Our First Christmas (27 page)

“You loved the traveling, didn't you?”

“I did love it, often. New countries, people, cities, food, culture. Sometimes I didn't.”
I thought of you everywhere I went, Josh. I imagined you with me.
I shut those thoughts out because they shredded my heart. “Even though I'm friends with the guys in the band and crew, and Dani, it could be . . . lonely.”

“I'm sorry. But I understand.”

I could tell by those green eyes that he was sorry, and he did understand. “I think everyone gets lonely sometimes.”

“I do,” Josh said. “Part of life. Not the best part, but it's there. I would like for it not to be, although loneliness does make you examine your life, the people in it, and you become more compassionate, I think, for others.”

That was one of the things I loved about Josh: his honesty. His introspection and thoughtfulness. Tough guy, yet I could sit down, talk about something serious or tell him my problems, and he could always handle it. He always knew what to do, what to say, or to simply be quiet and hug me.

“I think, sometimes, it's about managing the loneliness,” he said.

“How do you manage the loneliness?”
I have never been able to manage my loneliness for you.

“Staying busy. For me, building a company. Work has taken up a lot of my time. When I have time off I ski. Fish. Hike. Full days.”

“Yes. Full days. Like today. Skiing 'til you hurt.”

“But I don't feel lonely now, lovely Laurel, at this moment.”

I smiled at him. “Glad to hear it.”

“Since you came back, in fact.”

“You're flirting a little.”
Oh, stop it. Or I might fling myself at you.

“Yeah, you're right. I am. It's that huge smile of yours and the dimples. And the pink hair on the ends. I am liking the pink hair on the ends.”

Dang.
That was one more thing I loved about Josh. He had always flirted with me. He never flirted with any other girl. He always made me feel like I was the special one.

“Try not to flirt with me, Josh.”

“Impossible. Flirting with you is wired into my DNA. Want to go up again?”

“Sure.” I had to get out of the warm lodge and into the cold air to cool off.

On the ski lift up he tried to hold my hand. I pulled it away. He laughed.

Why did we have to be tumbling right back into our relationship, as if we'd never left it? I thought that high school sweethearts who broke up and came back to their ten-year reunion were supposed to look at each other, find they had nothing in common, and say to themselves, “Whew! That was a close call! I could have been stuck with him/her my whole life. I would have been a wreck. We would have been a wreck. Lucky me.”

I stole a peek at Josh on the ski lift, those snowflakes falling down around us, the mountains covered in white, the sky now purplish blue.

He turned his head and saw me studying him. He winked.

Dang
.

 

I gave Josh the Christmas cookies I'd baked him after we tossed our skis in the back of his truck. I had put the peppermint bars, fudge, gingerbread, lemon meringues, stained-glass windows, and butterscotch crunches in a red tin with an 1800s scene of two women in long dresses, bustles, and flowery hats in front of a Christmas tree. It was feminine, which was so not Josh, which made me laugh.

“Ah, Laurel.” He lifted the lid. “Now I'm completely, totally happy.”

I blushed.
Stop blushing!
That would have to be Plan B, for blushing.

“Get your smiles on, ladies,” I told my mother and Aunt Emma. “I need to take photos of you two for the Web site. The farmhouse, the land, the animals, your aprons, and your sewing room. And Zelda, if she'll cooperate.”

“Photos. Like we're models.” My mother elbowed my aunt. “I'm going to lie across our sewing table on my side with an apron on. Prepare to be a model, Emma.”

“Are we doing naked modeling?” my aunt asked. “I'd do it. I'm not embarrassed. A body is your vessel on earth, it's not your character. It's not your personality. My scars and sags have come from a life well lived. Some of that life has been easy; some of it made smiling again a struggle. But I'm still here, in one piece, and I'm proud of my body.”

“Women definitely get better as they age,” my mother said. “There's more freedom in your life and freedom in your head.”

My mother and aunt do not bother with makeup, but they did brush their auburn/white hair before we headed out. I studied both of them in their jeans and jackets. They were beautiful. Slender physiques, elegant cheekbones, peaceful blue eyes.

Out on their deck, newly rebuilt by Josh, I took photos of them in their aprons. Many of them were Christmas designs, candy cane fabric, Santas, gingerbread houses, reindeers, stripes and ruffles, polka dots and pockets, but I photographed them in the day-to-day aprons they sewed, too.

They pulled out the apron skirts, twirled around, arms out, then wrapped an arm around each other. I took photos of them posing in front of the snowcapped Swan Mountains, their tractors, the farmhouse, and sitting on the fence talking.

I took photos of them in our rocking chairs, riding their horses, and cooking lasagna and cinnamon rolls. I took photos of all the Christmas cookies, the colorful grizzly bears with the wreaths around their necks and the Christmas farm animals. I also took photos of our five decorated trees, the giant Christmas frog, Gary, the gingerbread house witch, and the dragonfly, Tilge.

I photographed the cat, Zelda, paws scratching the air, mouth wide open, the dogs cowering in fear in a corner. I took photos of their colorful sewing room, sewing machines, the stacks of fabrics, the reams of lace, and their jars of buttons, rickrack, and thread.

I sent Josy photos of my great-granddad on a black stallion, and my great-grandma looking saucy as she leaned against a fence post. I sent old black-and-white photographs of the women in our family in long skirts and bonnets, then in flapper dresses, then my mother and aunt in their hippie outfits in the sixties with long hair, tie-dyes, and peace signs.

I grabbed my great-grandma's and grandma's personal recipe collections and took photos of the pages, the recipes written in their flowing script.

I sent all the photos to Josy, the web designer, then wrote copy for the Web site.

It would be interesting to see what she would come up with.

 

And the Christmas Eve e-mails kept coming....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In between sewing aprons, and talking to squabbling family members about Christmas Eve, I thought about Josh.

He hardly left my thoughts. When he called two days after we went skiing and asked me to dinner for Date Number Two, I figured if I had a tail, I would be wagging it.

Maybe it was Christmas joy, but I could not wait to see him.

And it had nothing to do with getting the house back.

 

On the way home from my father's house on that freezing night, driving through snow that blew sideways, I exploded at him like a mini human bomb. I told him what I thought of him moving out years ago. “You left us. You broke up our family.” I told him what I thought of him as a father and as a man. “You're a crappy father. You left your first two kids, you left me, you'll probably leave Chantrea, too. A real man would not break up two families.” I went on and on. “I hardly even think of you as my dad.” I saw him wipe tears from his cheeks, then he handed me a tissue for mine.

That's when he skidded on the ice. There was no guardrail, and we pinwheeled right off the road, our car bumping and rolling down the embankment and splashing into the water. I remember watching the brackish, icy water rush in through the broken front window. My head banged up, my panic swiftly rising, I unstrapped my seat belt and turned toward my father, but I couldn't see him through the waterfall. I screamed his name, but heard no answer, and swallowed water.

I couldn't find the door handle, couldn't get out. I took in another gulp of water and coughed it out. It was pitch-black, the car tilted, and I hardly knew which way was up. I screamed for my dad again, swallowed water, heard a crash, then felt his hands on my arms. He pulled me out as the water went straight over my head.

I woke up on the side of the road, my father leaning over me. I later learned he'd done mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He was yelling my name.

I spit up water, coughing, choking, and he pulled me up, tilted me over, and hit my back with his open palm. More water spurted out, then more again. In the distance I heard the ambulance's siren, called by a passerby.

He held me close to him, rocked me back and forth, his cheek on mine, our bodies shaking with shock and cold. “Laurel, hold on, please, the ambulance is coming, breathe, breathe, honey, I love you, baby—”

I held on to him, so relieved to be holding him, that he was alive, that I was alive. I started crying, remembering what I'd said, how I'd treated him. The ambulance came, slowing around the corner, but they still skidded sideways. My father saw them spin and picked me up and ran, his feet hardly getting traction, but enough to get us out of the way.

The ambulance missed us by about six feet, turning a full one hundred eighty degrees, heading down the road sideways. The paramedics, who looked shaken themselves, quickly had me on a stretcher and bundled up. They cut off my clothes as we rode through the snow in the ambulance, dropped heat packs on my body to prevent hypothermia, and buried me in blankets. We slid twice and my father never let go of my hand.

I was as overwhelmed with guilt as I was overwhelmed with that chilly water flowing over my head.
I had caused the accident.
“I'm sorry, Dad,” I rasped out, my whole body trembling uncontrollably. “I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. I love you.”

“It is me,” he said, crying, his head bent, those gold eyes, like mine, flooded with tears. “It's me who is sorry. So sorry, Laurel. I have hurt so many people. This is my fault. Everything you said is true.”

And then, on that ice rink–like road, disaster struck.

Again.

 

“Tell me about your company, Josh. It's called Salmon Fly?”

“Yes. I liked your idea for the name, and it stuck.”

I bent my head. I was so touched that he'd named his company Salmon Fly. I remembered that day on the river with our fishing poles. I sniffled.

We were at an Italian restaurant eating ravioli and lasagna. Shadowy. Candle-lit. Pictures of Italy that I couldn't help wish I had visited with Josh. “Start at the beginning, would you?”

“During my junior year of college, I took all the money I had and bought a run-down house for next to nothing. I was working half-time for the athletic department. My father's skills as a contractor were the only positive things I gained from him. Anyhow, I lived in it and fixed it up and sold it for a profit. I bought two more homes, same thing. I kept flipping homes, then I used the money to buy the building I have now. It was completely run-down, a sweet deal, but I fixed it up to the period, provided office space upstairs and room for cafés, art galleries, and businesses at the street level. We still buy, fix up, and sell homes and buildings, or we lease them out.”

“You have a lot of people working for you.”

“But my favorite employee is Mrs. Alling.” He winked.

“She's one of my favorite people on the planet. I'm impressed, Josh, with what you've done.”

“Thank you, but don't be. It's only business.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's my job. It's my career.”

“It's what you always worked for, what you wanted.”

“It's what I wanted professionally, Laurel, it's not what I wanted personally.”

It hurt, but I said it. “I thought you would be married with five kids by now, Josh.”

“I did, too. That was in the plan. The right girl ran off.”

I didn't want to presume. I'd heard he'd been engaged. I didn't even want to think about that annoying, dreadful woman. “I heard you were engaged.”

“My engagement was a mistake. I feel terrible about it still. Lavina was a great lady. Smart. Fun. Kind.”

“So what was the problem?”

“Old story, Laurel. A cliché. She wasn't you.”

And I have never met anyone like you, Josh. Never.

“We were engaged for about two months and I broke it off. It hurt her. I hurt. It was awful. I felt like a horrible person. She's married now, three kids. Lives in Las Vegas.”

Stupendous news. Dreadful fiancée was out of sight.

“You were the right girl.”

“I wasn't the right girl.” So not right. He had no idea how not right I was after the accident.

“Yes, you were.”

“How would you know that, Josh? You sound so sure.” And I'd been so lost. “We were young. I hardly had a brain in my head. I was geeky and wild and caused trouble and stopped seeing you when I had to help my father.”

“Because I knew.” He stared straight across that candle-lit table at me. “I've never felt happier with anyone than I did when I was with you.”

“That was uncontrolled lust.”

“Do you honestly think that's all it was?” He shook his head. “It wasn't like that for me. Yes, I liked the passion between us. I was a teenage boy. But I loved you, as a person. You were my best friend. We had fun. We talked.”

“I'm not that girl anymore.”

“I know, I can tell. But I'm not the teenage boy you knew, either.”

He was . . . and he wasn't. “You're the same in some ways. You're incredibly smart, Josh. You have a business, your own building, employees, exactly as you planned as a teenager. I remember you telling me what you were going to do. You're ambitious, focused, determined, that's still there.”

“I think I need to hang out with you more, Laurel. You're outstanding for my ego.”

“You don't have much of that. You're a macho he-man stud, but you don't suffer from an ego. You're more . . . measured now. Confident. More reserved, maybe. Tougher, for sure. Decisive. I used to talk your ear off, but I still have the feeling I could talk and talk and you'd still listen.” I shut my mouth. I was being way too honest.