Our First Christmas (26 page)

“Right,” my mother said. “We don't want our arthritis down there.”

They are so blunt, and funny. “What about a Web site for your aprons?” I used a cookie cutter to make six Santas. “We could sell aprons through a Web site.”

“We don't know how to do a Web site,” my mother said.

“We know e-mail!” my aunt said, triumphantly. “And I know grizzly bears. Look at this pink bear. Does she look properly individualistic to you? I don't want a wimpy lady bear.”

“She does,” I said. “I could have a Web site set up for you.”

“You could?” my mother asked.

“Yes. Then we could reach a wider group of people.”

“How do we work the Web site?” my aunt asked.

“It's easy. I would show you. Customers would order an apron on the Web site, pay for it online, the money would be routed to you, and you'd sew the apron and mail it out.”

My mother dusted flour off her hands. “But how would they know about our Web site?”

“We'd advertise. Go to the local media, the newspapers, the TV stations, see if they'll come and talk to you.” I paused, feeling insecure. “Only if this is something you would like to do.”

We had ourselves a good old-fashioned business meeting.

At the end of our talk, my mother said to me, waving her floury hands in the air, “This is bucking my imagination. We could sell more aprons and travel the world once a summer with our apron money. We could save the money Josh gave us for when we're old and can't sew anymore and need to pay handsome male nurses to come in here and give us our baths.”

My aunt cackled, wielding the rolling pin. “I want someone tall, dark, and handsome.”

My mother tapped her fingers on the table. “I think you might be on to something, Laurel.”

My aunt said, “Me, too. She has a smart brain.”

My mother said, “Got it from her Grandma.”

“She broke horses, had a clean shot, and could build a fence in an afternoon. She was empowered.”

“Plus,” my mother added, “she handled Granddad. He kept going to the bar after working in the mines early in their marriage. She slammed into the bar one night, dragged him off his bar stool, and clocked him in the head.”

“She did. Whopped him,” my aunt said. “Grandma said to Granddad, ‘You can drink or you can have me, but not both. I'm pretty enough to get a new husband, but you're too ugly for another wife, so which is it?' ”

“He dusted himself off, said good-bye to his friends, and walked out,” my mom said. “Never drank again. I came along nine months after that, then Aunt Emma twelve months later.”

Granddad wasn't that good-looking of a man. His nose had been broken a few times, he had a wide forehead and scars. He was towering tall, like a crane. He was the kindest man I'd ever known.

“Do you want me to set up the Web site then?” I asked. I hoped I was doing the right thing. I hoped I wasn't bringing stress into their lives.

“Yes, indeed,” my mother said. “We'll be on the computer and we'll be famous. We can share ways for women to have power through their aprons. Apron independence!”

“Famous,” my aunt said. “Maybe we'll get a date. Two brothers.”

“And all we would wear would be Christmas aprons,” my mother said.

“I'll sew a red apron,” my aunt cackled. “Red lace. My buttocks are still firm.”

“And my bosom is—” my mother started.

I jumped in before I heard more than I wanted to. “What do you want to call your business?”

“That's simple,” Aunt Emma said.

“It is?”

“Yes,” they said, together. “We're The Apron Ladies.”

The Apron Ladies it was.

 

This time Ace sent Maine lobsters. Scallops. Clams. He cajoled, he listed all the reasons why I should stay. I declined. I told him all would be well. He didn't believe it. He said he was having an anxiety attack that was my fault and hung up.

 

I called a friend of mine, Josy, who lived in Los Angeles and developed Web sites, mostly for musicians. She liked the sound of developing an apron Web site. “I've done hard rockers and country crooners. Bring on The Apron Ladies.”

We had a long chat. “Start taking photos, Laurel,” she told me. “If you can photograph Ace like you do, and Scotty Stanford and Leroy Stemper, and that bang-up drummer of Hellfire's, you can photograph your mom and aunt in their aprons.”

I had taken most of the photos for the band's Web site and production over the years, after intensive lessons from Ace's brother, Darrin, a kindergarten teacher, who was a photographer on the side. I was pretty comfortable with what I could do, especially since my mom and aunt wouldn't be striding back and forth, smashing a guitar or swinging a mike.

“I think we need to sell my mother and aunt, Josy,” I said. “The aprons are darling, but those women are the key. Independent, strong, resourceful women who believe in cooking well and looking pretty while you do it. Feminism and happy baking, mixed. . . .”

 

“Remember this is Date One,” Josh said, winking at me. “I don't want you to get the count off.”

“I'll remember.” I turned my skis and stopped at the top of the slope, Josh beside me. It was a clear blue day. Montana stretched below us, like a white, bumpy quilt, punctuated by snow-covered trees.

“Perfect day for skiing,” he said.

The blond ox seemed even taller on skis. “Yes, it is. Only I haven't skied in about twelve years.”

“You're kidding.”

“No.” I pulled on the strap of my helmet.

“But you love skiing.”

“I know. I've missed it.” I've missed a lot of things. “I'm still mad at you.”

I thought I saw a flash of sadness. “I know you are, Laurel.”

“I feel like taking my ski off, wielding it over my head, and chasing you with it.” Why did he have to look so delicious in his black ski jacket and black pants?

“I would like to see that.” He smiled.

“Stop smiling at me with that smile of yours.”

He tried to stop smiling, then he laughed.

“I can't believe . . .” I gripped my ski poles, then pointed the tips at his chest, like I was preparing to spear him. He did not seem daunted by my ski pole weaponry. “I can't believe you own my home. How would you feel, Josh, if I owned your home?”

“If you owned my home and we lived together, I think I'd be okay with it.”

“Very funny.” But it wasn't funny. I thought of us living together, me making Christmas cookies in the kitchen while he hung out and talked to me. I thought of us hosting Christmas Eve dinners with my chaotic, crazy family. Then I saw a bunch of happy kids running around who were exact replicas of Josh, which hurt like I'd stuck myself in the gut with my ski pole.

“You cook better than anyone I've ever known, Laurel, better than any restaurant, so you cook and I'll do everything else.”

“I haven't cooked much in years, but thanks for the flattery. It's not taking away my desire to give you a little push.”

“Maybe skiing will.”

“Maybe. Probably not. I may run you over with my skis.”

“That's not friendly.”

“I'm not in the mood to be friendly.” I pulled on the collar of my old red ski coat. Sheesh. My pants were too loose, but I didn't take pride in that. I didn't want to be bony. As my mother always said, “A woman should have curves to grip.”

“What's wrong, Laurel?”

“What's wrong is that you own my home.”

“What else?”

He could tell, couldn't he? He always knew. He could read me like no one else could. “Nothing. I'm in the ho ho ho Christmas spirit.”

“Something is wrong, but if you don't want to talk about it, then we won't.”

“Good. Because I'm not talking to a man who now owns my pink bedroom.”

He smiled. Man, he was killing me.

“I remember all kinds of fun things that happened in that pink bedroom.”

“Yes, I'm sure you do. I'm glad you never broke your neck on your way up or down the tree outside of it.”

“I took a risk, but it was worth it.”

“Stop talking about it.”

“Okay. But now I'm thinking about that pink bedroom and you in it and thinking that I should climb up that tree. . . .” He skied close to me, his skis between mine.

“You're too close to me. Back off or I will use my poles to defend myself and you may end up less of a man.”

“Please don't. I'd like to keep my manhood.”

He was sexy. He hadn't lost an ounce of sexiness. In fact, he was more sexy than ever. Irresistible. Funny. Quick.

I moved my skis, pulled my goggles down, and took off down the slope. It would have made a cool “shove off” sort of statement, except that twenty yards later I caught an edge, fell, tumbled, rolled, lost a ski, and ended up on my stomach, facedown in the snow. It's hard to be cool when you're eating snow.

When I dug the snow off my face, Josh was bending over me. “I think if you skied with me you'd have better luck.”

His smile was going to kill me a second time. I flipped inelegantly onto my back, packed a snowball, and threw it at him. He ducked, I missed. I threw again, missed again. A third time: missed. I lay back. We both laughed.

“I'll get your ski,” he said softly. “Why don't you work on your pitch while I'm gone?”

I watched the blond giant ski down to get my ski, then walk back up, sideways. He helped me get it back on, then pulled me up. I tried not to smile, I tried not to heat up like a volcano. I tried not to let my head get all wrapped up in him again.

Josh was always protective. Caring. Always there.

And I'd run. Before that, I hid.

I pulled my hand out of his, but not until after I'd stood staring up at those green eyes for far too long.

I would run again. It was only a matter of time.

 

That night my whole body ached. My muscles were no longer used to skiing, and I felt like I'd been eaten by the ski slope and spit back out. I peeled off my clothes, turned off the lights in the bathroom, dumped in amber rose bubble bath, and settled in.

“Groan,” I said out loud. “Oh, groan.”

Amidst the bubbles, and screaming muscles, I thought of Josh. We had skied all day.

We'd laughed. I crashed three times. He pulled me up each time, my body against his, his arms around me. We rode the ski lift. We stopped for lunch and hot chocolate in the lodge in front of the massive fireplace.

“Tell me about your job,” he said, the flames warming our hands.

“It's busy.” It
was
busy. I wouldn't tell him that I'd quit and was currently jobless.

“How did you come to manage a rock band?”

“When I was in college in Los Angeles, studying to be a nurse, I had a roommate, Dani Shriver, and we became best friends. Her father, Leonard Shriver, was managing the Don Steiger Band. We interned for him one summer, followed the band around the country to their shows, worked constantly, and we loved it. After college Don Steiger hired us.

“I met Ace when Hellfire was opening for Don Steiger before Hellfire had their first hits. We met backstage, started to talk. Ace and I had a common interest in cooking, actually. When Don Steiger took a break, I went straight back out on the road with Ace, as did Dani, and then we stayed on with the band. They soon had hits and I helped to organize their first national, then their world tours, with Charlie Zahn as my mentor, a great man who retired three years after I came along to go fishing.”

“What do you do for Ace?”

“I see myself as the headache manager. I'm the organizer behind the music and the hard-rocking men, including rehearsals and concerts. I work with the band and crew. I get them from one place to another, and figure out what the concerts are going to look like, including lighting, special effects, stage antics, song choices. I work with the agents, and the people at the record label. I arrange interviews with the press. When I'm out on tour, I work about sixteen hours a day. By the end of the tours I could not tell you my name or if I was a human or a baboon.”

“Definitely human, lovely Laurel.”

I tried to shrug that off. Couldn't, so I blushed. I only blushed in front of Josh. “I manage all the trouble that comes up, whether it's personal or professional. For example, one of our band members had too much tequila and decided to start throwing bananas out the hotel windows in Tokyo. Couple of people were hit in the head. Another time two of our band members, a little drunk, took all the hotel room furniture out of their penthouse suite, including their beds, and decorated the hallway. They fell asleep in the hallway, too. Not in the beds.”

I fell into the conversation with him as if we'd never been apart. He asked questions. He listened. He laughed with me. He asked what I'd liked about my job and what was hard. “I liked Ace, his band and crew, and a lot of their music.”

“Was there anything you didn't like about working for Hellfire?”

“Yes. I was never home. I didn't even have a home. When I came home from the tour the first time, I moved into Ace's guest house in the hills above Hollywood and stayed there.”

“Are you dating Ace?”

“No. I've never dated Ace. Never wanted to.”

“Good.” He looked so pleased, and relieved. “Where have you traveled to?”

“All over.” I told him about our stops. “Eastern and western Europe. Canada. All over America. South America. Southeast Asia. Australia.”