Merry Humbug Christmas (19 page)

though? I just love that Ryan Seacrest.”

Joss arched an eyebrow at her new friend. “He is kind of cute.

Maybe we could change the channel at five minutes before midnight and look in on Ryan.”

Connie smiled victoriously. “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow, you’ll get to meet Reese and her fiancé, Damian.

We have a big chow-fest at her house to watch football every year.”

“A chow-fest?”

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Merry

Humbug Christmas

“All the food you can stand, in celebration of the end of the

holidays.”

“Oh.” Connie thought it over. “I’m just the opposite from you. I

don’t usually want Christmas to end. But I’ll try to get into the spirit of things.”

Joss chuckled. “I’m glad you’re here, Connie.”

“Me, too, sweetie.”

Connie followed her out to the living room where Joss grabbed

the phone from its dock. “What kind of Chinese food do you like?

Sweet and sour pork? Pepper steak? Ohh, crab rangoon? That’s

Caleb’s favorite. He loves the crab rangoon.”

“Any of that sounds luscious. Just order anything you like. As

long as I get egg rolls. I love egg rolls.”

Before she could dial the phone in her hand, it rang, and Joss

grinned at Connie before picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Joss? Hi, it’s Abby Metzger.”

Joss covered the phone and mouthed, “My neighbor!” to Connie.

“Hey, Abby. How are you guys?”

“We’re good, but listen. I thought I should tell you that there’s someone going house to house down here, and he’s asking about

you.”

“Me? What do you mean? Who is it?”

“He’s kind of cute, actually. With an accent.”

“What kind of accent?”

“Scottish, maybe?”

Joss’s breath caught in the back of her throat, and her mouth

went completely dry. When she finally pushed the word upward, she nearly choked on it. “Irish?”

“Yeah, he could be Irish.”

“Where is he now?”

“On my front porch. I told him to wait there while—”

Joss tossed the handset to the chair by the door without discon-

necting the call.

“Where’s the fire?” Connie exclaimed.

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“I’ll be back,” she shouted, pausing to point a finger at Caleb as he tried to follow her out the door. “Caleb, stay!”

And with that, Joss took off running across the lawn, leaping

over the shrubs that bordered the driveway. The Metzgers lived several houses away, and Joss barreled down the hill on pure adrena-

line. When she reached the curve in the sidewalk that led to their driveway, she jumped through the line of enormous glowing candy

canes, past the reindeer standing guard over the garden, and over the small—and somewhat eerie—elves in front of the house. Suddenly,

Joss sputtered, clutching the stabbing pain in her side as she frantically scanned the front yard.

“Patrick!”

She could hardly believe her eyes as he turned around, that

familiar grin spreading across his beautiful face like warm wax over a burning flame.

“What are you doing here?” she tried to ask while catching her

breath.

Abby Metzger watched them from her doorway as Patrick moved

down the driveway toward her. When Joss couldn’t wait another two seconds, she shoved all thoughts of pain and the need for oxygen

from her mind, and she took off toward him at an implausible full run again. When she’d nearly reached him, she leaped several feet toward him and landed in his arms.

Patrick twirled her around, laughing. “It’s good to see you too.”

“How did you find me?” she asked as he set her down.

“It wasn’t easy. I just remembered what you said about the

Spanish houses on the hill over the park, so I set out searching for you.”

“I tried to text you before we left the ship, but I dropped my

phone overboard, and I hadn’t backed up your number, and—”

Patrick placed his finger over Joss’s lips, shaking his head.

“Breathe, darlin’.”

As his words settled in on her, she began to sputter again. “I don’t know . . . if I . . . can, actually.”

“Joss?” Abby called from her front door. “Is everything all right?”

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“Yeah,” she frothed, waving her arm randomly. “Fine.”

Patrick turned back toward the house and waved. “Thank you so

much.”

“Okay. Merry Christmas, you two.”

Joss dropped to the ground beside one of the elves and draped

Humbug

her arm around its plastic shoulder, gasping for breath.

“Sorry. I just need a minute.”

Patrick chuckled, and he stood over her until she recovered and

Merry Christmas

returned to her feet.

“Where do you live?” he asked with a grin.

She pointed to the top of the street and grabbed his hand. “Come

on. I’ll show you. Oh, and you’ll never guess who’s in my living

room! Connie Rudolph!”

“You’re joking.”

“No. I brought her home with me. Sort of a souvenir from my

trip.”

Patrick laughed. “Then I’d better do this here.” Wrapping his

arms around her waist, he pulled her toward him and pressed his lips to hers in a deep kiss.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to kiss you again,” she said when they parted. “It’s lucky you paid attention when I told you about where I lived.”

“Not lucky, Joss,” he told her. “Destiny.”

And she almost believed him.

It Came Upon a Midnight Deer

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Merry Christ

Humbug mas

It Came Upon a Midnight Deer

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Merry Christ

Humbug mas

It Came Upon a Midnight Deer

S A N D R A D. B R IC KE R

Nashville, Tennessee

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Merry Christ

Humbug mas

It Came Upon a Midnight Deer

S A N D R A D. B R IC KE R

Nashville, Tennessee

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“Whoa, whoa, Mom. Hold on. Are you telling me I was

named after
a peanut butter cup
?”

“Reese, please. Don’t be silly at the Christmas dinner table.”

“We don’t even eat dairy, and Daddy’s allergic to peanuts! How

could you name your firstborn child after a chocolate-covered peanut butter cup?”

“It’s not like we haven’t ever tasted a dairy product,” her mother replied. “Your father and I didn’t embrace the vegan lifestyle until we moved to Berkeley in the sixties. Back then we still called ourselves vegetarians.”

Her younger brother flashed a peace sign, and Reese giggled.

“I loved those peanut butter cups before I knew they were poi-

son,” her father lamented.

“The moment midwife Elaine put you into my arms, I thought

you were the most delicious little thing I’d ever seen. Isn’t that right, Alan?”

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Her father’s only comment came in the form of an arched eye-

brow as he peered at them over the casserole bowl of vegetable

stuffing.

“So your thought process went something like, ‘Hmm. Delicious.

Baby. . . .
Chocolate and peanut butter
?’”

“I think you had to be there, Sis.”

Reese watched her father pour the Pendergrass family’s version

of gravy over the mound of smashed potatoes on his plate. The bald spot on the top of his head had widened in recent years, and he’d pulled what was left of his hair into a short ponytail at the back of his head.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Reese said as realization dawned. “How did

you come up with Herschel’s name? Daddy! Was Herschel named

after a
Hershey bar
?”

“What?” Hersch cried. “Is that true?”

“Reese Pendergrass,” her mother warned. “Stop stirring the pot

and eat your Tofurkey.”

Tofurkey
—a gelatin-like mound of tofu rolled around an herb-like bread stuffing with the inexplicable and distant flavor of turkey—had graced the Pendergrass holiday table ever since Reese

could remember.

“Will you think less of me if I run down to McDonald’s for a Big

Mac?” Reese asked.

Her mother flicked her long, straight hair over her shoulder, and her hand flew instantly to her heart. “Alan?”

Her father’s eyes bulged. “What do you know about Big Macs? Is

this what you do with your friends on the weekend now? You con-

sume genetically mummified cattle in secret?”

Reese swallowed around the lump in her throat, averting her

eyes to the slightly jiggling mound of tofu on her plate. “Only a couple of times.”

Her mother’s response came in the form of a moan muffled by

the hand over her mouth.

“Herschel? You too?”

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Hersch shook his head and closed his eyes. “And my friends won-

der why I’m so messed up.Yes, Dad. I’ve eaten at McDonald’s. I’ve also had tacos, and last weekend Brad’s parents took us out for pep-peroni pizza! With extra
cheese
.”

“Hersch,” Reese muttered. “Really.”

“Come on!” he exclaimed, and his pubescent preteen voice

cracked. “Tell them, Reese. You’ve done it too. To all of the kids at school, we’re nutritional freaks. But Mom, Dad, I think it’s time you heard the truth. Reese and me, we like eggs and milk.
And meat
. I know it’s hard to hear, but it’s true.
We’re carnivores
.”

“Perhaps you should invite all of your dairy-loving, meat-eating

friends over at one time,” their mother said. “I’ll put on a roasted turkey and boil up some giblets.” After a short dry-heave hiccup, she continued. “Then afterward, you can eat ice cream and put your father and me on display for everyone to see that it’s not your fault.

It’s ours. We’ve abused our children.” She stood up and raised one arm. “We are gastronomical child abusers! Call the FDA. Arrest us!”

As she crossed her hands at the wrists in anticipation of the cuffs, regret sizzled at the back of Reese’s throat as she wondered why-oh-why she’d been grafted into such a strange, dysfuntional family tree.

Was it some great cosmic joke that she—a girl with dreams of idyllic family Christmases around a twelve-foot tree packed with oodles of brightly wrapped packages tied with spools of curly ribbon and a holiday table boasting a golden roasted turkey and a cheesy broccoli casserole—had been plopped . . .
here
?