Christmas Catch: A Holiday Novella

Christmas Catch (The 12 NAs of Christmas)

Copyright © 2013 Chelsea M. Cameron

www.chelseamcameron.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved.

Edited by
Jen Henricks

Cover Copyright © Sarah Hansen at
Okay Creations

Interior Design by
Novel Ninjutsu

As soon as I drive past the “Welcome to Saltwater, Maine, The Prettiest Fishing Village”, I start cursing my mother out under my breath. Prettiest Fishing Village my ass. It’s just like all the other fishing villages, populated by people who never change, with backward ideas that never change.

As soon as I got accepted to Columbia, I’d driven away in my 1967 Chevy Impala (no, I’ve never seen
Supernatural
, thank you very much, and I’m really tired of screaming girls taking pictures while leaning on it and asking where the Winchesters are) and hadn’t looked back. I was done with the backwater town and backwater ideas and whenever anyone asks where I’m from, I say “Maine” and leave it at that.

My phone rings, but I ignore it. Just mom (for the third time) asking me when I’m going to be home. I fiddle with the radio until I find a station that plays classic rock. Only Aerosmith understands my pain.

I drive past the microscopic high school I’d gone to. I’d been the valedictorian of my class of ten, which was harder than it sounds. I’d had competition from one other student, and he’d given me a run for my money.

Sawyer
. I can’t think his name without bringing up all kinds of memories, most of them good, but all tinged with regret and sadness. Ugh, I do NOT want to think about Sawyer. He’s off at Georgetown doing his undergrad before going to med school to be a cardiothoracic surgeon.

I slow down to the required 25 mph as I go through what passes for “downtown” Saltwater. A tiny grocery store, a hair salon, a pizza place and a gas station with one pump that doesn’t take credit cards. Big shock, it’s exactly the same as the last time I saw it. All the buildings are coated with the remnants of the last snow storm. It might be December, but the weather has decided to be warmer than usual. The snow would be back though. It always is.

I turn off the main road and start heading to my house, my dread increasing. I swore I was never coming back here, but my mother had laid such a guilt trip on me for missing last Christmas that I didn’t have a choice. Something about wanting to have all her children under one roof. My brother and sister will both be there because, unlike me, they had never left Saltwater. My brother is a sternman on a lobster boat and my sister married young, started producing babies and became a CNA. They’ve both married and divorced, once for my brother and twice for my sister.

I’m pondering just turning around and driving all the way back to Columbia when a deer darts out in front of my car, causing me to swerve on the narrow road and go into the ditch to avoid massacring Bambi.

“Shit!” I slam my hands on the steering wheel. My car is fine, but when I try to reverse out of the ditch, nothing happens. The soggy ground has latched onto my tires and isn’t letting go.

I let out a whole string of curses and get out of my car to survey the damage. Fuck my life.

I look up and down the road. I’m not that far from home, so I could just walk and then come back with my brother. He’s got a tow truck and he can get me out. One of his toys that he bought himself. Great. That will mean I owe him a favor and he’ll never let me forget it. I try to avoid looking as a car drives by and slows down. Yeah, yeah. Come and gawk at the damage. I hear an automatic window roll down and then a voice I never thought I would hear again speaks.

“Need some help?” This is not happening.

I turn around slowly. The first thing I see is a truck I haven’t seen since high school. The second is the guy I haven’t seen since high school.

“Ivy?” His hair’s a little longer, and his face is a little leaner. He looks . . . older. But his eyes. They’re still the same.

“Sawyer,” I whisper, because I can’t believe it’s him. What the hell is he doing here?

A car drives behind Sawyer, honks, and he waves them on. The two of us are frozen, unable to move. At least I am. He recovers first.

“I have a chain in the back. I can get you out of there.”

“Okay,” I say as he pulls in front of my car and then gets out. He seems taller, but that can’t be. He’s wearing a thick blue Carhartt jacket, torn jeans and work boots. He moves to the back of the truck and gets a chain out, which he hooks to the tow hook on the back of my car and then to his truck. He hasn’t said a word.

“Okay, get in,” he says and I get back in my car. With a minimum of revving of his engine and mine, we get my car out of the ditch. I get out to thank him.

Instead, I say, “What are you doing back here?” He wraps up the chain and doesn’t meet my eyes.

“My dad died,” he says as he tosses the chain in the bed of the truck. “Bye, Ivy.” And as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone, and the only remnant of is being here is the cloud of exhaust from his truck.

I slump against my car and raise my head. Snow is just starting to fall, melting as soon as it hits the pavement.

This goddamn town.

“What took you so long? I was about to send out a search party,” my mother says as I walk in the door, enveloping me in a huge hug. I hug her back and I have to admit, I don’t mind this part.

“Well, it looks like at least the food has been good to you at Columbia. You’re a bit puffier than you were last time you were here.” And there it is. Not even five minutes in and there’s the criticism. I move away from her and drag my suitcase back to my tiny room.

Our house is similar to most of the others in Saltwater: small and damp. My brother Drew is on the couch watching a sporting event (I can’t be bothered to keep track of which one) with a beer in one hand, and he waves at me as I walk by. Mom yells at him to get his feet off the coffee table. God, it’s like I never left.

My room is exactly the same. Just enough room for a bed and a dresser, with a tiny window that looks out on the backyard that hasn’t been raked or mowed in however long. My bed is made with one of my grandmother’s quilts and I smooth it out before I sit down and lay back on the pillows. Dad must be at work. He owns a tree service and does odd jobs. Mom manages the books and does substitute teaching when she can.

Mom and Drew are busy arguing (their favorite pastime) about something and I let my mind drift back to the moment with Sawyer. His father died? No one told me. Granted, I don’t keep in contact with anyone from here besides my parents, but you’d think they might have mentioned it. The yelling increases and then the door bangs and another loud voice announces my sister Stacy’s arrival, with at least two of her children. I pull the pillow over my head and wait for it.

I count to ten, and then my door bangs open and a tiny human jumps on my stomach and screams my name.

Welcome home, Ivy.

Two hours later we’re all crammed around the tiny dining table as Christmas music drones in the background and my mother glares at what I’m eating. Drew keeps glancing over his shoulder at the game (along with Dad) and Stacy is trying to keep her children at the table. They’re not bad kids, they’re just . . . hyper. And attention-starved. Listen, I don’t have kids, but I know a plea for attention when I see one. Stacy’s way of dealing with it is to either ignore them or scream at them.

This is my own special hell.

“What happened to your car?” Dad says out of the blue. “It’s covered in mud. You get stuck in the ditch?” He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing ever.

“Not exactly,” I respond. I’m not going into the Sawyer story. Not if you paid me a million dollars.