The Christmas List

by Richard Paul Evans

  Kier woke the next morning with Sara’s words echoing in his memory. “You left me when I needed you the most. It’s too late; it’s too late.”

  Throughout his life Kier had always been good at fixing things. When he was thirteen the gas-powered lawn mower broke halfway through a cutting. While his father called Sears to yell at the clerk who sold them the machine, Kier tore apart the Briggs & Stratton engine. He dissected the block, pulled out the valves, and scraped the ash from the piston. When he put it all back together it ran.

  Relationships were something else. Long ago, in college, he thought he was good with people, but not anymore. Too many variables. Too many nuances. Too much unpredictability. He once told Brey, “The more I know people the better I like my car.”

  He had no idea how to fix things with Sara, or even if it were possible. He was like a doctor frantically administering CPR to a patient that wouldn’t respond. When do you call it? When do you just pull up the sheet and pronounce time of death?

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-seven

  In his state of despair Kier found himself focusing on mundane details. He didn’t know where his current path led (from experience, he was thinking nowhere good), he just knew it was somewhere he could put his feet, one step at a time. For now the list was his path. And the path had one more stop.

  Most of him longed to quit. He was three for three; technically he had already struck out, but something about what Linda had said about his next visit propelled as well as frightened him. It would probably be best for you to find out for yourself. Find out what? He rubbed a hand across his unshaven cheek, then tugged at the lone bandage across the bridge of his nose and pulled it off. His nose was still tender. He hoped Rossi’s expected assault would be a verbal one.

  It had been more than six years since Kier had met Rossi at a downtown chamber of commerce luncheon. What started with a good meal ended bitterly two years later. Rossi was a victim of the kind of financial maneuvering Kier had once been proud of.

  Rossi had come to Kier with an idea for a restaurant, bringing with him a collection of Tuscan family recipes, a roomful of Italian antiques, and a nest egg of $9,000 that he had accumulated over a lifetime of working in other chefs’ kitchens. The money was just a fraction of what he’d need to open a restaurant. The two of them quickly reached an agreement: Rossi would provide the ideas, sweat, time, and expertise while Kier provided the bulk of the capital and oversaw the business end of things. The restaurant was called Rossi’s, and like most of Kier’s ventures, it proved a wild success. Within just a few months of their grand opening they were one of the most talked about restaurants in the city.

  A month after toasting their first year in business, Kier decided that he no longer needed Rossi and set about making him redundant. First, Kier persuaded Rossi to hire an ambitious young sous-chef who could run the kitchen so he could “enjoy the fruits of their success.” Rossi, dedicated to ensuring the restaurant’s success, had worked twelve-to-fourteen-hour days, seven days a week for so long that he heartily thanked Kier for his kindness, never suspecting that he was simply maneuvering him out of the way. Rossi personally trained the new chef and gratefully, took a much needed vacation. Two days after he left, Kier changed the locks on the doors and sent Rossi an e-mail to let him know he was fired and need not return. Not surprisingly, Rossi returned immediately.

  Kier offered the desperate Rossi $10,000 for his stock in the restaurant, only a thousand more than Rossi had personally invested and less than 10 percent of the restaurant’s monthly profits. Rossi refused. Kier was prepared. He countered with a threat to declare a million-dollar profit without paying out a penny in dividends, putting Rossi in a considerable tax bind.

  “You can’t use my name,” he said.

  Kier patted the contract. “I own your name.”

  Flustered, Rossi replied, “Then I’ll sell my stock to someone else.”

  Kier smiled smugly. “That won’t be possible.” Hidden in the sixty-two-page contract was a clause forbidding Rossi to sell his stock to anyone without the majority stockholder’s approval—Kier’s approval. In the end it was a choice between taking the deal or personal bankruptcy. He left Kier’s office a broken man. As he walked out, Rossi’s last words were, “You’re a miserable excuse for a human being, Kier. You’re a bad man.”

  “No, I’m just clever. There is no good or bad in business,” Kier said, “just smart and . . . you.”

  Of Kier’s many business partings this had been one of the most bitter. Rossi had not only trusted, but admired him. He had even asked Kier to be the godfather to their newborn son; Kier had declined. Fallen heroes hit the ground hardest. Kier hadn’t seen or heard from Rossi since that last meeting and wasn’t looking forward to this one.

  Kier drove to the address Linda had typed on the list. The home was forty minutes away in Magna, Utah, a former copper mining town at the base of the Oquirrh Mountains. Even though the Kennecott Copper mine was still in operation, the town had been in decline for nearly a half century and was now sometimes used by Hollywood directors shooting fifties-era productions.

  He arrived at the house shortly after noon, a small bungalow with aluminum siding and green asphalt shingles. There was a mailbox out front with ROSSI spelled out in gold decals.

  He climbed out of his car, then walked up to the front porch and knocked on the crimson door.

  The door opened; the woman who stood in front of him bore a distinct resemblance to Rossi. Her black hair was streaked with gray and pulled back tightly in a bun. She wore a thick knit sweater accented with a silver crucifix nearly six inches long. Kier had met Rossi’s wife and, from what he remembered, was sure this wasn’t her. The woman stared at him with disgust, her expression more clear than words could ever be.

  “I’m James Kier,” he said, pretty sure she already knew.

  “I know who you are. What do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Gary.”

  “Gary’s not here.”

  “Will he be back soon?”

  “I sincerely doubt it,” she said curtly.

  “You are . . . ? ”

  “I’m Gary’s sister.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Kier said, regretting the words even as he spoke them.

  She stared at him with an expression that was anything but nice. Kier rephrased his earlier question. “Do you know when Gary will be back?”

  “The morning of the resurrection.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gary’s dead.” She spoke the words with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  Kier blanched. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, her thin lips pursed tightly together. “So you didn’t know. All these years I wondered whether or not you lost sleep over what happened and you didn’t even know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Gary went through a real bad time after you swindled him out of his restaurant. He started drinking, lost a half dozen jobs, and then he just went off the deep end. His wife took the kids and left him. I can’t say that I fault her, but for Gary it was the last straw. One afternoon he just ended it. Really, I’m surprised you didn’t know. Your name was all over his suicide note. In fact, you should read it.”

  Before he could object she walked away, and came back holding a wrinkled piece of paper. “His last words. Most of them meant for you.” She pushed the note into Kier’s hands.

  Kier tried to hand it back to her. “I really don’t want to see this.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, you coward.”

  Finally, Kier dropped the paper on the ground. Rossi’s sister shook her head, stooped and picked it up. “I thought as much. But you’re not getting off that easy. If you won’t read it, I’ll tell you what it said. Gary wrote that he was mixed up in his thoughts of the afterworld, because if there were a God, he wouldn’t allow people like you to prosper. But then again, you’re the greatest evidence that there is a devil.�
� She read from the note. ‘If there be blame, I’ll share it with the architect of my destruction, James Kier, may his soul burn for eternity.’ ”

  Kier lowered his head.

  “You know, Mr. Kier, I hated you for a long time, a long time. But hate doesn’t take you anywhere but down, so I had to let it go. I’ve even had to accept that Gary’s death wasn’t your fault. Make no mistake, you’re an awful, hell-bound man—but no matter. Gary had a choice to make. He chose to give up.

  “I’ve wondered what I would do if I ever saw you again. I thought I might spit in your face or slap you or heaven knows what. I never imagined you would show up at my own door. But seeing you here, I don’t want to do anything but pity you. You are a sad, cankered man. One of the devil’s own.”

  Kier made no effort to defend himself. “You’re right.”

  His humility surprised her. “So you do have a conscience. I can only imagine what brought you around now. Are you dying?”

  “I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “Why? Got another venture?” she mocked.

  “I wanted to apologize. I wanted to see if I could make things right.”

  “You’re a little late for that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, I bet you are.” She lifted the note again, taunting him with it. “You’re afraid of this, aren’t you?” She stepped back and slammed the door. Kier stood there a moment, then turned and walked back to his car.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-eight

  Linda loved the snow even though it often made her feel melancholy. Tonight, as she drove away from the office, the snow was falling heavily, painting the world around her with its cold indifference. No, her sadness was more than the weather. She was thinking about her boss. She realized, for the first time, how much their relationship had changed in the past few weeks. She truly cared about him, and she was worried about how his final meeting had gone. She wondered if she had done the right thing in not warning him about Rossi’s suicide.

  She had worked late making preparations for the company’s first Christmas party; it was past six o’clock when she arrived at Kier’s home. The day had already surrendered to evening, the moonlight reflecting off the front yard’s snow.

  She rapped on the door then let herself in. The house was dark. “Mr. Kier?” There was no response. She walked to the living room. Kier was there, a shadow in a chair.

  “There you are. I brought the Arcadia documents, and Mike had some tax forms you need to sign.” She took the papers from her leather portfolio. “He said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Not to worry, he’s just shifting the tax load to this year.’ ” She arranged the documents on the glass coffee table and looked up. Kier was looking ahead as if he hadn’t heard her. “Mr. Kier?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I went to see Gary Rossi.” His voice was thin as if stretched close to breaking.

  “Oh.” She sat down on the couch opposite him, and took off her coat.

  “How long have you known?” he asked.

  Linda swallowed. “I heard just after it happened.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “At that point, would you have cared?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Probably not.” He exhaled loudly. “I went to see Sara last night.” His voice cracked. “She’s dying.”

  Linda looked down. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I told her that I wanted to come home. But she said it’s too late.”

  Tears began to well up in Linda’s eyes.

  “What a fool I am. When I started all this I actually thought I was being some kind of saint.” He laid his head in his hands. “But I’m just a hypocrite. I didn’t do it for them, I did it for me and my legacy. And I’ve failed. I’ve failed everyone. I couldn’t make restitution. Not even with myself.”

  He looked up at her as a tear fell down his cheek. “I don’t care about my legacy anymore. I deserved every one of those comments on the Web site and ten thousand more. Those people know the real James Kier.” He took a deep breath. “But the worst thing is that now that I really do want to make things better, there’s nothing I can do. Maybe this is hell, seeing the truth. Knowing fully the pain and hurt you’ve caused others and knowing there’s no way you can make it better. I’ve stolen their lives and dreams. I have blood on my hands.” He looked into her eyes. “How could I ever be forgiven?”

  Linda fought back her tears. “Isn’t that the point of Christmas?”

  He sighed again, dropping his head in his hands.

  “Mr. Kier, you might have started this journey for the wrong reason, but you ended up at the right place. You’ve changed. It’s miraculous how much you’ve changed. And you’ve tried to repent. I’m not an expert on forgiveness, but I do know that intent matters. I also know that it’s never too late to do the right thing. There are people who still need you and care about you.”

  “No one cares about me.”

  “I do.”

  He looked up at her. “I don’t know why. But thank you.” Then he asked, “Why did you leave the most important names off the list?”

  “I knew if you changed, you would discover that I had. And if you didn’t . . .” She paused. “Well, then it really wouldn’t have mattered.”

  Kier began to sob. “They used to love me. Jimmy and Sara used to love me. I would do anything to have their love again. I would give everything to have a second chance. Everything. But it’s too late.”

  Linda walked over to Kier and put her arms around him. He put his head on her shoulder and wept. At last he composed himself.

  “It’s late,” he said. “You’d better get home to your family.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His tone of resignation frightened her. “I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.” She retrieved her coat and started for the door, then turned around. “Thursday is our first company Christmas party. I don’t know if you’re planning on attending but you still have a three o’clock meeting with Vance Allen of Scott Homes. Shall I postpone it?”

  “No. I’ll take the meeting,” he said. He dropped his head in his hands.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” He didn’t speak and her heart ached as she looked at him. “Please, Mr. Kier, take care of yourself.”

  “Goodnight,” he said.

  Linda walked out to her car. It was still snowing heavily and in the short time she’d been inside, her car was already covered. She climbed inside, started the engine and turned the defrost on full, then rooted through her glove box for a travel pack of Kleenex. She wiped her eyes and nose. Then she grabbed the snowbrush from her back seat and climbed out and brushed the snow from her windows. She looked back at the house. It was still dark. “You have changed, Mr. Kier,” she said. She climbed back in her car, threw the wet brush on the floor in back, and began to back out of the driveway. Then she remembered her promise. She put her car in park then took out her cell phone and dialed. “Sara, it’s me. Linda.”

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-nine

  Kier awoke at eight o’clock, the winter sun filling his room with its gold brilliance. Almost immediately he climbed out of bed and began searching through his cupboards and drawers for something he hadn’t used for years, something he now felt drawn to. He found his Bible tucked away in a box in the bottom of his closet.

  An elderly neighbor, a widow, had given it to him when he was ten years old after he had shoveled her walk for free. He had loved the smell and texture of its leather cover and the beautiful marbled endsheets, and the frontispiece with a woodcut engraving of Mary with her Child. As he grew older he learned to treasure its words.

  It had been years since he’d opened the book. Its worn, onion paper pages were well marked with red pencil. Even after all the years he still remembered the passage he was looking for.

  Isaiah 1:18. Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as whi
te as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

  He carried the book over to the window. The evening’s snow had blanketed the city in white. Pure white. He wished he could be pure again. To be reborn to a second chance, washed clean from all his mistakes. Linda had said it. Wasn’t that what Christmas was about?

  The doorbell rang. At first he ignored it. He didn’t want to see anyone, or anyone to see him. Then he remembered that Linda had promised to come by to check on him. He closed the Bible and set it reverently on his nightstand. The bell rang again, then he heard the door open.

  “I’ll be right down,” he shouted. There was no reply. He walked out to the mezzanine overlooking the foyer. “Linda?”

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the foyer’s dim lighting. The woman standing below held a cane and was leaning backward against the door, her cap and shoulders dusted with snow. It was Sara. She looked up at him and their eyes locked in uncertainty. “I let myself in. I hope that’s all right.”

  Kier stared at her. “Sara.” He hurried down the stairs. Her gaze never left him. He stopped a few feet from her, wanting to embrace her but afraid to.

  “Can we talk?” she asked.

  “Of course. Let me get you a chair.”

  Leaning heavily on her cane she walked toward the living room. Kier took her arm and led her to the couch. He helped her sit, then sat down next to her. Her eyes welled up with tears. “I lied to you. I told you I didn’t love you. I do. I’ll always love you, Jim. And I miss you.”

  He threw his arms around her and began to sob. “Oh Sara. I’m so sorry.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder and rubbed her hand up and down his back. “I know you are. I am too. I should have done more.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. It was all me. Can you ever forgive me?”