A Carol Christmas (10 page)

That meant I wouldn’t have to see Gabe. Every cloud has a silver lining.

I listened to Keira sputter for another ten minutes, then claimed I still had jet lag and left Mom to listen to her. Poor Mom. My sister could be such a whiny brat sometimes.

And poor Spencer. At this rate, he wouldn’t have to worry about financing any house. He’d be history by next year. My sister had never had much patience for dream men who liked to drift into reality.

Why had she and Gabe broken up?

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept having these weird dreams. In one of them my family was gathered at Keira’s too-expensive new place for a housewarming party. There was no furniture anywhere, only flimsy wooden crates that broke when people tried to sit on them. Keira couldn’t afford clothes in this dream, and she was wearing an old dress of Aunt Chloe’s that made her look like a five-year-old playing dress-up. She kept tripping on the skirt, spilling red punch from her cup.

“You’ll never get that stain out of the carpet,” Mom predicted.

“If I hadn’t kicked in for Andie’s plane ticket I could have had a new dress,” Keira said.

That was when I ran screaming into the night. Next scene I was on an airplane, watching from a tiny window as Gabe Knightly chased the plane down the tarmac, while over the speaker Beryl the Brit’s voice announced, “Andie Hartwell, please put your seat in an upright position. You are in for a bumpy ride when you return to New York.” Then she started laughing maniacally.

I woke up to the sound of the shower running: Keira getting ready for work. I would write her a check and leave it on her dresser, maybe with a note that said,
Buy yourself some new clothes
.

After she was out the door, I went to the kitchen and dug the phone book out of the junk drawer. I looked up the phone number for Great Bargain Airlines and called.

A woman with a thick accent I couldn’t identify answered. I think she said, “Welcome to Great Bargain Airlines,” although it sounded like “Veelcoo to Greet R.E. Eelees.”

I checked to make sure I’d dialed the right number. I had. Oh, greet.

“Eese is Dearie,” said the woman.

Dearie?
That didn’t sound right.
Darla? Dede? Deirdre?
Pick a name, any name.

“Hee mee Eee help you?”

“I need to change my departure date,” I told Dearie.

“Theer veel be een tee heendred deeler fee to cheenge yeer fleet.”

“Eeen tee heendred deeler fee?” I repeated. Was she saying two or three hundred? For all I knew she could be saying five. What did it matter? I had to get back.

“Yeees, ees de heeledays.”

“Okay,” I said. I could put it on Meester Card.

We went through the rigamarole of name, flight number, departure date, etcetera. Then Dearie informed me that the only time I could get out was on a flight that left at 10
p.m.

Better to arrive in New York with red eyes than not arrive on time. “I’ll take it,” I told her and gave her my charge card number.

“Theenk yew,” she said when we were finished. “Meery Chreestees.”

“Meery Chreestees to you too,” I said and hung up.

“So, you’re leaving early,” said a voice tinged with motherly rebuke.

Meery Chreestees
, I thought, and took a deep breath.

I turned around, looking as sorrowful as I could. “I’m sorry. I have got to get back. My boss has scheduled an important client meeting that I just can’t miss.”

Mom scowled. “Who does any business the week between Christmas and New Year’s?”

“My company,” I said. “It’s important, Mom.”

The scowl shrank to a frown.

“If it wasn’t, you know I wouldn’t go.” That was the truth. If I hadn’t felt like my job was on the line, I’d have sucked it up and stuck it out until the bitter end.

Now Mom just looked regretful. She nodded. “I know.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’d just hoped we’d get to have you for a little longer.”

“At least I’ll be here for Christmas,” I reminded her.

She nodded like a true good sport and turned her attention to the coffeemaker. I’d started coffee and Mom got busy pouring herself a mug. With her back to me. I knew what that meant. She was trying to hide the fact that she was upset.

And I was the rat who had upset her.
Queen Ratisha
.

I tried to make it up to her. “How about I make breakfast this morning? ”

“Actually, I’m not very hungry,” she said. “I’m going to go take a quick shower. Go ahead and make whatever you want. We’ve got waffles in the freezer.”

She left and I opened the freezer. There they were, blueberry waffles, my favorite. Mom had probably stocked up, just for me.

I wasn’t very hungry either. Guilt and waffles don’t go well together. I settled for a mug of coffee.

Mom hid in her craft room for the first part of the morning, but by about 10:30, she had recovered from the shock of having her plans for me rearranged and was up to speaking to me again.

“So, what would you like to do today?” she asked.

“I’m having lunch with Dad,” I reminded her and braced myself. First I change my flight plans, then I spend an afternoon in the enemy camp. This would go over well.

Mom frowned. “I forgot. Well, please don’t make any other arrangements with your father until you talk to me first. Okay? Remember, Grandma is expecting us to come over for lunch tomorrow, and we’re going shopping with Aunt Chloe.”

Tuna Torture Casserole and Gram’s special, Prune Whip, followed by fun with Mom and Aunt Chloe. There was an indigestion combo.

“And don’t forget we’re going to put up the tree tonight,” Mom added.

“Ben already told me,” I said. “I’m planning on it.”

Mom was almost smiling now. She loved decorating for the holidays, and tree trimming had always been an important Hartwell holiday ritual.

So had knocking over furniture with a too-tall tree and having said tree fall down at least once during the stand-fitting process. So was breaking ornaments, which always brought a howl out of someone, usually Mom. Tree trimming, I decided, must be a little like childbirth. Once you see the lovely thing, you forget all the misery and hassle it caused you while you were in the process of giving it life.

I flashed on a sudden image of Dad and Mom, standing with their arms around each other, enjoying the sight of the decorated tree, and felt homesick, even though I was here in the same house where I grew up. Mom and Dad might never stand in our living room with their arms around each other again, but maybe they could stand in the same room and smile at each other. I fervently hoped The Girlfriend would not be joining Dad and me for lunch.

The Steak ’N’ Bake was just a block away from the North Center Mall, which serviced Carol as well as nearby Cedarwood. This time of year, I knew the mall would be a mob scene. Maybe I could talk Dad into going to the Barnes and Noble down the street instead. We could get me a good mystery and him a book on how to have a successful relationship—with someone his own age.

I saw Dad waiting alone in the steakhouse lobby and nearly burst into the Hallelujah chorus. It looked like it would be just the two of us.

He beamed at the sight of me and held out his arms. “Hello there, New York, New York.”

I walked over to him and let myself get crushed in a big Michael Hartwell bear hug.

He held me at arm’s length and inspected me. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You look great yourself.”

“Your old man’s holding up pretty good,” he told me.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” I teased.

He frowned. “Your Mom should have told me what she was planning. I’d have paid for your airline ticket.”

Oh, goody. Only together one minute and already the parent rivalry was beginning.

“So, do we have a table?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Maybe we’d better get started. Unless the bank is now giving their collections managers longer lunch hours.”

“I took the afternoon off,” Dad said. “Wanted to have plenty of time to spend with my girl.”

Girl. Singular. That confirmed it. I wouldn’t have to deal with The Girlfriend.

Dad looked over my shoulder and his smile got wider. “Great. We’re all here now.”

Uh-oh
. I turned and saw a woman with pencil legs in tight jeans and a long coat coming our way. Her haircut looked expensive. I couldn’t say the same for the dye job. She looked like a rooster.

“Brittany,” Dad called as if she couldn’t see us standing there. To me he said, “At last, my girls get to meet.” Brittany had a self-assured stride. She was still coming at me when she stuck out her hand to shake. “Andie. Your dad has told me so much about you.”

I forced a smile. “Brittany,” I said, and left it at that. I’m never at a loss for words, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

The hostess led us to a table, and Brittany dropped onto a chair. “I had a terrible time getting away,” she confessed. “This is our busiest time of year.”

“Where do you work?” I asked politely.

“Chez Rory’s.”

“Brittany’s a hair stylist,” Dad added.

And right now she was looking speculatively at my hair.

Don’t even think about it
. I nodded.

“Everyone’s trying to get ready for holiday parties,” Brittany explained. “And next week will be even crazier.”

Words. I dealt in words. Why was I having trouble accessing any?

Actually, I’m working on my master’s in psychology,” Brittany explained. “But before I went back to school I went to beauty school. I figured it would be a good way to pay the bills.”

I nodded politely. “There’s probably no better place to study the human mind than a beauty salon.”

I could almost see her psychoanalyzing dad.
It’s natural to feel unsettled at your age, Mike. Don't worry. I can help you through your midlife crisis
.

Our waitress appeared. “Can I start you folks out with a drink?”

If ever I was going to become a drinking woman, it would be now. “No, thanks,” I said quickly before I could change my mind.
Just pound me over the head with a hammer until I see stars
. Anything would be better than having to sit at this table for an hour and look at Brittany. And Dad. Together.

“I don’t drink,” Brittany said primly.

I could understand that. A woman had to keep her wits about her when she was seducing a middle-aged man.

“I’ll have a beer,” said Dad.

The waitress left. Words were finally forming in my mind.

“So, how did you and Dad meet?” Dumb question. I had already figured out the answer.

Sure enough, Brittany smiled at Dad like he was Santa and said, “Mikey came in for a haircut.”

Mikey? I could feel my facial muscles balking at donning an isn’t-that-sweet expression. I tried to force my mouth up at the corners. It felt like some little elf had hung a fifty-pound weight on each corner of my lips.

Fortunately for my lips. Brittany wasn’t looking at me for approval. She was gazing at Dad. She stretched a hand out to him, and he took it and looked at her like a puppy who had just been promised a lifetime supply of slippers to chew.

A waitress hurried past with a plate holding a steak and a sizzling pile of fried onions. I told myself it was the smell of grease and onion that was making me sick, not the sight of my father looking googly-eyed at a woman my age. After all, this sort of thing happens. Men date younger women, women date younger men. Anything goes these days. Whatever rings your bells.

But what about everybody else’s bells? My Dad was holding hands with a woman my age. She could be my step-mom. I had a sudden vision of myself at Hallmark, trying to pick out a Mother’s Day card for my new mommy. Then I had a vision of Mom coming in the store and catching me at it.

I stood up and started backing away from the table. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to . . . ”
Throw up
.

“Look out,” cried Brittany, just as I turned to run for the ladies’ room and a paper-towel cold compress.

Too late. I collided with a waiter bearing a tray full of steak-laden plates and a condiment server of sour cream, green onions, and bacon bits.

The plates jumped off the tray, the tray did a somersault and the condiment server took a bow, dumping sour cream on my black turtleneck.

The waiter looked mournfully at the scattered plates and food, then at me. “Are you all right?”

I scooped a blob of sour cream from my chest. It was dotted with brown bacon bits. “I’m fine.” I held up my palm full of sour cream and said to my dad and Brittany, “I’ll be right back.”

I stepped past the waiter, who was now kneeling over the mess, and beat feet to the bathroom. Thankfully, I had the place all to myself.

I dumped my handful of sour cream down the sink and scowled at the messy blonde in the mirror. “You’ve got to get a grip,” I told her. “You’re too old to be indulging in
Parent Trap
fantasies.” Anyway, Brittany wasn’t that bad. Looking on the bright side. I’d probably get free haircuts for life.

Except that I was going to remain on the east coast, far from my family. And my future stepmom.

The bathroom door opened and Brittany slipped in. “I thought you might like some help.”

How many women does it take to clean up a sour cream spill?
“That’s okay. I think I can get it,” I said and reached for a paper towel.

She stood there, gnawing her lip and watching me work. “I guess it seems kind of strange to see me with your dad,” she finally said. “With our age difference and all.”

I shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just used to thinking of him with my mom.”

She nodded. “Most guys my age are so shallow. Your dad, he’s different.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I’d observed some of my dad’s midlife behavior.

About what? I wondered. Hair? Sports cars? The repo business? I suppose someone could find what my dad does for a living interesting. He can sure make it sound good. He thinks of himself as James Bond, the bank version. That’s probably because he has an alias he uses to call and harass people who tend to forget minor details like paying bills. And he has been known to be involved in sneaking out at night and repossessing cars. As a matter of fact, I think his jag was a bank repo bargain. It was still expensive, though, so Mom never quite got the bargain concept.