Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  "You'd really begrudge me one tree off your vast estate?" Jones said. "The bastard doesn't even warrant a single evergreen?"

  Mr. Tillman's eyes narrowed. "Go on—take it—then get the hell out of here." He dug into his jeans pocket, withdrew a hip flask, and took a swig.

  "We don't have to—"

  Jones cast me a dark look. "I'm not leaving here without this tree."

  Well then, okay. I stood back, shivering from more than the cold.

  * * *

  To warm us up after our misadventure, I baked some gingerbread men while Jones struggled with the tree and his demons. Damn it. Every time it seemed like the holiday was on track, something threw a big old monkey wrench into the works. Lizzy, the recipe book, Mavis and Peter, and now Jones's father, who appeared to be on a bender.

  As I cleaned up from my baking, I stared out the kitchen window. How many times had I made gingerbread men with Nana on Christmas Eve? Every year before I moved out. I'd been too busy for holiday nonsense while I trained to become a chef. I figured I cooked for a living—there was no reason to cook more, especially not just for me. But there was something therapeutic about making something so different than the run-of-the-mill pasta.

  We'd picked up Roofus and brought him home with us. He now lay smack in the center of the kitchen floor, snoring. I clipped his leash to him and dragged him out into the back yard to do his business. He gave me a stink eye and sat, staring up at me. I could wait him out though.

  The sun had gone down, and the sky was purpling. We had a few hours yet before we picked up Pops and Aunt Cecily for midnight mass. I wondered where Kaylee was and if she was having a good Christmas. She was sixteen now, too old for the Santa shtick. What were her new family's traditions? Did they bake together?

  "Andrea, I need a hand," Jones called from the back door.

  I dragged the worthless mongrel inside and made my way into the other room. "What's up?"

  The tree for one thing. Though Jones's hands were coated in sap, and he had scrapes on his knuckles, he smiled victoriously. "Will you help me string the lights?"

  I shook my head, grinning. His enthusiasm was contagious. "Go wash your hands first."

  "Yes, Ma'am." He headed toward the bathroom then stopped mid stride. "What the devil?"

  "What?" I turned, but he bolted for the door. "What's the matter?"

  He didn't answer me, intent on flinging open the front door and dashing out into the night. Somewhere down the street a car horn honked, and a dog started barking.

  "Malcolm, what is it?" I followed him out. "Tell me what's going on."

  He'd stopped at the end of the driveway and was looking down the street. "Never mind."

  He tromped back up to the house.

  I smacked him on the shoulder. "Damn it, what just happened?"

  He shut the door and leaned against it. "Someone was looking through the windows."

  "What?"

  "I looked up, and there was this face there."

  "Do you know who it was?"

  He shook his head. "No, it happened too fast."

  "Do you think we should call the police?" I was seriously creeped out.

  "That's a good idea." Jones pulled me towards him. "You do that, and I'll wash up."

  I dug my cell out of my jacket pocket. On Christmas Eve most of the local law enforcement were either out doing sobriety checks or home with their families, so I called Kyle directly.

  "And Jones has no idea who it was?" Kyle said.

  "No. I didn't even see them."

  "I'll have a car ride past a few times tonight. We'll catch them if they come back."

  "Okay. Hey, Kyle? I think you need to know something." I updated him on the encounter with Mr. Tillman.

  Kyle sighed. "Damn it. I'm going to have to go disarm him. Alcohol and firearms are a bad combination."

  I didn't envy him one bit. "How's Lizzy holding up?"

  "Okay. She's staying over here for the night. We're going to have to see about getting her dad into rehab. He's really losing it."

  "Jones was really upset about it too. Will we see you tomorrow?"

  "No, I'll be with my folks. Merry Christmas, Andy."

  "You too." I hung up just as Jones emerged from the kitchen, a half-eaten gingerbread man in one now sap-free hand.

  "Good?" I asked him.

  He nodded. "Come on, we have a tree to decorate."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Christmas Mass hadn't changed at all since I was a kid. Same hymns, same story of Mary and Joseph schlepping all the way to the City of David—her heavily preggers, him clueless as to how his virgin wife got knocked up but taking it all on faith. Made what Jones and I'd been going through look like a cakewalk.

  Jones looked a little lost during the mass. He wasn't Catholic, but neither Pops nor Aunt Cecily held it against him. I was more an A&P Catholic, only to be seen on Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday.

  "I must talk with Mrs. McBride. Eugene, help me on the stairs," Aunt Cecily said. Mrs. McBride was the woman who ran the food bank out of St. Bart's, and as local restaurant owners and devout Catholics, Aunt Cecily and Pops were always contributing.

  The congregation was filing out. "We should go start the car," Jones offered.

  "Don't burn your gas—they'll be at least an hour," I warned him.

  He looked slightly horrified. "But they're…elderly. Don't they need their rest?"

  "Older people don't need as much rest. Pops always says, 'I'll rest when I'm dead.'"

  "That's reassuring, considering I'm beat."

  "My fearsome lumberjack." I squeezed his hand.

  It had been years since I'd been to confession, but as Christmas Eve gave way to Christmas Day, and the church cleared out, I felt the urge to purge my soul for the first time in years.

  "I'll be back in a minute." I slipped from the booth.

  "What am I supposed to do?" Jones asked.

  I stated the obvious. "Pray."

  I entered the confessional booth and waited for the small partition to slide away. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

  "How long since your last confession?" The priest asked.

  I figured he wouldn't appreciate too damn long, so I said, "Five years."

  "You are always welcome back into the fold," the priest said. "What troubles you?"

  I didn't recognize his voice, which made what I had to say easier. "I think my boyfriend might propose."

  "Marriage is a Holy Sacrament," the priest said automatically. "This is a blessed event, not a sin."

  I swallowed and spit it out. "Is it a sin if I don't want to be married?"

  "Why wouldn't you want to marry this man?"

  "Hell if I know," I muttered then clapped my hand over my mouth. "Sorry, Father."

  The priest cleared his throat. "Do you love him?"

  "I don't know." I groaned tormented.

  "I think you do."

  "I care about him," I said slowly. "Very much. But marriage is a big step. Huge. I don't know if I can handle it."

  "It's wise that you are considering this so carefully," the priest responded. "Too many people rush into marriage and are unprepared for the consequences. There's nothing wrong with taking your time to decide on something that will be for the rest of your life."

  Wow, I hadn't expected that. "Thank you, Father."

  "Is there anything else?"

  "How long have you got?"

  There was no mistake—he did laugh that time. "As long as you need."

  I unburdened my soul, telling the man I couldn't see about all the mistakes I'd made, all the choices that had gone horrendously wrong. Though I'd never been to therapy, I imagined that was what it was like, this great unburdening of self. I reached into my purse and extracted a tissue.

  As though reading my thoughts, the priest murmured, "It's easier to carry if you let God share the load. He has the strength you lack."

  "Thank you, Father."

  After getting absolution and a massiv
e list of Hail Mary's and Our Father's, I exited the confessional, feeling much lighter than when I'd gone in.

  "Ready?" Jones asked, clearly set to leave.

  I looked up at him and smiled. "I think I am. Can you take me to the hospital?"

  "Are you all right?" Jones looked down at me, concerned.

  "I will be."

  Traffic was light, and we made it to the hospital in no time. Though visiting hours were long over, I knew Peter wouldn't have left yet. Sure enough, I found him asleep on an uncomfortable looking vinyl couch in the small lounge provided for family.

  Not wanting to wake him, I scribbled a quick message on the back of my Mass leaflet, left it next to him, and returned to the car.

  * * *

  Aunt Cecily and Pops spent the night at the Grove Street house. The next morning when I stumbled down the stairs, Pops was already up and brewing the diesel fuel he called coffee.

  "Merry Christmas," he whispered and passed me a mug.

  "Merry Christmas," I said back. It was like old times—the two of us sitting side by side in the kitchen on Christmas morning, eager for Nana to wake up so we could attack the massive pile of presents waiting in the other room.

  "Do you remember when you were about six and you decided to catch Santa?" Pops stroked his chin.

  I grinned. "I'd forgotten about that. I put traps down all over the living room."

  "Almost killed myself on those marbles." Pops chuckled. "You recall what your Nana told you?"

  "Yup. That Santa was magic, and he was too clever to get caught in any traps."

  Pops shook his head and gestured around the house. "Thank you for this, Andy-girl. I feel like she's right here with us."

  "You have to thank Jones. He did most of it."

  Pops eyed me shrewdly. "You gonna marry him?"

  I groaned and stood up. "Pops!"

  My grandfather shrugged. "It's a simple question."

  "He hasn't even asked me yet."

  Pops scowled, his spidery salt and pepper eyebrows drawing together. "Now that ain't right, him sleeping in your bed and all."

  "He slept in the spare room." Last night, anyway. "Besides, I don't know if I'm cut out for marriage, Pops."

  My grandfather scowled. "Sure you are."

  "How would you know?"

  He reached out and patted my hand. "Because you are just like your grandmother. Skittish as a colt, harder to pin down than pudding. But once you make up your mind to go for something, you give it your all. Man couldn't ask for a better wife."

  I had tears in my eyes but wiped them away on the sleeve of my pajamas when I heard Jones's footsteps on the stairs. "Don't say anything to him about this," I hissed.

  Pops made the zipper across his mouth gesture and threw the key away.

  "Good morning," Jones said to my grandfather before bending low to whisper in my ear,

  "Merry Christmas."

  "Right back atcha, handsome." I was so glad he was with me, that Pops was still with us, and that I'd have one last precious memory to cherish of this house and my family.

  I'd staged a hash brown casserole the night before, and I popped it into the oven to bake while we waited for Aunt Cecily. Anticipation filled me, and the years melted away as I was once again a kid on Christmas morning.

  Aunt Cecily shuffled out, looking as cheery as she ever did. She didn't drink coffee and declined the offer of tea. "There are gifts waiting to be opened. How much longer must they wait?"

  I didn't need an engraved invitation and made a beeline for the tree.

  We opened presents in a whirlwind of torn wrapping paper and delighted laughs. Despite what I'd said to Jones earlier, I'd spent more time than money picking out the gifts. Pops adored the new fleece lined slippers I'd given him because his feet were always cold. Aunt Cecily nodded with approval at the Bobby Darin CD. She'd been in serious "Mack the Knife" withdrawal ever since her copy had gotten scratched. I wished I could have found her recipes, but I didn't want to spoil the moment by bringing that up.

  Jones appeared thoroughly baffled by my gift, easily the largest under the tree. "It's er…what precisely is it, Andrea?"

  "It's a bumper. Specifically, an SUV bumper."

  His eyes lit up as he got it. We'd met when I'd rear-ended his car. "You know that car was totaled."

  "Yeah, it's not so much a practical gift as a sentimental one. What can I say—you're impossible to shop for."

  He pulled me onto his lap. "That's because I have everything I want."

  I smiled up into his eyes. "So where's mine?"

  He feigned surprise. "Was I supposed to get you something?"

  I mock-punched him in the shoulder. "Damn straight."

  He kissed me quickly then set me aside. My heart pounded as he crawled around the tree. I still didn't have the confidence Pops had about me being a good wife. I'd given the man a bumper, for the love of grief.

  "Here." Jones set a wrapped package on my lap, about the size of a toaster.

  "Huh?" I frowned. Maybe he did that thing with multiple boxes, and the tiny ring box was in the center. Leave it to Malcolm Jones to prolong the moment.

  But as I lifted the lid on the box and stared down at the leather-bound book, my confusion only grew.

  "Well, what is it?" Pops asked, his tone gruff.

  "Get on with it, girl." Aunt Cecily made a hurry-up motion.

  I took the book out and opened to the first page. My breath caught. "Oh, my."

  It was a picture of Nana and Pops on their wedding day. The last time I'd seen it was hanging on the wall heading to the second floor. But it looked like it was in better condition than it had been in the glassed-in frame.

  Holding my breath I turned the page, to a picture of my mother, her graduation picture. On the opposite page was a photo of her holding me the day of my birth. Nana stood on one side, smiling down on me, and Aunt Cecily was on the other. The Rossetti women, all together. I'd never seen this picture before.

  Tears threatened as I looked up at Jones. "How did you do all this?"

  "With a lot of help. Do you like it?"

  Like wasn't the right word. I was moved beyond belief. There was a formal homecoming shot of me and Kyle opposite a picture of me holding my daughter almost nine months later. The only photo I had of my baby girl, enlarged and retouched as only a master photographer could. I stifled a sob. It was the best present I'd ever been given, a photographic love letter filled with acceptance of who I'd been and love for who I'd become. I looked up to see him smiling at me, his dark blue gaze drinking in my every reaction.

  "I love you," I sniffled and threw myself at him.

  He hugged me back, and I felt stupid for thinking I could live without him. Why would I ever want to?

  An untold amount of time later, I realized Aunt Cecily and Pops were just sitting there, waiting for me to pull myself together.

  "Well, I can't top that," Pops said gruffly. "But here's our gift to you. To both of you."

  He handed me a manila envelope. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and reached for it.

  "The deed to the Bowtie Angel?" I whispered, shocked.

  Pops nodded. "It's all yours. I wish we could afford to give you the house too, but well, we need to plan ahead for our old age."

  Aunt Cecily actually chuckled.

  I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat. "Pops, I don't know what to say."

  "You saved it, Andy-girl. Without you we would have had to sell, so it's only right you inherit the business."

  "Thank you," I breathed, overwhelmed. I'd been given my past and my future all in one day.

  The doorbell rang. "That must be Lizzy." Jones frowned as he looked at the clock on the mantel. "She said she wouldn't be here until noon."

  The timer buzzed in the kitchen. "That's the casserole." I needed a minute to pull myself together.

  The casserole was a little brown around the edges, but still edible. I turned the oven temp down and prepared the ham. I'd just covered it w
ith aluminum foil when footsteps came down the hall.

  I looked up and blinked as I saw Jones with the young woman I'd bumped into at the Holiday Celebration. What the heck was she doing here on Christmas? "Um, hello?"

  She stared at me a minute, and I noticed she held something. "Is that Aunt Cecily's recipe book? Where did you find it?"

  She didn't respond. I looked up into her eyes, and that same displaced sense I'd felt the first time I'd seen her struck me, like déjà vu.

  "I gave it to her." Aunt Cecily marched forward, shoulders back and head held high.

  "What?" I looked from the girl to my Aunt, thoroughly lost. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because," the girl said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I'm your daughter."

  The stack of plates I'd been holding crashed to the floor.

  "Andrea." Jones hurried forward before I could collapse on top of the broken shards. He scooped me up and carried me over the mess and down the hall. I looked over his broad shoulder, my eyes glued to Kaylee, my thoughts coming too fast to make any sense.

  Jones set me down in an arm chair and checked my pulse. It took some effort, but I finally found my voice. "Is she really here?"

  "Yes."

  I cleared my throat. "Could you do me a favor?"

  "Anything," he said.

  "Good. Call Kyle. He should be here, too." I looked over his shoulder as Kaylee came into the room. Pops and Aunt Cecily had made themselves scarce.

  Assured that I wasn't hurt, at least physically, Jones stood up. "I'll give you ladies a minute."

  I needed more than a minute. I couldn't stop myself from staring at her, afraid she'd vanish if I looked away for a single second. She seemed to be having the same trouble as she sat down across from me, just out of arm's reach.

  "I saw you on T.V.," she said finally.

  I made a face. Of course she had. "No one died, really."

  She laughed. "I know. My mom, that is my other mom, she told me who you were after that. I kept bugging her because I wanted to meet you, and I heard you were at that pasta eating contest here, so I went to the shop, and that's where I met Great Aunt Cecily." Her words came out in a big rush.