Rebel Without a Claus

by Keira Candace Clementine

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Holly replied, which was very helpful, except not.

  Christian folded his arms. He refused to unfold his arms until a sales assistant led him to the candles, where he decided to buy something for Clara. The sales assistant assured him that the candle he picked smelled like a 'sexy fireplace,' and he purchased the candle before wondering if Clara wanted to smell like a sexy fireplace, or what that even smelled like.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Ridge. Every thought was an attempt to see in Ridge what Clara saw in Ridge. That Ridge was so obviously wrong for Clara perhaps had only occurred to Christian. Ridge’s expressions, which Christian now mimicked, were all furrowed brow and strong chin, the kind of chin which looked heroic beneath a Batman cowl.

  A strong jaw, well, it confused people. It confused people like Clara, who took a strong jaw to mean a strong man. Christian wanted to think of him as weak, but it was Ridge Brooks who revealed his true self, who showed his confidence with a slight tilt of the head or the way he’d sit at the table and wrap his arm around Clara. This confidence surprised Christian. He’d thought of Ridge as little more than a goofy wood whittler and also a self-involved jerk. He whittled toys, after all, from wood he’d gathered in the forest, wood just hanging out there, waiting to become tiny ponies.

  ‘Stop thinking about Ridge,’ Holly said. ‘We’re heading back to the inn now. The Relic wants her Christmas presents early.’

  ‘I’m not thinking about Ridge,’ Christian lied. ‘And why does the Relic get her Christmas presents early?’

  ‘She’s worried she won’t make it until Christmas.’

  ‘She’s healthier than you and I put together.’

  ‘Let’s just humor her, Christian.’

  Just before dinner, when the Relic was barking orders in the kitchen, Christian wrapped her present. He wrapped the dog treats he’d bought for Boxer, too. And he’d used the same paper.

  Unfortunately, when it came time for the Relic to open her presents, she opened the packet of dog treats. The reason the Relic opened a packet of dog treats—the reason she’d torn apart the wrapping paper, finding a packet of dog treats—was because Christian had accidentally mixed up the presents. He realized as much when he saw Holly unwrap for Boxer a porcelain tea set.

  ‘New York dogs are fancier,’ the Relic muttered when she saw Boxer’s gift.

  Christian nodded. That was his gift for his Great Aunt Gladys, liver treats, treats not for the liver but of liver. The fact the packet said Fetch Treats hardly seemed to register with the Relic. Perhaps she’d remembered watching Mean Girls with Grace, where the word ‘fetch’ was bandied around—or perhaps she thought ‘fetch’ common slang among a different, younger generation. The Relic opened the packet and ate a liver treat, and then she ate another.

  Holly stared at Christian, mouth open, as if hoping he’d say something. Which he wouldn’t. Which she understood, because the Relic could never know the dog treats she was eating now were dog treats.

  Sixteen

  A small ham glistened on the table next to a dozen loaves of crusty bread. Christian thought about eating bread and butter for breakfast, but then he lightly coated the bottom of a skillet with olive oil and cracked an egg. He cooked this egg until the edges were perfect, crispy and golden, and then he cooked another. He sliced the bread and then he sliced the ham and then he sliced the gooey Camembert cheese, which he’d found buried in the fridge.

  The bread, now buttery, was steaming hot and melted on Christian’s tongue when he took his first bite. There was the never-ending richness of the Camembert, and Christian found himself shivering with delight as the egg yolk burst and dribbled down his arms.

  ‘I need to make you this sandwich,’ Christian said the moment Clara stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘I’d love a sandwich, but I’m not sure I have the time.’

  ‘I’m going to make you a sandwich, and then I’m going to make myself another sandwich.’

  ‘Christian, it’s the sweet pumpkin pie auction today. You won’t have any room left in your stomach.’

  ‘I’m not going to buy a pie.’

  ‘You used to love the sweet pumpkin pie auction.’

  ‘I used to be eighteen.’

  Christian finished his sandwich and carved out another slice of the ham. He’d given himself larger portions earlier, but Clara was tiny and besides, she didn’t really like ham. But still, Christian couldn’t omit the ham. The ham made the sandwich. Each element of the sandwich made the sandwich. He couldn’t go without the ham or the eggs. He obviously couldn’t go without the crunchy, buttery bread which melted on the tongue. No, Clara would like the ham on this sandwich. Christian was certain.

  ‘Aww, not Camembert,’ Clara said, watching as Christian reached for the cheese. ‘I hate Camembert.’

  He dropped his knife and pushed Clara into a kitchen chair, and there she rested her chin in the palm of her hands and sighed, equal parts annoyed and delighted.

  ‘Is Ridge going to buy your sweet pumpkin pie?’ Christian asked. He tried to keep his voice calm.

  ‘I doubt it. We broke up.’

  Christian dropped his knife. It landed on the floor, and Boxer was quick to pad over for a sniff. Christian fetched him a treat from the cupboard, and Boxer happily took it to the other room, leaving the knife free for Christian to clean up.

  ‘How come?’ he asked Clara, not knowing if this was the right question.

  Clara shrugged. She tore hunks off the bread, but didn’t eat it.

  ‘Clara?’

  ‘It matters,’ she said suddenly. ‘He said it doesn’t matter, but the thing is, it does.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ridge is selling plastic toys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s been supplementing sales of his wooden toys with sales of his plastic toys. He imports them from China and slaps a Mistletoe sticker on them. I mean, all this time he’s been lecturing everyone on the environment and the ills of plastic, when he’s been profiting off plastic.’

  Christian was pleased. ‘I love a good scandal.’

  ‘But I’m the crazy one, apparently.’

  ‘He called you crazy?’

  ‘Yeah, after I found his stash of plastic toys in the garage. He kept saying, “Clara, you’re crazy. Clara!”’

  ‘What a jerk.’

  ‘So now we are no longer together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going to the sweet pumpkin pie auction, actually,’ Christian said.

  ‘Good,’ Clara replied. ‘Maybe you can buy my pie.’

  Christian said something about someone else buying her pie, and Clara replied that she needed him to bid, the pie tasted like rubbish and everyone in Mistletoe knew this because they knew Clara; they knew she couldn’t bake. Besides, didn’t Christian want to spend some time with her? Didn’t he want to reminisce about the glory days? Christian sighed. Sure, buying Clara’s sweet pumpkin pie did seem like a simple and relatively relaxed way to engineer some time with her. But then, since Christian had returned to Mistletoe, riding into this one-horse town in a two-horse sleigh, there was something that defined him which he didn’t want to define him.

  He was the man Clara James rejected.

  He was okay, sort of, with this in New York. But again, he wasn’t in New York. And he didn’t want to bid on Clara’s sweet pumpkin pie.

  Christian thought the beauty of youth was that you are open in a way you are not as an adult. Once he’d sat in a row he wouldn’t sit in now, the last row, and bid on Clara’s sweet pumpkin pie with money he’d spent a month saving. Sure, his family was rich, but Hunter believed it was character building for Christian to sweat for his pennies.

  The sweet pumpkin pie had tasted perfect because it had cost twenty-three paths snow shoveled and thirty-four trips to the grocery store, to buy Mrs. Joy her weekly groceries and Mr. Tetley his medicine. It had tasted perfect because he was young and the sweet pumpkin pie was simple and
to youth simple is complicated, in the most romantic way, because simple is new. Simple is new and therefore simple is exciting.

  Nothing was new to Christian anymore. He’d eaten foie gras paté in Toulouse and Beluga white caviar in London. He’d eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants and found the pan-fried red snapper overcooked and the bitter chocolate millefeuille, well, too bitter. He longed for the days of boiled potatoes still in their jackets accompanied by great slabs of butter, back when simple food excited him. When a spread of salad, cold ham, bacon, and eggs satisfied not just his stomach but his soul.

  So no, Christian would not raise his hand at the auction. He would not bet on the pie. But then, after they had arrived at the auction, Ridge raised his hand, and then Clara was frowning at Christian, nodding her head toward the pie, because she did not want Ridge to win.

  ‘Help,’ Clara mouthed.

  Christian looked at the sweet pumpkin pie, which was a simple sweet pumpkin pie, just pumpkin and brown sugar and spice and a crust, perhaps, and he decided to bid, too. He raised his hand and called out to the auctioneer, who accepted the bid, and then maybe he glanced over at Ridge and winked.

  Fifteen years ago, when he’d arrived at the auction with Clara, he placed his bid without a moment’s hesitation. Fifteen years ago, he’d bought Clara’s sweet pumpkin pie without a rival interfering. So, he didn’t appreciate the competition. This frightened him, frightened him enough that he bid more money than necessary. But then, Christian had nothing to lose, and he won.

  ‘Well?’ Clara said as Christian balanced the pumpkin pie on his lap after he had won her pie.

  Christian swallowed. ‘This is the best sweet pumpkin pie I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Really?’

  Christian thought of the look on Ridge’s face when he’d lost the auction. ‘Really.’

  The next morning, Clara made Christian a sandwich. Christian ate the sandwich and then made himself another, better sandwich.

  ‘Yes, who doesn’t like their sandwich with a side of betrayal?’ Clara said.

  ‘Don’t take everything so personally, James. I am just very particular about my sandwiches.’

  This one was a garlic butter Italian sausage sandwich. Christian couldn’t cook, but he knew a thing or two about loading a toasted bun with hot sausage, chunky tomato sauce, a boatload of cheese, and a generous helping of garlic butter.

  ‘Is the big city boy too good for a small town sandwich?’ Clara’s voice was airy.

  Christian swallowed his first bite and said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Thornton.’

  Christian reclined in the chair. He studied Clara, because he knew studying Clara would drive her crazy, and he liked crazy Clara. He liked how her eyes turned wolfish, and he liked how her shoulders hunched as if she were getting ready to spring an attack.

  ‘James,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Ugh,’ she replied.

  Christian smacked his lips.

  ‘I hate the sound of your chewing,’ Clara added.

  Christian only grinned.

  ‘Could you say something please?’

  Christian blinked, an innocent expression spreading across his face. It was twee and adorable and looked as though it made Clara want to punch a wall.

  Grace entered and said to Christian, ‘Uncle Christian, can I play in the snow?’

  The Relic huffed, and when neither Christian nor Clara asked her what the problem was, she said: ‘That girl needs to help more with the boys.’ She was talking about Grace.

  Oldest daughters are not second mothers. Holly tried explaining this to the Relic, but it was no good. The Relic expected Grace to take care of the boys, to help with the laundry and put away the dishes and hang the washing on the line, even though Grace was twelve and the Relic had a dozen grown men sitting around the inn all day, doing nothing but drinking and smoking and playing cards.

  ‘She’s difficult,’ the Relic hissed, thinking no one could hear her. But Grace heard. She lingered, unsure, in the doorway.

  Teenage girls don't feel beholden to anyone. That's why they are called difficult. But they're not difficult. They just feel like being a person first and a daughter second. Duty comes with time. Duty comes with ageing parents and thankless jobs and terrible boyfriends whom girlfriends are taught they must—must—save. But for a glorious stretch of time, teen girls float beneath the surface, the rest of the world a muffled conversation in the wobbly distance, loyal only to themselves, to the stories they’ve invited into the mausoleum of their hearts.

  Because what if they choose to live in service to themselves? The world is built on the backs of women’s unpaid labor, and the labor women are paid for, they are paid for in dimes instead of dollars. Boys can be boys, but girls must be women who pick up the boys’ socks. Look how the world reacts when a woman puts money into herself. She could’ve given that money to charity, they mutter. But people never say that to men, do they? ‘He could have put that Jaguar money into charity.’ No, because a man can delight in himself, his status.

  Any money a woman puts into herself, is money she could have put into literally anyone else, the world seemed to say, because literally anyone else is more worthy of love than a woman. And besides, if a woman showers herself in love, what next? Oh. She stops settling for men who belittle and disrespect her. If a woman wants a man to contribute financially to their family, she is a gold digger. If a woman wants him to put in the emotional labor, she is a nag. If a woman wants her husband—a forty year old with three children—to stop spending his nights at the club with his boys, she is controlling. Do not set expectations for your relationship, the world tells women. Gold digger. Control-freak. Nag.

  This is the fear teenage girls strike into the heart of world: what if they stay girls forever, half savage and hardy, and free?

  Who then will pick up the socks?

  ‘Grace, go and play,’ Christian said. ‘I’ll pack away the dishes.’

  ‘Are you sure, Uncle C?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  Christian finished his sandwich. Then he stood to pack away the dishes. He didn’t pay attention to where he stacked the plates. He was angry at the Relic, and also he didn’t care. Yes, this would make things more complicated for the person who next needed a plate, but what did Christian care?

  ‘Do you realize you’re putting utensils in the china cabinet?’ Clara said. ‘Never mind that. Can I ask you a favor?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Christian replied.

  ‘Ridge is a bit drunk. Can you go to Blitzen’s and make sure he’s okay?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, Thornton. It’s Ridge.’

  Christian smirked. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He might be dead in a ditch.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I didn’t want to do this, but I’m afraid you have given me no choice. Christian Thornton III, I have hidden all the candy canes.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Clara James?

  ‘I’ve put the word out into town: no one is to sell you a candy cane. They all agreed. Mistletoe loves me.’

  ‘So I’ll go to Yuletide and buy candy canes there.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Clara punched him in the arm.

  But Christian would not return to Yuletide, not even to buy candy canes.

  He sighed. ‘What bar is Ridge in?’

  Ten minutes later, Christian stood outside Blitzen’s, the neon light of its sign turning his skin pink. He inhaled, and then stepped inside.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ the bartender said in the empty voice of a man who did not want to get Christian anything.

  ‘A beer, thanks,’ Christian said in the empty voice of a man who did not really want a beer, but who didn’t want the judgment from not ordering one.

  The bartender poured Christian a beer as Christian sat next to Ridge. He didn’t even have to say hello for Ridg
e to start complaining about his break up with Clara.

  The toys were essentially the same, except plastic. The toys were fine for children with plastic allergies, except the toys would give them hives and also maybe kill them. But who had a plastic allergy, really? No one! Wasn’t Clara being ridiculous? Wasn’t this the whole reason why Ridge didn’t come clean beforehand, because he didn’t want to deal with her drama?

  Christian said, ‘Clara has a right to be angry.’

  But Ridge didn’t care to hear this. Clara’s obsession with Christmas was poison. He felt guilty for saying it, but there it was—the truth. He hated her cell phone, which buzzed at all hours of the day and night. Texts about trees and baubles and ham. Calls about ice skating and chestnuts and ham again. Beautiful as Clara was, funny as she could sometimes be, Ridge always had this crazy notion that his wife would be, well, a wife. But when Ridge politely suggested Clara stop acting as Mistletoe’s Christmas Consigliere when they married, she’d gotten angry.

  After all, Ridge had grown up with a mother who loved Christmas an appropriate amount—and her husband, Ridge’s father, an inappropriate amount, which was how marriage worked. How marriage was supposed to work. Christian understood. Ridge expected Clara’s quirks to end when she became a wife. They’d fashion her together, this wife, a paragon of politeness and flattery. She’d love Christmas, yes, but the amount Ridge agreed upon.

  ‘No wonder she dumped you,’ Christian said. He hated Ridge. He didn’t feel like sugarcoating the truth.

  Ridge didn’t seem to hear Christian. Despite the breakup, he was very much in love with Clara, very much obsessed with her eyes and her smile and her hair. Her hair! Do you know how rare it is to find a natural blond, Ridge asked Christian. Very. His last girlfriend had her roots touched up ever four to six weeks, and Ridge found this ugly—both the frequency of her hair appointments and her natural color.

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’ Christian downed his beer and stood.

  Ridge clasped his arm. ‘You think you’re better than me,’ he sneered.

  ‘Yes, but only because I am.’