Christmas by Accident

by Camron Wright

  When Yin pried for details, Carter did his best to summarize. “It’s the story of a West Coast trial attorney who is so desperate to win his cases that he spends most holidays at the firm. His wife and two boys pretend that all is well, that life as a family is jolly . . . until their lives fall apart right before Christmas when the mother sits the boys down to tell them that she’s moving away.”

  “It sounds dreadful, very depressing,” Yin responded, before hurriedly slapping a hand over his mouth.

  Carter didn’t object. “Remember, it’s fiction,” he said, “because nobody in real life would be that heartless.” His expression puckered. “But you’re right, it is dismal . . . and that’s the problem. While it feels like there could be a story in there, I haven’t been able to figure out where it goes. It’s like my wheels are turning, but the car is stuck in story mud.”

  “That’s a metaphor, right?” Yin confirmed.

  Carter nodded. “How do I get unstuck? What am I supposed to do?”

  Yin’s answer was logical. “I guess you find someone who has a towing chain.”

  “You’re right!” Carter shouted, to confirm what he’d likewise been thinking. “I need someone with more experience to give me some pointers. I’m simply too new at this. Yin—I need a writer, or perhaps a book editor. Someone who knows what they’re doing . . . a professional!”

  Yin chuckled aloud. “Carter, we live in Springfield, not New York City. Have you ever known or even heard of anyone who’s a book editor?”

  The question wrapped itself in the silence of the room, a quiet that was torn open only by Yin’s waving arms.

  “Until we find someone, should we order pizza?”

  Mannie waited for Abby to fix his lunch, cover it with plastic, and then kiss his forehead before she left for the store. It was daily déjà vu.

  “I have a quick errand to run after work,” she said, “but I’ll drop back around six.”

  “No need. I’m feeling much better.”

  Finally, Mannie wasn’t lying. Once she’d gone, he pulled the pills from the bottom drawer of his dresser and headed to the kitchen for water. It was his third day taking the wonder drug, and he was finally noticing a difference. His arms, while still numb, no longer felt frozen. He could walk without limping. He could once again grip a glass of water without worrying that it would break free and plummet to the floor.

  Mannie reached for his phone.

  “Andrew? Hey, it’s Mannie. Listen, can we get together today or tomorrow? I need you to prepare the paperwork to transfer business ownership to my niece, Abby.”

  Mannie waited as Andrew checked his calendar.

  “There’s just one problem,” Mannie added. “I need to do it without her knowing.”

  When the doorbell rang, Carter squeezed from his chair. Why did Roberto bother? Carter wondered. Why didn’t he just walk in? They were already on a first-name basis. What was left? Exchanging emails? Spending holidays together?

  Ring, ring.

  “Coming! Hold your huffing horses.”

  Carter wove around a pillar of empty pizza boxes. Rather than haul them to the dumpster, he and Yin had stacked them by the front door in a creation dubbed the “Leaning Tower of Pizza.”

  Carter scratched at the itchy stubble on his chin, then twisted the knob and swung the door open. A split second of recognition was displaced by an afternoon of dread. If this was Roberto, he’d been chugging estrogen by the gallon.

  The girl standing at the doorway was shorter than Carter would have guessed from her picture, but he recognized her toasted-hazel eyes and her trademark smile.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m looking for Carter Cross?”

  Carter’s gaze crashed to the floor. His dignity followed. He was wearing tatty basketball shorts and a coffee-stained T-shirt, one that had never known the privilege of meeting an iron. Worse, the room behind him was in shambles, a decorating style he would label Post–Hurricane Katrina. There were third-world garbage dumps that were more appealing.

  She either didn’t notice or masked it well, and as she extended her hand, Carter debated pretending to be Yin. It would have worked but for that pesky difference in complexion.

  “I’m Carter,” he heard himself say.

  “My name is Abby McBride. Are you the Carter Cross who works for Business Alliance Deposit Insurance?”

  How should he answer? She must have noticed his hesitation because her nose wrinkled like a curious ­bunny’s. “Sort of,” Carter finally replied. “I’m the Carter Cross who did work there. I no longer do.”

  “But your name is on my insurance claim as the adjuster,” she said, as if all he needed was some convincing. It was evident she was trying hard to be polite, like he was that insufferable distant relative at Thanksgiving dinner whom one tolerates out of duty.

  Carter didn’t want to admit to being fired. “We . . . parted ways. I’m surprised they gave you my address.”

  It was her turn to look guilty. “They didn’t. When I saw your name listed on the claim, I . . . well, I Googled you. I kept getting the complete runaround when I called the toll-free number. They insist I wasn’t insured, but I have a copy of the cancelled check and—”

  “I’m truly sorry, Miss McBride,” Carter interrupted. “I wish there were something more I could do.”

  Carter watched the twinkle in her eye tarnish.

  “Thank you,” she answered, but her words were so empty they echoed. She turned, was about to leave when she pivoted back around. “Is there someone I can call at the company, someone who will take the time to listen? It’s just that my uncle has been sick and so I’m managing our store alone . . . and with the accident and then the insurance problems, I’m now behind on three book editing projects, not to mention the store’s year-end inventory. Any name at all would be extremely helpful.”

  Her words stopped at his ears. He pushed rewind, then parsed them again.

  “Did you say book editing?”

  “Yes. I do some editing for a publisher in New York . . . you know, on the side.”

  A growing grin nearly touched each ear. It was all he could do to not hug himself. What were the chances? “Miss McBride,” he said, as every word shouted glory be, “I believe I may be able to help you after all.”

  When Lenny opened his car door to head to lunch, Carter was waiting in the front passenger’s seat.

  “What the . . . Carter? What are you doing here?” Lenny stammered.

  “You said we should go to lunch sometime. Are you ready? It’s my treat.”

  Lenny glanced around the company lot, as if certain he’d find a hidden-camera film crew. When he noticed nothing, he climbed inside. “What’s this about?”

  “I told you, I’m here to take you to lunch,” Carter said. “But I’m also not going to lie to you.” Carter wrapped his arm around Lenny. “When we get back, I need a small favor!”

  The arrangement Carter had worked out with Abby was simple: he agreed to contact the many influential people he knew at the insurance company (Lenny), while Abby promised to use her skills as an editor to take a serious look at his writing and offer some pointers. It was a workable proposition for each.

  While he waited for Abby to finish with her customer, he wandered over to the café and sampled André’s peppermint chocolate cheesecake. It was a slice of pure paradise, perhaps the best dessert Carter had ever eaten.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m running late,” Abby puffed as she scooted in across the table.

  Carter didn’t mind. He was still licking crumbs off both sides of his fork. “Forget ReadMore,” he told her. “Call this place EatMore!”

  Her lips parted wide enough to show teeth before she checked her watch. “Did you hear back from anyone at the insurance company yet?” she asked.

  “Right to business—I like that. No, not yet, b
ut I’ve spoken to my contacts, who are looking into it. I should know something in a day or two. Don’t worry. I’ll keep my end of the agreement.”

  She folded her arms. Her eyes offered thanks, but then he caught her watch-glancing a second time. “Did you bring your story?” she asked, looking up.

  Carter pulled a small stack of typed pages from a bag that rested at his feet, then reluctantly handed them across the table.

  “They still need a lot of work. This is just the beginning. I’ve still—”

  Her raised hand stopped him. “I won’t draw a red frowny face on it, I promise.” She peeked toward the door. “However, if it’s fine with you, I’d like to read these later when I have more time. My uncle had to go back to the hospital for some follow-up tests, and I need to pick him up.”

  Carter‘s shoulders slumped like cheap chocolate pudding. He must have looked like a child on Christmas morning who had just opened Grandma’s hand-knit sweater instead of a bike.

  His disappointment didn’t go unnoticed. Abby swallowed, her head tilted slightly to one side. She raised two fingers. “I take it you need these right away?”

  Carter glanced first at his feet before looking up. “I’m sort of stuck with my story’s direction and I was . . . well, hoping you’d be able to help.”

  “And do you really believe you’ll be able to help me get some answers from the insurance company?”

  He tried to sound confident. “I do.”

  “I’ll tell you what, then,” she offered. “If you need these now . . .” But then she paused. The words blinking across her brow read, Never mind, it’s probably a bad idea.

  “What is it?” Carter pressed.

  “I was thinking that if you’d like to drive me there, I could read your pages in the car.”

  “To visit your uncle?”

  “He doesn’t generally bite. And it’s only if you want to. I’m simply trying to make this work for the both of us.”

  “No, no, no, that sounds great.” Carter wiped away his surprise, collected his things, and pointed her toward his car.

  For twenty minutes all Carter heard was Abby shuffling pages. He did his best to keep his eyes on the road, but in snatched glimpses, he caught her grin, grimace, and giggle. He wasn’t certain if she was laughing with him or at him.

  As Carter pulled into the hospital parking lot, Abby turned over the last page. The timing was perfect.

  “It’s okay,” Carter told her, as he shut off the engine. “I’m a turtle. I have a hard shell. I can take the truth.”

  “Fair enough,” she replied. “I’ll be honest.” She shifted toward him. “Without more, it’s hard to see where the story is going. But from what I’ve read, I can tell you that while it needs a lot of work, I’m willing to offer some pointers to improve it.” She moistened her lower lip, perhaps to make it easier for her words to slide out. “That said, I see a glimmer of crouching talent.”

  He would take it as a compliment, though he could still see uncertainty hanging in her eyes. “What is it?” he pried.

  “It’s just . . . can I ask you something?” As Carter nodded, her gaze returned to the pages. “Is this fiction?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Tell me then why you love Christmas,” she prodded. “You must if you want to write a story about it.”

  She let the weight of her words draw him close.

  “Let’s see,” he finally replied. “The food is tasty. Everyone gets time off work. People are unusually happy. There’s a fat man in a red suit who hands out gifts. What’s not to like?”

  Her stare didn’t move, didn’t leave its target. It was apparently not the answer she was fishing for.

  “Let me try this a different way,” she said. “Are your parents alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Spokane. Is that relevant?”

  “Like the parents in your story,” she noted.

  “Does that matter?”

  “What do you do as a family for Christmas? I presume you get together.” Her words blistered when touched. Silence filled the space. It was answer enough. “So you don’t go back home?” she confirmed.

  “I haven’t been back for a couple of years, that’s all,” Carter conceded. “My parents finally got divorced and . . . things haven’t been the same. Why would my parents’ divorce disqualify me from writing about Christmas?” A hint of irritation skirted out.

  “I’m not suggesting it does. I’m just trying to help you see one of the problems with your writing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you want to tell a compelling Christmas story, it helps if you believe in Christmas.”

  “You don’t think I do?”

  She returned a plastic grin. It must have also been time to change the subject because her next question had nothing to do with his story.

  “Shall we go meet my uncle Mannie?”

  He followed her inside to the elevator, where she pushed a button for the fourth floor. When the doors closed, he took the opportunity to ask a question of his own.

  “Can I ask you something now?”

  She turned. “Sure. What is it?”

  “It’s about your accident.”

  “Yes?” Her whole frame leaned in to listen.

  “You slid on black ice, right? That’s what caused you to crash?”

  “Correct.” Although the fluorescent light in the elevator wasn’t particularly harsh, she still squinted.

  “And you could see the trees, or rocks, or whatever it was you hit, and you knew that you were going to crash, that it was inevitable?”

  “Where is this going?”

  “I’m curious about the moment right before impact. In the split second before you smashed . . .” Carter hesitated, but there was no backing out now. “ . . . did you smile?”

  Her eyebrows drew close as she fit the puzzling words together. “Did I smile?” she echoed. Her foot tapped, but not to any music. “No, as I recall, right before impact I was screaming for my life! Seriously, why on earth would I smile?” She was gazing up with a look that told him it was the stupidest question she’d ever been asked.

  What had he been thinking?

  Lest she believe him to be a lunatic, he decided to explain. “I’ve dealt with accidents for years, and I’ve just . . . I’ve heard that people sometimes see their lives flash before their eyes . . . and I . . . I wondered if that happened to you? If it did, and if you’ve had a good life, I was curious to know if it . . . did it make you smile?”

  She stared at him for what felt like an eternity, but it must have been only seconds because the doors opened on the fourth floor. When she didn’t move, Carter reached for the button to hold the doors open. It was as if she was trying to figure him out, but the numbers weren’t adding up.

  When she finally did reply, it was naturally with a Christmas movie line. “You’re a strange one, Mr. Grinch.”

  Carter was about to object, but she cut him off. “Can I ask you a favor now?” she said.

  “Sure, what?”

  The alarm on the elevator began to ring from Carter holding the doors open for too long. They stepped off together and stopped in the waiting area. Her words all but fell to the floor and begged.

  “Don’t say anything to my uncle about the problem with my auto claim. Our cars are insured through the business, and if a payment wasn’t sent in properly, it was likely his oversight. With his health issues, I don’t want him to worry.”

  He met her gaze, pondered the striking color of her eyes, then let his own gaze drop to her chin. For the first time, he noticed that she had dimples.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Instead of finding Mannie in the waiting room as he’d promised, they discovered him sitting in an examination room three doors
down.

  “What’s wrong? Is everything all right?” Abby asked as she entered, distress cresting in her voice.

  Mannie’s arms protested in disgust, as much as arms hooked to tubes could. “Everything is fine. You know doctors . . . their time is always worth more than everyone else’s. They just want to make sure I’m not dehydrated, so they’re giving me some extra fluid. It won’t be long.”

  In addition to the IV that poked out of Mannie’s arm, a beeping monitor assured anyone entering that the man was still alive. His face was slightly jaundiced, but that may have been nothing more than the room’s pasty lighting.

  When Mannie noticed Carter, he sat forward. “I’m sorry,” he said to Abby, “I didn’t realize you brought company.”

  “Uncle, this is Carter Cross. Carter, this is my uncle Mannie.” Abby pointed her finger at the respective parties, as if there would otherwise be confusion as to who was who.

  Mannie’s head jerked straight. His stare lassoed Carter, then circled back around to Abby.

  Abby knew the look, could see what was happening. She jumped in with both feet before he embarrassed himself. “No, Uncle, it’s not like that . . . Carter is a . . . well, he’s doing some writing and I’m helping him out. We’re just friends. That’s all.”

  Mannie shrugged it off, and, with the air clear, they visited. Abby let Mannie know that the shipment of cookbooks they’d ordered had arrived on time and she had already put them out on the sales floor. Mannie reinforced his appreciation for her stepping up while he got back on his feet, and he assured her she was running the store better than he ever did. She told him that Rosa would be directing the nonfiction book club that met on Thursdays. He told her that her hair looked very nice the way she’d pulled it back over her shoulders.