Celebration (38 page)

As his eyes closed, Logan shifted his thoughts to Peter Island and his next endeavor.

 

 

Woodie was like a caged, angry cat as he paced the long family room. Once he stopped to throw a monster log in the fire, stepping back when sparks shot upward and outward in every direction like a Fourth of July fireworks display. Like he really gave a damn if the whole place went up in smoke.
Son of a fucking bitch! She did it to me again. And it always comes back to Logan.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit here and suck my thumb while I wait for Logan Kelly to die? Am I supposed to cut and run? And go where?
Two days ago, just forty-eight hours ago, he'd been the happiest man on the face of the earth. Today he was the most miserable. On top of that it was Christmas Day.

Maybe he needed to get drunk. Maybe he needed to drown his sorrows. Or, maybe he should open his mail? Or, he could go into his little office and start getting his tax records together. If he decided to leave, he would have to have things ready to hand over to the accounting firm in Washington. Good old Steve. He wondered what his old college buddy was doing these days. Probably getting ready to do battle with the IRS over one thing or another. The only thought that appealed to him was the one about getting drunk, but, if he was going to do that, he needed to eat first. And it certainly wouldn't hurt if he prepared something ahead of time for his hangover tomorrow.

Woodie stomped his way into the kitchen, where he yanked open his kitchen cabinets. Kraft macaroni and cheese, Lipton noodle soup, baked beans, Spam, tuna, canned vegetables, canned juices. A Duncan Hines cake mix. Hell, he hadn't baked a cake in years. Maybe he should give that a shot. A casserole would be good. He could just dump everything in it and hope for the best. It occurred to him to wonder how old the stuff was. Maybe it would kill him, and his worries would be over. He wondered if Kristine would shed more tears over his death or Logan's.

The phone rang. Woodie stared at it. Kristine wouldn't call a second time. So, who was it? Someone calling to wish him a happy holiday. He picked it up on the sixth ring and barked a greeting.

“My goodness, Aaron, is that any way to answer the phone. This is Maureen, sweetie. How are you? I called to wish you a Merry Christmas. You are having a merry time of it, aren't you?” Maureen trilled.

“The merriest there is. Where are you, Maureen?”

“In Washington at the Hyatt. Stedman wanted to come back for the holidays. I wanted to stay in St. Tropez but in the end I always do what Stedman wants.”

“What makes you think I'm interested in your whereabouts or your itinerary, Maureen?” Woodie all but snarled.

“Sweetie, we were married once. That means we'll have a bond of sorts all our lives. I'm really very fond of you. If you'd had more money, I would have stayed with you. I would even have lived in that awful tree house of yours.”

“I'm not exactly poor.”

“No, sweetie, but you are stingy. Do you want to know what Stedman gave me for Christmas?”

Woodie clenched his teeth. “I can't say it will make my day complete. More to the point, what did you give old Stedman? By the way, how is he?”

“The poor darling has good days and bad days. We have round-the-clock nurses for him. He sleeps quite a bit these days, which gives me loads of free time. I thought when the weather cleared, I'd drive out to see you. To answer your question, though, I gave Stedman a cashmere, monogrammed muffler. He loves mufflers. He gave me a French villa and a diamond belt. Did you ever in your life hear of anything more outrageous? Each stone is a full carat. They're perfectly matched. I know you aren't up on fashion, so I'll tell you: it's one of those belts you wear when you're naked.”

Woodie choked on the smoke from his cigarette, then he laughed.

“When I come out to visit, sweetie, I'll show you how it looks. Are you still dating, goodness, isn't that word archaic, that farm woman?”

“No,” Woodie barked.

“Oh, sweetie, did things go sour?”

“You could say that,” Woodie barked again.

“Do you want me to call before I come out or should I just pop in? I won't come empty-handed. I bought you a lovely gift, and I wrapped it myself. I love to give presents. Stedman gets such joy out of seeing me shop. We have so many houses I've lost track. Life couldn't be better.”

“If it's so goddamn wonderful, why are you calling me?”

“To stay in touch. Just like the telephone people tell you to do. It's also very boring here today. There is so much snow, there's nothing going on in the hotel, and Stedman is napping.” Maureen laughed. “I'm reaching out to touch someone.”

“Well, touch someone else. I'm busy right now. Merry Christmas, Maureen, and Happy New Year. That's my greeting for the new year, too, so you won't have to call me again.”

“You're such an old grouch, Aaron. I don't know why I bother with you.”

“Good-bye, Maureen.”

“Diamond belts to wear when you're naked. Now I've heard everything,” Woodie snapped as he flipped open his cabinets in search of liquor. His old housekeeper must have replenished his liquor when he called to tell her to get the house ready. The stuff in the cabinets must be fresh, too. What to choose? Scotch, gin, vodka, rum, or cognac? What the hell, he'd sample all of them while he cooked his Christmas dinner.

It was five minutes of four when Woodie staggered over to the kitchen counter to survey his culinary masterpieces. He was as drunk as the proverbial skunk, knew it, and didn't care. He was going to get even drunker if he didn't pass out first.

Woodie splashed Bacardi rum into a glass. He gulped at it. The fiery liquid popped his eyeballs to attention just as he heard a high-pitched whine outside the house. In his drunken state he couldn't make out the direction of the earsplitting shrieking noise. Probably another damn burglar. Well, his shotgun was ready and loaded. All he had to do was find it.

“Aha! Okay, I'm ready for you!” Woodie said, leaning up against the refrigerator, the barrel of the gun pointed in the middle of the kitchen door. It was quiet. Too quiet! The bastard was probably going to come in through the front door. Was it locked? What difference did that make? Burglars knew how to break and enter. The first sound he heard at the door and he'd start blasting. For one crazy moment he wondered if it was Maureen in her diamond belt. God, what if he killed her dead and all she was wearing was a diamond belt? How would he explain that to the banking industry? He
used
to be a pillar of the banking industry. Now he was nothing. Kristine didn't want him because she had to wait for old Logan to kick the bucket. Maureen didn't want him because he wasn't rich enough. Even his housekeeper didn't want him anymore because she said there was nothing for her to do in his house. Damn, he couldn't make anyone happy.

“Shit!”

The kitchen door opened and closed. Woodie stumbled his way through the dining room and out to the kitchen. “You take one more fucking step, and you'll be picking these shotgun shells out of your teeth,” he roared.

“Woodie, it's me, Pete! Put that damn gun down before you shoot someone. Is it loaded?”

“Yeah, it's loaded. D'ya think I'm stupid?”

“Hell, yes, I think you're stupid. I don't like guns, and I particularly don't like drunks with guns,” Pete said in a jittery voice, his feet rooted to the floor.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Woodie said, leaning the gun in the corner.

“Don't you have to do something to that gun? Put a safety on it or uncock it or something?” Pete asked, his face full of worry.

“I already did that. I told you I wasn't stupid. Kristine thinks I'm stupid, but I'm not.”

“Kristine doesn't think any such thing. She's miserable. As miserable as you look. What's all this stuff?” Pete asked, waving his arm about.

“This is liquor. This is macaroni and cheese. This pot has noodle soup in it. This is tuna fish with little green things in it. This plate is full of Spam. I don't know what to do with it. This is baked beans, the kind that has a cube of something white in it. And this is ... hell, I don't know what it is. It's my Christmas dinner.”

“I think it's succotash. I hate succotash,” Pete said.

“I hate succotash, too,” Woodie said, his head bobbing up and down. “Want a drink? Christmas holidays and all. How'd you get here?”

“On one of the snowmobiles you bought for Kristine for Christmas. Don't you remember? They came yesterday morning before all hell broke loose. I hid them in the old barn.”

“Yeah, yeah. So, do you want the drink or not? We need to toast old Logan and his return.”

“I'll take the drink, but I'm not making a toast to Logan or anyone else. You need to stop torturing yourself. It's not Kristine's fault her husband came back. She wanted to kick him out. So did the kids. However, when someone is dying, that's kind of hard to do. Even though you're drunk, you should understand that.”

“Well, I don't. She won't marry me. She put me on hold. Do you got that? Me, she put on hold. Maybe later I'll be good enough to marry, but not now because Logan has to come first. That should tell you something, Pete Calloway.”

“It tells me Kristine has emotions and decency. She's trying to do the right thing so that when . . . when the end comes, she can hold up her head and know she did the right thing.”

“She can still do the right thing and marry me. We could live here. She could go to the farm every day. I don't begrudge her taking care of her ex-husband. I don't, Pete. I'm not good enough to marry. I'm an ... interference. Are you going to eat this crap or not?”

“No.”

“Then why'd I cook it?” Woodie grumbled.

“To have something to do while you were drinking, I guess,” Pete said.

“Maureen called me. Guess what old Stedman gave her for Christmas besides the French villa?”

“I don't have a clue,” Pete said.

Woodie leaned over the table, his eyes popping from his head. “He gave her a diamond belt. Ya wear it when you're
nakid!
Whad'ya think of that?”

“I'm impressed.” Pete grinned.

“Me too. She's coming out here to model it for me. Whad'ya think of that?”

“I'm really impressed. Are you going to wear the yellow Calvins or the blue Speedo?”

“Smart-ass. You sound like Kristine. I don't like her today.”

“Yeah, I know. I just came out to see if you were okay.”

“I'm okay.”

“What are you going to do, Woodie?”

“I'm-going-to-Tibet!”

“No shit!”

“Yep. I might get a cat, too.”

“That's pretty far. Tibet isn't around the corner. You gonna seek out the Dalai Lama?”

“Maybe. Maybe I'll ask Maureen if I can stay in her French villa. She said a part of her will always love me. Kristine never said that.”

“That's because the whole of her loves you, not just a part of her. I have to get back to the farm. It's almost time to take the dogs out. You need some coffee and a nap. How about if I make you some coffee and tuck you in?”

“The best man won, Pete,” Woodie said as he flopped down on one of the kitchen chairs.

“That's not true, Woodie. You're the best man. Listen. This is just a temporary setback. Look, I'm going to come back here tomorrow when you're sober and talk sense to you. We can work this out. I don't want to see you or Kristine throw away something you'll both regret.”

“Call first. I might have company.”

“No one comes out to this godforsaken place.”

“Maureen will. She knows where it is. You can tell Kristine that, too.”

“Okay, big guy, the coffee is perking. I'm putting all this liquor back in the cabinet. Promise me you won't drink any more.”

“No, no. When I make a promise, I keep it. I might want to drink some more later. After I eat this feast. What are those green things in the tuna?”

“It looks like leaves from the plant over the sink. Parsley?”

“Yeah, maybe it's parsley. Are you going to tell Kristine I love her?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Nah. Are you going to tell her I'm going to Tibet?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Nah. How about Maureen?”

“Yeah, I'm gonna tell her about the belt.”

“You are!” Woodie reared up in his chair. “Why?”

“It's important.” Pete grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. I didn't know they made things like that.”

“I didn't either. Isn't it great the way we learn something new every day? Okay, here's your coffee. Come on, I'll help you into the living room and put the television on for you. Are you going to be okay, Woodie?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“I'll come back later. Now drink that coffee.”

Woodie took one swallow before he set the cup on the end table. He leaned his head back into the softness of the sofa cushions. Moments later he started to snore.

Pete went up to the second floor for a blanket. He removed Woodie's shoes, straightened out the lanky form, covered it, then turned off the television. He checked the fire and adjusted the fire screen.

In the kitchen, he unplugged the coffeepot and threw dish towels over the array of food on the table and counter. He felt like crying when he went outside in the cold air. Sometimes life just got in the way of life.

Pete arrived back at the farm just in time to help with the dogs.