-bleeding-eyes.”
Marco smirked. “I’ll admit it was worse than Lady Gaga’s meat dress… okay, maybe not that bad… but cut the girl some slack. She’s trying to find her own look, which isn’t easy when you’re working in the shadow of Julia Bennett.”
“Don’t be ingratiating. This stuff tastes like grass.” Julia set the fork down and pressed a hand to her temple. “Did you get the Deck the Halls fliers done?”
“In your inbox.” He nodded toward the computer, his impossibly thick eyelashes and big eyes making him look like the Bambi version of an Italian stallion. “And Lucy of Poodle-O-Doodles called wanting to be sure you’ll have Bits-O-Bacon on hand for her performance.”
“I told her she needs to bring her own dog treats.”
“Apparently she expects the show to provide them.”
“Fine. I’ll deal with it.” Julia waved for him to take the salad away. “And I want your ideas for the Radar fashion shoot on my desk by eight tomorrow morning, or I’ll give the project to Enzo.”
Marco rolled his eyes, having heard that threat more than once. He picked up the salad and left, letting the door slam none-too-subtly behind him. Julia turned back to her computer. A few seconds later, the door clicked open again.
“If you don’t have a brilliant, mind-blowing idea, then go away,” she said, her gaze on the screen.
“Let’s skip Christmas and go to Seville instead.”
Startled, she glanced up. Warren Stone stood in front of her desk as if he’d materialized there by sheer force of will.
“I was about to send out an APB on you.” Like a good scotch, his deep voice both soothed her prickly nerves and twisted heat through her.
She rose to her feet, her heart increasing in rhythm as she drank in the sight of him after his two weeks away. Tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, silver-streaked dark hair and a gorgeous, muscular frame, Warren had always appealed to her aesthetic sensibilities. His features were strong and regal—square jaw; wide, firm mouth; those thick-lashed brown eyes that could twinkle with warmth as easily as harden with anger. The boys all resembled him, a line of handsome princes molded in the image of their kingly father.
At the moment, he looked especially distinguished in a tailored Armani suit and a tie patterned with jelly beans—the authoritative corporate president who didn’t take himself too seriously.
But though Julia admired Warren’s devastating good looks—as did many other women—his physicality was second to his character and the numerous qualities he possessed in abundance. Strength, honor, loyalty, sharp intelligence, confidence, a deep, unending love for his family. Everything made Warren Stone the gold standard against which all other men fell painfully short.
Julia tightened her hand on a pen. “What are you doing here?”
“Wondering why you haven’t responded to my calls or texts.” Warren’s gaze skimmed over her. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just busy.” She wasn’t ready to tell him about Evermore, though she would eventually. She always ended up telling him everything. Well, almost everything.
“You never take so long to get back to me,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you have a migraine yesterday? When I called your office, Enzo said you’d left early.”
Julia gripped the pen harder. The effects of the headache still lingered—a dull throb right behind her eyes.
“Warren, I’m fine. I realize you’re accustomed to people responding to your messages in three seconds, but sometimes I have better things to do. How was your trip? Your meetings with Alpine Chocolates?”
He shrugged. “Uneventful.”
Liar. According to her nephew Luke, Warren had scaled back his work with Alpine Chocolates, the Swiss company that was Sugar Rush’s newest acquisition. So whatever the hell he had been doing in Switzerland, it hadn’t been business-related.
Which meant it had to be pleasure-related. So why wasn’t he telling her the truth? She suppressed the urge to push for more information. If he didn’t want to tell her, she certainly wouldn’t lower herself to finagling him for answers.
They studied each other for a second, like two cats circling, neither of them happy with the other’s vague responses. A deep temptation rose in Julia, the urge to tell him what had happened, confess how much it all hurt, and let him help her work through it. That was how she’d dealt with all of her disappointments and failures over the last thirteen years.
Not that there had been that many. Certainly not of Evermore’s magnitude.
“So have you talked to the boys yet?” she asked quickly, wanting to preempt him before he questioned her further.
“I’m on my way. Detoured here when you didn’t answer my call again.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll talk to them in about an hour.”
“You’re really going through with it?”
“It’s not a gauntlet.” Faint amusement shone in his brown eyes. “It’s just early retirement.”
“No one, especially none of your sons, have ever expected you to retire at all, much less early,” Julia pointed out. “So make sure you won’t wake up tomorrow morning regretting it.”
“I won’t. When are you leaving here? I’ll meet you at Lotus for dinner.”
Much as she longed to commiserate with him over curry and a bottle of wine, he didn’t need to hear about the overall shittiness of her week right after telling his sons he planned to retire as Sugar Rush president.
She’d tell him about Evermore later, after she’d had time to figure out what to do. Even though a year’s worth of work had been an utter waste, the project itself was still viable and good. Maybe. If she hadn’t lost all her creativity and sense of innovation.
“I can’t go to dinner,” she said. “I’m going to see Tyler, then I’m working at home this evening. I need to review the details for the holiday car show.”
He frowned. “You told me you were leaving that to him.”
“I am, but it’s overlapping with some of the festival events, so I told him I’d make sure there’s no conflict.”
“Julia.”
Her name in his stern, disapproving voice sounded like he’d caught a butterfly with his big hands. She bit her lip, suppressing an instinctive flush. He didn’t often use that strict voice with her, but it was the only thing in the world that made her feel like a girl about to be punished.
He put his hands on the desk and leaned closer, his gaze pulling her attention to him again. Her nose tickled with the familiar scent of him—spicy shaving cream, the aroma of cloves and citrus. She forced herself to meet his eyes, to quell the racing of her heart.
“I’ll tell you again,” Warren continued evenly. “You’re doing too damned much. You did not need to take over Deck the Halls this year in addition to everything else.”
Julia expelled a breath of frustration. “If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a festival finale since Jessica overspent last year and got herself fired, which means we have a lousy budget this year. No one else stepped up, so I had to.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to do it all yourself,” Warren said, his features still hard with his strict schoolmaster expression. “And you sure as hell don’t need to help Tyler with his car show. What you need to do is delegate.”
“I did.” Irritation tightened her neck. “Mia Donovan is handling the Sugar Rush holiday party this year.”
“You mean she’s helping you because you won’t turn it over to her completely.” Warren pushed away from the desk, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows. “If I could ban you from the foundation events, I would.”
“You would not,” Julia replied curtly. “All the work I do raising money for the foundation comes to fruition during the holidays. You’re not taking it from me.”
“You need to let something else go.”
It was his command tone now, not his gentle suggestion tone.
The tenuous thread holding Julia’s composure together stretched tighter. Warren Stone had been an exemplary leader for years—both of his company and his family—because he knew exactly how to balance control and delegation. He’d trusted his son Luke to take Sugar Rush’s reins when he needed to be with his daughter in the hospital, but even then, no one had ever doubted the fact that Warren Stone was still in charge.
In the thirteen years following the car accident that had killed Warren’s wife and Julia’s sister Rebecca, Warren had achieved a legendary status as the kingmaker, the final authority his sons always consulted before making decisions.
And while Julia was well aware of Warren’s mythical reputation, she’d known him since she was fourteen years old. He and Rebecca had started dating at nineteen and were married at twenty. No one more than Julia admired all that Warren had become, but she also remembered the cocky teenager he’d been with a thousand-watt grin and plans to change the world. She remembered the protective brother-in-law, the nervous young father, the dedicated boy working his way up in the family company, the husband devastated over his wife’s tragic death.
No one but Julia knew all the complex layers that made up the Sugar Rush kingmaker and president—which was exactly why his criticism of her stung deep.
“You’re telling me to delegate when you just spent two weeks in Switzerland working with Sugar Rush’s chocolate division,” she remarked. “Sounds a bit hypocritical, doesn’t it?”
“I’m finalizing projects before I retire.”
“And I never take on anything I can’t handle,” she informed him. “I’ll thank you not to believe otherwise.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it. But if the stress is triggering your headaches, something has to change.”
“Thanks, doctor.” She sat back down and turned to the computer. “I need to get back to work. Good luck talking to the boys.”
She felt him watching her for a second before he turned and strode to the door.
“We’re not finished,” he said.
The door closed. Regret knotted Julia’s chest that his return had been discolored by their bickering. Though she appreciated his concern—he was the only person outside of her doctor who knew about her increasingly severe migraines—she still disliked him pointing out her weaknesses. Maybe because, aside from his children, he’d never seemed to have any of his own. And she never wanted him to discover her biggest weakness of all.
She sent a few emails, then shut off her computer and picked up her satchel and coat. Buttoning it up, she walked out to where Marco was studying a photo layout on the front desk computer.
“I’m taking off early today,” Julia told him.
“What about Catherine Markham?” Marco asked. “She’ll be here at six for her styling.”
The last thing Julia wanted was to face a wealthy, inquisitive socialite who was likely to interrogate her about her projects. While she still handled a great deal of personal styling for Indigo Bay’s elite, more and more she’d been wanting to return to her design roots.
“This is me delegating you to handle Catherine Markham.” She waved her hand in Marco’s direction. “Just don’t let her tits pop out of her dress. She’d love to have a wardrobe malfunction, but I’ll eat a dozen donuts before I let my name be associated with the public baring of Catherine Markham’s surgery-enhanced breasts.”
“Let’s not get carried away now,” Marco muttered dryly. “At most, you’d lick off the powdered sugar.”
“Sticking one’s tongue out is both crude and visually unappealing.”
“That’s why we only do it behind your back.”
Julia shot him an icy glare, then turned to the door before he could see her crack a smile.
Julia dropped her satchel onto the foyer table and kicked off her shoes. Usually her tension drained the instant she stepped into her house with its pale hardwood floors, white walls, and décor that was a mixture of high-end investments and personal items she had purchased in her travels.
Now, however, not even her own space made her feel better. Nothing could. She was out of wine, it would take too long to make waffles, and her hot water heater was still broken. Her vibrator was charged, but after her shitty week, even masturbation seemed like too much effort. And that was saying something.
Outdated. Tired. Passé.
Vincent Peck’s remarks echoed like bullets. She hated that she was letting him get to her—she’d taken plenty of criticism in her time without letting it dent her armor one iota—but this was personal.
She stripped out of her linen suit and changed into black yoga pants and a fitted red Givenchy T-shirt. She splashed water on her face, squinting at her reflection in the mirror.
Despite her approaching milestone birthday, the girl Julia was still evident in her bone structure and the angles of her face. She’d always paid exceptional attention to herself, and her care showed in her smooth, taut skin and tight figure. She’d learned early on that everything about her—from her shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair to her designer clothes and flawless makeup—reflected both her company and her family. Short of actual surgery, she went to great lengths to look her best.
But right now, she both felt and looked every minute of the past fif—no, forty-fucking-nine years.
Julia reapplied lipstick and returned to the living room. She had no desire to mope around the house feeling sorry for herself. Since Warren would still be with his sons, she’d go to his house and add her Christmas decorations to his. She never bothered decorating her own house since all the family gatherings took place at Warren’s. And he was certain to have a bottle of excellent wine on hand, which she could certainly use right now.
She went into the garage and opened the storage closet. Shelves were stacked with worn cardboard boxes, several labelled Christmas Decorations. She set one in the truck of her car and took a second box down from the shelf.
A tattered old shoebox fell to the ground. She bent to pick it up. Her heart suddenly stuttered. She stepped into the garage light and opened the box.
Why had she kept a bunch of mementos? A small dried bouquet of wildflowers. Old photographs of her and Sam—one of Julia wearing a worn patchwork maxi dress and a bandana, of all things—a few trinkets, torn concert tickets. So many years ago, all those memories now distilled to the contents of a shoebox.
A folded, wrinkled piece of paper lay at the bottom. Julia smoothed out the creases to read her own handwriting, still bold and vivacious despite the thirty-year-old faded ink.
Things To Do Before I Turn Fifty
She’d totally forgotten about the list. She’d written it somewhere out in the desert when she and Sam had been on their way back from Vegas. Hot dry air blowing into the car, her bare feet sticking out the side window, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. He’d laughed indulgently at her as she wrote out her list in a notebook and drew little pictures in the margins. Giddy, full of anticipation and hope, she’d detailed all she’d wanted to accomplish before the fifty-year milestone.
She scanned the list.
Learn to say the alphabet backward.
Make a working volcano.
Memorize all the verses of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”
Learn the etymology of my name.
Color an entire coloring book.
For God’s sake. What a silly girl she’d been. She’d have been much better off writing a list of practical, ambitious goals, like Become senior editor at Style, Travel to Paris, Milan, and Tokyo, Start my own business.
Or even Learn how to dress like an adult woman and not an airy-fairy little hippie girl.
If she’d written a list like that, she could have marked all the items as completed.
With a huff of irritation, she crumpled the list and tossed it back into the shoebox. She strode to the trash bin and dumped the box on top of a filled garbage bag.
Just as she was about to slam the lid down, she grabbed the wadded-up list from the shoebox and let the trash lid fall.
What the hell was she doing? She had no interest in an asinine list she’d written thirty years ago. Yet she found herself shoving it into her handbag before loading the other boxes of Christmas decorations into the trunk.
She drove to Warren’s house, the tension in her shoulders eased a bit as she navigated the winding, hilly roads and passed the gate leading into his estate. The ten acres of land were a haven of nature and wildlife. The Tuscan-style villa fit beautifully into the landscape, the stone siding and curved windows radiating stately warmth and peace.
She brought the boxes inside. After Thanksgiving, she’d put up lights, candles, Christmas figurines and pillows, but they hadn’t yet gotten the tree since the boys and Warren had wanted to wait until Hailey returned this weekend. A stack of fresh boughs, mistletoe, and wreaths sat by the door, waiting to be placed.
Julia opened a box and took out several Christmas candles. She tried not to think about the list crumpled in her purse. The one detailing all the ridiculous things she’d wanted to do before she turned fifty.
How many of them had she actually done? Her birthday was next month.
Not that it mattered. She had no need for a decades-old list that she’d created during the most irresponsible phase of her life. The last thing she needed right now was the unearthing of all her bitter regrets.
Especially the ones involving Warren Stone.