The Forever Christmas Tree

by Sandra Hill

  Was it too high-schoolish?

  Maybe.

  She didn’t care.

  Diane had followed Wendy upstairs and she oohed and aahed over what she called a vintage paradise. Wendy lent Diane a 1950s era, green lamé sheath, with a conservative knee length and a modest cowl neckline, but with a plunging back down to the waist. Wendy had no idea who this dress had belonged to. She would have to ask Aunt Mildred. The color was certainly appropriate for the holiday.

  The guys—JAM, and Geek, and K-4—even borrowed some of her father’s old sport coats. Her father had been a big man, and some jackets never went out of style, or else they came back periodically. Even if they were worn over jeans or casual pants.

  When Wendy was dressed for her date, she modeled her attire for her aunt, as well as for Gloria and Claudette.

  “It’s chilly tonight, honey. I swear, the temperature dropped ten points in the last hour alone,” her aunt pointed out. “You’ll need to wear a coat, which is a shame, covering up such a pretty dress.”

  “Wait. Ah have just the thing,” Claudette said, rushing away. She came back with a spider-fine, knitted shawl of cream cashmere, which was light but warm at the same time. “Ah wore this at mah debutante ball many years ago. It used to be pure white, but has aged into a nice color, don’t you think?”

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much,” Wendy said, hugging the Southern lady who was so secretive about her past. A debutante, huh?

  Claudette’s eyes misted over with emotion after Wendy’s hug, and she turned away.

  Not to be outdone, Gloria lent her a pair of platinum bangle bracelets in a blue Tiffany box. “They were a gift from my husband on our fiftieth anniversary, just before he died.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t . . .” Wendy tried to hand the bracelets back.

  “No, dear, I want you to wear them. It will be almost like I’m there.”

  Gloria also had weepy eyes after Wendy hugged her.

  “I feel like Cinderella,” Wendy said with a laugh, “and you’re all my fairy godmothers.”

  “You couldn’t have said anything nicer,” her aunt whispered.

  “Make sure you don’t lose your shoe,” Elmer quipped.

  “Or anything else,” JAM muttered under his breath.

  Claudette also managed to find a pretty, white, fake-fur jacket for Diane. Everyone teased Diane that folks would think she’d shot not just a grizzly, but a bunny rabbit, as well.

  Soon after that, “Prince Charming” rang the doorbell, which reverberated through the house, echoed by the ruff-ruff-ruffing of Elmer’s dogs. Ethan wore a black suit, a pale blue, crisply starched shirt, and a thin black tie, with gold knot cuff links peeping out of the sleeves. He didn’t say a word—at first—about how she looked, but his blue, blue eyes said it all.

  Then they were off to the ball.

  Chapter 18

  Walking (Dancing) in a Winter Wonderland . . .

  It was a magical night, in Ethan’s opinion, and he didn’t care if that made him seem less than manly. It was what it was. Perfect.

  The moon was full. (There is nothing like the sky over the Outer Banks when fully lit.) The air was crisp with the promise of snow. (Perennial Bell Cove wishful thinking, no doubt.) Wendy looked heavenly in a pink (Rose, pink, same thing!) cotton candy fluff of a dress with silver shoes, the bare skin of her shoulders and arms like sweet cream (or foam on a Bud Light, take your pick), the twinkle of promise in her caramel-colored eyes (Good enough to eat!).

  From the moment Wendy got in his car and leaned in for a kiss to the moment she sighed at the transformation of Gabe Conti’s mansion ballroom into a winter wonderland, Ethan was entranced. Cassie had asked him to take some pictures of the evening’s events with his cell phone, but more than that, he wanted to imprint every part of this night with Wendy on his memory to savor for years to come. It might be the last night they could be together, alone, or as alone as they could be as a couple in the middle of a dance party, and he didn’t want to waste a second of it.

  If he couldn’t have a forever kind of love, he wanted this night to last forever. What better place for that than Gabe’s converted mansion!

  Under a canopy of thousands of hanging snowflakes, fake trees—dozens of them with frosted limbs—were arranged around the perimeter of the room into a Christmas forest. Peeking out from behind some of the trunks were deer (not reindeer, but regular deer) and other wild game—foxes, squirrels, even a bear.

  “Can you believe this?” Wendy said, gazing around. “Where do you suppose they got all this forest stuff? The trees alone must have cost a mint, even if they’re rented.”

  “At a hundred bucks a ticket, they had a good amount of cash to work with,” Ethan pointed out.

  “Still . . .”

  “Laura probably made a deal with some theatrical company,” Ethan guessed. “They could have had all the cut trees they wanted, for nothing, day after Christmas. That’s when all my unsold trees become mulch.” Ethan realized, belatedly, how unromantic that sounded.

  But then, Wendy’s friend Geek’s mind ran in a similar practical direction. “I bet the animals are from Gabe’s inherited collection,” Geek said. He and Wendy’s other California friends had followed them here in a rented SUV, and they’d just walked into the hall, equally stunned by the transformation of the house.

  Ethan nodded. “Could be, although I don’t see the infamous ten-foot gorilla anywhere.”

  “He better do something soon, or the Fish and Wildlife Service will be driving up with a U-Haul and an arrest warrant. We laugh about it, but it is against the law,” Wendy noted.

  “When did you become Miss Law and Order?” K-4 teased.

  “Ignorance being no excuse for Gabe?” Ethan asked.

  “Nope,” Wendy replied to Ethan, giving K-4 a cross-eyed look of disdain for his teasing.

  After Diane’s fake rabbit coat (Cassie would be so upset!) and Wendy’s wrap (or whatever you call those shawl things) were taken to a makeshift coatroom, they all scattered, for drinks, dancing, or just mingling. There were already about fifty couples in the ballroom, some of them dancing to the music of Nostalgia, a Cape Hatteras classic rock group of local fame, who were situated up on a portable stage. People also stood about in the hallways and off in the one addition where beverages were being served and furniture was arranged into conversation areas.

  Coming up to greet them was Laura, no longer painted green like she had been that afternoon, but wearing a tight black gown that would do Beyoncé proud. Not that Ethan knew much about popular singers, except what he saw on his daughter’s TV when passing through a room. Oh, no! Does that make me an old fogey? I hope not!

  Laura hugged Wendy, but just gave Ethan a curt nod. He was still on her twelve-year-old shit list. “Isn’t this wonderful?” she cooed.

  “Spectacular! Is this your work?” Wendy asked.

  “Mine and about twenty volunteers. I would’ve called you to come help, but I know you want to spend as much time as possible with your aunt before you have to leave.”

  Another reminder of time going by at the speed of light. He sighed over the tightness in his chest.

  “I love your dress,” Laura said, forcing Wendy to spin and show her all sides. “Where did you find it? Don’t tell me. That hoarders’ fashion mecca up in your attic?”

  “Uh-huh. This was my mother’s prom dress.”

  “You’re kidding!” Laura exclaimed.

  You’re kidding! he thought, giving the dress a second look. Her mother must have been a hottie in her day. Not that Wendy’s outfit was overly sexy, like Laura’s. More like subtly sexy. What? Where did I come up with that term? Is there even such a word? Like I’m an expert on fashion! Not! My brain must be melting with Christmas cheer . . . or something else. Maybe subtle horniness. Yep, brain meltdown!

  “And how about you, Miss Sexy! I would never have the nerve to wear a frock like that,” Wendy said, as she gave Laura’s gown an approving nod.

/>   That’s a good one. Frock. A fuck frock. Or a frock for fucking. Oh, please, God, don’t let me have said that out loud.

  “Is it too much? Does it make my butt look too big?” Laura asked, giving her rump a little slap.

  Yes.

  “Sweetie, butts are in, dontcha know?” Wendy replied.

  Ethan coughed to remind them of his presence, and said, “I think I’ll go get a drink. White wine for you, Wendy? And how about you, Laura? Whiskey straight up, or will you chug it from the bottle?”

  Wendy and Laura both laughed.

  “I’ll go with you.” Wendy, still laughing, grabbed for his hand.

  “See you later,” Laura called out to Wendy, then added for Ethan’s benefit, with ominous intent, “Make sure you stick around for the grinch winner announcement.”

  He thought about flicking the bird at Laura’s back, but restrained himself because of Wendy’s presence. But then he noticed the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. She knew just what he’d been thinking.

  After that, it was almost like they’d wiped out all the years and were back in time, to when they’d been teenagers. They slow danced in an endless agony of what could pass for foreplay, they fast danced—well, shagged—till they almost dropped, they drank (not too much for him), and they talked and laughed with friends. All the time, they were aware of each other in a way only lovers could be. Their gazes kept returning to each other, even across the room, their eyes sending secret messages.

  Finally, Doreen, whose orange complexion had faded to a deep tan, stepped up onto the stage and took the microphone. “Listen up, everyone, we have a winner in the grinch contest.”

  Several of the news media representatives moved up closer to the dais to get the best pictures. A number of the contenders moved farther away, not wanting to be noticed.

  “First of all, we raised thirty-three thousand, five hundred and twenty dollars.”

  There were gasps of surprise, followed by applause.

  “As for the contest, it was a close race, until the last minute,” Doreen said, “but then a dark horse came up out of nowhere.”

  Ethan, and a bunch of other reluctant nominees, relaxed at those words.

  Wendy grinned at his obvious pleasure in not earning the dubious honor.

  “The winner of the first annual Bell Cove Grinch Contest is . . .” The band did a drum roll as Doreen paused. “. . . Jeremy Mateer.”

  No one was more shocked than Jeremy who exclaimed, “What? Me? What did I do?” He hadn’t even been on the list, as far as Ethan recalled.

  “It seems that Jeremy pulled an all-time male Christmas blooper that caused his wife, Darlene, to plunk five thousand dollars into the grinch kitty.”

  “What?” Jeremy yelled, turning to glare at his wife.

  “Jeremy, my friend,” Doreen continued, “did you really buy your wife a synthetic diamond ring for Christmas, which also happens to be your twentieth wedding anniversary?”

  Jeremy’s face turned a bright red and he mouthed to his wife, “Oops!” To his apparent relief, Darlene was laughing.

  Once Jeremy was on the stage, having been crowned “Grinch of the Year,” the crowd began to sing a new version of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” which was “For He’s a Jolly Grinch Fellow.” Hokey as hell. Probably another of Laura’s half-brained ideas.

  Speaking of . . .

  While the band took a break, Laura called Wendy off to the side. Ethan didn’t know what was being said by Laura (probably something snarky about him). Wendy at first looked stunned.

  I don’t recall doing anything that snark-worthy.

  But then, Wendy was laughing, hilariously.

  I don’t recall anything particularly funny, either. But then, Laura’s idea of funny and mine would be totally different. She would consider it hilarious if I tripped and fell and broke my nose.

  In the end, Laura handed Wendy something which she slipped into the side pocket of her dress.

  A dagger, maybe?

  “What was that about?” he asked when Wendy returned.

  Wendy rolled her eyes and said, “You don’t want to know!”

  Yes, I do. I think.

  After that, they were talking to Gabe and Matt about Bell Forge for a few moments when the band took the stage again. The female singer/guitarist spoke into the mic. “This next song is a special request.” And then her clear, surprisingly beautiful voice rang out with that old Whitney Houston song, “I Will Always Love You,” before the band joined in.

  “She didn’t!” he and Wendy said at the same time and turned to glare at Laura who was standing by the stage.

  Is that what the laughter was about? No, Wendy wouldn’t have allowed her to do this, nor would she find it funny.

  The unapologetic meddler just grinned and gave them a little wave.

  It had been their song in high school. Corny as that was. He and Wendy had been driving to the lighthouse, that first time they’d made love, when they were only sixteen years old. The song had been playing on his car radio.

  With a sigh of resignation, Ethan stepped forward onto the dance floor and opened his arms.

  Wendy didn’t hesitate, either. She put her hands behind his neck.

  He looped his arms around her waist and tugged her closer.

  With her face resting on his shoulder and his lips touching her hair, they swayed to the music. Young love/mature love melded. Forever became a hopeful possibility, at least while the song lasted.

  Those who’d known Ethan and Wendy “back then” were touched. Those who hadn’t could tell that something special was happening.

  Soon the dance floor was crowded with couples, but Wendy and Ethan felt like they were alone, sixteen, and deeply in love.

  When the song was over, Wendy leaned back and said, “When Laura called me over to talk before, she mentioned that you’re still a bastard.”

  “Nothing new there.” Why else would she pull the prank of this song? To punish me.

  “She definitely doesn’t like you very much,” Wendy continued, “but—”

  “I’m not too fond of her, either, by the way,” he interrupted.

  “—then she gave me something.” Wendy reached into her pocket and pulled out a key, waving it in front of his face.

  He frowned in puzzlement.

  “It seems that Laura is going to stay here tonight and help Gabe clean up. She probably won’t be home until six a.m. when she needs to work on a special edition of her newspaper.”

  Ethan was still confused. The key looked like a door key. Oh, good Lord! Was Laura offering them the use of her apartment for the night?

  He arched his brows at Wendy.

  She arched her brows back at him.

  “I’m starting to like Laura a little bit more,” he said with a smile.

  “You should.”

  Deep inside, he knew this was a mistake. Continuing this relationship, which wasn’t really a relationship, was a sure road to disappointment and worse. If he had a lick of sense, he’d end things now with a kiss good-bye. It’s been fun. Sayonara.

  But his desire for Wendy overrode everything, especially something as boring as common sense.

  With a sudden burst of joyous laughter, he twirled her around to whatever song the band was playing. He couldn’t tell for the buzzing in his ears. She was laughing joyously, too.

  “Merry Christmas to me!” he said, taking the key in hand. Then he put a fake doleful expression on his face, just like Harvey when he was up to no good. “But I don’t have a present for you. Well, actually, I do, but it’s not wrapped.”

  “Maybe I could grab a hank of red ribbon off one of those wreaths on the way out, and I could tie a bow on it for you.”

  He winked at her. “That’s a promise I’ll hold you to, sweetheart.”

  Getting to know you, all over again . . .

  Never, back in Coronado, when she’d been contemplating this visit back to Bell Cove, had Wendy imagined anything like this happening.


  Oh . . . My . . . Goodness! Be . . . Still . . . My . . . Hormone-hammering. . . . Heart!

  Can a person faint from lust overload?

  She was standing in Laura’s bedroom being undressed, piece by agonizing piece of clothing, by Ethan, who whispered praise at each bit of skin he uncovered. When he was down on one knee, tugging off her silky scrap of bikini panties, he looked up at her, lazily, through half-lidded eyes, with those wonderfully long lashes, and groaned. “You make my balls sweat.”

  “You romantic, you!” she countered. “But that’s good because you make my bones melt.” And a certain part of my body might be sweating, too.

  Grinning, he gave a brief butterfly kiss to the crisp curls of her mons, then stood, still fully clothed, and surveyed her, head to toe, in her strappy silver high heels and nothing else. He nodded his approval, then ordered, “Don’t move.”

  Stepping back, he began a slow striptease of his own for her. Oh, not the Magic Mike or Chippendale type. Just a removal of one item of clothing after another, with teasing slowness.

  Is there anything sexier than a man taking off his cuff links and placing them carefully on a dresser, holding my eyes the whole time, alerting me to his carnal intentions?

  Once totally nude, he walked up to her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his skin. His expression was serious, but he seemed to be happy. At least, his penis was happy.

  He placed his fingertips on the pulse in her neck, or maybe he was touching her scar. He had a fascination for that war wound of hers. There were others, less conspicuous. Would he notice them?

  Then, he trailed his fingers upward, running the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, then tracing the seam of her mouth, parting her for a kiss. She was more than ready to comply and reached out to put her hands on his shoulders.

  “No,” he said, placing her arms at her sides. “My game. My rules.”

  Okaay.