The Christmas Fix

by Kristen Kelly

  “Am I? I don’t know what you have planned for Remington’s, but I want no part of it.”

  “You’re just upset. I know you don’t mean you want to disown your own mother.”

  “Actually I do.” As gently as I could under my seething rage, I took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the front door.

  When she realized I was serious, a sudden panic filled her voice. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m sorry, Zac. Tell me what I can do. Tell me and I’ll make it up to you. Please!”

  “You want to know how to make it up to me? Fix the mess you put me in, Margo. Fix it! And I’ll think about letting you into my life again, but for now, you need to leave because if you don’t....never mind.” I grabbed my car keys off the kitchen table and said, “There’s somewhere I have to be. You can let yourself out. Have a nice life.”

  Chapter 22

  Charlotte

  I TOOK THE CAT.

  Just up and took her without investigating if she had an owner somewhere.

  Without picking up her water dish.

  Her ten pounds of cat food...her...life.

  I was searching for my car keys when I remembered I’d sold my car for plane ticket money.

  What the hell was I thinking taking her with me like that? She had roots here...in that alley maybe. Perhaps a family. Kittens? What if she got confused, jumped out of my arms and ran back to where she’d come from? What if she hated leaving? Regretted I’d taken her out of her familiar environment.

  I placed the cat inside the grey plastic carrier, latched the door shut and set it on the seat beside me on the bus. I’d bring her to Abby until I figured out how to access my money in Jamaica.

  Thirty minutes later, I got off the bus, grabbed the cat carrier, my purse, and ran the block-and-a-half to my best friend’s apartment. She met me at the door.

  The cat’s fur fluffed out, as I took her out of the crate.

  “I’ll come back,” I said, feeling like I was handing over my firstborn. “Just take good care of Snowball.”

  “Snowball? But what if he thinks you abandoned him?”

  “The cat?”

  “You know who I mean. And where are you going anyway?”

  “Home.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Tiny island in the Caribbean.” I handed her the cat. A clock chimed inside the apartment. With a screech, the cat leapt out of Abby’s arms.

  “Owe! You little...”

  “I forget that she’s a stray. Probably doesn’t trust that many people,” I said.

  “Poor thing.” Still holding the cat, Abby rubbed her scratched arm.

  “Let me see.” I leaned in, smoothing a finger over the long red line. “It’s not that bad. Heal up in no time,” I said. The truth was, she had quite a welt and I hoped she wouldn’t get cat scratch fever. “But call the doctor if you have headaches, allergic reactions or you feel achy. Also if you develop a low-grade fever just in case.”

  “Great. Just what I need when we’re trying to get pregnant.”

  “Oh my God, I forgot. I’m so sorry, Abby. I’ll take her with me.” I reached for the cat.

  “Don’t you dare,” Abby said. “We’re already bonding.” Lifting Snowball up, she rubbed the cat’s soft fur up against her cheek. “See? She’s purring an apology. Aren’t you, pretty girl?”

  “I don’t know, Abby. I could take her to a shelter.”

  Abby’s eyes flashed. “So they can kill her? No Way! Besides, Chase loves cats.”

  “He does?” I doubted Chase was a cat person.

  “No, but he will when he sees how beautiful she is.”

  “Only if you’re certain.”

  “I am.”

  “What do you want me to tell Zac?”

  “Nothing. I’ll explain when I come back.”

  “So you are coming back then?” Abby asked with a sniffle.

  “I said I was, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but when a person packs up all her belongings and gives away their cat, it means something else. Sometimes people mean to return, but then it’s so wonderful where they are, they change their mind.”

  “It isn’t wonderful where I’m going.”

  “But it’s home, right?”

  “Abby, I’m not going to change my mind.” I hugged her tight. “I just need to... take care of something.”

  “What’s going on, Charlotte?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I get back.” I wasn’t sure how much I should say. Would she hate me for pretending I was someone else? Denounce my best friend status? “Here...” I handed her a piece of paper with my address on it. “That is for an emergency. You are not to give it to any one, do you hear me?”

  She took the paper, didn’t look at it, and just stuffed it in her pocket. “Okay.”

  “You know,” Abby began. “I thought something was off after the Christmas party. You were so quiet, and, Zachary has not stopped asking me what’s wrong. As if I could clear all this up for him. He should be talking to you not me.”

  “I still don’t know what to do about him. Not until I take care of some business back home.”

  She stared at me beneath those thick lashes of hers, as if trying to figure out a new game she recently bought. What she didn’t know, was that I didn’t have the missing pieces myself, but I knew I had to stop denying who I was. Trouble was, would my best friend understand my need to lie to her all these months?

  She set the cat down on a soft velvety chair. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I don’t like not knowing.”

  “I know and I’m sorry. I can’t face him, or anyone. Not yet.”

  “But I’m your best friend.”

  “Yes but you’re also the wife of Chase Remington.”

  I couldn’t take that look of betrayal on her face. I took a deep breath. If anyone would understand about secrets it was Abby. “Okay, you wore me down. Have a seat.”

  Ironically, the cat jumped into my lap. She purred while I rocked us both in the large mahogany rocker.

  “Remember, I told you that Zac and I worked on that project together?”

  “You should get credit for that by the way, and besides it could help with school.”

  “I don’t need the money, Abby.”

  “But...”

  “I don’t need money. At all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s more.”

  I HAD A FEW MORE MEMENTOS to pack.

  After my best friend got over the shock that I wasn’t as destitute as she’d believed me to be, I told her how Margo threatened to expose Zac as a fraud if I didn’t break up with him. How she would humiliate Zac in front of the big wigs at their quarterly business meeting. I knew Zac would be moving into a higher management position soon. If Margo were to blow the whistle on how Zac took credit for someone else’s work, that he’d betrayed the trust of the investors, they’d call for his resignation. Once that happened, stocks in Remington Enterprise would drop like a stone tossed into a volcano.

  Abby had insisted that Zac could take care of himself, that Chase wouldn’t fire his best friend, but probably hire me alongside him. We could work as a team, she told me. But that’s not what I wanted. Not for Zac anyway. He deserved to follow his dream but not at the expense of his best friend’s trust. Myself. I had other plans for my future.

  Would Zac hate me? I probably deserved to be hated. He deserved better than a girlfriend who was a liar and a cheat. A liar because I wasn’t who I pretended to be. Not the poor small-town girl working as a maid to make ends meet. I was a cheat because I’d cheated Zac out of his one opportunity to quit a job he hated. If he’d fallen on his face, he would have been forced to realize he was ill suited for accounting. He’d only survived this long at Remington’s because of Margo. So why did she want to expose him? Maybe she didn’t, but she would, to keep him from seeing with me. A bond made to secure his future with a respectable, supportive wife was what Zachary Taylor deserved, s
he’d said, then she’d thanked me. For what, I’d asked. She knew what kind of woman to find for Zac now. One who was smart—I’d made her see that.

  I finished loading all the photos of family into a box and then pushed it up against one corner. I wished I could go back in time. If I’d let Zac fail, in private of course, he’d have to admit to not only everyone around him, but to himself, he didn’t belong in the corporate world. The difference was that it would be his own decision. He could have quit his job quietly, said he’d decided to do something else. Normal people switched jobs all the time, didn’t they? He would have seen that he wasn’t important to the company and moved on.

  But he was important.

  To me.

  But he deserved better.

  Sighing, I realized how much I was going to miss this place, but I’d need something closer to school. Someplace I could walk to if I chose. Perhaps I could rehire my chauffeur to come to America. It would be fun to scan the California coastline on the way to school every morning.

  Damn, why had I given it all up? Stupid. What kind of a woman gives up her inheritance, the ability to go anywhere, do anything she wanted, just to prove to her overbearing mother she could make it on her own? And I had made it, not well, but I hadn’t ended up in the gutter. Not turned to prostitution like mother had predicted. Or worse. My job had been respectable, bottom of the ladder, but respectable just the same.

  To keep up the sham, I’d never invited Zac to my apartment. Would he come here now looking for me? If he did, it would be easy for him to figure out who I was. Or wasn’t. Especially if he entered my bedroom.

  After arriving in New York, I went through what money I brought with me faster than expected because I hadn’t a clue how to live on my own. Not at first.

  The evidence was all through my apartment. I bought... things. Things I naively thought necessary. Then tried to hide them. In my bedroom I had two rugs. One cheap, one not so cheap. All Zac had to do was lift one corner to see the Turkish creation in blue, scarlet and gold. It cost thirteen-thousand-dollars! And on my bed... my sheets were Egyptian cotton, monogrammed in silk and even though my dishes were cheap Corel and I hardly ever cooked, I’d splurged on all fifty pieces of All-Clad 5-ply silver cookware. There was nowhere to hide that. The apartment was too small, so I’d littered it everywhere. In closets. Under my bed. Wherever I could find a space.

  The first time Abby came to my apartment, she’d naturally asked questions. I told her the photos were antiques I found at Goodwill, to replace the family I didn’t have and she’d never entered my bedroom nor cooked. Thankfully, she’d never slept in my very comfortable bed either. Zac would be different though. He’d be looking for the truth.

  I scanned the apartment one last time, smiling at the beautiful rocker Abby bought me. She’d hugged me like her heart was breaking, agreed to pack everything, ship the photos to a locker I purchased, deliver the rest to Goodwill.

  It was time to go home, get over my spoiled rich girl pity party, and claim my inheritance. If it meant groveling at my mother’s feet, I’d manage that somehow. Fifteen million dollars seemed a worthy price.

  I slipped the key under the mat so Abby could let herself in, picked up my two suitcases and threw the straps of my purse on my left shoulder. Then I locked the front door.

  Chapter 23

  Zac

  The door was cracked, a short gold chain stretched across it while my best friend’s wife peered back at me. “What the fuck, Abigail!”

  “Zac! What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said.

  “You look awful, by the way. Like you aren’t sleeping.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Go away. Get some sleep. I’m busy here.”

  “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “She specifically told me not to let you in.”

  “She’s in there, isn’t she?”

  “No.”

  “She’s in there, or you wouldn’t be so keen on keeping me out.”

  “Scouts honor, she’s not in this apartment so go away.” She lifted three fingers in what I assumed was some sort of salute, giving me the opportunity to hook onto one with a death grip.

  “What! Owe! Let go of me!”

  “Nope.”

  I lied, letting go of the finger as she pulled in the opposite direction. She went careening back a few feet. “Shit! What the fuck, Ab!” I smashed my open palm on the wall. “Tell me where she is or I swear to God, I’ll break down this fucking door!”

  “Alright, alright.”

  The door closed temporarily. I heard the clicking of the chain being unlatched, and I stormed inside the apartment at top speed. So fast, in fact, I nearly knocked the poor woman off her feet.

  Shit! Rein in your temper. This is your boss’s wife.

  “She’s not here,” I heard while I stomped from room to room.

  I looked in the closet. Under a desk. I looked in the bathroom, under her bed, called out her name every few seconds. The apartment was small. It didn’t take long to realize my mistake. “She’s not here,” I said stupidly.

  “I told you she wasn’t here on the phone,” Abby insisted. “I wasn’t lying, Zac.”

  Dropping heavily on the couch, I pitched forward, head in my hands. My whole world went to shit after that award. This was my fault. I should have set Chase straight the minute he handed me that check. Was that what this was about? Didn’t matter. I would fix this. Fix us.

  “Please...” I said, looking up. “I need to talk to her and you’re the only one who knows where she is.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Abby said. “I don’t know why, but she’s my friend and I made her a promise.”

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Please Abigail.”

  She sniffed, wiped a tear.

  “Aren’t I your friend too?” I asked. “Cut me some slack here, Abby. I don’t know what I did wrong. But I’ll make it up to her, whatever it is. Just like Chase did with you once upon a time.”

  “This isn’t the same thing, Zac and you know it.”

  “I don’t know that. I don’t know anything, because I can’t talk to her. You have to help me. Help us. Abby, I love her.”

  Abby’s face softened. “She was pretty upset when she got on the plane,” Abby said, reaching into her pocket. “And I have her return ticket right here.” The smile on her face sparked. “Someone should bring it to her, maybe?”

  AS I’D SUSPECTED, MARGO was to blame for Charlotte’s disappearance taking a huge weight off my shoulders. Charlotte didn’t care about the award. She didn’t care about any of that. In fact, she didn’t even need it.

  I knew just what to do. In exchange for transferring all of Margo’s stock in Remington Enterprise to yours truly, I agreed not to tell Chase about Margo’s little charade. Then I insisted she retire.

  Four days later, I stepped off the plane into the sunshine, shielded my eyes from the Jamaican sun, and searched for the first taxi I could find. I spotted a dark-skinned man wearing a striped polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers beside a black car with the words, Parsons Car Service 24 hours, 7 days a week. We go anywhere, written on the door. Talk about service, I thought to myself.

  “Where to?” asked the man opening the side door.

  “Mr. Parsons, I presume?”

  “Sure be.”

  I handed him a piece of paper with Charlotte’s address on it. His eyes narrowed as I climbed inside the back seat.

  Before starting the car, he leaned over the backseat. “You have an appointment with the Blackwell family,” he said matter-of-factly. He smiled, showcasing a gold bicuspid on his front left tooth. “Weh yuh up to?”

  “Um...”

  “You a salesman or one of ‘em lawyers?” He tilted his head. “I guess you be a lawyer going by your...” He tipped his chin, indicating the suit.

  “Um, is there a problem and who are the Blackwell’s? I thought this was the address for t
he Davis residence.”

  A deep throaty chuckle rumbled in the driver’s throat. “Davis be the name of the maid who works for Mrs. Blackwell.”

  Now that makes sense. I think. Or does it?

  “Just drive.”

  “Yes sir.”

  We drove through the outskirts of the city, past corrugated shacks and roadside stalls until we came to the coast. Huge mansions dotted the surroundings. A turquoise and blue ocean followed on our right, beside palm trees and white sandy beaches. Then the landscape changed dramatically. I rocked inside the car, tumbling forward once when we’d missed a pothole and the driver thought it necessary to beep his horn around every curve. Ramshackle dwellings stuffed back along the trees. The road narrowed, as if lessening its importance, with tall metal sheeting resembling fences along the way. Bare-chested boys kicked a ball back and forth, waved their arms as we passed.

  Please, don’t let this be the kind of neighborhood be where Charlotte lives.

  I held my breath, then let it out as we turned a corner into one of the richest neighborhoods in Jamaica filled with lush greenery and brightly colored orchids. As we pulled up to the two-story villa on Wimborne Road in Bournemouth, I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “You sure this is it?”

  “This be the Blackwell home. And that....” He pointed to a simpler looking house, “... be the house of the servants.”

  “Can you wait for me?”

  “It be expensive, sir.”

  “Of course.” I handed him five hundred-dollar bills, watched his face light up, and then stepped out of the car.

  I wasn’t sure what I would say to Charlotte when I saw her. I guess I wanted an explanation about why she left, why she wouldn’t trust me with the truth, and now I realized she’d been lying to me about her last name as well.

  Mr. Parsons lumbered out of the car. I thought he was getting out to open my door, but soon realized that wasn’t the case. Seeing I didn’t jump out right away, he shrugged his shoulders, leaned against the car and took something from his pocket. He flipped open a silver lighter, lit one end of a fat Cuban cigar, and inhaled deeply. Then he pointed to some chairs set on a patio overlooking the ocean. “I just wait over there.”