But then, Ridge’s act wasn’t so much a magic trick as an attempted magic trick, the space between which was vast enough to contain a multitude of disasters, from the micro, broken cutlery, to the macro, manslaughter.
Ridge suddenly yanked the tablecloth toward himself, expecting the dishes on top of the table to stay on the table. Except the dishes did no such thing. They were snatched off the table. Christian was coated in gravy. Several plates smashed on the wall. The Relic’s expensive champagne flutes shattered on the ground.
‘Maybe it wasn’t magic that Aussies are taught,’ Ridge said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe it was how to swim?’
‘How do you get the two mixed up?’ Christian cried.
‘Christian,’ Clara warned. She clutched his arm. ‘Hey, why don’t you get yourself cleaned up?’
So Christian went upstairs. He took off his sweater and put on a slightly different sweater—this one navy, though still cashmere. Then he returned to the dining room.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Clara said as he entered. There was no one else in the room.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘They’ve all gone to drink scotch or something. For some reason, the Relic thought Ridge’s trick was hysterical. She’s a bit strange, your aunt.’
‘She’s my great aunt.’
‘Aunt. Great aunt.’ Clara dumped broken glass into a bin. ‘Does it really matter?’
‘I’d like to keep a generation between her and me, thanks.’
‘You used to play tennis with Ridge.’ Clara’s eyes softened when she talked about Ridge. For some reason that left a bitter taste in Christian’s mouth.
He swallowed. ‘Did I?’
‘You hated him.’
‘That’s true.’
Clara eyed him curiously. ‘Do you still hate him?’
‘You know, I don’t really know him anymore, so who knows?’
‘Maybe you should get to know him.’
Christian couldn’t believe Clara had chosen now to put in a good word for Ridge. He still had gravy up his nose. ‘Then I’ll definitely hate him.’
‘He’s nice.’
‘He’s Australian.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ Christian said. ‘They have words that shouldn’t be words.’
Twelve
When Christian asked Clara where she kept all her books these days, she laughed and showed him something she said she wasn’t going to show him—a library.
‘Where is The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe?’ Christian asked. He traced a finger along the spine of a Roald Dahl book.
‘In my bedroom,’ Clara said. ‘Nice sweater.’
Christian had decided to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, though the shade eluded him. It looked blue, he knew as much as this, but the exact blue shone just beyond his reach, elusive as the light at the end of Daisy Buchanan’s dock—itself an elusive green.
‘Thanks.’
‘Stay in here for as long as you like,’ Clara added before she left. ‘I have to get to work.’
‘Sure.’ Christian said, as George toddled into the room. He took a book off a shelf and flung himself down onto the carpet. ‘Hey, George.’
‘Uncle Christian, do you like Clara?’ George asked.
‘Of course I like Clara,’ he replied.
After a moment, George asked, ‘Like, a whole lot?’
‘Sure. I like you a whole lot too.’
George didn’t answer. He frowned down at his battered copy of Matilda. ‘Sometimes grown ups kiss,’ he said finally.
‘True.’
‘Sometimes you look at Clara like she’s Princess Leia and you’re Han Solo about to be frozen in carbonite.’ George tucked in his chin and looked at Christian through his long baby lashes. ‘Sometimes you look at Clara like she’s Han Solo frozen in carbonite and you’re Jabba the Hutt.’
‘I don’t want to kiss Clara, George,’ Christian lied.
‘Jabba the Hutt didn’t want to kiss Han Solo. But he still looked at him strangely.’
Holly shouted from the kitchen, ‘Grace! Grayson! George! Are we all ready to go or not?’
George hauled himself up by the armchair and scooted from the library. Christian put away the book and then followed him.
'You can't fine me today,' Christian said a little too gleefully, as Officer Frost passed him in the hallway.
‘Hey, Big Shot,’ Holly said as Christian entered the kitchen.
Christian picked up an empty cereal box. ‘Did you eat all the Fruity Pebbles again?’
‘Christian, you need to re-evaluate your diet. You only ever eat Fruity Pebbles, sandwiches, and candy canes.’
‘Those are the three most important food groups. What I really need to re-evaluate is the point of having a sister, seeing as mine keeps eating all the Fruity Pebbles.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Holly motioned to George.
‘I am looking at you.’
‘Must’ve been the Gs.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Christian said. If he had kids, he’d blame everything on them too. ‘Why are you wearing that awful blazer?’
Holly was wearing a pink and green blazer. It wasn’t exactly her usual style.
‘The Relic told me it would be good for my marriage. Men are attracted to bright colors or something. I’m trying to get used to it before Jake gets home.’
‘Why are you taking relationship advice from the Relic? She’s been divorced eight times. That’s like taking how-not-to-murder-and-eat-people advice from Hannibal Lecter.’
‘I’m off,’ Holly said. She helped the Gs into their coats, mittens, and scarves.
‘Grocery store. Fruity Pebbles,’ Christian called after them.
‘Blah, blah, blah,’ he heard her mutter as she left.
Christian lingered in the hall for a while. He saw pictures of Caroline James and a tiny Clara, both squished onto Santa’s knee. He saw pictures of a Ridge on vacation, and thought him sexless in his canvas flats and sweater, the kind of outfit no one could take issue with because it was so bland. Maybe, Christian should wear an ugly Christmas sweater. Maybe, he was too much like vacation Ridge but without the tan, bland in his expensive, neutral basics. Black Trousers. Black Cashmere sweater. White Stan Smiths, but only sometimes, if he was feeling sporty. As Christian looked at the photos, he made a mental note to buy loafers, something Italian. Expensive.
Christian wouldn’t have time to buy anything now. His phone chirped. It was Clara. She wanted to meet him in a cafe called Prancer’s, where there was a milk bar and a dozen old, vinyl booths and a jukebox which played Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’ on repeat.
Christian and Clara used to come here every Wednesday before school. He’d order the bacon and eggs, while she’d order pancakes—pancakes she’d smother in butter and maple syrup. Their server always chuckled and said, ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ to Clara, but never to Christian. It became a running joke between them whenever Clara ate. ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ he’d whisper in her ear, in the theater, her hand dipping into the popcorn bucket.
It turned out that Clara needed a shoulder to cry on. Ridge was driving her crazy. He wanted to do good work, and he wanted Clara to do good work, too. No, running the inn didn’t bring a smile to the face of a child with a plastic allergy, Clara conceded, but the inn brought a smile to her. And didn’t Ridge know the history—her history? Hadn’t he studied Clara the same way she’d studied him, the same way everyone becomes a scholar of their favorite person way back at the start, when that person first became their person. Didn’t Ridge know the Easter eggs and call backs and clues that Clara once built into their conversations?
Milleridge was Clara’s home because Milleridge was her mother’s home. Clara had told him, Ridge, repetitively about that Christmas Eve—the Christmas Eve Caroline James arrived, penniless and shivering, on the doorstep of Milleridge, where she was given shelter—and Ridge had nodded and made the appropriate noises and even clutched her hand. But he wasn’t
truly listening. He needed to squeeze the plastic bear in order to get to the honey, as Caroline James once liked to say. He needed to play nice before he could play. Which meant he didn’t understand the significance of the inn. Which meant he didn’t understand Clara.
But Christian did. Christian understood what Milleridge meant to Clara, and why she needed to work there, despite the pay and the people, which were both often terrible. He understood her history. Christian shifted in his chair as Clara spoke. He didn’t give her the appropriate reply, which was an enthusiastic reply. Here Clara was talking smack about Ridge and Christian couldn’t enjoy it, because he didn’t understand what Milleridge meant to Clara. If he did, he wouldn’t have been planning on knocking Milleridge down the second his inheritance came through.
Christian felt sick. There was no way to excuse himself without drawing Clara’s suspicions. She reached out a hand and caught Christian’s, only to drop his hand the moment Ridge burst into the cafe, yanking off his hat.
‘G’day, you two,’ Ridge said. He clapped Clara on the back and said to Christian, ‘How good is the food here, mate?’
‘It’s fine,’ Christian said.
‘Just popped in for a coffee. I’ll never get sick of the good old peppermint latte. I wish Mistletoe made it a law that seasonal beverages need to be sold year round, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Christian replied coolly.
Clara kicked him beneath the table.
‘Babe, can we talk?’ Ridge said when his coffee arrived.
Clara followed him outside the cafe, where they began to kiss after a quick fight. Kissing was the best—Christian and Clara used to kiss all the time. Now Christian kissed Magdalena, when she wasn't wearing lipstick, and Clara kissed Ridge, also when he wasn't wearing lipstick, which was sadly always. Christian scowled as Ridge stopped kissing Clara and he scowled even more when Ridge started kissing Clara again.
Ridge had this move. It was a move Christian knew intimately, which is why seeing Ridge play it bothered him. Ridge followed a rhythm: kiss, pull back, kiss again, pull back, and so on. Ridge had this other move, also one Christian knew. He was so tall, 6'3", and he towered over Clara, which was good for stealing Hershey's Kisses off high shelves but not good for stealing kisses off short girls. So he'd lean against something—a car, a wall—and he'd plant his legs out in front of him as he'd slide his back down the wall, just a little, just to bring himself eye to eye with Clara.
Clara and Ridge returned five minutes later, both with silly grins. Ridge said goodbye to Christian, and Christian said something under his breath which sounded like ‘Get lost’, mainly because it was.
‘Later, babe,’ Ridge said. He left the shop and hailed a sleigh.
‘Ridiculous,’ Christian said. He and Clara also decided to leave. Frankly, Christian didn’t want to spend any more time with Clara, who was experiencing a post make out glow.
‘Yep. That’s me. I’m ridiculous,’ Clara replied. She shrugged on her jacket, which was Ridge’s jacket, and her scarf, which was Ridge’s scarf. Christian kicked a bottle into the gutter.
‘Don’t litter,’ Clara said.
‘I didn’t litter.’
‘I just saw you.’
‘You just saw me kick a bottle that was already on the ground into the gutter.’ Christian could feel his senses becoming sharper, like a hunter when he’d clocked his prey. But Clara wasn’t his prey, and he needed to calm his heart, which was now beating hard. ‘I’ll pick it up.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t know why you’re being such a jerk,’ Christian said, after he flung the bottle into a nearby trash can. ‘Ridge Brooks is your dream guy.’
‘Yes,’ Clara replied. She stared at the base of Christian’s throat, the place where she used to nuzzle her face, and swallowed. ‘He is.’
‘So why aren’t you in a better mood?’ Christian looked at her lips.
‘I’m the happiest I have ever been.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m going to marry him.’
‘I’m happy for you.’ Christian reached out and slid his hand down her arm. He'd stepped forward, after Clara gazed up at him through her lashes, which were long and thick and fluttering. He'd stood close to Clara before, of course, but had they stood this close together since her rejection? No, and now the air electrified around Christian as his skin sensitized. It was these two things, the air and his skin, which felt prickly and charged. Clara turned her head.
'Don't,' Christian said, and he tilted her chin up with his index finger.
They stared at each other.
‘I love Ridge,’ she whispered, stepping toward Christian.
‘What’s not to love?’ Christian whispered, stepping toward Clara.
‘Christian?’
A man in an expensive suit clapped Christian on the shoulder. It was Miles Pine. ‘Just the man I was looking for,’ he said.
Clara looked at Christian, waiting. He stepped away from her and cleared his throat.
‘Miles, what are you doing in Mistletoe?’
‘Needed a chat.’
‘And your phone wasn’t working?’
Miles laughed. ‘The boys miss that old Thornton wit around the office,’ he said, even though Christian’s comment was obviously not witty in the least. ‘Where’s a good place to try this famous eggnog I keep hearing about?’
‘The inn,’ Clara said before Christian could think of a way to ditch Miles.
‘Fantastic. What do you say, Christian?’
Christian stood on the sidewalk for a minute, pretending to consider the request but planning the murder of Miles Pine instead. He could not believe the man had the audacity to show up in Christian’s hometown—the hometown Christian barely liked showing up in. When Miles left, Christian would call work and put in a complaint, but how? How could he complain about Miles, when Miles had done nothing wrong? It was only nine. Did Miles expect Christian to spend the whole day with him? Could Christian complain to HR about a coworker wanting to socialize? Christian felt very strongly one should be able to complain to HR about a coworker wanting to socialize. After all, if he wanted to socialize with a coworker, they’d no longer just be a coworker but a friend.
‘Fine,’ Christian said, and then his blood turned colder than the black ice on Mistletoe’s roads. Miles knew Magdalena. Miles knew Christian was engaged to Magdalena. ‘Perfect,’ he added hastily. ‘Mistletoe’s eggnog is famous for a reason.’
He headed back to Milleridge with Miles because there was nothing else he could do. But then, Clara had work to attend to in town, which meant she was away from Miles for now.
Fifteen minutes later, Miles leaned back on a Chesterfield sofa, cup of eggnog in hand, his feet kicked up on the coffee table in the way a man’s feet should never be kicked up on the coffee table. He wore an ugly sweater the color of his face—red—and a ribbon, which was also red, tied around his wrist like a bracelet.
‘This kid thought I needed a bracelet,’ Miles explained. ‘Hey, you did know some police officer fines you if you don’t wear an ugly sweater?’
Miles didn't appear perplexed by this—by the bizarre law no town but Mistletoe would pass. He was too cool, too open to rail against the ugliest of sweaters and the draconian ideologies which hung them from shoulders. He was like this at work, the kind of architect other architects loved, because he cooed dreamily over their plans while never, not once, not even under extreme duress or hope of financial compensation, producing plans that rocked. As such, the firm liked Miles, a little more than they liked Christian, because Christian was Christian.
He added he might move to Mistletoe, though they both knew he wouldn’t, because how crazy is that, man! A guy fining you for not wearing an ugly sweater!
‘Yes,’ Christian said, irritated. ‘Crazy. Why are you here?’
‘I brought the plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘The plans for the hotel.’
‘I’m still wor
king on those.’
‘No, not your plans. My plans. Hey, didn’t you grow up here or something?’ His smile, whipped out of genuine delight, annoyed Christian. ‘I can’t see you wearing ugly sweaters for a minute, let alone a whole month.’
‘That law was not brought in until after I left. Why do you have plans?’
‘This hotel is a big deal for our firm.’
‘So I’m aware.’
Miles was used to doing things himself because you couldn’t trust others, he said, not that he couldn’t trust Christian, of course. These plans, his own, would kick start the development of the luxury hotel, the development they both wanted, really, so what was the problem? The problem was this: Christian hated Miles almost as much as he hated Ridge, which was a lot. He hated that no one else at their architectural firm seemed to hate Miles, that they invited him to play golf and watch the big game and go out to dinner with their wives. He hated his tiny mouth.
So he ushered him down the sleepy lane, and as they slowly trudged into town, Christian came up with a plan: Avoid taking Miles anywhere they would be noticed, which was, sadly, everywhere. But still, Christian, there had to be somewhere, and there was.
They were best behavior polite as Christian showed Miles into Santa’s village, a temporary village assembled for the holiday season. It was scaled down as if for children, because it was for children.
The problem, Miles said, moving aside a miniature cup, was Christian’s proximity to the inn. Did the partners at the firm believe this was a problem too? Christian would never know, because Miles concerned himself only with himself, with his opinions and his dislike of miniature crockery, which he kept moving aside.
It kept appearing in front of him, this crockery, placed there by children who believed a man who sat at a tea table wanted to play tea party. Miles did not. The children milled around in their imaginations but also in the cubby house, where endless amounts of imaginary tea was poured. They smiled, an expression which connotes joy, but here seemed to hint at something more serious, more complicated than just plain and simple happiness. Play was serious for children. Play is where they processed.
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