All They Want for Christmas

by M. K. Stelmack

  “What do you do?”

  “Oil-and-gas exploration. I’m an important muckety-muck.”

  “But a tough schedule.”

  “Yeah. My buddies, they changed jobs when they got serious with their girlfriends. I should’ve done the same.”

  Even muckety-mucks had regrets. “Things didn’t end well, I take it?”

  “Things never end well. Long distance does a number on relationships.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Hard to get a decent girl. No, let me correct myself. It’s not the getting, it’s the keeping. That’s where I always trip up.”

  “Me, too,” Jack said.

  Carson turned to the bar, where Bridge was dressing a martini. “You think you’ll mess up with her?”

  “I already did once.”

  “At least she gave you another chance.”

  “There’s that,” Jack said noncommittally.

  “Me, I keep better to a diet than a woman.”

  “You find the right woman, and you’ll come around,” Jack said.

  “Yeah.” Carson picked up his fork and knife, set them back down. “I should give you my keys before I do anything stupid.”

  Jack shelved the keys behind the bar and Bridge shot him a grateful smile. “Thanks. That’s a weight off my mind.”

  “He’s just sad. Woman troubles. By the way, if he makes a comment on how we’re together, it’s due to a misunderstanding.”

  “No worries. At least there’s no misunderstanding between us.”

  She walked away, leaving Jack to wonder not for the first time where all her sunniness had come from. Across the way, Carson raised his water glass to Jack. A sign of encouragement. Keep it up. Keep her.

  Carson, buddy, I would if she’d let me.

  * * *

  IN THE END, even with Bridge’s dress and Carson’s high drink bill, it wasn’t enough. The tally stopped fourteen hundred dollars short. Jack rested his elbows on the bar. “It’s a measly amount in the grand scope.”

  “Exactly,” Bridget said, on the other side, rubbing her feet. “Which means there’s room for you to negotiate with the bank.”

  “It’s not the house money,” Jack objected. “Or not just it. Next month, we’ll have our backs to the wall trying to make payments on the restaurant and the house again. And forget about the other essentials like food and toilet paper.”

  “We could run a dinner service next week. For New Year’s. The weather will be better by then. Cold but not snowing, and everyone will want to go somewhere to celebrate. I could decorate the place. What do you say?”

  Her determined optimism was breathtaking. “Okay, what has got into you? A few days ago you were stressed to the gills, and now you act as if you’re sitting on a winning lottery ticket.” He paused. “You’re not, are you?”

  “You think I would’ve worn these heels tonight if I was?”

  “Truth? I have never seen you so carefree, and that includes when we were dating as teenagers.”

  Bridget’s gaze drifted to the dark outdoors. In the hazy glow of the streetlights, snow swirled and hit like scatter shot against the windows. He should get out there and warm up the vehicle. “I—I... You were right, Jack. I am stuck. And a lot of that is because of my fears. And you saying it made me realize how worn down they’ve made me.”

  Was she saying she wanted to change, and for him?

  “I know things are serious. I know the problems haven’t gone away. But I also know that you and girls will land on your feet. You’ve brought them through much worse already—and you’ll do it again. If you want, you can find work. Might not be saving a restaurant, might be something even better. And with help from your family. They helped rescue you from the Christmas Crates fiasco, and they’ll be there for you again whenever you need them.”

  Jack didn’t like how she was missing one critical factor. “What about you? Where will you be in all this?”

  She gave him a soft smile. The smile that in the past always came before a long, sweet kiss. “Don’t you worry about me, Jack. The world always needs a good cinnamon bun.”

  He leaned closer, inviting her to come within kissing range.

  “Jack?” she whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you go warm up the car?”

  He pulled back. Bridge might have changed, but things between them hadn’t.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I NEED TWO coffees over here!”

  Bridget tossed two packages over an assembly line of crates to Krista.

  “A tea and three bears!”

  Bridget did an express ground delivery of the goods to Mara at the far end of the bench. She redirected over to Isabella and Sofia, who were tasked with slipping gift cards from three stacks into tin cardholders. A quick count revealed that under half of the required fifty-three were completed. Not good.

  “Keep it up, girls,” Bridget said, trying to sound upbeat and not panicked. “Stay focused. You don’t want General Deedee on your case.” She gathered up fifteen holders and scrambled back to her station. She’d drop them in and then start the final step of cellophane-wrapping the crates.

  The garage door opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and Deidre with clipboard and phone. “We’re at T minus forty-nine minutes before launch. Where are we at, Bridget?”

  “Turkeys are in place. I’m going to tuck the cardholders into these, then start wrapping them.”

  Deidre hissed. “We should already be in the wrap stage. There are still the tags to put on and then the final cross-check.”

  “Do you want me to help her?” Mara said.

  “I can’t afford to pull you from there, or else we’ll fall behind on the second delivery round which is scheduled for T minus two hours and—” Deidre consulted her phone “—forty-seven minutes. Has anyone heard from Jack?”

  As if the saying of his name invoked his presence, a vehicle outside gunned up to the garage door which rose to reveal Jack opening the back doors to a utility van. Bridget blinked against the noon light.

  “About time,” the general said when Jack appeared in the garage. “Jack, please tell me that you’ve kept the temperature at a minimum. We cannot have the turkeys thawing at all.”

  “I am fully briefed on food-handling procedures,” Jack said. “The van is cold enough to give a snowman frostbite.”

  “Good. We’re a full twenty minutes behind schedule. Leave the van doors open, close the garage door, get in here and help Bridget.”

  Jack completed the first three instructions in seconds and peeled off his jacket to start the fourth. “Okay, how can I help?”

  Bridget dropped in the last cardholder and came to the other end of the bench—well, a plywood sheet secured to sawhorses. “We need to wrap and tag these crates and load them, all in forty-five minutes.”

  “Forty-four,” Deidre said, “and don’t forget to clear final check with me.” Her phone rang. “I need to get this. Everyone, go, go, go!” She departed, her voice suddenly sweet as she talked to one of the crate recipients.

  “I bungee jumped with less adrenaline pumping through my veins than I have now,” Krista declared. “Mom’s gone all power-hungry.”

  Isabella’s head came up at hungry. “When are we eating?”

  “How much longer do we have to do this?” Sofia said.

  Jack pointed at Sofia. “Until your job’s done.” Then he pointed at Isabella. “After your job’s done.” To Krista, he said, “Can it, cousin.”

  He turned back to Bridget. “How about we measure out the first one, I cut the rest while you wrap and then when I’m done cutting, I tag?”

  Bridget felt her stress reduce from the size of a crater to a...crate. “That’ll work. Remind me to text Deidre when you start tagging, so she can start her final inspection.”

>   He gave a short nod and instantly they fell into their pattern of fitting together to take on whatever task they set their minds to. Crisscrossing paths during breakfast service, working shoulder-to-shoulder on two thousand plus minicinnis, voices merging during bedtime stories, lips coming together...as they very nearly had the night before last. She had put on the brakes because it wasn’t fair to him to rekindle their relationship when she planned to leave it all behind.

  Yes, she would miss him and the girls and Deidre. But neither could she stay in the house and pretend to herself that she had moved on.

  She exhaled. Jack shot her a look. “Don’t worry. We got this.”

  And just as she’d raised him up when he felt down Saturday night, he was doing the same for her. Perfect partners in all ways except the one she could only give him by moving on. But for one more day they could be their best. “We got this,” she repeated, and meant it.

  * * *

  KRISTA’S COMPARISON TO bungee jumping ran through Jack’s mind time and time again during the delivery of the Christmas Crates. Pack the crates, pack up the girls, negotiate the snow-filled side streets with Bridge riding shotgun with addresses and Google Maps, deliver the crates and then back again for the next round. A burger eaten behind the wheel, bathroom breaks timed for when Deidre could cover tagging, bedtime for Sofia rushed between loads.

  By the time the final delivery rolled around, the frenzy of the day had burned into a kind of mellowness. He glanced over his shoulder. Isabella had insisted on accompanying them on every delivery, even though she had the option of staying behind, as Sofia had. Although either he or Bridge could’ve easily crossed off names as crates were delivered, it mattered to Isabella to do this job. Who was he to deny her the opportunity to give to the community she now belonged to?

  And that he belonged to. The Christmas Crates program had started off as a kind of penance for the wrongs of his mother, but it had turned into a profound act of gratitude to the people of Spirit Lake and to his newfound family. This place was now more than his hometown. It was his home. All because of the woman beside him checking out duplex numbers as they rolled along a darkened street. “Here,” Bridget said.

  Jack parked, and together with Isabella, they delivered the crate. This was always the awkward time. Today he’d been hugged, kissed, and even licked by a Lab who smelled dog treats in the crate. There had been tears of gratitude and kid-loud cheers. There’d also been the occasional quiet handshake, the murmured thanks, the hurried rush to close the door to hide their shame.

  Behind this door was a senior couple in pressed clothes, the man leaning on a cane. Jack set the crate on their kitchen table and was asked if they’d like coffee and cookies. Jack and Bridget assured them they couldn’t stay. Out on the sidewalk, Jack heard crunching.

  Isabella was eating a cookie. “She put one in my hand on the way out.”

  He and Bridge exchanged smiles. “What is this—your fourth treat today?”

  “Sixth,” Isabella said.

  Three deliveries later, Isabella asked if she could wait in the van. “Are you sure?” Jack asked. “You might get another treat.”

  Isabella snuggled down into her seat. “I’m full.”

  No sweeter words had fallen from her lips in all the time he’d known her. “That,” Jack said over his shoulder to Bridget, as he carried the crate up the walk, “is the first time she has ever declined a chance to get more food.”

  “Two months of my cinnamon buns don’t make up for one day of takes from delivering Christmas Crates,” Bridget said, coming up beside him as she rang the doorbell.

  Jack shifted the crate around so he could look her straight in the eye. “This one day is because of your buns, Bridge. You were her meat and potatoes. Today was just the icing.”

  Her face lit with amusement. “Mix metaphors much?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But I hope you know... I thought this was going to be the worst time of their already horrible year, and you made it into something great.”

  She tilted her head. “You played no small part.”

  “Then let’s say that because of us—because of all the Montgomerys—their presents are bought, the turkey is in the fridge, the tree is up, new pajamas are there. Everything for them is good.”

  The door opened, the crate passed along with an exchange of Christmas greetings. Back on the sidewalk, Bridge touched his arm. “Thank you, Jack. It means a lot, an incredible lot, to know that I could love them and it didn’t end badly.”

  She meant their brokenness. “Listen, Bridge, you and me—”

  “No. It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack, I just want you to know that I think I found a way to climb down.”

  He felt tingles, and it wasn’t the cold. “What are you saying, Bridget Montgomery?”

  Isabella stuck her head out the window. “C’mon. Let’s do this.”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Bridge said quickly and hopped into the van.

  There’d been a dozen years of unspoken feelings between them. He supposed he could wait one more day.

  * * *

  TUESDAY MORNING, Jack confined himself to the kitchen with Mano. Since his spectacle with coffee rationing, his new policy was to stay out of sight and let Bridge run the show.

  He arranged twists of orange slices on four plates, parsley on the two omelets, whipped cream and strawberries on two others, and voilà. Ready for Bridget to deliver.

  He set them on the serving window and it hit him just how full the restaurant was. Beyond full—brimming. Bridget was darting among the tables, like a bee with flowers, delivering sweet nectar of caffeine with two pots. But she clearly needed help. Workers in blue coveralls and kids in ski gear and seniors and families kept coming in, squeezing into booths already occupied. There were nine in one booth. Too bad they hadn’t had these numbers Saturday night.

  “Mano, is this normal?”

  “I do not have time to think about what is normal. Get this to Marlene.” Mano indicated a full house special.

  Marlene had come in ten minutes late and said that she needed to hit the road as soon as possible. To his relief and surprise, she had returned the day after their run-in and he’d apologized for his behavior, but her answer had been a tight-lipped glare. He’d steered clear of her after that. Here was his chance to help Bridget and try again with Marlene.

  Bridget registered Marlene’s plate and the direction he was heading. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and weaved between the tables to Marlene. “Good morning. Your usual. Bridget will be along shortly with more coffee. Will that be all?”

  She looked at her plate, looked across the restaurant at where Bridget was slinging coffee with two pots and then glanced over to where Mel and Daphne sat. Mel and Marlene exchanged nods.

  What?

  Marlene pushed back her chair and stood, the scrape across the wood floor like a bow on a violin string.

  Marlene was about to make a scene. His second thought was how he had to convince Bridget that—please believe me—he’d done nothing, absolutely nothing. Bridget must’ve sensed impending disaster because she paused to watch.

  Marlene stood and drew breath. Ready to blast him one.

  At the table by the window, shoulder-to-shoulder with college students and seniors, a young woman lifted up her phone. The newspaper reporter he’d done his interview with, about how his recently discovered mother had defrauded the people of Spirit Lake of ten thousand dollars. This was being recorded. The altercation was going to end up smeared all over social media. All over town.

  Bridget didn’t deserve this.

  “Marlene, please—”

  She held up her hand for him to stop and sang with perfect pitch, “On the first day of Christmas, Spirit Lake gave to thee, a toonie in a Christmas Crate.” From under her table, she lifted out a crate and tossed in a two-dollar coin. Jack l
ooked at Bridget. She shook her head, looking as dumbfounded as he felt.

  Two more chairs scraped back, as Mel and Daphne joined Marlene for the second verse. “On the second day of Christmas, Spirit Lake gave to thee—” Mel gestured to Jack as Daphne took the crate from Marlene “—two twenty-fives and a toonie in a Christmas Crate.” In dropped two twenties, two fives and a toonie.

  On the other side of the restaurant, at the booth with nine, the trucker with his oversize mug rose. “On the third day of Christmas,” he sang in baritone to Bridget, “Spirit Lake gave to thee, three crisp tens—” and he was joined by the entire restaurant as Mel crossed the restaurant with the crate “—two twenty-fives and a toonie in a Christmas Crate.”

  Into the crate was dropped thirty bucks plus twenties, fives and a toonie. It was a flash mob. A Spirit Lake flash mob for Bridget and him. Somehow word must have leaked out about the restaurant’s finances, and this was a fundraiser.

  Bridget had also clued in. She rotated in spot to the next singer. Tanya, the bank manager.

  “On the fourth day of Christmas,” she sang solo, ending with, “four twenties lured...” And in floated four twenties. Bridget’s fingers began to loosen on the coffeepots—Jack reached her side just as a man in a suit stood for his part. Carson, the drunk muckety-muck.

  Bridget paled, and Jack took the pots from her failing grip. He stood close in case he had to catch her next.

  Carson shuffled in his polished shoes, then cleared his throat. “On the fifth day of Christmas, Spirit Lake gave to thee—” he looked Jack straight in the eye as he dug in his pocket “—five bro-o-ow-wn ka-chings!” He pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills and let them drift into the crate.

  Bridget gasped and raised her face to Jack’s in wonder.

  Everybody joined in. Even Mano appeared at the serving window to follow along.

  The revised carol continued, the newspaper reporter rose from her spot and filmed the singers, the other guests, Bridget and Jack. The crate dipped and bobbed along like a boat on the choppy sea of hands around the restaurant as toonies, tens, twenties and five brown ka-chings rained into it.