Hannah’s older sister is totally in love with Chloe, and the feeling is mutual. Chloe’s been following her around like a puppy ever since we got here. Hannah, on the other hand, says she doesn’t do babies, which was how I always felt until Chloe came along. All that drool and mess! Now I just say I don’t do other people’s babies.
Not that Chloe is a baby anymore. She’s officially a toddler now that she’s walking, Mom says. It’s hard to believe that she’s going to be two next summer.
“Would you girls set the table, please?” asks Mrs. Blum, who is slim and dark-haired like Hannah. “We’ll be ready to go as soon as our men-folk return.”
Mr. Blum took Stanley to the marina down in Dana Point this afternoon to show him his new boat.
Dad always kept our sailboat in Dana Point too. I’ve been thinking a lot about him since we arrived in Laguna Beach. I’ve been back here a couple of times since he died, but never at this time of year. Christmas was my father’s favorite holiday. When he was traveling on business, he used to bring back ornaments from all over the world for my mother. Hannah and I drove by our old house earlier today, and it gave me a weird feeling to see some other family’s Christmas tree in the front window.
That’s another reason it’s been nice to be here at the Blums’ this week. Their blue-and-white Hanukkah decorations are really low-key, and there’s nothing to remind me of Dad. It’s not that I don’t want to remember him—I definitely do, and I think about him often, like every time I look at the Laguna Lightning jersey that’s hanging on the wall in my room. Dad helped coach my Pee Wee team back when we lived here, and Mom had his jersey framed for me. The thing is, though, I want my memories of my father to be on my terms, and not sprung on me unexpectedly, like when I get blindsided in a hockey game.
Hannah and I set the table using her family’s best china and silver, along with the white tablecloth and blue napkins that Mrs. Blum set out for us. We have to make a contest out of it, of course—what can I say? we’re both überjocks—and I’m laughing so hard by the time we finish that my legs are weak. Still, I manage to plunk down the last fork a split second before Hannah does.
“Here,” she says, tossing me one of the foil-wrapped chocolate coins that are sitting in a dish on the sideboard next to the gleaming silver menorah. “A little Hanukkah gelt for the winner.”
“Thanks,” I reply, unwrapping it. “I could use a little something to tide me over until dinner.”
There’s a low rumble underfoot from the garage door. “Dad’s home,” Hannah announces. “Shouldn’t be long now.”
The aromas coming from the kitchen are sheer torture. I’m practically drooling by the time we all gather around the table a few minutes later for the Hanukkah blessings.
The Blums softly recite the Hebrew words, and my mother and Stanley and I watch respectfully as Mrs. Blum takes the shamash—the “helper” candle smack dab in the middle of the menorah—and uses it to light four more candles, one to mark each night of the holiday so far. When she’s done, she moves the menorah to the window, to remind everyone passing by of the miracle of Hanukkah.
I knew Hanukkah was called the Festival of Lights and everything—I’m not a complete ignoramus—but I had no idea where it got that name, or what miracles had to do with it. Mr. Blum explained everything to us at dinner the first night we were here. Turns out there were these guys called the Maccabees, who were fighting these Greek invaders, and when they finally beat them—which was pretty miraculous in and of itself, since they were just a tiny handful of soldiers going up against one of the mightiest armies on earth—the first thing they wanted to do was rededicate their temple, which the invaders had trashed. The only problem was, when it came time to relight the menorah, they could find only one jar of oil whose seal was unbroken, barely enough to last one day. I guess they couldn’t use just any old olive oil, it had to be guaranteed to be pure. Amazingly, that measly little jar burned for eight days, long enough for them to go get a new supply. So that’s why Hanukkah lasts eight days, and that’s why families like the Blums light a candle each night of the holiday, to celebrate the miracle of the oil.
Chloe, who is sitting in a high chair, looks at us with big round eyes as we all hold hands and sing. Well, the Blums sing—we just hold hands. They sing “Ma’oz Tzur,” which Mr. Blum tells us means “Rock of Ages” in Hebrew. It has a different melody from the “Rock of Ages” hymn I’ve heard at our church, though.
By the end, Chloe is banging on the high chair tray with her spoon, singing along tunelessly at the top of her little lungs and making everybody laugh.
“Sorry, everyone,” says my mother. “I think somebody’s hungry.”
“I know I am,” says Mr. Blum. “Dig in!”
Dinner tastes as good as it smells. There’s chicken and rice and vegetables, along with latkes, of course. Another Hanukkah tradition is to eat some kind of food fried in oil. Latkes are scrumptious little potato pancakes, and Mrs. Blum made applesauce to go with them.
For dessert, there are sufganiyot, these awesome homemade jelly doughnuts, another one of those fried-in-oil foods. I woof down four of them before my mother puts a stop to it.
Hannah’s parents distribute presents to everyone, us included. Just fun little things, nothing major like at Christmas. Tonight Chloe gets a dreidel, and I get half a dozen rolls of hockey tape in assorted colors and designs.
“Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Blum,” I say when I open the box. “I can guarantee you the pink camo will be a big hit with Chicks with Sticks.”
Mrs. Blum smiles. “Your mother told me about the hockey club you started,” she says. “I think it’s wonderful.”
It’s really sad, but the things Hannah’s parents have given me have been a whole heck of a lot better than the stupid stuff I’ve gotten from my Secret Santa.
The big joke since I arrived is what a loser my Secret Santa is. Hannah thinks the whole thing is hilarious, because so far, the gifts have been downright embarrassing. Not my sort of thing at all—fashion magazines, perfume, earrings, a sparkly headband—this morning I even got underpants. Underpants! And not just regular ones, either. These were pink and lacy. I’d be laughed out of the locker room if I showed up at hockey practice wearing them.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” says my mother. “Mrs. Hawthorne e-mailed me earlier. She sent along something for you.” She passes me a piece of paper.
“What’s in it?” asks Hannah, as we head down the hall to her room.
“Fun facts,” I tell her.
“Huh?”
She sits down next to me at the foot of my bed, and I explain about how that part of our book club works. Curious, she looks over my shoulder as I read the list.
FUN FACTS “TO GO” ABOUT MAUD
1) Maud Hart Lovelace attended the University of Minnesota (“the U” in the Betsy-Tacy books), but came down with appendicitis her freshman year and went to her grandmother’s home in California to recuperate. She loved the warm climate, and later in life she and her husband retired there.
2) While at her grandmother’s, Maud wrote and sold her first short story—“Number Eight.” She got ten dollars for it from the Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine.
3) Although Maud enjoyed writing for the student newspaper at the U, she wasn’t all that keen on college otherwise, and she dropped out to spend a year in Europe. Her time there would later become the basis for Betsy and the Great World.
4) Shortly after the outbreak of World War I, Maud met Delos Lovelace, a handsome reporter for the Minneapolis Tribune. Their marriage was both a love affair and a working partnership, as they wrote a number of novels together. Maud did the historical research while Delos worked out the plots. Then they divided up the chapters to be written, swapping when they were finished so they could edit each other’s work.
5) Maud and Delos enjoyed each other’s company so much that they sometimes had difficulty settling down to work. “We would get up as early as five a.m., have breakfast and talk,” Maud once tol
d a reporter, adding that they had to set an alarm for eight o’clock to remind themselves to quit visiting and start writing!
6) Maud always considered herself a midwesterner, even though for many years she lived in and around New York City and later retired to Claremont, California. Reminiscing to a fan about her life in the Big Apple, she wrote, “My favorite spot in the whole city was always the Public Library at Fifth and Forty-second. I did research on so many books there. There is a room . . . where authors, properly identified, are permitted to work. Their typewriters, and the books and magazines which they are using may be left there for days and even weeks (unless especially requested by an indignant patron, in which case a page comes and asks politely if one can part with them for a few hours and one graciously accedes). I almost lived there.”
7) The Betsy-Tacy series started as bedtime stories that Maud told her daughter Merian about her growing-up years in Mankato. By the time Maud was ready to write about the high school years, Merian was a teenager herself. “She brought the atmosphere of high school into the house, helping to refresh my memory,” Maud explained to another reporter. “When she comes home from school she’ll grab the copy I’ve written right out of my typewriter. And she’s very frank, too. If she doesn’t like what I’ve written she’ll tell me, and I usually change it.”
“Is that Maud?” asks Hannah, pointing to the photos on the second page of Mrs. Hawthorne’s e-mail.
“I guess.”
“I like this one of her in the white dress, where she’s sitting perched on the arm of her husband’s chair.”
“Yeah.” My heart skips a beat. Delos Lovelace looks a lot like Zach Norton.
“Who are these people?” Hannah says, pointing to two pictures at the bottom of the page labeled “Betsy and Tacy, best friends forever.”
We read the captions. The first one, which is an old black-and-white photo, says “Maud and Bick (Betsy and Tacy), age 10.” The other one is a color shot of two older ladies wearing matching dresses. The caption reads “Maud and Bick, age 70.” I recognize Maud right away by her gap-toothed smile.
Mrs. Hawthorne has added a note underneath the two photos, and Hannah reads it aloud.
“Maud Hart Lovelace immortalized her lifelong friendship with Bick Kenney in her Betsy-Tacy stories. If you had to pick a best friend to honor in that way, who would you choose?” She flops back onto her bed and crosses her arms behind her head. “Easy. Taylor Lane.”
“Who’s she?”
“Not a she, a he,” she replies.
“Really? You have a guy for a best friend?”
Hannah nods. “We’ve been best friends since sixth grade.”
Zach and I used to be really good friends too. Not quite best friends, but close. Now, though, things are more complicated.
“How about you?” asks Hannah. “Who would you choose?”
I have to think about this for a minute. I’ve never really had a best friend. Not in the way that Jess and Emma are best friends, or Megan and Becca. My book club friends and my hockey teammates are my closest girlfriends, but I like them all equally. Well, except maybe Becca. She’s a rung or two lower on the friendship ladder.
Then I remember the night of the ugly sweater party, when Courtney and I had that talk about Zach, and I think of all the other times she’s been right there for me when I needed someone to confide in and give me advice. “I guess I’d have to say my sister.”
“Yeah, Danita’s pretty cool too. Especially now that we’re older. We used to fight like cats and dogs when we were growing up.”
I grin. “Courtney and I did too.”
The next morning I awake to find another Secret Santa gift waiting for me on the bedside table.
“Open it!” urges Hannah, sitting up in her bed and watching in gleeful anticipation. My lame Secret Santa gifts have provided a lot of entertainment this week. For her, anyway.
Scowling, I eye the package. It’s bigger than yesterday’s, so it’s probably not underwear, but I’m still pretty sure I’m not going to like whatever’s inside.
“Hurry up!” urges Hannah. “We can squeeze in one more session at the beach before you have to go if we get a move on here.”
Reluctantly I tear off the paper. At first I think maybe it’s a fishing tackle box, but what fisherman would be caught dead with a pink tackle box? Then I lift the lid and a bunch of tiered trays unfold, each one filled with different kinds of makeup: sparkly eye shadow, half a dozen different colors of blush, other powders I don’t recognize, a bunch of little pots of lotion, plus wands and applicators and tweezers and junk. Oh, and lip gloss. A lifetime supply of it.
Hannah starts to laugh.
I shake my head in disgust. Does my Secret Santa come from outer space?
Something like this could only be Becca’s doing. Chadwickius frenemus rides again. This must be her secret revenge for the fact that Zach Norton likes me better than he likes her.
I close the useless box and slide it over onto Hannah’s bed. “You keep it,” I tell her.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” she says, still laughing. “I don’t wear that stuff either.”
Which is true. And which is probably why the two of us have gotten along so well. If my family does end up moving back to California, at least I know I’ll have one ready-made friend waiting for me.
I end up tossing the makeup kit into my suitcase. I can rewrap it and give it to Courtney for a Christmas present. She’ll like it. I can give her the underpants, too.
After our final boogie-boarding session and a brunch of leftover latkes, it’s time to leave.
“It’s been so good to see you and your family again, Beth,” says my mother, hugging Mrs. Blum. “Thank you for everything. I’ll keep you posted on our decision.”
Hannah and her mother help us out to the rental car with our suitcases, then stand in the driveway talking with us while Stanley straps Chloe into her car seat.
“If you end up moving to L.A., I’ll make a real surfer out of you,” Hannah says.
“It’s a deal, but you have to let me teach you how to play hockey, okay?”
We wave good-bye and hit the road, heading north along the ocean. It’s gorgeous out, sunny, light breeze, low seventies, the kind of winter day that gives Southern California its fabulous reputation. As I stare out the window at the familiar scenery, Concord with its snow and cold seems like a distant dream. It’s almost as if we never left Laguna.
Still, I’m not sold on the move. Not that Mom and Stanley have confirmed it. “We’re still thinking things over,” they keep telling me when I ask them about it. I’m trying really hard to be a good sport—I’m not a little kid anymore, and I know they have a lot of things to take into consideration, not just me. If Stanley does decide to take the job, I could probably find a new hockey team. Still, I’d really, really miss Concord. It took me a long time to adjust to living there, but now it feels like home.
My mother and I went for a walk on the beach the other night and talked about it a little bit.
“People are kind of like hermit crabs,” my mother said, poking at one with her toe. “Hermit crabs are nomads, moving from shell to shell, just like people often move from house to house. A house is just a shell, really. But home—home you carry with you wherever you go. Home is in here.” She touched her hand to her heart. “It’s what you put inside your shell.”
I understand what she meant. The thing is, though, I really like our shell on Hubbard Street.
I stare out the window, my thoughts drifting. I know it’s Christmas Eve and I should be feeling the holiday spirit, but if I could wish for a holiday miracle of my own right now, I’d wish us back in Concord. California likes to do everything in a big way, and Christmas is no different. All that over-the-top stuff felt normal when we lived here, from “Surfin’ Santa” blaring all over the place to fake snow on fake trees to all the lights and parades and hoopla at Disneyland (which Chloe loved), but now I’d swap all the flashy trapp
ings for the simplicty of a colonial New England in a hot second. Dad would have loved Concord at Christmastime.
We pass Crystal Cove, one of my favorite spots on the planet, and then continue on toward Newport Beach. When I see the sign for Balboa Island, I suddenly lean forward and tap my mom on the shoulder. Even though I’m stuffed full of latkes, and even though we’re going to be eating dinner with Grant’s family in Santa Barbara in a few hours, I have a sudden craving for a frozen banana.
“You can’t be serious,” says my mother, but she must be in a good mood—though whether from lunch or the prospect of moving back here or just the general holiday spirit, I can’t tell—because she doesn’t even hesitate. One quick U-turn later and we’re on the road that leads over the arched bridge to Balboa.
The streets are jammed with cars, and we drive around for a bit looking for a parking spot, then stroll up the sidewalk to my favorite frozen banana stand.
“Looks like everybody else had the same idea,” says Stanley.
That’s the thing that’s not so great about Southern California. It’s really crowded here. Everywhere, all the time. Roads, beaches, amusement parks, restaurants, hiking trails, you name it. Everybody’s always out, having fun in the sun. My father always used to say that’s the price you pay for living in paradise.
We manage to snag a bench, and Mom places our order at the take-out window.
“Oh, man,” says Stanley, as he takes his first bite. The top of his bald head goes pink, which it always does when he’s happy. Maybe today it’s just sunburn, though. It’s hard to tell.
I give him a smug smile. “Told you so.” What’s not to like about a frozen banana dipped in chocolate and chopped nuts?
Chloe is enchanted with hers, too. Two seconds after mom hands it to her, she’s a chocolate-covered mess. Little kids really know how to enjoy food. They play with it, they squish it in their hands and smear it in their hair, they wipe it all over their face, and they never worry about it spilling on their clothes or about what people might think. There are times I wish I could still eat like a toddler.
Home for the Holidays Page 16