A Carol Christmas Read online

  “I just can’t do it this year. I don’t feel good, and I don’t want all the kids over.”

  Hmmm. A mother-of-the-year award nominee.

  Her husband nodded but didn’t say anything. Maybe he figured she wouldn’t hear. Maybe he’d given up talking to her years ago.

  “I just wanted a quiet Christmas,” she said after a minute.

  And I just wanted to stay in New York, I thought. We don’t always get what we want, although it seemed by the time a person got to be that woman’s age, they ought to.

  “Wendy never watches the kids,” the woman said after another minute of silence. “She lets them run everywhere. My nerves can’t take it. You’re going to have to call them, tell them I’m sick.”

  So, that was why they were in the emergency room. This woman was faking illness to get out of seeing her obnoxious family. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  I checked out the other occupants of the waiting area. A few chairs down, a woman sat trying to quiet a fussy baby. I hated to assume the man next to her reading the paper was her husband, but he probably was.

  A guy about my age sat slumped in the row of chairs across from us. He wore glasses and was overweight. Or maybe it was the heavy jacket and the sweats that made him look big. He wore a muffler around his neck, even though it was plenty warm inside, and he was sniffling like he had a cold. I guessed he had no medical insurance, which would explain why he was hanging around the emergency room. He eyed Keira for a long time until she finally glared at him. Then he opted for watching his toes.

  These were our companions in misery. I sighed. What would I be doing right now if I was still in New York? Having dinner at Sardi’s? Seeing a Broadway play? Who was I kidding? I’d be in bed by now, snoring with a half-digested mystery lying across my chest.

  “So,” Aunt Chloe asked me. “Have you met anyone special in New York yet?”

  Oh, great. The third degree on my love life was starting already. Why do people always have to pump you to see if you’ve found anyone? It’s as if there’s nothing more to life than men.

  Not that I had no men in my life. I’d had dates, just not with anyone I felt a connection with.

  Mom jumped in to explain my manless state. “Andie’s busy with her career. She doesn’t have time for men. She could barely schedule in a trip home for Christmas.”

  “A woman can always find time for men,” put in Keira. “New York’s a huge city. There’s got to be tons of available guys there.” Underlying message: So what was taking you so long?

  Okay, so I’m picky. There’s nothing wrong with that. “I’ve met a few people,” I said.

  “Anyone rich?” Aunt Chloe wanted to know.

  “If they are, they haven’t told me yet,” I said.

  “So, are you Internet dating?” Keira asked. “Hitting the bars?”

  “Of course she’s not,” Aunt Chloe said. “She’ll probably meet her dream man in an art museum.”

  “I bet you can find a lot of cute guys to get close to on the subway,” Keira mused.

  Oh, yeah, sure. The subway is one big speed-dating sardine can. “Be my guest,” I said.

  “I’ve already got mine,” she said back.

  “Lots of creative people in New York,” Aunt Chloe observed. “Of course, it’s so big, so impersonal, so far from your family. You must get lonesome.”

  “Lonesome,” I repeated, and nodded. I tried not to wonder what my friends were doing right now.

  I picked up a worn copy of People to distract myself and started thumbing through it. I was just starting a juicy tidbit on Ryan Reynolds when a middle-aged man with silver hair, a worn pea coat, tattered jeans, and dirty tennis shoes sat down next to me.

  “Home for Christmas,” he muttered.

  It almost sounded like a question, but not quite. Because I couldn’t tell if he was telling me his story or asking mine, I just nodded politely.

  “Hate coming home for Christmas.” He hacked out a nasty cough, the kind that gives you images of yourself keeling over from SARS or Bubonic plague or that flesh-eating disease.

  I gave him another nod, from one sufferer to another, and leaned away from him, hoping the germs would float the opposite direction.

  “Things got broken,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  I thought of the living room window.

  On the other side of me, Aunt Chloe was getting protective and giving him a scowl that looked about as threatening as something from the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

  The man didn’t see. He was too busy making eye contact with me. He had the most intense blue eyes I had ever seen. “Got to mend them, you know,” he said. “If you don’t pull down the walls you can’t build something better.” The expression in those eyes was suddenly probing. I felt the hair at the back of my neck start doing the wave. What kind of woo-woo thing was going on here?

  Just as I began squirming in my seat, he looked away. I decided I’d been imagining things. The poor man was simply talking to himself. Maybe there was no one in his life to listen.

  Ben came out, wearing the jeans and the shoes Keira had brought for him and limping. We all rose like a chorus of handmaidens.

  I hated to leave the poor, muttering man with no words of cheer, so I wished him Merry Christmas.

  “It is what you make it,” he said as I hurried after my family.

  Mom was at Ben’s side now, an arm around him for support.

  “I’ve got to stop by the pharmacy and get some pain medicine,” he told her.

  She nodded. “Then we’ll go home and wash it down with eggnog. Do you want to sleep at the house tonight?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

  As we left the waiting room, I took one last glance around. Good-bye, germ-breeding ground. Good-bye, grumpy old lady. Good-bye poor, stressed-out mom with the jerk for a husband. Good-bye lonely guy with no insurance, good-bye . . . where was the crazy man? I stared at the empty seat where, only a moment ago, he had sat muttering.

  He must have decided that he wouldn’t find what he needed at the emergency room. I hoped he found it somewhere.

  We got Ben his pain meds, then drove back to the house. It was raining now. Big surprise. It rained a lot in Carol.

  “Oh, look,” said Aunt Chloe as we pulled into the driveway, “Wee Willie fixed the window.”

  It was all covered with heavy plastic now, and the Christmas lights were up. Home, sweet home.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Ben said. “I’ll pay for the repair.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mom told him.

  “Speaking of paying, I bet Mr. Winkler’s going to expect Mom to go out with him,” Keira said as we climbed out of the car.

  “Does he know about her business?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. He thinks she’s an astute businesswoman.”

  “But her business . . . ”

  “I know,” Keira said. “Maybe he’s a masochist.”

  Inside, we settled in the living room with the plate of cookies and fresh eggnog.

  The plate was filled with my favorites: sugar cookies rolled out in the shape of trees and Santas, chocolate fat bombs with gobs of frosting, and gumdrop cookies.

  I took a Christmas tree. Just one. I wanted to go home with my clothes still fitting.

  I still had eggnog left after I ate it, though, so I took one more just to balance things out.

  Ben appeared to be fully recovered now. At least his appetite was coming back, I noted, watching him vacuum the cookies off the plate with his mouth. And now, Aunt Chloe was going for the last Christmas tree.

  I beat her to it. Great, Andie. Eat a million cookies right before bed. At this rate, by New Year’s I’d look like Aunt Chloe’s twin.

  Speaking of bed, I sneaked a look at my watch. It was one in the morning back in New York, and I would be well into my beauty sleep. But the sugar was starting to kick in now, so who cared? Anyway, there was no one I needed to be beautiful for in Carol. That was for sure.r />
  “I think I’ll get some more eggnog,” Aunt Chloe said and launched herself from the couch.

  I knew she was going to raid the Tupperware container on the counter and stuff another Christmas tree cookie in her mouth while she was at it. At this rate there’d be nothing left by Christmas Eve. Oh, well. We could always bake more.

  No. No more cookies.

  Mom pushed the plate my way. It held one solitary gumdrop cookie. “Have the last one, Andie.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked.

  “Mom, maybe she’s trying to diet,” Keira said, and lifted the cookie from the plate.

  “It’s the holidays. You don’t diet at the holidays,” Ben said. “So, you coming to my concert tomorrow night?”

  “Of course.”

  “You should cancel,” Mom said. “How will you be able to play with stitches in your leg?”

  “Better than I’d play if I didn’t have a leg.”

  “You’re liable to get a blood clot.”

  “Mom. It’ll be okay.”

  Mom’s phone rang. It was Dad, looking for me.

  “You’re finally home,” he said. “I’ve been calling for an hour.”

  “We were at the hospital,” I said.

  “What?” Dad sounded panicked.

  “Ben put his foot through the window hanging the Christmas lights.”

  Dad let loose with his favorite four-letter word, then asked, “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Well. I’ll be right over to cover the window.”

  “No need. Mr. Winkler covered it with plastic.”

  “Winkler,” Dad said in disgust.

  Dad had never really liked Mr. Winkler. Maybe that was because Mr. Winkler had always liked Mom.

  We had a moment of silence while Dad digested the happenings of the evening and the news that some other man was doing repairs on what used to be his home. Then he said, “So, you going to have time for your old man while you’re in town?”

  “Just you and me?” I asked. Oh, please don’t let him want me to hang out with the twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend.

  “How about lunch tomorrow?” Dad suggested, avoiding the question. “I’ll take you to the Steak ’N’ Bake by the mall, then we can go shopping for your Christmas present.”

  I was surprised Dad had any money for Christmas shopping with the way he’d been going through it since he and Mom split. “I can’t tomorrow. How about the day after?” “Okay. It’s a deal,” he said, and we set a time.

  “I hope he’s not planning on monopolizing your time,” Mom called from the living room as I hung up.

  “It’s just lunch,” I said.

  “Well, tell him that’s all he gets. He wasn’t the one who paid for your airline ticket.”

  I made a mental note to myself: call the airline first thing in the morning and reserve an earlier flight out.

  Chapter Three

  Everyone would have happily talked until midnight, but the sugar was wearing off and I was turning into a zombie. Trying to convince both my family and myself that my life was totally glam and completely fulfilled was exhausting work. Finally, I quit stifling my yawns.

  After my third, Mom got the idea. “We need to let Andie get to bed,” she announced.

  Ben eased himself to a standing position. “I should get going, anyway.”

  Mom pointed a finger at him. “You are not going anywhere. You’re taking narcotics. You can’t drive.”

  “Aw, Mom. I’ll be fine,” Ben protested.

  “You’re right you will, because you’ll be sleeping in your old room.”

  Which was now the sewing room, and so full of fabric and craft projects there was barely room for the day bed Mom had stuffed in there.

  Ben grimaced. “All those dried flowers make me sneeze.”

  “Better to be safe and sneezing than driving and dead.”

  “I only live a mile away!”

  “Most accidents happen within a mile of home.”

  I didn’t know why Ben was bothering. He was going to lose his argument with Mom. He knew it. We all knew it.

  And since I knew the end of the story … I retrieved my bedspread, waved at my bro and sis, and said, “Goodnight guys. I’ve got to crash right now. My head’s feeling fuzzy.”

  “Mine isn’t,” said Aunt Chloe. “The eggnog would have been better with rum,” she added as she kissed me goodnight.

  “Well, you wouldn’t have been better,” Mom retorted, and hugged me. “Sleep well, sweetie,” she said, and kissed my cheek.

  It made me feel like a kid again, in a good sort of way.

  As I went down the hall, I could hear Aunt Chloe say, “I’m too tired to drive home. I think I’ll sleep here.”

  “All the beds are full,” Mom replied. No room at the inn. “That’s okay,” Aunt Chloe said. “I’ll share yours.”

  Ah, sisters. Would that be Keira and me someday? Another reason to stay on the east coast.

  My body was on New York time, so I heard Keira leave the house at the crack of dawn the next morning for her early shift at The Coffee Break. She’d worked at the popular downtown coffee shop since her freshman year of college, serving donuts and cookies to Carol’s worker bees along with their drug of choice: caffeine. She claimed she was still there to earn money for the wedding. At the rate she was spending money on the big event, she’d be at The Coffee Break until she was 642. Well, it was a job. And what else could you do with a degree in literature? Except write a book, which she claimed she was doing. It was going to be about a woman who worked in a coffee shop. She’d already e-mailed me some of her musings, along with the title: A Cup of Crazy. So far the best thing she had was the title.

  I suspected once she was married, she’d forget the book. What Keira really wanted to do was plunge headlong into happily-ever-after in Carol. She liked being the big Beta fish in the small pond.

  Not me. I wanted to be something more in some place bigger and better, far from my embarrassing family and my not-so-good hometown friends. Which would explain why I was in New York clinging to the bottom rung of the ladder of success at Image Makers.

  Come to think of it, I wasn’t much more successful than Keira. At least she had a fiancé and a cubic zirconia ring to show for her post-college endeavors. What did I have? Well, I had New York.

  I thought longingly of acting on my resolve of the night before and calling the airline. But that would be . . .

  Tacky. I could tough it out, and there would be other chances to ring in the New Year in Times Square.

  Maybe not so many chances to land a great job. I got out my cell phone and shot off a bunch of messages, putting out fires before there were any.

  I was thoroughly awake now. I decided to go for a morning run, and slipped into my running sweats and my tennies.

  Nothing had changed, I thought as I jogged around the old neighborhood. It looked like the Blackmans had a new car. Big surprise there. They got a new one every year.

  Lights were on inside the Harrises’ house. Mr. Harris, the hot shot executive (a legend in his own mind) was up and getting ready to go to work. He still had the most anally perfect lawn on the block. In fact, everything about his life was as perfect as he could get it. Probably the only thing that made it not perfect was having to live in the same neighborhood as my family. The Harrises spoke to us as little as possible and steered clear of our neighborhood barbecues. Maybe those Christmas chimney fires had made them leery of getting too near Dad and his grill.

  I remembered a conversation I overheard between Mom and Mrs. Claussen about the Harrises back when I was in middle school. “They never entertain,” Mom had said.

  “They do,” said Mrs. Claussen. “They take their friends out to dinner. Lani hates to cook.”

  “I think they just don’t want the hoi polloi tracking dirt on their carpet,” Mom decided.

  Judging from the For Sal
e sign on their front lawn, it looked like the Harrises were ready to end their years of living under house arrest. Maybe they’d move to the bigger and better housing development. Probably no hoi polloi there. No Hartwells, anyway.

  The Olsens and the Baileys were still competing for the honor of the most decorated house in town, with almost every square inch of yard and roof occupied by Santas, snowmen, reindeer, candy canes, and enough lights to fill an entire warehouse.

  After my run I went home to make some coffee and prepare for my morning of torture, talking about Mom’s business. As far as I was concerned, the first order of business should be to discuss changing the name of her company.

  By the time I’d showered and made coffee, Mom was up. “Bacon and eggs for breakfast?” she suggested, giving me a doting smile.

  Breakfast for me was usually a bottled nutri-drink. Bacon and eggs sounded like a luxury. “Sure,” I said.

  “Go knock on your brother’s door and tell him breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” Mom said, opening the fridge door.

  Ben was out ten minutes later, looking sleepy-eyed and scruffy-chinned. “I’ve got to go,” he told Mom, and kissed her cheek. “I need to shower and shave before I open the store.”

  “This is done,” Mom protested, shoving a plate at him. She hated it when any of her kids denied her the chance to feed them.

  Ben wasn’t one to turn down free food. He took the plate and plopped down at the table.

  Now Aunt Chloe made her entrance. “I thought I smelled something good. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then went to hover over the stove and watch Mom work. “Are we having pancakes, too? In honor of Andie’s return,” she added. “You really need to put some more meat on your bones,” she told me.

  “The one you should tell that to is Keira, not me,” I said.

  Aunt Chloe shrugged. “She’s anorexic.”

  “She is not,” Mom snapped.

  After all the cookies I’d seen Keira put away the night before, I had to agree with Mom.

  “Bulimic, then,” Aunt Chloe decided. “Have you shown Andie any of our new projects yet?” she asked Mom.

  So much for Keira’s possible eating disorder.