Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  "As much fun as this has been, I should get back to work." I made to slide out of the booth, but Kyle gripped my arm.

  His gaze focused on me, intent in a way I'd never seen them. "I want to meet her."

  Every cell in my body froze. I didn't need to ask what he was talking about. I knew, and an oil slick of remorse coated my insides. "You can't."

  "I'm her father, Andy."

  "It was a closed adoption, Kyle. You can't approach Kaylee unless her parents approach you first."

  Kyle shook his head, his signature stubbornness rising to the fore. "I never signed away my rights."

  We were getting looks from every other patron in the pasta shop. As much as I didn't want to have this conversation, I really didn't want to have it in public. It would be all over town before I could say Nutcracker. "Come on."

  Taking Kyle by the hand, I led him into the kitchen. "Mimi, can you go clear the front room, please?"

  Mimi nodded and set down the paring knife before pushing back into the main room.

  "Kyle, listen to me. I found her the best home a girl could hope for. Great parents, a terrific start to her future. If she comes looking for you that's one thing, but you can't just swoop in and screw her up. She might not even know she's adopted."

  He put his hands on the counter and leaned toward me. "You sound like Lizzy."

  "Well color me shocked, but for once Lizzy and I agree."

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You didn't give me a say in any of it. I wanted her, Andy. I wanted you too, and you just left."

  Why was he dragging all this ancient history out of the muck now? It must be the holidays, when normal easygoing people turned maudlin. "I know. I'm not sorry for it, Kyle. As much as I wronged you, as much as I wanted to have her to myself, I am not sorry I gave her up. Don't you want her to be happy?"

  "Of course I do. More than anything."

  "Okay. Well, if she's anything like me, she won't be happy here. Not when everyone is gossiping about her, and about us. Being a teenager is tough enough, but having everyone whisper about you—the looks, the little snide comments—it's unbearable at times. Trust me on this. "

  He didn't say anything, just pushed his way out of the kitchen.

  Angry and frustrated, I banged pots and pans with a vengeance. The racket drowned out Bing's bass baritone singing "White Christmas" but not my own thoughts. When Mimi tentatively suggested I take a break, I snagged my coat and exited through the back door.

  Dozens of potted poinsettias were on display at the florists, and candy canes and snowmen hung from every lamppost. The rain had subsided into a drizzle, but a cold wind kept pushing my hood back from my face. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I turned off of Main Street and onto Oak Summit Drive, past the elementary school, to the playground behind it. I sat on a swing and stared at all of the snowflake doily art projects covered in glue and glitter, proudly displayed. School was closed for the holidays, all the kids at home driving their parents up a freaking wall with their pre-Santa jitters. I wondered what my daughter wanted for Christmas.

  A tear slid down my cheek. Damn Kyle straight to hell. Why did he have to go poking at this old wound? A wound that never healed more than a little and was still tender and raw and oh, so painful. A wound I kept covered, hidden.

  The tears fell, mixing with the light drizzle.

  An unknown amount of time later I heard gravel crunch under tires. Without looking up, I knew it was Jones. His super Spidey senses must have alerted him to a female in peril, and here he was all in black and ready to save the day.

  "Kyle wants to find her." I wiped my eyes as I spoke. "I don't know what to say to him, to convince him that he's making a mistake."

  Jones didn't say anything else, just pulled me into his embrace. The fact that I let him showed just how comfortable I'd become with him. I didn't make a habit of leaning on other people, especially not men.

  "Do you think I'm wrong?" I asked Jones.

  He pushed my damp hair out of my eyes and smiled down at me. "I think I know better than to ever tell a woman she's wrong. Especially about something that matters to her."

  "He's driving me nuts with this. I'm terrified he's going to screw up Kaylee's life." I shook my head hard, as though I could free the swirling vortex of thoughts. "I can't think about this anymore. Let's talk about something else. Anything else."

  "In the SUV. The rain is picking up again. And you're already soaked to your skin."

  I let him lead me to the idling vehicle. The interior smelled of leather and Jones. "Do you need to get back to work?"

  I checked the time on the dash. "The lunch rush will be over by now. I have a few before I need to get back for the catering gig tonight. Why?"

  Jones backed out of the elementary school parking lot and onto Oak Summit. "I thought we could do a little sleuthing."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mavis Humphries was a widow who lived with her adult son, Peter. Peter was something of a recluse, though the Beaverton gossip mill speculated that he was some sort of internet start-up guru and he had more money than the New York Yankees squirreled away in offshore accounts. On the drive to Cherry Blossom Ave., I filled Jones in.

  "We both know how off the mark gossip can be," he said.

  "Right. Plus, the way I figure it, any man with money would not choose to live with Mavis the Mouth. You could hire a cook and housekeeper for a lot less grief than she gives anyone she can corner."

  After the death of Peter's father, Mavis had bought one of the newer cookie cutter houses in one of the subdivisions that had sprung up during the peak of the real estate boom. Since North Carolina failed to deliver on the promises of being the new Florida, many of the prefabs were back on the market and even up for rent. I knew because Donna bitched about it constantly.

  Mavis's ranch home was blue with red shutters and sat at the mouth of a quiet cul-de-sac. It was the only house on the street adorned with Christmas decorations. A giant Frosty lay deflated on the postage stamp size front yard, looking like the victim of a heinous crime. The house was covered from chimney to foundation in strands of lights which probably looked terrific at night but miserable in the middle of the day. Her nativity scene was the worst, plastic and bleached out by the strong Carolina sun with an obvious crack running right through the head of the baby Jesus. Jones parked under a leafless dogwood across the street, and we stared at the sad little structure.

  "It looks like the place where Christmas goes to die," I muttered. "I'd bet this stuff has been sitting out since last year."

  "So how do we get in to look for signs of the book?" he asked.

  "Let's try knocking." I hopped down to the ground and strode across the street.

  I vaguely recalled Peter from several years ago. He was painfully shy, though he'd come into the pasta shop a time or two, always alone. I'd done my best to strike up a conversation with him, but the minute Kyle and I had gone public with our relationship, I'd only had eyes for him.

  Jones cast me a sidelong glance and then rang the doorbell. "I hope you know what you're doing, Andrea."

  "That would be a nice change of pace," I mumbled, just as the red door opened about an inch. Through the crack I saw a bloodshot eyeball and several days' worth of beard growth. Peter was doing his level best to live up to the crazy recluse stereotype.

  "Hi, Peter," I said as cheerfully as I could manage. Cheery didn't come naturally to me, but considering it was the season, I made a stab at it. "Andy Buckland. Do you remember me?"

  "Ya huh." The eye stayed fixed on me. "I saw you kill all those people on T.V."

  Jones made a strangled sound even as my faux smile flash-froze on my face. "It was mild food poisoning. No one died." Had everyone in town seen my disastrous television debut?

  "That's not what my mom said." Peter's attention shifted to Jones. "Who is he?"

  "Malcolm Jones. He's Lizzy Tillman's brother."

  "I'm actually thinking of buying the house across the street
." Jones pointed. "Andrea asked your mother if we could look around your house, get a feel for the neighborhood. Do you mind if we come in?"

  The eye flitted from Jones to me and back again. Obviously Peter did mind, only he didn't know how to refuse us if his mother had granted her permission. "Just for a minute."

  The door shut, and we heard the distinct sound of a chain being unlatched. Then it opened again, just wide enough to admit us.

  "Oh, holy macaroni," I breathed. The house was stockpiled full of stuff. Junk as far as the eye could see. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner, but instead of ornaments and garland, it was festooned with socks and underwear and topped with what looked like a girdle. Clothes baskets overflowed with magazines, newspapers, and mail. The floor was littered with prepackaged food wrappers, string, rubber bands, and various other flotsam I couldn't identify.

  Jones and I exchanged a look of utter dismay. One thing was abundantly clear— if Aunt Cecily's beloved recipe book was here, it was better hidden than the Ark of the Covenant.

  Peter's face had turned beet red, and he mumbled something about getting us drinks. He was clearly embarrassed. I wasn't sure if the hoarding was his problem or his mother's, but no one should have to live like this.

  "I think," Jones whispered in my ear, "that your grandfather dodged a bullet with Mavis Humphries."

  "She was too young for him, anyway." There was something stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I cringed when I saw the footprint I'd left in what was either honey or syrup. "Good God, Jones, they've only been here six years. We took less stuff out of the Victorian, and that was Pop's home for more than half a century."

  "Is it even worth looking?" Jones poked a stack of tissue boxes and recoiled as they toppled. "This is the proverbial needle in a haystack, and we're not even sure the book is here."

  I scanned the topmost portions of the piles. "Um, I think we better switch strategies. Follow my lead."

  "Oh, goody." Jones's tone was dry. I could tell he enjoyed the subterfuge as much as I did.

  The kitchen wasn't any better, though it did appear clean under the clutter. No dirty dishes, or moldy food, just towering boxes of instant grits, Rice-A-Roni, and easy mac. Peter stood looking out the back window a couple of soda cans in his hands.

  "So Peter," I said. He turned to face me, his bloodshot eyes weary. "You sure do have a lot of stuff. Where did you get it all?"

  "Subtle," Jones murmured so only I could hear.

  Peter offered us the sodas, but we waved them away, neither of us willing to ingest anything that came out of this place.

  He set the sodas aside. "It's my mom's," he said at length.

  "Oh." I tried to look surprised but couldn't feign it. "Has she been collecting a long time?"

  Peter shot me a scathing look. "It's messed up. I know that. I stay with her to try to keep it from getting too out of hand, but there's only so much that I can do. She totally loses it when I throw stuff away." He made a helpless gesture.

  I felt sick inside. "Maybe she needs professional help. There are people—"

  But Peter was shaking his head. "She'll never go for it. She doesn't see anything wrong with it." There were tears in his eyes.

  I put my hand on his arm. "You shouldn't have to live like this."

  He shrugged me off. "I don't got a choice. You've done your looking—now leave."

  I couldn't keep prying, not when he was so distressed over his mother's illness. We retraced our steps back to the vehicle.

  "That," Jones said, "is one of the saddest things I've ever seen. What's his plan, to clean up after her the best he can until she dies?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know. We have to do something though."

  Jones grimaced. "That is an incredibly bad idea."

  "Maybe, but do you really think walking away and trying to forget what we just saw is the right thing to do?"

  He stared at me for a beat. "You're something else, Andrea Rosetti Buckland. You don't even like this woman."

  I shrugged. "That's nothing new—I don't like anyone."

  He pulled me close. "Except for me."

  "Yeah, except for you."

  * * *

  The holiday celebration at the community center was in full swing by the time we arrived. I spied Aunt Cecily and Pops over by the rum punch and picked my way through the crowd.

  Someone bumped me from behind. "Excuse me."

  I looked down to see a pretty girl wearing jeans and a purple T-shirt with a hole in the hem. She was about sixteen, and her expression screamed overwhelmed. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine," she muttered and stumbled back into the crowd.

  Weird. Though I'd become reacquainted with a large portion of the town, I hardly knew every teenager. She'd looked so lost though. I almost went after her, but the sound of raised voices from my relatives stopped me in my tracks.

  "Ma, che sei grullo?" Aunt Cecily snarled to Pops.

  I rolled my eyes heavenward. Though she'd just basically asked him how stupid was he, I now recognized their scary verbal sparring for what it was—foreplay.

  Ick ick ick. Not the mental image I wanted in my head, so I interrupted.

  Aunt Cecily shifted her black scowl to me. "Did you find who took my recipes?"

  "Not yet." I hugged Pops and whispered into his ear. "Don't let her give anyone the Evil Eye."

  "Like I could stop her?" Pops snorted. "What's wrong, Andy-girl? You look all done in."

  "Rough day." It had been too. My feet were killing me, and I wanted nothing more than to go back home and have a long soak in the tub. Unfortunately as a prominent business owner, I needed to oversee this very important community event, no matter that I didn't feel like celebrating.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I grinned to see Donna and her husband, Steven. After exchanging pleasantries I pulled Donna aside. "I'll have her back to you in a jiff, Steve,"

  "Take your time." He flinched as Donna swatted him on the arm.

  I pulled her with me through the opening into the kitchen. Two teenagers had been hired to help Mimi with service tonight, and I felt sure that everything was under control. There was a small office for clerical work on the far side of the kitchen where we could have some privacy.

  The door had barely clicked shut when Donna turned to me and squealed. "I want all the details."

  "What?" I frowned at her as she made a grab for my left hand.

  "Was it romantic? Did he get down on one knee?" She stared down at my unadorned hand with a frown. "Where is it?"

  "Where's what?" I asked. "Donna what the hell are you nattering on about?"

  Her gaze locked on mine, filled with confusion. "The ring Jones bought."

  "Ring?" I said flatly. "What ring?"

  "Missy Taylor saw him going into the Emerald Isle jewelry store. She was at the little boutique across the way, picking up her dress for tonight. She said Jones came out pocketing a ring box. When I ran into her at the grocery store she told me all about it, and I just assumed he was going to propose to you. When you hauled me back here I thought that's what you were going to tell me."

  "Propose?" The idea was so foreign that I couldn't get my head to accept it. "No, no way."

  Donna clapped a hand over her mouth like she could call the words back. "Oh, nuts. Andy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the surprise."

  "Surprise?" Apparently I'd lost the ability to say more than one word at a time.

  "Yeah." Donna smacked herself on the forehead. "I'm such an idiot! You know what? I bet he's planning to give it to you on Christmas! It all makes sense now, why he wanted Lizzy there so badly. He's going to propose in front of both your families!"

  "Propose?" I latched on to that one word as the room spun around me.

  "Oh, honey, here. Sit down." Donna yanked me over to a folding metal chair. "Here, put your head between your knees."

  And kiss my sorry butt goodbye. Jones couldn't propose to me. He couldn't. It would ruin everything we'd built,
put a label on it, and make it official. No more hot lusty exchanges. No more wine and pillow talk. Just marriage and obligation. Permanence. How could he even think that proposing was a good idea and in front of our families? I'd say no, and then they'd all give me the third degree. And he'd hate me!

  "What's the matter, Andy? Aren't you happy?" Donna was crouched beside me and fanning me with a sheaf of papers someone had left on the desk.

  "No," I croaked. I still thought of him by his last name for crying out loud!

  Tiny lines formed between Donna's eyebrows. "No? You mean you don't love him?"

  Love. Criminy, how was I supposed to know that?

  "Oh, Andy." Donna's face fell. "Hasn't he told you he's in love with you?"

  Slowly I managed to shake my head. "No. It's never come up."

  "You two have been together for months now, day and night. I just assumed."

  "You know what they say about people who assume, don't you?"

  Donna grimaced. "It makes an ass out of you and me. Yeah, oldest joke in the book. But seriously, you guys haven't talked about the future at all?"

  I leaned back in my chair. "The present has been sort of demanding."

  Donna patted my arm in sympathy. "Okay, but you do love him. I know you do."

  "That," I said, "makes one of us."

  "So, why did you haul my cookies all the way back here?"

  A change of subject was just what the doctor ordered. I wanted her take on what Jones and I had unearthed. "What do you know about hoarding?"

  Donna made a face. "It's bad from a Realtor's perspective. Hoarding can cause infestations of all sorts of bugs, which can be costly to treat, and sometimes the structure needs to be condemned. Why do you ask?"