The Christmas Company

by Alys Murray

  The darkness chilled Kate at first; it chilled her almost as deep as the frozen water. It pierced her skin. It amplified every creaking floorboard beneath her feet. Like a heroine in a gothic romance, she pressed on. Clark Woodward was somewhere in this house. She only needed to find him.

  But finding him meant first finding a light. Any light. Kate groped around the pitch-black hallway, searching for a cord. Just this morning she did all of the wiring for the strung lights down this hallway. If she could only find the plug…

  “There!”

  Kate pressed the metal tongs into the outlet and the hallway burst back to carnival-like life. A sigh of relief escaped her. Clark had been miserly enough to turn off all the lights before 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve, but at least he hadn’t taken them all down.

  Guided by her new light, Kate pressed onward. Clark would be around here somewhere…she just had to find him.

  The voices in Clark’s head—the normal angel and demon ones, not crazy person ones—wouldn’t stop yammering. For the past two hours, they argued and debated, sparred and grappled like two prize fighters trying to go the distance.

  You should go check on her.

  Emily said to leave her alone.

  But it’s Christmas and she’s missing it.

  You don’t care about Christmas.

  No, but she does… Maybe she’ll be upset if you let her sleep through it.

  If you wake her up, she’ll probably be sick and then you’ll have to put up with her making you do all of her tradition stuff all night.

  …That might not be so bad.

  Who are you and what have you done with Clark Woodward?

  Christmas is pointless, sure. Wasteful and stupid, of course. But today’s been the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time.

  A woman almost died on your watch.

  My comment still stands. Best Christmas since I was a kid.

  That’s an awfully low bar to clear.

  I should go check on her.

  She doesn’t want to see you.

  For two hours, it went on like that, all while he attempted to get some semblance of work done. With the office in Dallas closed after 5 o’clock and everyone home for the holiday here in Miller’s Point, he had no one to do business with, but he still found paperwork to read and files to sort through. About an hour into his mental torture, he’d shifted from a secretarial office to his uncle’s actual office, hoping to find more busywork there. It was eerie, being in a dead man’s office, almost as strange as being in a dead family’s house. Except for a few distant cousins, only Clark remained of the Woodward clan. He was the last of his kind, in a way. It made the wall of family photos lining his uncle’s office all the more difficult to bear. Burying his head in the nearest drawer to avoid looking at them, Clark picked up stacks of paper at random and began sorting them. Busywork though it was, at least it was distracting busywork. His uncle had been many things, but a brilliant organizational mind, he most certainly was not.

  Clark stacked papers into piles by subject matter, then date. When he’d accomplished that, he sorted by last name of the signatory partner, then date. He shuffled and re-shuffled and tried to get it into an appropriate filing system until finally realizing the filing system wasn’t the problem.

  He was worried about Kate. Not in the “she’s a woman in my house and I need to make sure she’s safe because that’s what a good host does” way. Not in a detached gentlemanly way.

  The longer she remained out of sight, the more wrong he realized he was when he said “I don’t care about you.” He hardly knew her, but he cared about her. There was no getting around it or denying it.

  Only one thing remained unclear: what to do about it. Caring meant investment. Caring meant friendship. For all he knew…if he spent more time here…caring could mean even more than friendship. Caring meant giving her things he didn’t know he could give.

  No. No. He couldn’t do it. He’d just have to…lock himself in here until she gave up and abandoned him. It was the only way to move on. Maybe he was getting ill. Being sick always made him think crazy things. Maybe she bewitched him or something. Small towns usually had a witch, if made-for-TV movies had any truth to them. In any case, he couldn’t be allowed to care for her. He’d just have to hide himself away until she shrunk and took up less and less room in his small, used-up heart.

  After a day spent in this massive mansion, Kate assumed her hold on the geography of the place was pretty strong. Unfortunately, the house took on a life of its own after dark. Every gothic romance she read said as much, but she didn’t believe it until she wandered the halls of Woodward House without a clue how to get around. This house needed a “You Are Here” map…or a logical layout. Whenever Kate thought she’d figured out where she was, she turned into what she thought was the living room, only to find she’d stumbled upon an indoor squash court or a stadium-sized library. Like a real-life episode of Scooby-Doo, she would enter a door and seem to come out halfway across the house. She didn’t believe in curses or hauntings or anything so ridiculous, but if any house in the world was going to be under a spell, the old house on the hill of Miller’s Point was probably the most likely of candidates.

  It seemed to go on like that for hours, until she finally stumbled upon the staircase leading down to the first floor. Tripping down the stairs in her excitement, Kate rushed for the living room, practically slipping in her socks as she slid towards the living room and tossed open the doors.

  “Hey, Clark!”

  …she said, to an entirely empty, darkened room. A flick of the light switch revealed this was no prank. He just wasn’t there.

  Kate’s stomach grumbled. Going to the kitchen would kill two birds with one stone; she’d have her fill of whatever she could find in the fridge, and the resonant noise from her singing against the tile floors and backsplash would carry easily to wherever Clark hid in this massive manor.

  She waltzed through the swinging door. The kitchen was not as she left it this morning, hustling and bustling with overflowing platters and saucepans. Its tidiness smacked of Clark’s presence. He’d been in here recently, and he’d cleaned the house of any trace of her guests and their feast. Kate’s stomach grumbled, more insistently this time.

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” she muttered, patting her own gut.

  To her great relief, cobwebs and canned chickens were not the only thing lining the pantry. Leftover sundries and dishes from the luncheon—left behind by eager-to-leave guests—littered the cupboards and the refrigerator. Sating her hunger temporarily, Kate picked at a honey-roasted ham from the fridge as she explored the rest of her options. Sweet potato biscuits… Apple pie… Garlic mashed potatoes… Roasted cauliflower… Turkey legs… Stuffed artichokes.

  When she opened the fridge, all debate ceased. Trays of frozen sugar cookie dough waited to be cut out and baked to golden, sugary perfection. A devious smile painted itself across Kate’s hungry lips.

  “Come to Mama…”

  Clark’s mental takedown of his errant flicker of emotion for Kate effectively ceased the worried voice in his head, finally giving him the clarity to properly order his files. First by department, then by date.

  He continued on this way for too long before a distraction slithered under the door of the office, infiltrating his space and filling every corner. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t hide from it.

  Cookies. Sugar cookies. His one weakness. The one redeeming quality of Christmas, as far as Clark was concerned, was the packets of frozen cookies with the Santa faces and trees pressed colorfully into the top. The smell of those cookies haunted him now, wafting through the walls of this old house like the ghost of a long-forgotten dream.

  Leaping to his feet, Clark made it halfway to the door before realizing the dilemma he now found himself in: he could pursue his goal of falling out of like with Kate, or he could
see her and have cookies. The voice speaking for his hidden emotions jumped at the first opportunity to speak again.

  If you go downstairs, you can check to see if she’s okay and you can have cookies. Kill two birds with one stone.

  You’ll regret it if you go down there. Wait until she leaves or falls asleep, then go down and get those sweet, sweet cookies.

  If you wait, they’ll be cold.

  Put them in the microwave for ten seconds. Bam! Good as new.

  It’s not good as new, and you know it.

  Is too.

  Is-

  “God rest ye Merry Gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…”

  The voices silenced when one very particular voice reached Clark’s ears. The confident tune joined the cookie-scented air in tying a knot around his stomach and pulling him exactly where they wanted him to go. Trapped in the hypnotic pull of her voice and his love of sweets, he left behind his doubts and followed them down into the kitchen.

  After all, what was the worst that could happen? It’s not like cookies would make him fall in love with her or anything.

  Chapter Eleven

  After uncovering the frozen sheets of cookie dough resting atop some Tupperware containers of butternut squash soup and tubs of eggnog ice cream, Kate made quick work of baking, and within a few minutes, the marble counters turned snow-white and sticky. Without a cookie-cutter or can of baking spray in sight, she improvised, using a wire star ornament to cut out the dough. A brief dig through the pantry and the fridge rewarded her with flour and butter to grease the cookie sheets. The available dough was meant to feed at least forty people, so once the first batch entered the oven, Kate focused on the next twenty or so cookies.

  Did she need to bake every single bit of dough left behind in the freezer? Of course not. Even at her most hungry, Kate’s cookie-eating record never broke seventeen cookies in a single sitting. The end product of the baking wasn’t the point, really. She baked because it gave her something to do, something to occupy her hands as she tried to plan her next steps. The night was still young, and she wasn’t sure she’d made any progress with Clark earlier. Sure, he’d been slightly nicer to her than he was this morning, but he hadn’t seemed any more sympathetic to Christmas or the cause of saving the festival. She certainly had her work cut out for her. If a redecorated house, a feast and a visit to the river didn’t convince him, what would?

  “Smells good in here.”

  The steaming tray of cookies in Kate’s hands almost went flying across the room as a voice from the door behind her spooked her straight out of her skin.

  “Sorry, sorry! Did I scare you?”

  “I don’t know.” She dropped the steaming plate of cookies onto the counter as her free hand flew to her chest. She could feel her pounding heartbeat. Like being faked out by a horror movie jump-scare, Kate couldn’t help but chuckle even as she shivered in fear. “Maybe you should ask my ghost. You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

  Clark hovered in the doorway, halfway into the kitchen and halfway out, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to fully engage with her. Since waking to find him precisely nowhere in his own house, Kate assumed Clark had been hiding from her to avoid any more Christmas talk, despite his promise to at least try and enjoy her company. Thinking he hated her and her holiday so much had stung, and his arrival here and now soothed the wounds only slightly. To his credit, Clark gave off a sufficiently sheepish air. He filled the room with his uncertainty.

  “I smelled cookies.”

  Oh. A stab of disappointment shot straight up Kate’s arm, following the flow of her blood until it pierced and filled her heart. He hadn’t come because he wanted to talk to her or come out of hiding. She’d angered him with more supposed “waste” of his family’s resources. Kate turned her back on him. If he wanted to chew her out, fine. But she didn’t have to pay attention. She transferred the steaming cookies from the baking sheet to the cooling rack she’d found in the back of a dusty cabinet.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t spend any of your money to make them.”

  “No, that’s not why I’m here. I just wanted one.”

  “Really?”

  “I like sugar cookies.” He shrugged. “Is that a crime?”

  “Not at all.” If anything, the defensive admission only endeared him to her. Clark prowled around Miller’s Point with all of the arrogant attitude of a demigod. Liking cookies made him more human in her eyes. She tried to imagine Clark sitting on a beat-up couch somewhere eating a plate full of cookies for Santa. The picture never came into focus. “It’s just surprising, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t like anything other people like. I just assumed you usually eat nothing but plain yogurt and protein bars. And water.”

  Given that he didn’t know she’d been accidentally spying on him, she couldn’t tell him she’d seen him order a plate of pancakes and bacon at Mel’s, so she stuck with gentle teasing instead. As someone who ate almost every breakfast at a greasy diner in the town square, Kate couldn’t think of anything more disgusting than plain yogurt and protein bars. She preferred her pancakes like Emily preferred her men: rich and sweet.

  “There’s nothing wrong with plain yogurt,” was his weak defense.

  “Yeah, if you enjoy things that don’t taste good.”

  Clark reached for the cookies, stopping himself short in a “where are my manners” way.

  “May I?”

  “No, I’m sorry. They’re all for me.”

  “You’re gonna eat all…” Sweeping the cooling rack with his eyes, Clark gave a quick whispered count under his breath. “All twenty-four of these?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No, not seriously,” she huffed. “Eat as many as you want. Are you sure you want to though? I wouldn’t want you to spoil your precious diet.”

  A diet program never came up in their conversations. It didn’t have to. Despite those pancakes at the diner—which could have been explained away by a cheat day or the fact that Mel didn’t serve healthy food—Clark was the kind of man whose tight belts screamed, “I had exactly 1.1 ounces of cashew nuts today as a snack. That’s exactly 143 calories and lots of good fats to fuel my crossfit workout later this afternoon.” The tips of his ears went red and he reached for the cookies anyway, taking one into each hand. Kate followed his lead.

  “It’s a holiday, right? I can afford the calories.”

  “Then you admit it. A holiday is happening.”

  “Just because I don’t celebrate it doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Besides…” They shared a meaningful look. What kind of meaning, Kate wasn’t sure. But it meant something. Her insides churned. “I promised someone I’d give it the old college try.”

  On the surface, she liked the sound of that. He’d come down here not to fight with her or start another argument, but because he wanted to honor his promise to her. His absence until now stuck in her craw.

  “Then why were you hiding?”

  “I wasn’t hiding,” he retorted, mouth full of cookies.

  “You carried me through a storm and then I didn’t see you again. You were hiding.”

  They both chewed, savoring the subtle flavors of the fresh treats.

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “Why? I lived, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  She flicked flour in his direction, failing to strike him with the white powder.

  “I said I wanted an adventure, didn’t I?” A big bite of cookie melted in her mouth. “Well, I got one.”

  “Listen.” Clark clapped his hands together, ridding them of cookie dust and crumbs. “I promised someone I’d try this Christmas thing out, so what do I do?”

  “Wanna help me make cookies?”

  They didn’t
need anymore, but with three more trays of cookie dough and time to kill, Kate could think of no better option than this one.

  “Is that a thing people do?” Clark raised an eyebrow; Kate almost choked.

  “You’re really out of the loop, there. Go into the other room and grab another one of these ornaments, will you?”

  She raised the wire star she appropriated as a cookie-cutter. It glimmered in the low winter light. Clark left for the living room.

  “You got it.”

  Kate dressed herself in a mothballed apron. In the next room, rustling and tinkling of ornamental bells danced in the air as Clark searched for a wire star. She continued their conversation through the door, raising her voice just enough to be heard.

  “You’re telling me you never made cookies around this time of year?”

  A deep, masculine chuckle. “Are you fishing for my tragic backstory?”

  “Only because I think you’ll bite.”

  “You don’t want to hear it.”

  He returned with the star in tow. Kate took her place at the long kitchen island, which looked like a tiny winter wonderland. Flour covered the surface like perfect snowcapped mountains.

  “You’re admitting there is a tragic backstory.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Mr. Woodward, Clark’s uncle, was one of the kindest men Kate ever knew. As much as she liked to tease Clark about what he called his tragic backstory, she had a hard time believing she was opening up old wounds by asking after it. How could a man as good as Mr. Woodward allow someone as close to him as a nephew endure a miserable life? Kate assumed Clark had some kind of stigma associated with Christmas—maybe a girlfriend dumped him around the season or he was allergic to pine or something—but those were all easily solvable problems. If she could replace the sad memories with beautiful ones, maybe she could take away the lonely emptiness in his eyes. “I was thinking if I knew, maybe I could help.”