My cheeks warm at the mention of Liam and the knowledge these two were talking about me. I’m half tempted to ask what else he said about me, but decide against it. “That’s so sweet of you,” I say instead, leading the way through the house toward the kitchen. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or some tea?”

  Mae’s gaze lands on the coffee maker with its half-full pot. “I’ll get it while you put those away,” she says, heading for the cupboard where the mugs are. “The containers are all labeled. There’s a vegetarian chili, a piece of lasagna, and some chicken stir-fry. Everything can be heated in the microwave.”

  I peer through the clear containers as I put them away. My body isn’t going to know what hit it. “This is great, thank you so much.”

  “Not a problem. We’d love to have you over for dinner sometime once you’re settled. You’ll soon discover there aren’t many places to eat in town. Sweet Escapes has a daily breakfast special and a rotating variety of soups, sandwiches, and whatever takes the fancy of whoever’s cooking that week. The grocery store carries the basics, so if you want to do a big shopping or find anything out of the ordinary, you’ll have to head for Milford about twenty minutes away.”

  I feel like I should be taking notes. I’m not sure what my face is doing, but Mae’s expression turns rueful as shakes her head. “Look at me, gabbing away. Sorry about that.”

  “No, it’s fine. I appreciate the…crash course?”

  She chuckles. “Honeywell is a small town. You’ll find your way easily enough, and if you need any help at all there’ll always be someone around who’s more than happy to assist. People come here and they say it’s like something out of a fairytale or a movie. They fall in love and never want to leave.”

  “That’s what Liam said too.”

  Mae studies me closely, her head tilted slightly to one side, eyes curious. “He’s a good boy, our Liam.”

  I stifle a smile, thinking back to her using those same words yesterday evening when I talked to her on the phone. “He seems nice,” I say casually. Carefully. I’m not sure I want to talk about Liam with Mae. This may be real life as opposed to a movie set, but when my characters have conversations like this with the matriarch figures of small towns, it usually leads to matchmaking.

  She takes a sip of her coffee, peering at me over the rim of the mug. “He’s had a rough go of it over the years. He’s content now, though. Busy with his business and doing things for people around town. He’s a fixer, that boy. A caregiver. Always looking out for people, wanting to lend a hand, making himself useful. He’s one of the good ones.”

  From her tone, I feel like she’s trying to tell me more than she’s saying. She doesn’t know anything about me, and yet the way she’s looking at me makes me feel seen. Exposed. It’s almost unsettling.

  I’m used to being looked at almost as a curiosity, but this is different. People often want to know details about Josslyn Hazelwood—my favorite designer, where I buy my handbags, the restaurants I frequent—but very few people seem to care about anything deeper. You can find all kinds of information about me on the internet, from my favorite color to how I take my coffee to the name of my childhood best friend. Those are all surface things, though. Very few people know me the way Mae obviously knows Liam. In fact, I’m not sure anyone knows me that well, including my former husband.

  “There don’t seem to be too many of those these days.” The words are out before I even have a chance to think about them.

  She scrutinizes me for a few more seconds—god, does this woman have X-ray vision or something?—before smiling and saying, “Well, you’ll meet a few in Honeywell. I’m married to one of them. Liam’s business partner and best friend Nathan is one of them. I should be humble and not take too much credit for how those boys turned out, but I do.” She gives me a sassy little smirk that makes me laugh and loosens the ball of anxiety I hadn’t realized was forming in my stomach.

  “Can you stay for a while?” I ask, surprising myself as much as I seem to surprise her. “We could sit in the living room where it’s more comfortable.”

  Mae turns back to the coffee maker and tops up her cup. “I’d love to.”

  As we sit together on the couch in the living room, Mae tells me more about Honeywell. A few of the tidbits of info are things I already learned from Liam last night, but I don’t mind. She mentions Liam a lot, along with Nathan, and her daughter Fiona, who’s been traveling the world for years and rarely makes it back to Honeywell.

  “Her dad and I couldn’t be happier for her,” she tells me. “Her dream was always to travel, and she’s doing it. My husband—he’s originally from Ireland—he did his fair share of traveling when he was younger before settling in Honeywell. I love to travel too, but I swear wanderlust runs through their veins, the two of them.”

  “How did your husband end up in Honeywell of all places?” I ask.

  “Funnily enough, we met on our travels. I was on a group tour in Dublin, where Seamus happened to be visiting friends, and we met in a pub. After just that one evening together, I split from my group to go off with him. We traveled all around Europe together for nearly a month, and then he came back to Canada with me. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  Her story, paired with the sweet, wistful smile on her face makes my eyes sting. My cynical side may be making more of an appearance than usual recently, but stories like that still get to me. Grand, sweeping romances that stand the test of time aren’t something you encounter often. It’s certainly almost unheard of among celebrities. “What about his wanderlust? Honeywell Hollow isn’t exactly a hotbed of international culture or cuisine.”

  She lets out a short burst of laughter. “That it’s not. Seamus said I was worth settling down for. And we still traveled as much as we could, even when Fiona came along. He’s been happy here, though. We have a good life. He says despite being to almost every corner of this globe, he’s never felt as inspired to write as he does right here in Honeywell. Every single one of his books has been written here.”

  “Wow.” It comes out breathy, awed. I read other people’s words for a living, but the thought of writing them myself has always been beyond me. And the thought of finding that much inspiration in this tiny town? It boggles my mind.

  Back to studying me as she did before, Mae nods her head slowly. “That’s the magic of Honeywell. We’re one of those obnoxiously charming towns with a close-knit community that you don’t think exist in real life. The kind of towns you’ve likely only encountered on a movie set.”

  My heart stops. I’ve been looking down at the mug in my hand, and now my eyes snap to hers. “You know who I am.”

  “I do. Big fan.” She gives me a cheeky wink that has me releasing a shaky laugh.

  “Thank you?” The words come out sounding like a question.

  “I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to befriend you because of your fame. I’ve seen how people can act, how they change around someone famous. I’ve gone to countless events and signings with my husband where he’s fawned over like a rock star, asked inappropriate questions, probed about his personal life. The two of you are extremely talented at what you do, but you’re also just people. And as much of a fan as I am of your work, I want you to know I see the person underneath. She’s the one I’ve been talking to this morning, the one I hope to get to know better.”

  It takes me a moment to digest her words. The sincerity in her voice and in her eyes tell me every word of what she said is true. I don’t have to worry about what I say around her, or wear the mask that sometimes feels like a permanent extension of myself. “Thank you,” I say again, firmly this time. “Truly.”

  She reaches over to pat my hand. “And with that, it’s time for me to go. My daughter sent me a recipe from Scotland this morning that I’m just itching to try.”

  Despite my protests, she collects both of our mugs and takes them to the kitchen. I meet her in the front hall and hold her coat while she dons her boots. “You should come to the café later. I’ll be there until six or so, and I can show you around, introduce you to some people. Show you more of the magic of Honeywell.” She winks at me again as she slips her arms into her coat and fastens the buttons.

  She must sense my hesitation because she adds, “By then I’ll have those mince pies made. You can be my taste tester. Unless you don’t like mince pies, and then I’ll find something else for you to sample.”

  This makes me laugh. “Deal.”

  She gives me a quick, tight hug before opening the door. She speaks to someone as she steps onto the porch, and a deliveryman appears a second later, holding a large cardboard box.

  “Josslyn Hazelwood?” he asks.

  “That’s me.”

  He hands me the box and tells me to have a nice day. I wait in the open doorway, watching him walk with Mae to her car before jogging to the delivery van parked at the end of my driveway. I wave to Mae as she pulls out, then peer at the box in my arms. It’s from Natalie.

  With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, I take the box to the kitchen and open it. There’s a handwritten note on top from Nat that reads: Since you’re determined to make a go of it in Honeybun Corners, I thought I’d send a little care package/survival kit. Some things are for comfort, others are for…pleasure. Keep me posted. Love you! ~ Natalie xo

  I begin pulling items from the box. First is a pair of fuzzy blue socks, followed by a mug with an illustration of a llama with the words ‘No Drama Llama’ scrawled over its head. The mug is stuffed with tea bags and individual packets of hot chocolate. Next is a pair of paperback romances with a sticky note attached: I asked one of the booksellers at Indigo for recommendations and she raved about these two. I bought copies for each of us; let’s read them and discuss over wine in January. xo. I chuckle to myself as I reach into the box again and pull out…a jumbo box of condoms.

  “God, Nat, really?”

  I can imagine her cackling as she chose these items and packaged them up for me. The final item in the box is small and covered by another sticky note. I pick it up and read the missive: Just in case you don’t find a man in Honey Town…

  I have a feeling I already know what it is. As I peel off the sticky note and see the small purple vibrator beneath, laughter rolls out of me. Between this and the giant carton of condoms, I’m grateful Natalie’s package didn’t arrive in time for me to open in front of Mae.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sweet Escapes, in keeping with the rest of Honeywell Hollow, is like something out of a movie set. It’s cozy and homey with a variety of mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout, as well as a seating area that includes two couches and three squashy armchairs in front of an electric fireplace. The air is perfumed with the scents of coffee and freshly baked goods—butter and cinnamon and chocolate, oh my! A low hum of chatter fills the space, along with the sound of forks clinking against plates and the tinkling of spoons stirring hot beverages.

  Mae emerges from a back room with a large box in her hands. A string of silver garland is draped around her neck, and there’s a reindeer antler headband perched on her head. A few people laugh and make comments as she passes, and she gives her head a jaunty shake, making the bells on the antlers jingle.

  She spies me hovering near the doorway and gives me a broad smile. “Joss! You came. You’re just in time to help me North Polerize the café.”

  Oh joy. More Christmas decorations. “And yourself, apparently.”

  “And myself. Always myself.” She lifts one end of the garland around her neck and tosses it over her opposite shoulder like a scarf.

  “Wait ’til she breaks out the ugly Christmas sweaters,” says a man at a nearby table.

  “And don’t forget the elf shoes,” the man beside him chimes in.

  “Just be glad you don’t have to wear the ugly sweaters and the elf shoes.” This from the young woman behind the counter, who’s refilling a display of donuts. She grins at me when our eyes meet.

  “All right, all right,” Mae says with a laugh. “You all know you love this time of year just as much as I do, so don’t go pretending otherwise.” She detours toward me and ushers me further into the café, introducing me to people as we pass. I’ll never remember everyone’s names, so it’s a good thing I don’t plan on making a habit of socializing while I’m in town.

  Mae leads me to a table near the back and sets down the box she’s carrying. ‘Nutcrackers #3’ is written on the top in black marker. With a little eyebrow wiggle in my direction, she pries open the flaps to reveal a box full of nutcrackers in various sizes and colors. “I collect them,” she tells me. “It started years ago when Seamus and I were traveling. I saw one I loved in a shop window in London, and Seamus went back and bought it for me as a surprise. We collected them on our travels and now Fiona sends ones she finds on her travels, plus people in town give them to me as gifts. A select group of my favorites is on display year round at home, and the overflow decorate the café during the holiday season.”

  I help her pull nutcrackers from the box when she indicates for me to dig in. I’ve never collected anything. My mom was a minimalist; while I had plenty of toys growing up, she never started a collection of any sort for me. Once I started acting, I wasn’t home much and I was often away for stretches of time, so my bedroom didn’t have many personal touches or ornamentation.

  “You a big Christmas fan?” Mae asks. She’s regarding me again with that X-ray vision of hers. I consider telling her yes—it’s what people want to hear from the Queen of Christmas, after all—but somehow I think she’d see through me.

  “Not really.” My voice is quiet, despite the fact no one is within earshot. It’s obvious Honeywell is big on Christmas, and I fear what they’d do if they found out they have a semi-Grinch in their midst. Mae doesn’t say anything, and I realize she’s waiting for me to elaborate.

  “Holidays weren’t a big deal growing up. Or, well, I guess they were until my dad left, but I don’t remember those Christmases. My mom was a nurse, and she often took Christmas shifts for coworkers who had big families or little kids.” I pause in my inspection of a particularly grim-looking nutcracker to meet Mae’s eyes. Her lips are pressed together and her eyes are…sad? This is why I hate talking about this stuff.

  “I didn’t mind.” My voice sounds defensive, so I attempt to soften it with a smile. “My mom was what I guess you’d call agnostic, so it’s not like we celebrated Christmas for religious reasons. She said it became more overblown and commercial by the year, but she figured the people who loved it or observed it as a religious holiday should get to spend it with their families.”

  Mae smiles warmly, her eyes soft and understanding. From what she told me earlier, it’s obvious she was a hands-on mother. Her daughter Fiona was clearly her world, and she cared for Liam and Nathan like they were her sons. I’m sure she doted on them. I bet they had elaborate holidays and regular family dinners and more love and affection than they knew what to do with.

  My mom was an amazing woman and she did the best she could as a parent, but I don’t think she really wanted to be a parent. She never particularly liked children, so I think she didn’t know what to do with me or how to relate to me until I was older. I never doubted that she loved me, but there were times when I felt like she loved her job more.

  Since I became a star at such a young age, it wasn’t until I got older that I realized my mom was different from a lot of other moms. I never dwelled on it, though, especially because by the time I truly realized it, she was sick and all I cared about was making sure she knew how much I loved her. It was during her illness that we got to know each other as people, and developed a closer relationship.

  “What about when you were acting?” Mae asks. It’s not the follow-up question I expected. I thought she’d ask more about my mom or maybe comment on how unorthodox our non-Christmases were.

  “I spent one or two Christmases with my work family,” I tell her. “Tim Sagger, the guy who played my uncle on Our Thorny Family, flew me and my TV siblings and their families out to his house in Vancouver one Christmas. That was the first year I really understood what Christmas could be. What it was like for a lot of families. I—”

  I start to say he invited me again the next year, but Mom didn’t want me to go because it was all I had talked about for months afterward. She took that Christmas off for the first time in three years and we spent a week in Niagara Falls checking out all the attractions on Clifton Hill. She even snuck a pathetic-looking Charlie Brown Christmas tree into our hotel room, and we decorated it with pinecones and colorful balled up brochures.

  “You…?” Mae prompts.

  I shake my head, attempting to scatter my thoughts. My mind is flooding with memories, many of which I’ve carefully avoided the last few years as a form of self-preservation.

  Mae touches my arm, drawing my attention to her. The sympathy in her eyes makes me want to cry. Or scream. Or run out of here and go back to my original plan of hiding in my rental house for the next month. “I made those mince pies Fiona sent me the recipe for. I played around with them, as I always do, and came up with a few variations. Would you like to sample them and help me decide which to offer in the café?”

  She’s giving me an out. Most people poke and prod, think that as a celebrity I owe them something. I owe them my story, all the good, the bad, and the ugly things that have happened to me since birth. A quick web search will tell you what my mother’s name was and what she did for a living. There are even paparazzi pictures out there from that Christmas I spent with my show family in Vancouver, as well as the next Christmas with my mom in Niagara Falls.

  So many people feel entitled to the nitty-gritty details of a celebrity’s life. Not Mae, though. There’s something about her that makes me think I’ll end up confiding in her at some point, but not right now. Right now I want to stuff my feelings back down where they usually live and bury them under some mince tarts.

  “That would be great,” I say. “Thank you.”