Page 17 of Not Home Alone

Dean Martin is crooning about silver bells down in the living room and there are wreaths hung on every door in the upstairs hallway. The banister along the stairs is wrapped in red and gold velvet ribbon from top to bottom. There’s a fake Christmas tree in the foyer, all lit up with an angel on top. I check my phone as I go downstairs, dressed in my suit, because I must have slept longer than I thought I did. It isn’t even nine o’clock. There’s no way she did this by herself.

Then I get to the bottom of the stairs and look around. There’s a garland above the entrance to the living room and a real tree in there, all decorated, with a toy train track surrounding it. There are seven stockings hanging from the fireplace mantel and a wreath above it, hanging in front of the mirror. As far as Christmas decorations go, those are all relatively tasteful, but in one corner of the room is a white reindeer statue.

You know that hideous ceramic greyhound dog that Joey gets on Friends? That thing is a gorgeous piece of classy art compared to this heinous monstrosity. My eyes actually start stinging when I look at it. He’s grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, and it is the most evil thing I have ever seen.

“Tucker…” I don’t yell. I don’t scream at the heavens because I’m too cool for that. I turn off the record player, because shut up, Dean, and I grab the giant stuffed elf that’s seated at the piano bench. I drag the elf toy by its arm with one hand and reach up to pull the garland down with the other as I re-enter the hallway. “Tucker,” I say again. “Where are you?”

I toss the elf and the garland onto the floor by the front door, open it, and look outside. There’s a wreath on the door, a garland around the door frame, string lights around the downstairs windows, along the gutters, and all over the shrubs and the tree trunks out front. And there is a gigantic blow-up snowman on the front lawn. “No,” I say to myself. Remaining calm as I stroll out into the crisp morning and the frost-covered grass to pull the plug and take the air out of that fucker.

I took all that crap down in two hours yesterday; I can do it again today. Easily. After my meetings. What—did she think I was going to surrender and leave my house just because she put up a few Christmas decorations? That’s adorable. I am impressed that she was able to get this much done while I was sleeping, but it was a waste of her precious vacation time. It is immensely satisfying, watching the snowman die its slow death on the lawn.

My lawn.

And suddenly I remember that I don’t want anyone to know that this is my lawn or my house or that I’m here, so I turn to go back inside. Before I make it to the front steps, I hear a plaintive, “Hey!” from the roof.

Stepping back, I see Merrily, fully dressed and wearing a Santa hat—because of course she is. She appears to be attaching a large cardboard cutout of a maniacal old-timey Santa Claus to the chimney. What else would she be doing first thing in the morning? She makes that cartoon growly noise again.

I point up at her, like the stern principal of a high school in some porno. “You,” I grumble. And then I gesture downward. “Off the roof. Now.”

“I will not get off of this roof, Grant Moody!” she shouts, triumphantly.

I curse under my breath and run inside, not even turning around to shut the door.

I can feel her cackle-laughing up there.

That was not cool. But honestly, I’m concerned for her safety. For insurance reasons.

I head toward the back door, because she must have used a ladder back there. I wince as I pass through the dining room because there’s a gigantic centerpiece in the middle of the table that’s bursting with fake poinsettia flowers, pine, sparkly pinecones, holly, gold glitter-covered angels, and snowflake candlesticks. As if that’s not enough, there’s one red, white, and green quilted placemat and “Grinch” handwritten on a place card. The inch is crossed out and replaced with ant. In the center of the plate is one of the granola bars from the welcome basket. Also, a red and green mug that says “Your Message Here” in candy cane font.

It’s not enough to drive me out of this house, but it’s almost enough to lessen my attraction to Merrily, because at least in my mind her obsession with Christmas involved tasteful decorations. That is, in fact, helpful. Being ten percent less than forty thousand percent attracted to her is very, very helpful.

“It’s not super cute, but it’s still festive, don’t you think?” Merrily appears in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, positively chipper. She is slightly out of breath and holding a large plastic turtle that’s wearing a Santa hat.

Great. She didn’t fall off the roof. At least I won’t have to deal with an insurance claim. “No.”

“I asked my dad to deliver everything from the crypt, and he came by at the crack of dawn. The crypt is what we call one corner of the storage room at his store where he keeps all the stuff he accepted on consignment from local crafters that he hasn’t been able to sell over the years and didn’t want to give back. Because he doesn’t like to make people feel bad. He’s so sweet.”

His store. I’ve been so caught up in… whatever with Merrily that I temporarily forgot about her dad’s store. And now I feel a little bit guilty.

“But I have no problem making people feel bad if they’re being asshats,” she continues cheerily. “Isn’t this turtle amazing—” She holds it up. “—ly ridiculous? But in the best way!”

“I’m going to book you a room at the inn,” I say calmly. “I will make sure you can check in early. And I will be removing all this junk from the premises when I return after work.”

“Oh, but there will be so many more festive decorations all over the premises by then!”

“Hope it’s been fun for you,” I say on my way to the coat closet in the front hall. “You have accomplished nothing.”

“Oh, it has brought me treeeeemendous comfort and joy!” she says, and I notice yet another Christmas tree has been erected in the foyer since I was outside.

I have no idea how that’s even possible. “Is there someone else in this house helping you out? Because if there is⁠—”

“Nope! I’m just really good at making any place awesome very quickly. Even the emotional hellscapes you inhabit.”

I yank my wool trench coat off the hanger. My black, slim-fit coat from Saks Fifth Avenue has exactly six more felt Santa faces stuck to the buttons than it had last night. They are not removable. “Did you glue these?”

“With my hot glue gun, yes! I had my dad bring my crafting kit over this morning too.” She hops up and down. “So cute, right?”

“Adorable.” I pull my wool scarf out from the closet and hear the tinkling of tiny bells. Because she sewed jingle bells to the ends of my scarf. Of course she did.