The lid of the suitcase fell, the abundance of packed clothes and presents preventing it from closing. I glared at the partly opened suitcase for a moment before turning and dropping my rump against the lid and grunting as I exerted downward pressure, clipping the catches before sliding off and turning to look at my handiwork, satisfied. “Take that!” I gasped, pleased the packing was finished, before noticing I’d missed the pantsuit lying alongside the suitcase. “Bugger. I’ll be tossing you in loose,” I told it, used to talking to myself or any inanimate object which took my fancy about the apartment. It was possibly another omen I should have taken notice of.

I sat down on the bed. “I’m not sure I want to do this.” I shook my head. It had been six years since I’d been home. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was Christmas in a week, which meant the family and all the relatives would be there—another reason I’d hesitated to return. My mother had written every year requesting my presence for Christmas, but I’d always managed to come up with a successful excuse as to why I couldn’t attend. This year…I’d run out of excuses.

I was born Griselda Jane Foster, the second of four children born to Lucas and Hillary Foster, and heiress to a small fortune, if ever my parents should decide to quit living. Where the name Griselda had come from, I wasn’t sure, but it had dogged me for years. I preferred Jane, but Griselda was always there to haunt me. Gristle or even Grizzly were names I’d put up with, depending on my mood. And moody I could be, depending on the situation. I had even been known to be quite the bitch if encountered on one of my better days. I stand five feet four inches in my bare feet, and if modesty allows, I feel my figure is slightly above average, but my few lovers had never complained. At twenty-five, I was still waiting for my Mr. Right, but then, so were my other siblings.

I have an older and a younger brother, as well as a younger sister, although there was only a year or so between each of us. As happens with a lot of siblings we didn’t always get on, and I found I was happier living away—far away—from home. My older brother, Clint, I loved to refer to as Clit, because he was, at times, a small and useless prick, especially when things were not exactly smooth between us. He worked in the money world of banking, somewhere in the Far East, though I wasn’t sure what he did since he could never handle his own money and was constantly borrowing money from Mother. He was the older brother most girls dreamed about, strong, well built, good looking, and able to come to their aid if they should ever be in need of help, although with me, it was usually you got yourself into this mess, you’d better get yourself out. Some help—some brother! Another disaster to look forward to.

The rest of my immediate family, Father, Mother, Carmel, my younger sister, and Denis, my younger brother, had probably not changed since I uprooted and left home, though the one I looked forward to meeting most was Grandpa Foster.

He was the only surviving grandparent, around eighty years old, partially deaf and blind, but could still find his way through a maze and could listen in to the most private of conversations without giving a clue he was being attentive. He lived in a granny flat at the back of the house with his live-in nurse. Not a consummated arrangement, I was sure, but that wouldn’t have stopped the old bugger from trying. At times I did pity his nurse, but she seemed capable of handling him and his moods.

And it wouldn’t be Christmas without the relatives, of course. Those hangers-on who arrived at lunch, wanting to know all the latest gossip about you—then talked about you behind your back. Lecherous old uncles, obnoxious cousins—I guess everyone has them, but ours are the worst. Just thinking about that was enough to start me unpacking.

I’d left all of them behind six years ago when I transferred upstate, much to Father’s disapproval. In my mind, it was the right move. I was studying architecture, but dropped out, opting instead to settle on drafting. Since then, I’d been happy, outgoing, getting on with my life, although snaring a partner was becoming more of a grind than a pleasure. My love life was in tatters, not because of my name, but because I was just unlucky in love. This year alone, I’d had real possibilities, and all of them were on the scrapheap within three months of our meeting, with no further prospects in sight. It was the main reason I’d run out of excuses for going home.

In desperation, I had thought of writing to Santa to see if he could help out. After all, it wasn’t that much I was asking for, merely a handsome hunk of male, slightly taller than me, well-built and well hung, definitely oversexed, but my previous letters had been ignored, so I felt it was probably a waste of time. I would have to face the family horde and be on my best behaviour—or best I could be.

So here I was, alone, no excuses and packed ready to leave, wishing some disaster would befall me and force me to stay, but so far, the world had not obliged.

“Someone up there hates me,” I said, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, well.” I stood up and glanced about the room. The walls and ceiling were refusing to cave in, leaving me little option but to pick up the port, the pantsuit I’d forgotten to pack, and go to my car. I had done all I could…

I stood at the door of the apartment and pitifully stared into the room. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too,” I yelled, then slammed the door.