“Jess . . . can you come over here? I think we have a winner,” Sam announced.
Jessica turned to join her family, relieved to end the awkward conversation.
A short time later, Jack lifted the large Christmas tree the Morgans had chosen onto a makeshift table near his work shed. It was just a sheet of plywood over two sawhorses. The first snowflakes had begun to fall, large, fat white feathers. They clung to the tree branches and to the top of Jack’s hat and beard. He didn’t seem to notice.
“You picked a tall one,” he noted as he wrapped the tree in nylon webbing.
“My wife likes a tall tree.” Sam glanced over and grinned at her. “We always have to saw off a few feet to get it to fit inside the house.”
“Oh, Sam.” Jessica shook her head. That wasn’t true. Well . . . an exaggeration, for sure. Her husband loved to tease her. She was used to it by now.
With Sam’s help, Jack tied the tree to the roof of the SUV and they were all set. Jessica had also found an untrimmed wreath for the front door and some pine roping, which Sam tossed inside. The boys and dog climbed in the back, and they were soon headed home as the snow began to fall steadily.
They were all talking and laughing together on the way home, the boys anticipating a snow day off from school tomorrow. The ride back went by quickly, and Sam soon turned down their own drive, nearly hidden on the wooded road.
Jessica loved the way the old house looked in the winter, coming into view from behind the trees. Especially tonight, with its peaked roof, porch pillars, and gingerbread molding edged with a fresh snowfall, its lines were graceful and welcoming. She loved the way it would soon look decorated for Christmas, like an illustration in a picture book.
It was beautiful now, a Victorian jewel, but the house had been deserted and just about falling down when Sam bought it at an auction two years before he and Jessica started dating. A carpenter and woodworker, Sam had a real vision for it and had done most of the restoration with his own skillful hands and heart.
Jessica had concentrated on the interior. Together they had created a masterpiece. It was a lot to keep up, that was true. But Jessica wouldn’t have traded their antique treasure for the largest, most lavish minimansion to be found.
When they pulled up to the back door, Sam shut off the car and hopped out. “Darrell, help me get this tree down, will you?”
Jessica ran ahead to open the side door. “It’s still early. We can put it up and decorate tonight. All the boxes are out.” When Sam didn’t answer, she added, “It’s a big job. It’s good to get it done early.”
Carrying the tree toward the house with Darrell on the far end, Sam shook his head. “Don’t give me that, Jess. Don’t even try to tell me you’re just being efficient or that the boys want to do it. I know you love to trim the tree. I know it’s all you.”
Jessica was grateful for the darkness that hid her smile. “I guess you got me,” she admitted.
Sam laughed, a deep, warm sound that had done so much to make her fall in love with him.
“Yeah, I know. Lucky me.” He quickly leaned over and kissed her cheek.
NOT LONG AFTER THE MORGANS DROVE OFF, JACK HAD SHUT OFF THE spotlights and carried the metal cash box back up to his house. He pulled off his jacket, gloves, and hat, and tossed them in a heap in the mudroom. Then he walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil.
The kitchen was an unholy mess. Pots and dishes were piled high in the sink, with more scattered across the counter and table. He looked in the cupboard for a clean mug, then ended up rinsing out one he found on the windowsill. There was more clutter on the table, boxes of cereal and crackers, a jar of jam and one of peanut butter, along with some more dirty dishes, piles of unopened mail, and old newspapers.
He had never been much of a housekeeper and lately had even less interest in keeping up. It just didn’t seem worth the bother, living here alone.
It had been a busy weekend. Lots of families shopping for trees. The early birds, his wife, Claire, used to call them. “More early birds,” she would say, peering out the window. “We’d better get out there, Jack.”
But the sight would make her happy. She loved to sell the wreaths and decorations that she made. She loved to help each family select just the right tree for their holiday. She loved to talk to the children about Santa Claus and what presents they were hoping for.
Sometimes Jack missed her so badly it hurt, an aching feeling, deep in his bones. During the days after Claire had passed away, he wondered when the pain of missing her would fade. Now he knew. Never.
Having poured his water for the tea, he wrapped his big chapped hands around the warm mug and sat perfectly still in the silent house. He saw the snow falling past the window, a white veil fluttering in the darkness. Flurries, my foot. He knew what a heavy snow looked like coming down. He would be stuck in here by the morning. The weather forecasters, with all their satellites and radar and colored maps, still couldn’t get it right.
He sighed and closed his eyes. As if that made a difference. He could die in his bed tonight. Nobody would find him for days. No one would know. Or care. No one in the entire world would miss him. David, maybe. If he ever found out. If he was even still alive. The only reason Jack stayed here at all was in the hope that David would get in touch. A hope that grew slimmer with each passing day.
If I left, Jack thought, what would I do? Where would I go?
Anywhere people don’t celebrate Christmas. That was at the top of the list.
He hated Christmas now. He didn’t know how he had survived it, two years in a row without Claire. He hated selling the trees to all these happy families. Like those Morgans, without a care in the world. They didn’t know how good they had it. He had been like that once. A smiling idiot. So naive and trusting—of people, of life. He’d had no idea how quickly things could change. How his happiness could vanish in the blink of an eye, like snowflakes melting on your hand.
Each day that brought him closer to Christmas felt like salt rubbed in his wounds. He had been part of a happy family once, his wife and their boy. They had been his entire world, though perhaps he hadn’t fully understood how important and how fragile that world was. He had wasted so much time fretting about his landscaping business and the nursery.
Then they were taken from him. Just like that. First Claire. Then David. He hadn’t appreciated his blessings at all, not really. He remembered those days now in this house, as if it had all happened in a dream.
He pushed the memories away and took a sip of his tea, gone cold in the cup. Living alone here, not talking to anyone sometimes for days, he lost track of time. Not just a few minutes here and there, but large swaths of a day would pass him by. He would look up and realize he had been in a daze, drifting in his thoughts for hours. He knew that wasn’t good. And the way he had let things go around here—not good at all. He had to pull himself together before he crossed a line. Before it was too late. If only he knew how. He tried sometimes, he really did. But he didn’t seem to have the energy and focus anymore. He didn’t seem to have the heart.
He flipped open the metal cash box and slowly counted out the take for the day, more to have a constructive task to focus on than any real interest in his profits. He piled the bills in neat stacks on the table—ones, fives, tens and twenties. He didn’t bother counting the coins, just scooped them up and tossed them in a shoe box he kept on a nearby shelf. He had a few of those boxes around the house, and he intended to take them to the bank someday. He felt sure the bank teller would laugh at him, would wonder if he kept all his money stashed in a mattress. Maybe that’s why he never did it. He wrote a small note, recording the total, then put a rubber band around the bills and stuck the stack in a drawer in his desk.
It wasn’t very late, but he didn’t feel like watching TV. Thanksgiving was barely over, and already the Christmas shows and holiday commercials had taken over the airwaves. A tsunami of false, forced warmth and cheer. The TV screen just might rema
in blank and silent until the New Year, Jack reflected.
He strolled around the house and shut off the few remaining lights. He would be pushing the snowblower tomorrow, that was for sure. A few extra hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt. He loved to sleep. It was the only time he didn’t have to face his solitary existence. Sleep was oblivion, a blessing.
He stood in the parlor and stared out at the night and the falling snow. He wondered if his wife was in heaven, watching him. He wasn’t sure if he believed in heaven anymore but if anyone deserved to be there, it was Claire. She had a truly beautiful soul, kind and good hearted. She saw the best in everyone. She went to church and even prayed at night, before she fell asleep. From time to time, he had gone to church, too. Just to please her. But after she died he didn’t keep that connection. The pastor there, Reverend Something-or-other, tried a few times to reach out to him, but Jack wasn’t interested in hearing any of those comforting clichés. Someone telling him his wife was in a better place, or that it had been her time. How was that supposed to make him feel better?
Maybe there is no heaven, he thought, turning away from the window. Maybe there’s just nothing more than this here and now. A harsh conclusion on a cold night, my friend, he told himself. I think it’s time you went to bed.
He was about to turn off the porch light and head back to his room near the kitchen when he heard a sharp knock on the door. He felt his temper rising. There were some crazy people—young couples mostly—who came shopping for Christmas trees at all hours of the night. As if they expected him to be a twenty-four-hour convenience store. He had a good mind not to answer, but he knew that type never took the hint. They would only knock louder.
And so they did in the time it took for him to reach the door and turn the handle.
He yanked open the door, about to tell whomever he found on his doorstep where to get off.
A wide-eyed woman stood staring back at him. She wore a blue down jacket, the hood pulled over her head, soft brown curls slipping out from the edges and framing her face. One hand was stuck deep in a pocket. The other circled a small child who clung to her leg.
The sight threw him off. It was not at all what he expected to see. He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. “Are you here for a tree? I’m closed.”
The woman shook her head. “I realized that. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, honestly.” The way she’d called him “sir” made Jack flinch. Made him feel old and grouchy. Which he was, he realized. Older than her, anyway.
“I had some car trouble on the road, right in front of your house. I managed to get it partway up the drive before it just went dead. My cell-phone battery is gone. We saw your light on and walked up. Could I trouble you to use the phone?”
He nodded quickly. “Sure. Come on in.” He stepped aside to let them in. The child, a little girl, clung so fiercely to the woman’s leg that the mother walked with a stilted gait.
She smiled at him then looked down at the little girl. “My daughter, Kate. She’s very tired.”
He stared at the child a moment, fascinated by her puffy pink jacket, trimmed in white fur with prancing unicorns embroidered on the front. He suddenly looked back up at the woman.
“My name is Jack. Jack Sawyer.” He stretched out his hand, remembering his manners. Then he shuddered at the sight of his chafed skin and broken nails, stained black from the tree sap.
She didn’t appear to notice. She seemed relieved by the gesture and shook his hand firmly. “Julie Newton. Nice to meet you.”
She pushed her hood back and her hair sprang free. Jack could see it had been gathered in back with some sort of clip, but most of it had come loose. She brushed it back nervously with her fingers. Then she looked back at him. She had beautiful eyes, large brown ones that seemed to telegraph her every thought. He could see she felt wary of him. Or nervous. Or both.
He stepped back quickly and cleared his throat. “The phone is in the kitchen,” he said, leading the way to the back of the house. They stood at the kitchen doorway and he flicked on the light.
The disaster scene he had so easily ignored earlier stretched out before them. He could have sworn he heard the woman muffle a gasp.
“Sorry for the mess. It’s been a hectic weekend. I’ve been outside working a lot. . . .” He stepped over to the table and scooped up as many dirty dishes and cups as he could handle.
“Don’t worry. Please. Don’t fuss.” She stood stiffly in the doorway, not daring to venture in.
Of course, she knew this level of mess had not happened over the weekend. It couldn’t even happen over an entire week. A mess like this was like a Category 4 hurricane, Jack thought. It took time and the right conditions to amass.
He swept a pile of newspapers and magazines off a stool by the phone, then wiped the seat with a dish towel for good measure. “Have a seat. Here’s the phone,” he said, handing her the receiver.
She forced a smile and stepped forward, her little girl stuck to her side as if by Velcro. She eyed the chair for a moment, sat, and then hoisted the child into her lap, though the girl seemed a bit big for such treatment.
“I’m not sure who to call. Is there a tow service you know of? Or a taxi?”
Jack was surprised by her question. Of course, she needed to have her car towed. But when she had said she wanted to make a call, he thought she meant to call her husband, or someone equally significant in her life, to come get her.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “The service station in town will send out a truck. But not at this hour. We don’t have much of a taxi service around here either. A few cabs by the train station, but I doubt they’re running now. Where do you need to go? I can give you a lift.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Julie Newton shook her head. She looked down to find her daughter touching something sticky on the table and quickly pulled the little hand away.
Jack rubbed his cheek then smoothed down his scraggly beard with his hand. He looked worse than the kitchen. No wonder this woman was afraid of him. “Where were you headed when the car broke down? Is anyone expecting you?”
“We’re on our way to Long Island from Maine,” she explained. “My brother lives there with his family.” She took a breath. Jack wondered if she would say more, or if that was all the explanation he would get.
“Long Island is a long way from here. Were you planning on driving through the night?” An ambitious schedule, he thought. The town of Cape Light was north of Boston and about five hours from Long Island. The drive was even longer in bad weather.
Julie shrugged. “I was going to stop somewhere. I don’t really like driving in the snow,” she confessed.
“Looks like you’ve stopped here.” He glanced at her then back at the cluttered counter. He picked up a cereal box and stashed it in the cabinet. As if that would help; he almost laughed at himself out loud.
“Maybe you can give us a ride to town? To a motel or something?”
“There’s a motel on the highway. But it’s a long way, especially in the snow. And that place has been looking pretty run-down lately. I wouldn’t recommend it,” he added.
The little girl was dozing now, her head resting on her mother’s chest. The woman stroked her daughter’s hair. The soft curls matched the mother’s, in miniature, he noticed. He studied Julie’s profile, her high cheekbones and wide mouth. She looked tired, too, he thought, but it only seemed to add to her loveliness.
Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “You can stay here. I guess.” His tone was gruff, offhand. “There’s a guest room upstairs, two twin beds.”
She looked shocked by the offer and he instantly regretted it.
“We couldn’t do that. . . . It’s too much trouble for you.”
“No trouble. It’s the cleanest part of the house,” he added, with a wry smile. “I never go up there anymore.” He paused and met her glance. “I realize I’m a complete stranger and you’re thinking, What if he’s a nutcase or something? There’s
a solid lock on the door and I sleep down here.” He pointed to his room, a short distance down the hallway.
She hesitated. “I’d hate to bother you like that, Mr. Sawyer.”
Again he silently winced at her polite title; it seemed to age him.
“Call me Jack. And it’s no bother. Honest.” He glanced at her, feeling self-conscious and annoyed. He suddenly saw himself through her eyes, what he was—what he’d turned into living alone here these last two years.
A messy, half-crazed, eccentric old man. Though he knew now, in the bright kitchen light, he wasn’t all that much older than she was. Though unquestionably attractive, he guessed her age to be in the mid-thirties. He was only forty-two, for goodness sake. But the way she looked at him, he felt sixty-two. He turned to the cluttered counter again and matched the coffee can with its plastic lid, clumsily pushing it on until it fit.
“Okay . . . I mean, thanks. I’m grateful for your help. Really,” she said.
She rose from her chair, cradling her little girl against her body. The child looked too heavy for her to carry easily, and Jack thought he should offer to take her. Then he stopped himself. The little girl probably wouldn’t like it, and her mother probably wouldn’t let him anyway.
“Okay, follow me. I’ll get you some sheets and blankets. It might be a little cold up there,” he warned as they headed back toward the staircase.
“No colder than sleeping in my car. Which is where we would have ended up if you weren’t here.”
I’m not really here, lady, he wanted to say. This is just an illusion. A really good impression of a person I used to know.
A Christmas Star Page 2