Shaking the Sleigh

by Delancey Stewart

  "Okay, if you say so."

  A few minutes later, Callan was sending me out the door with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. "I just have time to run to the hotel to change and get to the house we're filming today. I'll see you later!"

  "Have a good day, dear," Callan said in a sing-song voice. He stood at the door until I had pulled away and could no longer see him at the front of his big house.

  The day went smoothly for filming the second house. The homeowner, a cute older woman just outside town, had a farmhouse and no unusual house pets—at least none that the crew and I had to contend with as we were shooting the very festively decorated house.

  Filene Easter didn't favor the plastic elves, snowmen and flashing lights that so many holiday fans seemed to insist increased their cheer, and I was glad for it. In fact, in the little farmhouse, decorated with pinecones and simple trees, hand-knitted stockings and the beautiful homemade wreaths Mrs. Easter said she made herself, I saw a glimmer of a holiday décor I could possibly get behind. That is, if I was If I were going to change my mind about the holiday, that was. And I was not. Not after all this time.

  To me, Christmas was a painful reminder of everything that had gone wrong in my life from an early age. It was better ignored. Other people could have it.

  "I want you to have this," Mrs. Easter said as we packed up to leave her house that afternoon. The old woman handed me one of the prettiest wreaths, woven in a dark brown wood with just a touch of red foliage tucked in here and there. There was a slim gold filament peeking out in a few spots, but otherwise no sign of glitter or glitz. Just a beautiful handmade wreath.

  "No," I said, staring openmouthed between Mrs. Easter and the gift. "This must take so much time to make. I couldn't …"

  "Please, dear. I had months to make it, knowing you were coming. I'd love for you to have it, to have a little something to remember us here in Christmas Tree."

  "You mean Singletree."

  The woman's mouth dropped a bit in surprise and I felt guilty for a moment. If this little old lady wanted to believe her town was called Christmas Tree, maybe I shouldn't have corrected her. "You haven't heard, then?"

  I shook my head. "Heard what?"

  "Some little ruffian, probably hopped up on goofballs and moonshine and a bit too much holiday spirit, spray- painted the town sign to say Christmas Tree instead of Singletree. The town council voted to change the name of the town officially in the month of December."

  "Won't that be confusing for the post office?"

  The woman gave me a disappointed look and said, "It's only a month, dear."

  "Sure, you’re right. Thank you so much, Mrs. Easter," I said.

  I handed her the check from the network and found myself eager to wrap up and get over to Callan's. I just had time to dash through the inn and get a shower.

  Mrs. Easter stood in her front yard as I drove away, looking sweet and happy, holding the check in one hand and waving with the other.

  I sighed. I was staying in a town called Christmas Tree for a month. Because of course I was. This was how a universe that split up my family on Christmas operated, wasn't it?

  Only …

  Only I didn't feel that same deep gutting sadness this year. I didn't feel broken and heavy and empty inside. I wasn't dreading seeing my mother and trying to pretend we weren't both reliving that Christmas morning so many years ago when we’d argued about where Dad was when it was time to open gifts. I had been sure he was just out with Santa, still delivering gifts on the other side of the world where it was still dark. And Mom had suggested that the whore's name was probably not Santa, but that if he did come home, she'd definitely kick him in a place where it was still dark. And then there had been a lot of crying.

  This year, my mind wasn't hanging on that memory, circling it like a masochistic shark after its own tail. This year, any time I thought about that morning, the memory came, but it was foggier, misty. And when I thought about all things Christmas, my stomach didn't clench painfully. Instead, a pleasant tingle went through my body and I pictured Callan Whitewood—his house, his face, his touch, and just … him. And it made me smile.

  Back at the inn, I had a hard time finding parking in the lot, thanks to boxes stacked in half the spots. Something was going on. There were people in and out of the lobby, the steps crammed with boxes and flustered bellboys trying to shuffle them around. Annabelle stood at the top of the steps, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. I was in a rush to get a quick shower, but my friend looked upset.

  "What's all this?" I asked.

  "This," Annabelle said, "is all the decorations I ordered." She didn't sound happy about it, which was weird because if anyone loved decorations, it was Annabelle.

  I gave her a frank look. "There's more? Annabelle, I don't think you can decorate a single thing more. The place is crammed with Christmas already!"

  This earned me an eye roll. "I know. That's why I'm mad."

  "But you said you ordered these?"

  Annabelle turned to me, breathing out a sigh that told me she was gathering her patience for the explanation. "I ordered ahead. These are the decorations for the next thirty years."

  Shock nearly made me drop my wreath. "Thirty years? Why would you order that far ahead?"

  "The shop I order from was closing this year. I bought out their inventory."

  I glanced around. It was a lot. Like really a lot. "Wait, then why are you mad?"

  "They told me they'd ship it out of a storage facility over the next thirty years. A couple boxes a year. It would be like a fun Christmas surprise each time a box came. I planned it. It made sense." I had the distinct impression my friend had defended this choice more than once already today. "But evidently the guy who ran the store moved to Tahiti and sold the contract to someone else who either didn't understand or didn't care."

  Aha. "Okay. So you just need a new storage facility."

  "We don't have those in Christmas Tree." It seemed she'd gotten the memo about the name change already.

  "There must be one around here somewhere."

  "I'd have to pay for it. The storage was part of the deal." She sighed. "I can fit some of this in the basement, but …"

  My mind went to Callan's house—the empty rooms, the scattered outbuildings out back. I was willing to bet he might have room. I was less sure about his willingness to store thirty years of Christmas décor. "I might be able to help. Can you give me until tomorrow?"

  Annabelle shrugged. "I don't think this is going anywhere."

  I gave her a quick hug and dashed inside, dodging the boxes that were literally stacked everywhere.

  An hour later, I was pulling up to Callan's gate and then to his front door, only to be greeted by Taylor and Maddie, who were jumping around like excited kangaroos. "Hey girls," I called, getting out of the car.

  "Ape-will!" Maddie called, stopping her jumping to charge down the steps and hurl herself at my legs. When I’d recovered my balance, I had to snuff out the urge to cry just because a little girl was hugging me, and I accepted a less aggressive hug from Taylor, who looked up with big round eyes and said shyly, "Hi."

  "Are you guys impressed with the decorations? Didn't your uncle do a good job?" We climbed the steps together to go inside. The door was standing open and Callan was just inside, watching us come in with dark gleaming eyes. For a heartbeat, I forgot about everything else in the world, caught up in those devilish eyes and reminded of how it had felt to be as close to him as it was possible to be.

  "Hey," he mouthed, kissing my cheek as the girls went on excitedly about the decorations. They each wanted to show me their favorites, so the next ten minutes were spent dashing from room to room, being tugged along by eager little hands as the girls changed their minds multiple times about which decorations they liked best. Finally, we all sat down around the newly installed kitchen table and had a snack.

  "So," Callan said, his cheeks slightly pink under the scruff of his beard and his eyes d
ropping when they met mine.

  He was shy all of a sudden? The warm ball of happiness in my stomach expanded and seeped into my limbs. I felt languid and warm, safe and … happy. "So," I said back, catching his gaze and holding it. Unspoken words flung between us, unobserved by the little girls absorbed in chocolate milk and goldfish crackers. Words about what we’d done the night before, about waking up together. Words about the holidays and time spent together, and especially about sleighs.

  "So Cormac will be here in a bit, and then I thought we'd head over to the Straddler."

  "I can do the straddles!" Taylor was suddenly on the floor, halfway under the table, demonstrating a very impressive straddle.

  "Wow," I said appreciatively.

  "Me too!" Not to be outdone, Maddie joined her sister on the floor, but once she was down there, she became distracted by my shoes and forgot to show off. "These has high heels," she commented, petting my boots.

  "They do," I agreed. "The Straddler?" I asked Callan.

  "Girls, get up please. Finish eating before your dad gets here." The girls clambered back up and Callan gave his attention back to me. "The bar at the distillery. I guess it straddles county lines."

  "Oh right, yeah, someone said something about that."

  "You up for it?"

  "Definitely," I said. I was up for anything that kept me within a foot of the solid warm wall of muscle that was Callan Whitewood. "Hey," I said slowly. "Can I ask you a question?"

  He lifted a shoulder and gave me his attention. I forced my warm ball of happiness to stop overheating at the gleam in those wicked eyes of his and concentrated on helping Annabelle. "So, in all those little buildings out back there, do you have any that might be used for storage?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, a couple of them are empty. One smells like pigs though—used to be some kind of pig coop."

  "I don't think pigs are kept in a coop," I said.

  "Yeah, Uncle Callan," Maddie agreed, vehemently.

  "Pig house?" Callan tried.

  "Nope," Taylor said.

  "Well, whatever it was, it smells piggy and gross," Callan went on.

  "Pen," I suggested.

  "Right!" Taylor agreed, grinning at me as she lined her goldfish up on her plate. Just as she put the last one into line, a pudgy hand shot out and grabbed one, and the straggling goldfish had disappeared into Maddie's mouth before Taylor could say a word.

  "Maddie," Callan scolded, but it was too late. Taylor was already becoming hysterical.

  "She ate my fish! He was in line and she …" whatever else Taylor was saying was impossible to decipher amid the tears and high-pitched warbling that accompanied it.

  "Here," Callan said, taking a goldfish from Maddie's plate and replacing it in Taylor's line. "Okay?"

  Taylor stopped shrieking and eyed the new goldfish skeptically. "Okay," she sniffled, but she set this fish just a little apart from all the others. Clearly, he was the stepchild of this goldfish family and would have to earn his place.

  Now Maddie was shrieking about "go-fish stea-wers" and pointing her finger at her uncle.

  I watched Cormac walk into this scene, looking tired and worn out from his day even before the goldfish apocalypse had swept him into the fray. "What's all this?" he asked.

  "There's no problem," Callan assured him, dumping about fifty more goldfish into the center of the table. "See? Plenty for everyone."

  Cormac walked over to the table, patting each girl on the head and taking a handful of goldfish. "Hey April."

  The shrieking died down as a goldfish land grab ensued, each girl piling fistfuls of fish onto her own plate.

  "Some of these are for grownups," Callan said, picking one up and eating it to demonstrate.

  Maddie narrowed her eyes at him, but then seemed to come around to a more generous mindset, scooping up three fish and offering them to me. "Dere's no Cwis-mas ones." This was said in apologetic tones, as if Maddie thought I might refuse the fish if they weren't properly decorated for the holidays.

  I realized that the little girls probably thought I was very focused on decorating and celebrating the holiday, and for a brief moment, I enjoyed seeing myself through their eyes. What would a carefree holiday-infused April be like?

  "What were you asking me?" Callan asked, interrupting my daydream. "About the pig house?"

  "Pig house?" Cormac said, pulling up a chair and eating more goldfish. "You getting pigs, Cal?"

  "I hate pigs," Callan said. "You know this. Remember when we were kids and Auntie Maggie's pig tried to kill me?"

  Cormac shook his head, giving his brother a disappointed look. Then he turned to me. "Callan got the athletic genes." He lifted a hand and mock whispered beside it, "but he's never been too smart."

  "Nice," Callan said, laughing.

  "Anyway, we had an aunt who loved animals. She had peacocks, pigs, a goat, a couple sheep, some horses and a cow—all as pets out on her property. She had taken us to visit them all the day before, and Callan got up early the next day to go back out and see them. He decided to snuggle with Hamhock, the pig. In the sucker's pen."

  "How big was this pig?" I asked.

  Both girls were listening intently, their mouths working goldfish while their eyes stayed on their dad, fascinated.

  "Huge," Callan supplied.

  "It was at least a couple hundred pounds," Cormac agreed. "And it either wanted to get closer to Callan, or was trying to kill him, because it rolled over and trapped his leg."

  "Oh no!" I cried, picturing a tiny Callan caught under a huge horrible pig.

  "He started wailing, and every animal in the place joined him, so there was an early morning cacophony that brought our aunt out in her nightshirt, running through the yard."

  "She saved you," I said, feeling oddly relieved.

  "She had to roll the pig off me. Pigs are mean suckers," Callan said.

  "Maybe they just don't like snuggles," Taylor suggested.

  "Or don't go in his house," Maddie said, her tone scolding. "Unless you awe invited."

  "That's just good manners," Cormac agreed.

  "Anyway," Callan said, evidently done with the romp through the pig pen of days yore. "The pig shack?" He looked at me pointedly.

  "Oh, right. Well, Annabelle has a bunch of boxes to store and nowhere to put them at the inn. Any chance she could store some stuff here?"

  Callan lifted a shoulder. "Sure. I don't see myself investing in pork futures anytime soon."

  "Pork futures?" Taylor echoed, confused.

  “Too-mah-wo pigs,” Maddie said, as if this made perfect sense. Sure, tomorrow pigs.

  "Okay, girls. We'd better get home," Cormac said, sounding tired. "You guys have big plans?" He looked between me and Callan as he helped the girls down from their chairs.

  "Distillery," Callan said, and Cormac nodded.

  "Have a good time," Cormac said, looking a little wistful. I would have invited him to come along, but I knew he couldn't, not with two little girls to look after.

  14

  Cats are Christmassy Too - Even Half Cats

  Callan

  As I escorted April out the door and into the truck, I felt a new and foreign satisfaction working its way through me. I watched her snap her seatbelt into place and something inside me snapped along with it. The house felt like a home now, between the furniture arriving daily and the somewhat ambitious decorating, but mostly because of my nieces and Cormac … and because of April. This place—Singletree, or Christmas Tree, or whatever they were calling it today—felt more like home than San Diego really ever had.

  Sure, there I’d had a stellar career, one I’d loved very much. But that was all I was there, all I had. Without soccer, I was being forced to figure out what else I was. And while I realized I’d need to discover some kind of purpose before long—I was still young and if I couldn't be a soccer player, I needed to decide what I was going to be when I grew up—at least a few things were falling into place.

  "We
going to go or just sit here admiring your twinkle lights?" April's voice broke me from my contemplation, which I hadn't realized had been going on an inappropriately long time while I sat behind the wheel.

  "Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking …"

  "About …?"

  I smiled at her. We hadn't known each other long, but in some ways, she had been the catalyst that had made me start moving again toward a healthier place. "About this place, the people I've met since moving here."

  "A little quirky, huh?" April clearly thought I was talking about some of the townspeople. I smiled, feeling my chest warm as I included them in my thoughts of happiness at my new home.

  "Yep," I smiled back. It was much too early to admit to April that I’d mostly been thinking of her, wishing there was some way to keep her here. "I like it though," I said, starting the car.

  "It's a lot," April said. "The house we did today was pretty normal though—a cute little farmhouse just outside town."

  I glanced at her, encouraging her to continue. I loved listening to her talk. Her voice was low and sonorous, dancing with her expressions, ranging up and down as she spoke.

  "The woman who lived there—Mrs. Easter—was so sweet. She's all by herself, but she seemed really content in this cute little house, and she made all the decorations herself." April's voice trailed off a bit and she gazed out the window ahead of them. "She gave me a wreath."

  "Really?" I smiled over at her. "Did you burn it?"

  April shot me a look, her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes narrowed. "No. It's in my room. It's really pretty."

  "A Christmas wreath, April?"

  "Yes."

  "I think your little Scroogey heart is starting to thaw," I teased.

  I felt April's eyes on me then as she said, "Yeah, I think it is, actually."

  I guided the car into the distillery parking lot beneath the huge HalfCat sign, which had the image of the hand-drawn cat in his little wheeled contraption on it. We both gazed at the odd picture for a moment as we stood next to the car.