Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  “No offense, Stella, but I’m not sure if I want to do that,” I confess.

  The relief on Stella’s face is obvious. “Good. My dad would probably be angry if you took up a table through lunchtime and didn’t eat anything. Even if you did eat but sat there for a couple of hours, he’d say you’re using up valuable real estate.”

  I laugh and so does she, but it hurts my head, so I stop.

  A truck suddenly pulls up in front of Sweet Dreams, double-parking right on the road. It’s a huge white-and-chrome beast, and when the passenger-side window rolls down, I see Isabel behind the steering wheel waving at us. Why am I not surprised she drives something like this?

  “You need me to get out and help you lift Candice in, Stella?” Isabel yells.

  “No, I’ve got this,” Stella yells back as she rises to her feet and approaches me, pulling me into a standing position. “Let’s go, hon.”

  She keeps a firm hold on me as we walk over to Isabel’s truck, her arm around my waist, her steps slow. She’s treating me like an invalid. I can walk perfectly fine, but I would never admit how badly my head is throbbing, or how dizzy it’s making me feel.

  Stella keeps her grip on me as she opens the passenger-side door, guiding me into the truck with a little boost, since the thing is so dang high. I climb in and land into the seat with a soft, “Oof,” leaning against the headrest as Stella shuts the door.

  “Put your seatbelt on,” she demands, and I do as she says, wondering if she was in the military in another life.

  She’s rather demanding.

  “Yes, sir,” I tell her after I click the seatbelt into place, giving her a little salute.

  She just rolls her eyes and focuses her attention on Isabel. “She shouldn’t be left alone this afternoon. No one’s at her house.”

  The concerned look Isabel gives me is very motherly. Making me instantly miss my own mother, which is weird. The pangs come and go over the years, but they usually only happen during a certain time of year, or when I see old photos of my mom. “Do you want to come back to my house?”

  I am imposing all over everyone this morning, aren’t I? “If you don’t have other plans, I’d appreciate it.”

  “You can hang out with me for a few hours. It’ll be fun.” She smiles and I return the gesture, then close my eyes when the pain gets too bad.

  “Give her some pain reliever when you get home,” Stella says. They say a few more things—something about taking me to urgent care after all—but I start to fade. To the point that I’m almost asleep when a loud horn sounds, jolting me awake.

  The guilty expression Isabel is wearing gives it away that she was the one behind the honking. “Sorry. You were almost asleep.”

  I sit up a little, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I glance around. “Where’s Stella?”

  Isabel frowns, keeping her gaze glued on the road. “We pulled away from Sweet Dreams a few minutes ago.”

  Staring out the passenger-side window, I realize we’ve turned onto the highway already. Wow, I must’ve fallen asleep at least for a little bit. I don’t remember these last five minutes or so. “Where do you live?”

  “Pacific Grove. Where do you live?”

  “Carmel.” I close my eyes again, hating how the truck jostles me around. I wish I were at home. In my own bed. Instead I’m going to a woman’s house—a woman I don’t really know. I still don’t quite understand why we were meeting this morning in the first place.

  “I can’t believe you fainted.” I crack open my eyes to find she’s still frowning. “You gave us quite the scare.”

  “I can’t believe it either. I haven’t done something like that since my freshman year in high school.” That was almost ten years ago. Sometimes when I didn’t eat enough or I was suffering with allergies and my dad gave me Benadryl, I’d end up fainting. My fainting always scared my dad, like he thought I was dying or something. I blame that on what happened to my mother.

  Once you lose someone you love, you’re afraid you’re going to lose everyone.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself worse,” Isabel says.

  I study her for a moment, wracking my brain and trying to come up with the reason behind our meeting. But there’s nothing there. Just a blank void. “We didn’t just—run into each other at Sweet Dreams, did we?”

  She appears taken aback by my question. “No. We arranged to meet.”

  “We did?” I can’t remember making any arrangements.

  Isabel nods but doesn’t say anything.

  “Were we going to talk about decorating for the arts council party?” Now it’s my turn to frown, but that makes my head hurt so I stop. “I thought we already discussed our plans with Joyce.”

  “We did. A couple of days ago.” Isabel checks her rearview mirror, hits her blinker, checks over her shoulder before making a lane change. “You don’t remember why we were supposed to meet?”

  Okay, this is weird. I’m way too young to have memory loss. “I’m trying to remember, but maybe it’s my fall that’s making it difficult?”

  I hope she doesn’t think I’m a complete flake.

  “Well, we were getting together this morning because…” Isabel presses her lips together for a brief moment before she smiles gently. “You agreed to accompany my son to some of the holiday events you attend this season. You wanted to help him meet more people in the community.”

  “I did?” Okay, I’m full-blown frowning again. The searing pain that streaks across the back of my skull is pretty intense.

  “You did.” Isabel’s nodding. “So generous of you, Candice, to take the time to help Charlie out.”

  This Charlie sounds kind of pitiful. “How old is Charlie anyway?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Why does a twenty-eight year old man need to be taken around to various parties so he can be introduced to people? Is he that much of a hermit? Does he not know how to make small talk and play nice?

  I don’t get it.

  Or I don’t remember the fine details.

  Honestly, I don’t know which one is worse.

  Six

  Charlie

  I feel like a complete ass. When I got to the café, my mom wasn’t inside. Doesn’t help that I was almost forty-five minutes late to the meeting, and I knew she was going to be pissed. Didn’t matter that we had so much to do in preparation for all of our tree lots opening next week. Didn’t matter that I’d been up by six in the morning and at the farm by seven, already on the phone with our staff who were getting ready to bring fresh trees in from our parcels in Oregon.

  By nine-thirty I was exhausted and in no mood for a bunch of small talk at a cozy café, listening to my mother and a stranger plot my social calendar. A social calendar I most definitely didn’t want to deal with.

  Guilt nagged at me, though, making me check my phone for the exact time every five freaking minutes once the clock clicked past ten. Every minute that passed, I swore I could almost feel my mother’s anger radiating toward me from miles away. I finally gave up and headed back toward the lot where we parked our cars, cursing so loudly, the noise caused a flock of birds in a nearby tree to fly away in a swarm of frantically flapping wings, startling me.

  Without thought, without bothering to change out of my work clothes, I climbed into my truck and made my way to downtown Carmel in record time.

  All for nothing.

  I tried texting Mom. Multiple times. No response. I called her. Again, multiple times, and every single call went straight to voicemail. All I could think was how angry she must be with me, and how badly I fucked this up.

  But deep down, I was glad. Glad I wouldn’t have to make nice and go to a bunch of parties after all. I know Mom will be mad and disappointed in me and that whole thing, but I’ve dealt with that my entire life. I know I make them proud. I’ve stepped up and am practically running the family business myself.

  On the other hand, I’ve disappointed my parents in the past, I’m about to disapp
oint them in the present, and I know damn well I’ll do it again the future.

  I can live with that.

  The one bonus when I arrived at Sweet Dreams? Seeing that beautiful woman sitting out in front. First, it struck me as odd that she’d be sitting outside on such a cold day. Yes, she wore a thick black coat, and from what I could tell, she had on a rust-colored sweater beneath it. Jeans. Dark brown boots that came up to her knees. I could tell she came from money.

  That little bit of conversation we shared, while on the surface had been no big deal, had left a lingering effect. It felt as if I already knew her. Or at least I should know of her. And I wanted to know more about her too.

  But her friend dismissed me with a few choice words, and since my mother was nowhere in sight, I got the hell out of there. Couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had hurt herself, since her friend brought out that bag of ice and held it to the back of her head.

  Not my concern, though.

  Despite the nagging guilt still hovering over me, I went to one of the tree lots my brother Russ runs, but I couldn’t concentrate. Giving in to my guilt, I finally drove to Pacific Grove. To my parent’s house, the house I grew up in. I live in a condo now in Monterey; I moved out when I was twenty, putting the down payment on my condo with the money I’d saved up after all those years of working at the tree farm.

  I love my family, but I wanted out. I wanted my own place to retreat to, and not have to deal with my siblings screaming at each other, or listen to the dogs run up and down the stairs barking, my dad yelling at them to be quiet. Or how the water always turned instantly cold if you were in the shower and someone flushed the toilet.

  The house my parents live in is old. A giant Queen Anne two-story in downtown Pacific Grove, it’s actually a historical monument that’s been officially recognized by the Heritage Society. Mom is proud of that little green plaque that sits on the wall right by our front door, pointing it out to every new person who comes to visit.

  Me? I never understood the appeal. Never cared that our house was so damn old. All I saw were the flaws. The thin walls. The rickety staircase. The water issues. The old kitchen, everything that always had to be repaired. Once it’s deemed historical, you can’t change it structurally. So you’re stuck.

  Plus there’s the fact that my brother Russ has sworn our house was haunted since we were little kids. When we were in our teens, he watched all those ghost hunter shows and wanted to submit our house multiple time, but our parents wouldn’t let him.

  Me? I’m not a fan of ghosts. Or of scary shit in general.

  Pulling up to the house, I put my truck in park and see that my mom is already here, her own truck parked in the driveway. I get out of the vehicle and head for the front porch, climbing up the steps and not even bothering to knock as I open the door, the heat from the fireplace enveloping me instantly.

  I hear the gasp before I actually see her.

  “It’s you!”

  I find a woman sitting on the couch, my mom’s Siamese cat Spike sitting on her lap. She’s scratching Spike under his chin, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, and I swear I can hear him purring from where I’m standing. He looks very pleased with himself. Not that I blame him. I’d be full of satisfaction if she had her hands on me. She’s gorgeous.

  She also happens to be the very same woman I saw earlier sitting in front of the café, when I was contemplating whether I should walk in or not. The very woman I talked to for a few minutes before her friend came out and basically told me to get lost.

  What the hell is she doing in my mom’s living room?

  I shut the door and lean against it, studying her. Her dark eyes are wide as she stares at me, still absently petting Spike. I’m sure she’s just as surprised to find me here as I am her. She blinks once. Twice. Big velvety brown eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, a pert little nose and a perfectly plump mouth. I’m staring, I can’t help it and when she finally parts her lips to say something, I hear my mother’s voice instead.

  “Oh. Charlie. There you are,” Mom says.

  What the hell?

  Shaking my head, I glance to my right to see Mom has just entered the living room, clutching a throw blanket in her hands. She looks almost as surprised to see me as the mystery woman sitting on the family couch. The very couch where I kissed more than a few girls throughout my teenage years.

  I push all thoughts of kissing past girlfriends and focus on the woman whose gaze is currently sweeping over me.

  “This is Charlie?” the mystery woman asks, turning to my mother with a questioning look on her face.

  Mom ignores her question, her focus zeroed in on me. “Where have you been?” Her voice is cold. Like ice. And I remember that she’s probably pissed at me.

  “Sorry I was late. I, uh, got caught up in work and lost track of time.” My excuse sounds weak, so I decide to say as little as possible, which is my normal mode of operation. The less I say, the less chance of screwing up.

  I realize the woman just figured out who I am, and it dawns on me: this is the one my mother wanted to take me around to charity events during the holidays. I figured Mom was pairing me up with a little old lady who knew her way around Monterey Bay society and would try to boss me around. Not someone who’s actually around my age and also happens to be extremely attractive.

  Deciding I need to play this off, I work up every ounce of charm I might have—it’s been a while, so the charm is buried deep—and smile at her.

  “Hey, funny that we meet again, right?” I approach the woman with my hand extended toward her, leaning in. She automatically extends hers as well, causing the cat to leap from her lap with an annoyed meow. “I’m Charlie.”

  “Candice.” She slips her hand into mine, and it’s like a lightning bolt streaks through me, making me shiver. We shake hands, but I don’t let go. Not yet. “So you were actually late to meet me.”

  “Yeah, I was.” I give her what I hope is my best sympathetic face. I’ve been called out on my shit before. Plenty of times. But for some reason, I feel extra bad that I let this woman down. A woman I don’t even know. “Remember how you mentioned earlier that you don’t judge?”

  She smiles, and I finally release her hand, rising to my full height to find Mom watching both of us, her gaze narrowed. “You two know each other?” Mom appears totally confused.

  “No,” we say simultaneously.

  “But you’ve talked?” Mom’s head is on a swivel as she looks from me to Candice.

  “Oh, Isabel, he arrived at Sweet Dreams when you left to go get your truck and Stella was inside grabbing an ice pack for me. We spoke only for a little bit,” Candice explains before she returns her attention to me. “Before Stella so rudely turned you away.”

  “She was vaguely hostile,” I agree, making Candice smile.

  Her smile fades quickly, though, replaced by a mask of pain and that’s when my mom rushes to her, shaking out the blanket to its full length as she tells Candice, “Stretch out, dear, and lie down on the couch.”

  Candice does as she told, Mom draping the blanket across her legs before she steps away, contemplating her. “I’ll go make you some tea like I promised. Charlie, come with me.”

  “But—”

  “Now. Please.” She flashes me a tight smile to let me know she’s still mad.

  May as well follow her into the kitchen and take my punishment. At least it shouldn’t last long, considering we have company.

  Once we’re in the kitchen, the door shutting behind us as we walk in, that’s when Mom turns on me, her index finger thrust into my face. “You should’ve called.”

  “I did,” I tell her, keeping my voice as even as possible. I don’t want Candice to hear us yelling in the kitchen, though that’s normally my family’s style. “You wouldn’t pick up.”

  “Yet you showed up after all? That’s so unlike you.” She’s bustling around the kitchen, wiping a few crumbs off the tile counter before she turns on the sink and washes her ha
nds. “Why didn’t you stick around when you realized you were talking to Candice?”

  “I didn’t realize I was talking to Candice,” I say. “I had no idea who she was.”

  Mom shuts off the water and dries her hands. “What exactly did she say to you?”

  “We just…I don’t know. She could tell I didn’t want to walk inside, and she told me the café had good coffee, and we just started talking. About nothing, really.”

  “Did she tell you she fell? That’s why I didn’t hear your call. In fact, I’ve barely looked at my phone since everything happened. I took her to the urgent care, and luckily my friend who’s a nurse’s assistant was able to get her in quickly.” She pulls her phone out of her purse, which is resting on the kitchen counter, checking her notifications. She lifts her head. “You called a couple of times. And you texted too.”

  “Told you.” I cross my arms. “Was your ringer off as usual?” No one can ever get a hold of her because she always has the damn sound off on her phone.

  “Charlie.” She sends me a measured look. “Don’t be smart with me.”

  This is the sort of thing I hate, and makes me glad I don’t live under my parents’ roof anymore. Not that I would. I’m too old for that shit, having her talk to me like I’m still sixteen and sarcastic as hell.

  Granted, I’m still pretty damn sarcastic when I want to be. But come on. She’s chastising me as if I’m about to be grounded.

  “And what do you mean she fell?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “She didn’t fall. Well, she did, but that’s because she fainted. Right in front of me. It was kind of scary.” She shoos me with a wave of her hands over to the tiny table where we used to eat breakfast. I settle in, watching as she grabs the tea kettle and takes it to the sink, filling it with water before she sets the kettle on a stove burner and turns it on.