A Carol Christmas (4 page)

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.

“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 Sale
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.

“I haven’t had time,” Mom said. “Why don’t you get them?”

Aunt Chloe nodded eagerly and lumbered out of the room.

“So, you’re expanding,” I said, trying not to sound terrified.

Mom nodded. “Just a couple things.”

Aunt Chloe returned with a cardboard box. She set it on the kitchen table.

I have to admit, I was curious. I left my stool at the counter and went to stand next to her. Peering into the box, I saw a small plaque, a mug, several sheets of paper with indecipherable pencil sketches, and a couple of T-shirts.

Aunt Chloe pulled out the mug. “I did the art work for this,” she said proudly.

It was kind of cute, actually. A string of simply-drawn gingerbread boys held hands around the circumference of the mug.

“I came up with the saying,” Mom added as she set a plate of eggs in front of me.

Aunt Chloe snagged it.

Ben read, “The only good men are made of gingerbread.” He frowned. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Not you, dear” she said to him. “Just men in general.”

“I am a man in general,” he reminded her, and gnawed off a bite of bacon.

“Actually, this has been selling pretty well, hasn’t it?” Aunt Chloe said, looking to Mom for confirmation. Mom nodded, and Aunt Chloe reached into the box and pulled out the plaque. Now she was frowning. “Your mother had someone else do the art work for this.”

“You didn’t capture what I was looking for,” Mom said defensively.

Ben shook his head. “Somebody should capture that and give it a death sentence.”

It was truly horrible. There stood Elmer Fudd’s mother, clad in a frumpy dress and old army boots, frowning and pointing a rifle. Underneath her, in fuchsia letters, were the words
Put the toilet seat down. Now!

“It’s to hang in the bathroom,” Mom explained, and set down another plate of eggs.

I wasn’t feeling too hungry anymore.

Out came more merchandise. There was a T-shirt picturing the contents of a sporting good store—fishing gear, bowling balls, football and baseball equipment—and under it sat the words
Little Shop of Horrors
. Another shirt proclaimed
I Stopped Having Nightmares When I Got Rid of the Man of My Dreams
.

Ben was really scowling now. “Who buys this stuff?”