Our First Christmas (22 page)

Victoria suddenly popped up from behind them. “Off with her head! Mind the Gap! Blimey! Gobsmacked.” She grinned at Ruth. “Criminey, it's balmy in here,” she said. She held up her purse. “Do ye mind if I put Christmas Crackers and Crowns on everyone's plate?”

Dani waited to see if Ruth would spontaneously combust. Instead, she looked at the photograph of Anya, then back at Victoria. She grabbed a paper crown out of Victoria's parcel and put it on her head.

“Follow me,” she said.

 

If anyone had told Dani that everyone would be sitting at the table wearing colorful paper crowns and opening Christmas Crackers, including Ruth Hathaway, well, she would have thought he or she was on crack. But showing Ruth the photographs and mentioning the word
great-grandchildren
had certainly seemed to do the trick. Dani just wished she'd had time to tell Anya that she could stop acting like a crazy person. Dani didn't realize how crazy until she realized the swan was missing from the middle of the table. At first she thought it had been cleared to make way for the platters heaped with ham, and roast, but soon, Anya's arm movements gave it away. The swan was in Anya's lap and she was cooing at it and stroking it like a kitten.

When the salads were cleared, Ruth stood and lifted her glass of champagne. “I'd like to propose a toast,” she said. “To Danielle—”

Anya let out a growl. Nate pushed back his chair. “I have to stop you there, Nanna,” he said. “You shouldn't be toasting Danielle. She's only here on assignment.”

“A Southern Christmas,” Dani answered when everyone stared at her.

“The British are coming!” Anya shouted as she thrust her fist in the air.

“Hear, hear,” Victoria said. From down the table, their mother, Margaret, shushed them.

“Nathaniel,” Ruth said. “I—”

“Grandmother, do let me finish,” Nate said. “Anya is the woman I'm going to marry. Although I must announce that we have decided to wait until the new year and have a proper wedding in a proper church.”

“Nathaniel, I think that's—” Ruth said.

“Frankly, Grandmother, I don't want to hear what you think right now. Dani is simply here for ‘A Southern Christmas'—”

Anya stood. “Oh, bloody hell. That's not the real assignment. That's just her cover story. The real story was on how to get your ex back. You, darling, were all she wanted for Christmas.” Besides swaying and slurring her words, and molesting a swan, Dani was impressed that Anya hadn't passed out yet.

“What?” Nate said.

“Let's not worry about that,” Danielle said. “That was ages ago. You're in love with Anya, and I'm in love with Sawyer.” She gasped, then slapped her hand over her mouth. It was the first time she'd said it. “Damn,” she said under her breath. Sawyer started to chuckle. This was worse than falling asleep and drooling on him. She was never going to hear the end of it.

“Nathaniel, what I was going to say—” Ruth started once again.

“What?” Anya yelled. She stood up, clanked the swan down at her place setting, and swayed. “That you won the war?”

“It is true, we did win the war,” Ruth said. “Just like we should have won the War of Northern Aggression.”

“Grandmother,” Nate said. “That's all in the past.”

“The War of Northern Aggression is just as important now in the year 2014 as it ever has been. However—”

“Did you bring our tea, Mother?” Anya shouted down the table. “Perhaps Ruth would like to dump it in the bathtub.”

“Oh please, do it,” Sawyer said, snapping pictures. “Please, please, dump tea in the bathtub.” Dani stepped on his foot.

“I love you, too,” Sawyer leaned down and whispered. Dani lit up like a firecracker. The violinists were still playing, and as the noise level at the table increased, they moved in closer and played louder.

Ruth began to strike her fork against her champagne glass until everyone quieted down. “Do let me speak. This is still my house. Nathaniel, you will sit down.”

“I love Anya!” Nate shouted. Anya yanked him back into his seat and nodded at Ruth.

“To Danielle,” Ruth said. “Who helped me realize that Anya Pennington was the woman my Nate should marry.”

“What?” Anya said.

“She did?” Nate said.

“Hear, hear!” Mr. Pennington said.

“Dear,” Ruth said, “you are welcome in my home, and I have no designs whatsoever on your ghastly tea. Or your Christmas grits for that matter.”

“More for me!” Victoria shouted.

“What about the lanterns on your porch?” Anya asked. “Will you take them down?”

“Let's not push it,” Ruth said. “Merry Christmas.” The table stood, thrust their glasses in the air.

“Merry Christmas!” they said as one. Dani leaned in to kiss Sawyer when something nailed her on the head and dropped at her place setting. She picked up the swan, and looked at Anya.

“Thank you,” she said, hugging it to her chest.

“Merry Christmas,” Anya said.

“Pass the Christmas grits!” Victoria shouted.

 

The food kept coming. Dani had to taste a bit of everything. Roast, and ham, and buttery biscuits. Turkey with corn bread stuffing, and gravy, and cheesy potatoes, and green bean casserole. “Save room for the red velvet white chocolate cake,” Dani whispered to Sawyer. “It's to die for.”

“I'm going to need a stretcher to carry you home,” Sawyer whispered back.

“I thought you brought the horse,” Dani said. Sawyer tried to wrestle the swan out of her arms, but she held on to it with an iron grip. The two started to laugh, and it took a long time to stop. After dinner and before dessert there was a chorus of crackles as guests popped open their Christmas Crackers. Dani's contained a large, fake diamond ring. Sawyer shook his head as she placed it on her finger.

“Setting a really bad precedent,” he said. Dani laughed, then felt another rush of joy as his meaning sunk in. She tucked the swan in her lap, and waited for the red velvet cake. “Oh my God,” Sawyer said after he took the first bite. “Oh my God.”

“Right?” Dani said. “Right?”

“I'm really starting to like the South,” Sawyer said.

Shortly after dessert, leaving the other guests to their dancing, Dani and Sawyer stepped out onto the wraparound porch. At the bottom of the hill, the horse and carriage could be heard coming down the street. It stopped in front of the house and waited. Sawyer held out his arm. “Madam,” he said.

“For me?” Danielle said.

“For you,” Sawyer said. Together, they skipped down the steps toward the waiting carriage. Stars glittered overhead. The horse whinnied. There was a smell of cookies baking in the air. Dani lifted her head to the sky and searched for reindeer. It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Dani and Sawyer stood in the sailboat, next to the bed. It had been a long night, but Danielle was charged with desire. All her senses were on fire. Sawyer looked so handsome in his tux, especially with his bow tie taken off and the first couple of buttons undone. “You're beautiful,” he said.

“So are you.” He took her hand and kissed it. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a real kiss. Soon their bodies were pressed together, mouths and hands hungrily exploring each other. When Sawyer touched her breasts she felt a tingle all the way down to her toes. After a bit of teasing, he stopped to kiss up and down her neck. She groaned, grabbed his shirt with both hands, and tore it down the center. “Woman!” he said. “It's a rental.”

“Don't call me woman.”

“You're going to pay for that.” He playfully threw her down on the bed and straddled her.

“Please don't rip my dress,” she said.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” She smiled, then rolled over and let him unzip her. Soon she was out of her dress and he his pants. She told him to keep his ripped shirt on. He laughed and tipped a fake cowboy hat. “Ma'am.” He admired her black lace bra and panties, gently outlining every bit with his finger. She wrapped her legs and arms around him, and whispered every little thing she wanted him to do to her. He was happy to oblige. She was already thinking ahead to next Christmas. She would definitely break out the naughty Santa outfit. He was going to love it.

 

On Christmas morning they awoke to the sound of seagulls. Dani was once again draped over Sawyer, but this time they were skin to skin. She stirred and then a few seconds later his hands began to rub up and down her body. In less than a minute they were making love again. They couldn't get enough of each other. They did it again in the tiny shower, after laughing, and kissing, and knocking each other into the walls. Then it was coffee and donuts up on the deck, each back in their sweatpants and shirts. The sun was beaming on the water, causing it to glitter like gold.

“Chocolate eclairs and coffee,” Sawyer said. “Very Southern.”

“A mouthful of amazing,” Dani said.

“You can say that again,” Sawyer said, coming in to lick a bit of chocolate off of her bottom lip. “Should we open our presents?”

“How about we take a walk on the beach first?” Dani suggested. “We can open them there.”

“Perfect.”

The roads were clear, and they cranked Christmas carols on the radio as they drove to Wrightsville Beach. They found primo parking and soon they were standing with their toes in the sand, watching the waves crash onshore.

“I hope you're not thinking of the Russian nanny,” Dani said.

Sawyer threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I lied about her,” he said.

“Good.”

“She's actually Polish.” Dani pushed him, then he grabbed her around the waist and spun her around. Then they sat on the sand and exchanged gifts. Dani made Sawyer open his first.

“Circus toys!” he exclaimed. The delight in his voice was real. He examined each piece carefully. The tiger. The giraffe. The elephant. The circus train and tent. He set them all up in the sand and gazed at them. “I love them,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Maybe we'll go on safari and see them for real.” It sounded amazing. “Your turn.” He handed her a box that was too small to be teacups.

“I thought you got me teacups,” she said.

“There's no more tea,” he said. “I dumped it all in the bathtub.” Dani was laughing as she opened the box. She stopped when she saw the gorgeous blue topaz and diamond necklace glittering back at her. She gasped. She'd forgotten how beautiful it was. “How did you know?”

“How could I not know? It was meant for you.” He took it out of the box and went to put it on her.

“I couldn't,” she said. “It was a small fortune.”

“I put it on Adel's credit card,” he joked.

“I love it.” She held her hair back as he clasped it around her neck. Soon, he was kissing it.

“Thank you,” she said, putting her hands on the side of his face. “You gave me Christmas.”

“Y'all come back now, hear?” he said in his best Southern accent.

“That's terrible,” she said.

“I'll work on it,” he said. They lay on the sand and listened to the waves. “How about a Texas Christmas next year?”

“Hook 'em horns,” Dani said.

“Don't ever say that again,” Sawyer said. They laughed, and then kissed, and then played with the tiger and the giraffe in the sand.

I am, currently, the manager for the hard-rock band Hellfire.

I am quitting tomorrow. My boss, front man Ace Hellfire, real name Peter Watson, son of a pastor, will be unhappy.

It's going to be a sticky situation, but it doesn't change my mind.

I have been traveling the world for ten years with Ace, his band, and crew. I have listened to more eardrum-splitting concerts and head-banging rehearsals, and been witness to more temper tantrums and wildness than I ever wanted to see. My nerves are shot, my exhaustion complete. I don't think I want to travel again unless it's to a remote cabin in the woods.

I love to sew, but I haven't sewn in years. I love to embroider, but I don't know if I remember the cross-stitch. I love to cook, but haven't followed a recipe in way too long. I love to ski, garden, and ride horses, but I never do any of those things.

I have lived out of suitcases for much of every year, my outfits a collage of color, but now I want to find a home, stay in it, and set up a sewing room.

I am a country girl from Kalulell, Montana, who has been working with hard-core rock musicians out of Los Angeles and I am done. I am headed home for Christmas, and then I will figure out Plan F, the F standing for my Future.

I miss small town life. I have always missed it, especially during the Christmas season. I did not miss, however, what happened on a snowy, dark night on a curvy road. It still haunts me.

Some might say I ran from small town country life, that I wanted the twinkly lights of the city and the excitement.

They would be wrong. I was never running from it. I loved it.

I was running from him.

 

“You what?”

“We sold the house, Laurel.” My mother smiled, fists up in victory.

“And the land.” My aunt Emma smiled, then high-fived my mother across the rolled sugar cookie dough. “The feminists are free.”

I leaned back in my chair at our eighty-five-year-old wood table, in our cozy kitchen, in the home that my great-granddad and great-grandma built by hand, and did not smile. I felt the blood leaving my face. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, sweetheart, I'm not,” my mother, Ellie, said.

“No joke,” Aunt Emma said. “We've established our financial independence until we're one-hundred-year-old Montana women.”

“But . . . but . . . I don't understand.” My voice squeaked.

“We sold because we needed the money,” my mother said, wielding a red cookie cutter.

“You needed the money?” I felt sick. I ran my hands through my hair. It's brown, with red highlights. My mother says the red is from the temperamental Irish in me, via her family. She and my aunt have the same thick hair, only theirs is shot through with white. “What do you mean?”

“We mean that our apron business makes us some money, but not what we need,” Aunt Emma said, tossing dough from hand to hand.

My mother and aunt were wearing matching aprons with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the front. Rudolph's eyes were crossed and he looked like he'd drunk too much spiked eggnog. It was one of their best sellers. Obviously it wasn't selling enough.

“Why didn't you tell me? I would have given you the money for anything you needed or wanted. Anything.”

“The day I take money from my beloved, hard-rocking daughter is the day I want to be dropped from a plane without a parachute.”

“You are not our parachute, golden eyes,” Aunt Emma echoed.

“But—” I was going to cry, I knew it.

I stared at the Christmas cookies, red and green sprinkles covering four-leaf clovers. We always decorate St. Patrick's Day clovers to honor our Irish ancestors. “You're not sick, are you?” I felt faint.

“Heavens to Betsy, no,” my mother said. “We want to travel around the world. Before it's too late.”

“We're going to become traveling ladybugs,” Aunt Emma said. “First stop: Ireland. The homeland.”

“Ladybugs!” My mother flapped her wings. She had flour on her chin. “Society told us we had to be a certain way when we were younger. We had to be ladylike. We never bought in to that hogwash nonsense, and we're not buying in to it now, so we're going to call ourselves ladybugs and travel into our old age. We want adventures.”

“And, darling,” my aunt said, laying down a row of Red Hots, “we need to think of the future. Sewing aprons is fine for now, but what if we get sick in twenty years and can't sew? We both have a touch of arthritis in our hands. We need a nest egg for security.”

“So you sold the house and all twenty acres?” I could hardly speak. “When are you moving?”

“We're not,” my mother said, twirling a clover cookie cutter on her finger “We're going to become world wanderers, but here's the gift. When we get home from globe skipping, we're staying right here.”

“Here,” Aunt Emma said. “Until we're both”—she pointed up to the blue Montana sky—“up there.”

“If we make it,” my mother said. “We may get naughty on our world travels. As strong women, we will do as we please.”

“Naughty, naughty,” my aunt said, and they both laughed. “We might end up”—she pointed to the floor—“down there.”

Oh, they thought they were funny.

“I don't understand,” I said, trying to find my way through this crooked conversation. “You've sold the house and the land, but you're not moving.”

“Right-o, dearie-o,” my aunt said. “It's going to be his land, but we're going to stay in our home.”

“What? Who owns it?”

My aunt and my mother lost their cheer instantly, and my stomach took a nosedive out my toes. My mother put an arm around one shoulder, my aunt put an arm around the other, their drunken reindeers ogling me.

Oh no. I knew who it was. I so knew. I swayed. I closed my eyes.

“We went to him, honey,” my mother said. “He did not come to us.”

“We brought him a Christmas cake in the shape of a Thanksgiving turkey because we are grateful.”

“It took us all day to bake and ice in red and green,” my mother said. “The feathers were tricky. He made us an incredibly generous offer. More than what it's worth.”

“We couldn't turn it down. We know you don't want the house, Laurel.”

“I do want the house. I always have.”

My mother's and aunt's faces betrayed their shock. “But your work . . . you live in Los Angeles . . . we thought you were never coming back to Montana . . . you said many times you would never live here again.”

That was because of
him.
“I could have bought the house from you. I would have liked to. You could have stayed forever.”

My mother opened her mouth, but she couldn't speak. My aunt said, her voice wobbling, “Dear girl. I am so sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” my mother said, her eyes filling.

I took a deep, shuddery breath. “Who owns it?”

“Josh, honey,” my mother said, holding my hand tight, her face crushed. “Josh owns it.”

 

That night, tucked up in my pink childhood bedroom, fighting back grief, I thought about our home.

Carrick and Mabel Stewart built our light green farmhouse when they arrived here in Kalulell from Ireland in 1925 as a young couple. It's rambling, two stories, with a huge rock hearth to combat chilling Montana winters. The dining room is now our sewing room, filled with fabrics, sewing machines, tables, and jars of buttons, rickrack, and lace for my mother and aunt's apron business.

Our home has the original trim, a curling banister, wide front porch, dormer windows, and wood floors. We remodeled the kitchen again three years ago, adding a nook and French doors, but kept its traditional style to respect our past

We recycled old lathe board, used it for cabinet doors, and painted them blue. We used bricks from a crumbled garden wall my grandma built to cover the entire wall behind the woodstove. We used my great-grandma's white kitchen hutch for linens and my grandma's light blue apothecary chest with multiple drawers for the silverware.

We hung up my grandma's kitchen utensils to honor her, along with black-and-white photos of all the grandparents. My great-grandparents' daughter, Dorothy, was born here, as were my mother and aunt. My late grandparents gave the home to my mother when I was born, with a half ownership for my aunt, who was still married to her husband at the time.

My aunt Emma's husband died when he fell off their roof when I was ten. She said she didn't miss him because he constantly criticized her. When she moved back in with my mother she had to refind her voice, she told me, as it had been smothered, and she vowed to never let it happen again. “I became a feminist then. Being a feminist means you believe in equal rights and opportunities. That's it. I wanted an equal right to live a peaceful life. That's why I won't marry again.”

I thought with the apron money, and a fully paid for house, that they did fine.

Clearly, I was wrong, as our home was no longer ours. Another wave of grief hit me like a wrecking ball. For a second in my pink bedroom, I couldn't breathe.

I knew every stream, meadow, rock, and tree on our twenty acres. We have five horses and two furry mutts named Thomas and James and a difficult, old gray cat named Zelda who scares the poor dogs to pieces.

This is our home.

Correction: It
was
our home.

I would get it back.

 

Oh, my poor beat-up heart. The blond giant was more knee-knocking gorgeous than ever. He was taller, broader, and tougher. The true difference, though, was in his light green eyes. He used to look at me with gentleness, kindness, indulgence, humor, respect, and an abundance of “I want you naked now,” which set me on fire about twenty-four hours a day. All that was gone. His eyes were . . . neutral. Normal. Polite. A little friendly, not much.

“Hello, Josh.”

He smiled, but it was a bit restrained. He walked down the porch steps of his home. I couldn't move. My feet wouldn't budge.

“Hello, Laurel. Good to see you again.”

“You, too.” Ah heck. What a voice. Deeper than before, it seemed. I had waited three days to call him after my mother and aunt told me about the sale. I hadn't been up to confronting him, to seeing him, and asking if we could talk. I could feel my courage for this meeting fading rapidly, but there was anger there, too. Josh knew I loved my home. How could he have bought it, even if my mother and aunt asked him to, without asking me first? “How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Fine.” Sort of. That was a semi-lie. I was wiped out. Felt empty. I'd been dragging loneliness around with me for a long time. Christmas was always hard. Being near him was killing me. Jab a stake in my heart and twist.
Get a grip,
I told myself. Self-pity is about as attractive as snakebites. “What have you been up to?”

He didn't answer for long seconds, studying my face. “You mean for the last twelve years since I saw you?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Yes.” I closed my mouth. Yes, I wanted to know what he'd been doing for twelve years; no, I didn't want to sound desperate or stalker-ish. “But what are you doing now?”

“Right now I'm talking to Laurel Kelly.”

“Yes. Okay. Well.” I felt myself blush. It was like I was a teenager again, blushing around my boyfriend.

“Why don't you tell me first, Laurel? What have you been doing the last twelve years?”

“I've been chasing a rocker around the world. And you?”

“I've been chasing a business.”

“How is your business?”

“Chased down.”

He was always clever with words. The cowboy boots, the jeans, the cowboy hat, they could not hide the fact that the man had a top-notch brain, had top-notch grades in college, and had become a top-notch Montana businessman. He owned a number of businesses and buildings downtown.

“Good for you, Josh.” My words came out soft, emotional. I blinked so my suddenly hot eyes would stop being hot. “I knew you would.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, of course.”

He took another step toward me. We were standing way too close. I saw those light green eyes travel over my brown slash reddish hair. I had brushed it before I came, my hands shaking at the thought of this very encounter. Still, it's generally untamable. The ends have pink streaks on the bottom two inches, done when I was in London last month.

I had tried on six different outfits, three pairs of boots, and had finally settled on a shirt that looked like it had been painted by Monet. It was slightly tight. I also wore jeans, fancy cowboy boots with pink leather flowers at the top, and a puffy pink jacket with a collar and belt. My ears are double pierced, and I was wearing two sets of silver hoops and a red knitted hat with a fluffy camellia on it. I like color.

“This is your home?” It was a dumb question. Of course it was his home. Whose home did I think it was? Mrs. Claus's? An elf's? Josh didn't make fun of me, though. He never had.

My mother had given me his address. His home was about ten minutes away from ours, private, on the river, surrounded by land, sixty acres, which attached to ours. It was about five years old. Craftsman style. Huge windows. Wide deck. A view, like ours, of the sweeping, bluish-purple Swan Mountains.

“Yes.”

“It's absolutely stunning.” I looked straight ahead, which set my gaze right on that Paul Bunyan chest. I had lain on that chest a hundred times . . . and more. One graphic naked image after another chased its way through my sizzling brain.