Bowl Full of Cherries (3 page)

Rell—still without a plan—sighed. Oh well, no time like the present.

“Averell?” His mother was walking through the living room when he came into the house. She paused and then a smile spread across her face, and she walked quickly to him, swept him up in a powerful hug, and planted kisses on his cheek. “I didn’t even know if you were coming! Your phone’s been—”

“I didn’t have service.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He
had
been out of range. But the cell company may also have turned his phone off for nonpayment. It had been a bitch of a thing finding a working payphone to call James. He didn’t realize how many of them had been yanked out now that “everyone” was connected wirelessly. “Camping. Living off the land.”

“That explains the wild-man beard.” She patted his facial hair as if she didn’t trust it.

“You don’t like it?” he teased, knowing the answer full well.

“It’s Christmas, Averell. Shave. Or at least trim the thing.”

“Only ’cause it’s Christmas.”

“I don’t even have to threaten ‘no Santa’ this year?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. He pulled out of her hold and headed for the stairs at the end of the hall. “No prodding, poking, cajoling, or any of it. If you want a trimmed up beard, then—”

He had one foot on the stairs when her suspicious voice caused him to freeze in his ascent.

“All right, I’m not going to play. What gives, Averell?”

He looked at her over his shoulder, all innocent smile and falsely fluttering lashes. “What gives
what
, my favorite, and only, loveliest of mothers?”

“Why are you being so agreeable?” Her eyes had narrowed.

“I’m not always agreeable?” he asked innocently.

“So if I asked you to go shopping tonight for the kids—”

“Of course.” He tried to keep his voice level. It was the twenty-second. They were cutting it a little close buying gifts this late in the game.

“And wrap the presents for me?”

“I’m kinda shit at wrapping but, I mean, sure.”

“And you’ll clean out the garage?”

He started to agree and then froze. Their garage door had broken years ago and things had piled up inside the space once reserved for his mother’s car. Old televisions that didn’t work, a headboard, boxes of toys, paperwork, receipts, newspapers, cans that had been collected but never recycled, glassware, a refrigerator everyone was afraid to open, nonperishables that had perished, two plastic Christmas trees, the dead lawnmower, the living lawnmower, and whatever else his mother hadn’t shoved up into the attic. The garage was where things went to die and cleaning it would be hell. It would mean a mask and carting junk through the tiny side door and out the back gate and
lots
of trips to the city dump.

It was a hell he’d been avoiding since he was sixteen years old, a hell his mother would threaten as punishment for the gravest of offenses.

Clean out the garage? He was liable to die in a junk collapse.

Or freeze to death.

Or just get so bored he gave up the will to live.

Very slowly Rell turned, faced his mother and after one deep, nerve-calming breath, he said, “I will clean the garage.”

“Aha!” She flung her finger out at him and marched forward. “I
knew
something was going on. Admit it!”

Rell did the only thing he could think to do—he fled, taking the stairs two at a time, yelling behind him as he did, “It’s nothing! Really! I just need a place to crash for a little while longer than, y’know, Christmas.”

He’d just made it to his old bedroom door when he heard her shout:

“You are
not
moving back in this house, young man!”

Too late. He was in his room with his bag, and Averell Lang was claiming squatter’s right.

B
Y
THE
time Rell felt like it was safe to wander back downstairs, the house was filled with the smell of baking crust. His mother had crammed her gigantic oven full, and he didn’t even have to look to know what was in there. Pie making was a holiday tradition almost as sacred as the lighting of the advent candle.

Eight pies in all: two for the Christmas Eve dinner at church, one to auction off for charity at her Ladies’ Group, another one for their neighbor, Mr. Rogers (that was seriously the man’s name and he seriously wore the sweaters), three to feed the family on Christmas Day, and one extra—the reserve pie.

“Mom?” Rell called out quietly, slinking around the open doorway.

His mother got the idea for the reserve pie from her grandmother who used to keep one extra little wrapped gift underneath the tree just in case an acquaintance came unexpectedly calling with presents. The thought was this: Rell’s great-grandma could excuse herself to the kitchen, scribble the visitor’s name on the blank tag, and come back like she, too, had a present for them all along. The reserve pie was there to save face.

But God, how that pie tempted him in all of its lemon meringue—
always
lemon meringue—glory.

His stomach growled as he peeked into the kitchen. His mother was standing with her back to him, talking to Rell’s oldest nephew, Andy.

“You
touch
my pies before I’ve given you permission, Andy, and Grandma will chop off both your hands.”

Rell figured his mother was distracted enough not to kick him out into the street, so he slipped into the kitchen. She pleasantly brandished her knife at her grandson who didn’t look threatened in the least. Andy, ten years old, was one of Jes’s brood. She had three but sometimes it seemed more like ten. Andy—the freckled redhead—was Rell’s toughest competitor for the reserve pie. That sneak would be eyeing it as well. On the one hand, he was a ten-year-old with a bedtime. On the other, he was still young and adorable enough to get away with stealing the pie early. Rell was not. If Andy decided he wasn’t scared of his grandma this year… well, Rell might end up defending the reserve pie the whole Christmas season. Honestly though, if the kid was brave enough to face Rell’s mom, then he’d earned the right to pie consumption, because even as an adult Rell was pretty dang afraid of what his mother would do if he took her reserve pie early.

“Once she cuts your hands off, she might even bake them into another pie,” Rell told Andy, who cackled at the gory image.

“Same goes for you, Averell,” his mother warned, giving him the side-eye. “You’re already on my short list.”

“I trimmed up my beard, though” he said with a grin, turning his chin to show her his dark, neat beard.

She considered him for a minute but didn’t look impressed.

“And I would never do anything to break the sanctity of our agreement.” His voice was solemn as he spoke. “No pie until pie time. But it might save us all so much trouble if you’d make a second lemon meringue or—” The look she shot him had him quickly changing tack. “So… is everyone already here, then?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t hidden up in your room all morning, you’d know.”

“I’m here,” Andy told him helpfully, “and Mom and Dad and Charley and Jack and—”

“The Ford family is here,” his mother interrupted, and Andy puffed up at the sound of his last name. “And Grandma and Grandpa.” Meaning Rell’s grandparents. “We’re waiting on Katie and Chris and baby Hudson. Aunt Megs and CeCe, Sondra is probably coming, and then Tyler and—”

“When is Tyler getting here? And is he bringing another stupid girlfriend?”

“Not this year.” Gray strands of hair danced around his mother’s face as she shook her head. None of them had been looking forward to another conversation with Xondee, the art school student; or Mist, the barista; or Chloe Chloe (yes, that was her name), the subway busker. “He called this morning to say he’s bringing his roommate instead. I guess the poor guy doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

“We’re already pretty full up. Is he staying in Tyler’s room?”

“Oh, about that. Didn’t I say?” She blinked at him. But the timer dinged at that moment and she turned, leaving the question hanging in the air.

No, she hadn’t told him, but he had a feeling that whatever she had to say was going to be unpleasant for him. “You’re not having him bunk with me, though, right?” Rell asked.

She cast him an exasperated look. “Andy wanted to stay in Tyler’s room and you know where Andy goes, so goes Jack and Charley. Tyler is full up.”

“You want
Tyler’s
friend to stay in
my
room?” he asked slowly, hoping his intonation
hinted
at just what he thought of the ludicrous proposition. “And, pfft, Andy, you blood traitor. Why don’t you want to stay with me? I thought I was your favorite.”

Andy’s departing bark of laughter told Rell he’d been turned out in favor of Tyler. Height of insult.

“Averell, there’s nowhere else, okay?”

“If Sondra doesn’t come, then…?”

The last he’d heard, his cousin Sondra was “considering” leaving Paris for a Northeastern Christmas. He thought there must be something seriously wrong with her if she was bored with Paris, and he doubted their full house was going to appeal much. Even if she came, she’d probably end up catching a bus down South after breakfast. She never stayed still for long. No-shoes Sondra, the hippie, the photographer, the “life-drinker.” They should have gotten along really well. But even Sondra thought Rell was a slacker. That was saying something coming from someone who sailed around the world doing nothing but taking photographs all the time.

“She’s probably coming, Rell, and if she does, she’ll get the cot. Suck it up, make a new friend. It’s only four days.” And then his mother gasped, straightening suddenly. “Oh! I completely forgot.”

“More guests?” Rell guessed with a grimace. He supposed they could put bedding in the bathtub or something.

“No, but the train Tyler’s friend is on gets in early. It’s coming—
” She glanced at the clock. “Crap, ten minutes ago? Be a dear and go pick him up?”

“Wait, you said Tyler was
bringing
his friend. Why is he on his own?”

She shook her head again. “
Bringing
him,
sending
him, same difference. His name is Crowley, I think, and he’s here today, Tyler’s here tomorrow.
Very
early.”

“He’s here
now
. You remembered to set out the donations for the Salvation Army, but you forgot to pick up a guest from the station?”

“I thought you were being agreeable, Averell?”

He put on his best smile and gestured broadly. Ta-da! Rell Lang, agreeable!

“Take my keys and get going, Averell. Don’t you forget who’s holding the knife.”

C
ROWLEY
WISHED
he could see better out of the small window, but a very tall man had taken that seat, and he used the pane like a pillow, blocking out most of the beautiful countryside. Glancing to his right, Crowley found a better view in that direction, but the girl across the aisle glared sourly at him as if she were offended he wanted to look out the window that was rightfully hers. He ended up leaning back in the gray chair and sinking into the sound of the music pouring through his headphones.

He wasn’t feeling very Christmasy, but he’d loaded his off-brand MP3 player with Christmas tunes for the flight to Kansas City, back when a normal holiday was still a possibility. With Tyler practically pushing him out the door, there hadn’t been time to change out his music.

He stole another quick look to his right. Thankfully the girl was texting, so he could lose himself for just a moment in the fading light of the evening. The landscape that rumbled by was breathtaking. The snow that fell—hard and fast—made it even more stunning. Like the old postcards that Tyler collected and strung from string by clothespins.

“Holy night,” a little girl said emphatically, popping up in the seat in front of him. She turned and looked at him, continuing to sing off-key.

Crowley realized he’d been humming
Silent Night
along with the violin instrumental playing in his ears. He wished he’d thought to grab his violin before he rushed out the door. That might have elevated his mood—bringing him up to seasonal code. Instead, he quietly sang along with the little girl, until someone shushed… whom? Her? Or him? Or both?

Both Crowley and the little girl, chastised, sank down in their seats.

By the time they pulled into the station, Crowley had switched out his Christmas music for the pressing silence of the pause button.

“I’
M
SORRY
,”
Tyler said for about the sixtieth time. Crowley sat on his luggage underneath the eaves in front of the railway station, his cell pressed to his ear. He watched the busy roundabout, cars crawling by in the snow.

“It’s okay, I think it’s actually kind of nice out—”

“Ask her to do one damn thing. One. Damn. Thing. And she forgets to do it. Damn phone is off the hook, too. Busy signal. Busy signal. Sisters aren’t picking up. Rell’s phone kicks to voice mail—”