Blue Christmas

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Ready,” I said, still breathless on the bottom stair.

  Daniel picked up my house keys and handed them to me. He looked at me and frowned.

  “What?” I asked, tugging the neckline of the dress. “Are my boobs falling out again?”

  “No,” he said slowly. He reached out and touched my shawl.

  “This pin. Where did you get it?”

  “At Trader Bob’s auction today,” I said, surprised. Even though he’s a chef, and more arty than most, Daniel is all man. He rarely notices things like jewelry or shoes. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

  “Yeah. It’s fine,” he said, still staring at the pin.

  “What? You’re still staring.”

  “My mother had a pin just like that,” he said, looking away. “My brothers and I pooled our lawn-mowing money and bought it for her the year my dad left. She used to wear it, every Christmas. She said it was appropriate. You know, because my dad left, we were all having a blue Christmas that year. Like the Elvis Presley song.”

  “Oh,” I said softly. Daniel never talked about his mother. Or his father, for that matter. I knew that his dad abandoned his mom and their three sons when Daniel was just a kid. I also knew that Daniel’s mom, Paula, had wound up in a scandal involving her married boss at the sugar refinery here in Savannah, where she worked. When the dust settled, the executive had been sent to a federal prison in Florida, but not before he divorced his wife and married Paula. Not long after that, Paula Stipanek Gambrell had followed her new husband to Florida. Daniel and his two older brothers had been raised by his aunt Lucy. It was not a happy story.

  I tucked my arm into his. “If you guys bought a pin like this, it just proves you had great taste. These pins were quite the craze from the forties through the sixties, although not so much in the war years, because metal was hard to get for jewelry. I’ve seen hundreds of variations of Christmas tree pins. Every costume jewelry company made them. Coro, Carolee, Trifari, you name it. And some of the more expensive ones that were sold in jewelry or department stores, signed pieces made by Weiss or Eisenberg or Miriam Haskell, sell for hundreds of dollars now.”

  Daniel gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I can guarantee you that one ain’t worth hundreds. We bought my mom’s pin at the Kress five-and-dime on Broughton Street. Between us, we scraped up maybe five bucks to pay for it.”

  As we walked to Daniel’s truck, I heard Jethro give a plaintive howl from inside the house.

  “Poor guy. He hates staying home alone.”

  Daniel tugged at his tie, a rare concession on his part. “Yeah, well, I’d gladly trade places with him tonight.”

  “Thanks!” I said sharply.

  “Sorry,” he said, giving me a conciliatory peck on the cheek. “I just really don’t get into Christmas parties. Never have. But what I should have said was, I wish you and I were staying home tonight. Just the two of us. I’d love to help you get out of that new dress of yours.”

  “Hmmph,” I said, unconvinced.

  CHAPTER 5

  Shortly after celebrating his silver jubilee in the priesthood, my uncle James hung up his clerical collar and came home to Savannah to practice law and live a quiet life in the modest house he inherited from his mother. Not long after that, he timidly snuck out of the closet, and not long after that, met his current partner, Jonathan McDowell.

  My conservative uncle had waited three long years before finally giving in to Jonathan’s request that they live together openly. In September, Jonathan, a charming, forty-five-year-old assistant district attorney, and his adorable mother, Miss Sudie, had moved in to James’s house on Washington Avenue.

  Tonight would be their first party. For weeks, James had been as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “What if nobody comes?” he’d fretted as we’d gone over the menu for the open house “drop-in.”

  “People will come,” I’d promised. “You and Jonathan have lots of friends. And everybody loves Miss Sudie. And besides,” I’d said, “people are dying to see what Jonathan has done with your house.”

  James shook his head and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “He’s painted the living room brown, you know. Brown! My mother would be rolling in her grave if she knew. She always kept the downstairs rooms pink.”

  I shuddered. “Pepto-Bismol pink. Old lady colors. Anyway, it’s not really brown now. It’s a dark mocha. And it’s wonderful. Jonathan has divine taste. And I’m so glad he talked you into getting rid of that horrible old stuff of grandmother’s.”

  “I thought you liked antiques,” James said.

  “Not all antiques were created equal,” I informed him. “That horrid pink velvet sofa was butt ugly, and you know it. And those baby-blue tufted armchairs…yeecchh.”

  “The new sofa is really comfortable,” James admitted. “And Jonathan’s leather armchairs are great for reading. And he did let me keep the stuff in my bedroom.”

  So tonight was my uncle’s coming-out party. In more ways than one. As we approached his house, I happily noted that the old house was aglow with Chistmas lights, with a big evergreen wreath on the front door and half a dozen people standing on the front porch sipping wine and chatting. And both sides of the street were lined with cars.

  “James was afraid nobody would show up,” I told Daniel, directing him to pull into the driveway behind my father’s dark gray Buick. “Mama and Daddy never stay out past eight,” I reminded him.

  Daniel glanced over at me. “So your mother’s okay with them living together? She wasn’t shocked?”

  “I wouldn’t say she actually approved,” I said. “But you know what a snob Mama is. The McDowells are old Savannah money. She’s thrilled that James is seeing somebody of quality. And she adores Miss Sudie.”

  James met us at the front door, resplendent in a snappy hunter-green plaid sport coat and a rust-colored turtleneck sweater.

  “Wow!” I said, kissing him. “You’re right out of a Ralph Lauren magazine ad.”

  He frowned. “Is that good?”

  “Very good,” I said with a laugh. “And you didn’t even have to put on a tie.”

  “Not even for Jonathan,” James said. “Not even for Christmas.”

  Jonathan walked up and slung an arm around my shoulder and Daniel’s. “Is he complaining about the damned brown paint again?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s congratulating himself on not having to wear a necktie.”

  “Well, come on in and get something to eat and drink,” Jonathan said. “Daniel did an amazing job with the food. Those baby lamb chops are to die for.”

  “Thanks,” Daniel said.

  “Just don’t mention the cost to James,” Jonathan said. “He still thinks cocktail wienies and Cheez Whiz are perfectly acceptable party food.”

  “It’s the Foley family curse,” I told Jonathan. “We’re all so tight we squeak when we walk.”

  While Daniel went into the kitchen to check on the food, I circulated around, chatting with friends and family.

  I found Mama and Daddy seated in the living room, Daddy, looking uncomfortable in his good suit, and Mama wearing her traditional Christmas party outfit, which consisted of a green wool skirt and one of those awful seasonal sweaters she adores—this one featured giant knitted Christmas trees adorned with tiny ornaments that actually lit up and blinked. Unfortunately, two of the blinking red lights were located directly in the middle of her chest, so that from across the room it appeared that her nipples were winking.

  “Weezie,” Mama said, reaching out to pull me down beside her on the sofa. “Don’t you look nice tonight!”

  I glanced down at my dress and tugged at the neckline. Old habits die hard. “Really? You like this dress?” Mama usually hates my vintage clothes. She can’t understand how I could stand to wear what she calls “dead people’s cast-offs.”

  “The pin,” Mama said, reaching out and touching the Christmas tree fastened to my stole. “I had a pin like this when you were l
ittle. Do you remember?”

  I looked down at the pin. “Just like this one?”

  She frowned. “Well, no. Mine was sort of gold, with branches, and there were all different colors of pearls on it.”

  “Pins like this were really popular years ago,” I told her. “Daniel says his mother had a pin exactly like this one. It was blue and everything.”

  “Ohhh,” Mama said. She had a long memory for scandal and remembered everything about the Hoyt Gambrell trial. “Does he ever hear from his mother?”

  “No,” I said briefly, already regretting I’d brought up the subject.

  “Where is Daniel?” Daddy asked. “Working at the restaurant, is he?”

  “He’s here,” I said. “Guale’s catering the food tonight, you know.”

  “Nice,” Mama said vaguely. “What do you call that mushy rice stuff they’re serving with the lamb chops?”

  “Risotto?”

  “Interesting,” Mama said, and then brightening, added, “I brought James one of my famous fruitcakes to serve for dessert. Don’t forget to try a slice.”

  “I won’t,” I said, secretly vowing to avoid the cake like the plague. My mother had been a closet alcoholic for most of my life, but after she’d gone through rehab, she’d turned her newfound energy to cooking. Unfortunately, sobriety did nothing to improve her culinary skills.

  “I’ve added something new to my fruitcake this year,” Mama confided. Lowering her voice and covering her mouth with her hand, lest someone try to steal her secret ingredient, she whispered it.

  “Maple syrup!”

  “Really?”

  Daddy nodded sadly. “She like to run the IGA out of Aunt Jemima’s.”

  “Two dozen cakes,” Mama reported. “It’s a new record. I’ve got yours out in the car, if you want to follow us out when we get ready to leave.”

  “I’ll do that,” I promised, getting up. “Well, I better check in with Daniel. He’s got to leave early and get back to the restaurant. They’ve got a couple of big private parties tonight, and he has to put in an appearance.”

  “Don’t forget about the cake, now,” Mama chirped. “I’ve only got a dozen left. They’re a big hit this year.”

  What, I wondered as I drifted through the rooms, alive with light and laughter, could people be doing with maple-syrup-flavored fruitcakes?

  Doorstops. Boat anchors. Bookends.

  I found Daniel in the dining room, sprinkling chopped parsley on a chafing dish full of shrimp gumbo.

  “Looking good,” I said, giving him a quick kiss.

  “You too,” he said absentmindedly.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, knowing already that something was.

  “There should be a bowl of trifle on the sideboard over there,” he said, pointing at my grandmother’s massive mahogany server. “It was in the kitchen when I first got here, but it’s gone now.”

  “Everybody loves your trifle,” I said. “Maybe people just scarfed it all up.”

  He shook his head. “No. There were two whole bowls of it in the kitchen. We made enough to serve a hundred. Should have been plenty. And the bowls are gone too.”

  “Really?” I went over to the sideboard to investigate. Beside a cut crystal bowl of punch I spotted a silver tray layered with slice after slice of fruitcake. Maple scented.

  “Case closed,” I said, reporting back to Daniel. “Marian Foley strikes again.”

  “Your mother ate a whole bowl of trifle?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Yours is afloat in sherry. Mama’s terrified of falling off the wagon. She won’t even take cough syrup anymore. No, I suspect Mama did away with your trifle because it was competing with her fruitcake.”

  “No!” Daniel said. “So that’s where that cake came from? I thought it was a gift from one of James’s clients.”

  “Afraid not. She told me herself that she’d brought one for the party. That fruitcake is her pride and joy.”

  Daniel went over to the aforementioned tray, bent down and sniffed, and grimaced.

  “What the hell?”

  “Family secret,” I said, crossing my heart. “I’ve been sworn to silence.”

  “Dueling desserts,” Daniel said. “Only the Foleys.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “Do you want me to see if I can figure out what she did with the trifle?”

  “No,” he said. “Let James deal with it. Listen, sweetie, I hate to mention it, but I’ve really got to get over to Guale.”

  “Already?” I checked my watch. “It’s only a little after eight.”

  “You could stay,” he suggested. “Get your parents to take you home.”

  “Never mind. Let’s find James and Jon and say good night.”

  He headed toward the living room, but I pulled him back. “Not there. I’ve got to sneak out without Mama seeing me. There’s a fruitcake with my name on it out in Daddy’s car.”

  “Ow,” he said. “I hope he left the windows rolled down.”

  Daniel was quiet as we rode home.

  “You okay?” I asked, scooting over and rubbing his neck.

  “Just tired,” he said.

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s a busy time of year,” Daniel said. “There’s a lot more involved in owning a restaurant than there is in just cooking.”

  “I know. But there’s something else going on too, isn’t there?”

  He sighed. “I hate Christmas.”

  “Daniel!”

  “It’s no big deal. In two weeks, it’ll all be over. Life can get back to normal.”

  “This should be a happy time of year. I’m busy too, but I love Christmas. I love everything about it….”

  “That’s you,” he said abruptly. “Not me.”

  I sighed. “Anything I can do to help? Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shot me a look of disbelief.

  When we got to the house, he parked the truck and left the motor running. “You can’t come in, even for a minute?” I asked.

  He shook his head and walked me to my front stoop. He took his keys out and unlocked the door. “I’ll call you later,” he said, opening the door wide.

  Before I could say anything, Jethro came bounding out. He was gone in a flash.

  “Jethro!” I screamed. “Jethro, come back!”

  “Damned dog,” Daniel muttered. He stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Here, boy,” he called. “Here, Jethro.”

  His voice echoed on the deserted street. A skinny yellow cat slinked across the square, and I heard an owl hooting from the limb of a nearby tree. But no goofy barking.

  I stood in the middle of Charlton Street and yelled his name.

  “Jethro!”

  “Now what?” Daniel asked, annoyed.

  “Just go on and leave,” I snapped. “I’ll take care of finding the damned dog.”

  “Get in the truck,” Daniel said. “We’ll look together.”

  “No,” I said stubbornly. “He’s my dog. I’ll take my own truck and look for him. Go on to Guale. You’re late already.”

  “All right,” Daniel said. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you, okay? And don’t worry. He can’t have gone far.”

  I locked the front door and got in my truck, pitching my high heels onto the floor, and the shawl, which was hard to drive in, on the front seat. I cruised the streets of the district for more than an hour, stopping every block or so, calling his name.

  Every person I saw along the way, I stopped and asked if they’d seen a black-and-white dog. But nobody had. I went back to my house and checked the courtyard garden, in hope that my own Lassie had come home. But the gate was locked, and there was no dog.

  I got back in my truck and retraced my earlier route, calling for my lost Jethro, trying to reassure myself that he would be safe. He’s a city dog, I told myself. I’d found him when he was just a stray puppy, literally in a heap of trash in front of a decaying house in the Victorian district. He could take care of him
self. And he was wearing his collar and tag. Somebody would find him and call me.

  It was close to midnight when I gave up the hunt and went home. Dejected, I got a blanket and pillow and decided to sleep on the sofa—just in case Jethro came back, and I heard him scratching at the door.

  The message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pressed the button and prayed. Maybe Jethro had already been found.

  But the caller was Daniel.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice sounding tired. “Don’t be mad at me. We’ll find Jethro. Everything will be all right. Call me as soon as you get home.”

  Fat chance, I thought, tears welling up in my eyes. I pounded my pillow, pulled my quilt over my head, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  Three times during the night, I got up, opened the front door, and looked up and down the street, willing Jethro to materialize there, ears pricked up, tail wagging, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, big brown eyes begging for a treat. Each time, I dragged myself back to the sofa and tried to sleep.

  At seven o’clock, I gave up. I trudged into the kitchen and poured myself a Diet Coke, followed by an ibuprofen chaser. I had no appetite, so I picked at a granola bar before discarding it in the trash.

  Flyers, I decided, would be a good idea. I could print them up on my computer and post them around the neighborhood. And at nine, when I figured the county animal shelter probably opened, I would call and see if Jethro had been picked up.

  I was in the living room, folding the quilt, when I heard the faint sound of whining coming from outside. I ran to the front door, opened it, and peered out.

  The morning paper was on my front stoop. I looked up and down the street again, but saw nothing. Where was that whining coming from?

  Dressed only in my flannel pajama bottoms and a camisole top, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. My truck!

  A familiar black-and-white face bobbed up and down in the front seat of my truck, whining and pawing at the window.

  “Jethro!” I cried, running over to the curb. I opened the door and he leaped into my arms, licking my face, tail wagging a mile a minute. I laughed until I cried. And two tattooed and body-pierced art students, who happened to be walking by, stopped to enjoy the spectacle of my reunion with my dog.