The Steward (52 page)

“Mom, when did you do the caretaker’s cottage?”

“It was last. I finished it a week ago. The whole thing was missing something so I decided to use it—except cleaned up.”

“You measured?”

“Yes, I did that a month ago—when all of you were away, I snuck up and got what I needed. I’m so glad that Chalen can keep a secret—you know, he’s isn’t as bad as people say. He’s been perfectly pleasant each time we’ve talked.”

“You’ve talked to him?”
Panic set in.

“Don’t be silly, Maggie, May took your dad and me up and introduced us back in January—I thought you and Mitch were with us, but no, I guess we did that while you were at school. Seriously though, he lives on the property, of cou
r
se we met him.”

I was stunned by my own stupidity. I
hadn’t
even considered it before.

“We’ve tried to invite him down for dinner, but he won’t come.”

Now I was stunned for another reason—Mom and Dad were friendly with Chalen. I figured that Mitch would be terrified, but he reacted to the news by rolling his eyes. He just thought Chalen was a creepy old man—he didn’t know what I did, so the danger didn’t register.

“Mom, when was the last time you saw him ... Chalen?”

“Two weeks ago, when you were at school.”

I was at school, with Sara, and
D
ad had probably left for work with Billy following. That left Mom here on the Weald unprotected anytime she wandered away from the garden wall.

“He visited me in the studio and gave me his opinion on these. I think he really liked them. In fact—I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—on New Year’s Day, he has invited us all to his cottage for dinner.”

“Oh
,
M
om, I don’t like that man, he’s a creep,” Mitch protested.

“Mi
t
chell, you were not raised that way.”

“Mom, I don’t want to go there!”
Mitch said.

“We’re going,
and
no whining—unless you want Santa to skip you.”

“Mom, I know there isn’t a Santa
—I
’ve known for
,
like
,
three years.’

“And who told you that?”

“The internet, hello
,” he said.

In a sweet, cooing voice,
M
om bent over and explained things to Mitch. “You’re wrong about that—Santa is standing right here, and
she
still has all the receipts for your gifts. If you don’t get rid of the attitude, Santa will return them—
comprende
?”

He looked at her, a little red-faced, and his smile spread—dimples at full power. “
Comprend
o
,
M
omma.”

I was doing all I could to hide my anger and discomfort when the chime at the door rang. The Monroes were here. Mom and Dad had met them briefly after Doug and I started swimming together, but Dad wasn’t at his best
. This
was their first chance to really get to know each other. Tonight was Doug’s idea. He found dozens of ways to be near me.

The Monroes did what everyone else did when they visited the Weald: they gushed on how ‘charming’ it was. Mrs. Monroe was stunned by the Christmas tree that Dad let Mitch pick out. It filled the back
half of the living room, hiding the large windows, and s
oared
nearly to the peak of the ceiling some thirty feet above the floor.

We
’
d found the O’Shea family’s horde of tree ornaments in the toy box. While we didn’t use all of them
—
it was impossible
—e
very branch that could hold an ornament, did so. In the past, Mom had always done themed trees, but this one was eclectic. Antique painted wood and glass ornaments, clear glass icicles, gingerbread, and colored lights—it was a perfect
Weald
Christmas tree.

When we settled in the living room,
Mitch studied Dad for a moment before climbing into Doug’s lap. I loved that Doug and Mitch were so close, and Mitch idolized him, but I could tell it bothered Dad that Mitch was still mad. Like he always did, Dad gave him space and seemed willing to wait it out.

I could only trust that Sara was right. She said that their relationship was doing substantially better, and I simply needed to give them both more time. Of course, she was here. I found it amusing that no one seemed to notice the perfectly still Blue Jay
ornament
near the top of the tree.

It was a good evening. I learned for the first time that Dad had retired and planned to do nothing for a while but focus on us. That made me very happy. As the evening wore on, Mitch fell asleep in Doug’s lap and I curled up next to them both. I liked this. It was the way Christmas Eve was supposed to be, and I wished more than anything it could be this way forever. It was bliss, except for the few moments my thoughts turned to my pending meeting with Chalen. I pushed it back, out of my mind, until after the Monroes left and we all went to bed.

I had done it as a child, lay awake on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep, but it wasn’t the promise of presents under the tree that kept me up this night. I thought about Mom and Dad seeing Chalen on a regular basis. It was worse than I originally thought. Chalen wasn’t sneaking around finding my father when he was away from the Weald. Dad was going right up the hill and visiting on his own volition. How could I stop that? I thought about it for hours, running different scenarios through my head, and I didn’t have an answer.

The truth was simple—Mom and Dad were in danger here. Everyone was. There was no way to protect them, or Mitch, every hour of every day. Nor did I want to try. I wanted to protect them, sure, but the thought of being a Steward and a body guard—well, I hated it. Playing Billy’s game of mental hide-and-seek was bad enough.

At five o’clock I still hadn’t slept, but I didn’t feel physically tired, either. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw Mom and Dad walking up the abandoned road to the
Seoladán, and a black
-
fanged beast attacking them below the greenhouse. Either Chalen or I needed to go, and I knew he wouldn’t voluntarily go anywhere.

Thirty minutes later, I heard one of my parents, maybe both, moving around in the living room below.
It sounded like they were stuffing
stockings and setting gifts out
while
trying not to laugh loud enough to wake us up. Shortly after the sun came up, and still without sleep, I heard Mitch hollering in joy.
I laughed.
Okay, game on.

I pulled on my robe and m
u
ssed my hair a little—
I didn’t want
anyone to know I hadn’t slept
—a
nd joined them. Everyone but Mitch was exhausted—
he alone had
slept all night. It took an hour to rip through the gifts, leaving shards of colored paper and bits of ribbon everywhere. Dad had bought several things for Mitch, remote controlled this and
x-box
that, and Mitch said thanks with each one, but he was still distant. It was killing
D
ad—I saw it in his eyes. It was after nearly all the gifts were opened that I implemented phase three of my plan.
Yes, my unapologetic scheme.

“Mitch, here’s one more for you.” I looked at the tag, even though I had written it myself a few hours earlier.
“It’s from Dad.”

Mitch took it.
“Thanks
,
Dad
,
”
h
e said
softly, sitting back in a huge pile of paper.

It was a small box wrapped in red paper with a white bow. Dad looked confused, unable to remember what he had given him. Mitch looked even more confused when he lifted a set of car keys from the open box. It took him a minute to notice the note inside, which simply read:

Look in the Toy Box

Mitch’s eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open
.
I laughed—it looked a bit odd for a nine-year-old to be holding
the keys to a car
. Mom and Dad exchanged looks while Mitch sat speechless and stunned. After he read the note
, my
father did a double-take on the keys he clearly recognized. Mitch hadn’t caught it
—h
e didn’t recognize my handwriting, but Dad certainly did.

At a full sprint, Mitch was up and running toward the door, and Dad was there nearly as
quickly
. Mom and I followed them through the garden. Mitch didn’t run ahead. He grabbed Dad’s hand instead, and walked with him. He had a death grip on the keys in his other hand.

I started getting emotional in the driveway. Seeing them, like normal, was what I had hoped for. No, I thought, this was better than I had hoped.

“What is it, Daddy?” Mitch asked, looking up.

Dad cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?”

Dad pushed the big door open and Mitch started bawling. There, in it’s proper place, was
Dad’s
fastback—with a
gigantic
red
bow.
D
ad couldn’t speak
. H
e just looked down at Mitch who was clinging to his waist, crying harder than I’ve ever seen. Dad glanced up at me after a minute, and mouthed the words “Thank you” with tears in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to cry in front of me this morning.

He wasn’t the only one
—
Mom was choking on sobs, too. She knew, like I did, that this one thing had hurt Mitch the most—the broken promise. The car was the one thing that could make
it whole
. Dad picked Mitch up and tried to calmed him down. It wasn’t until Dad said, “
L
et’s go for a ride,” that Mitch finally stopped sobbing.

His lower lip was quivering, and his face was wet. “But Dad, we’re in our pajamas?”

“We’re not getting out of the car—it’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” Mitch wiped his runny nose, smiling.

When Dad put him down, Mitch ran to the driver’s side door, wiping his eyes, key’s in hand.

“Hold on there,
kiddo, y
ou have seven years to go before you’re old enough to drive.”

Mitch smiled broadly. “No
D
ad, only five, I’ll be fourteen in five years—I ain’t waitin’ like Maggie t
a
get my learner’s permit.”
Oh, god, he already talks like Aunt May.

Mom walked up beside me and put her arm around my shoulders. “What you just did...”
H
er voice trailed off with emotion.

With a twist of the key, the dark green Mustang roared to life. Mitch’s eyes were big, and he fought with tears again. I owed Danny big—this was a bigger hit than I
ever
thought it would be. Danny rolled it down the hill last night and pushed it into the
T
oy
B
ox without making any noise. I remember seeing him chuckle and smile at me th
r
ough my window before he blinked away. There is a Santa, and he’s a Fae lawyer from Fayetteville.