Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology

by Christine Bell

  Marsh held the door open while the kids trailed inside. They stopped to get a drink and then continued on toward the classroom so they could put away their footballs before lunch.

  He waited until after I stepped inside and the kids were few feet ahead of us before he whispered, his voice full of dread, “I need to punish her.”

  “If you do, she’ll just give you lip.”

  Marsh sighed. “She’s not the only one.”

  “You mean Mattie?” I asked with a grin. Every time Bailey opened her mouth she reminded me more and more of Matilda, who’d thrown mud pies and anything else she could get her hands on at me for teasing her. About her height, or her freckles, her braces, her cheerleading uniform. Hell, about anything, as long as it gave me an excuse to talk to her.

  He shook his head. “Probably, but I meant her brother James,” he said with a nod toward Bailey.

  “James?” I searched my memory but it didn’t ring any bells.

  “Ramos. James Ramos. Senior. Plays defensive tackle. Got a lot of looks from college scouts but I don’t remember if he’s declared yet.” He shook his head again as Bailey glanced over her shoulder at us just before turning into the classroom. “Now how the fuck am I going to punish her?”

  I laughed but otherwise stayed silent. I found it hard to believe that Marsh couldn’t remember which college the brother of one of his students had gotten a scholarship to. But I didn’t say a word. If that’s how he wanted to play it, then fine.

  “This teaching shit’s hard,” he continued. “It’s like being a dad, and sometimes a mom, a therapist, and a tutor all wrapped in one.”

  “Is it that bad?” I asked, a familiar twinge of guilt stabbing me in my solar plexus. Here I was, on the fence about the deal of a lifetime, while he spent his days chasing ten-year-olds. Not exactly how either of us had thought this would turn out.

  As we closed in on the classroom door, he laughed and said, “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

  I laughed too, and we nudged each other with our elbows, like kids, but that twinge of guilt grew exponentially and threatened to swallow me whole.

  That and envy.

  I stood in the doorway watching Marsh wrangle Bailey and the kids in the line, thinking to myself I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. Bailey hung back on the walk to the cafeteria, taking a place at the end of the line and close to me. It’d been a long time since I’d worried about what anyone but Matilda thought of me—outside of a football game—but I felt fairly certain Bailey hated me. And it was a feeling I didn’t much enjoy.

  We’d just turned toward the now-empty cafeteria when she slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder at me. She had those braids wrapped around her hands again. “Someday I’m going to have a closet full of Nikes just like you.”

  At a loss for words, I kept smiling and nodded. I’d seen that determined look in her eyes before, in someone else’s eyes. I kept pace with her, staring at Marsh’s broad back.

  Normally I went first, or close to first, and sat in the middle of a table surrounded by kids—mostly boys—the lunch tray in front of me mostly for show. I usually didn’t get time to eat, thanks to the constant barrage of questions. Even though kids could occasionally give sports reporters run for their money, I didn’t mind. But this time I went through the line last, right behind Bailey, my pace slow. I hung back, just inside the door, pleased to spot Mattie working the register.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  I can’t even lie. With a hairnet over her dark brown curls, questionable stains all over her apron, flushed cheeks and lips curved downward, she was a hot, sweaty mess. And not the sexy kind of hot, sweaty mess either. A thought that left me more jittery than my constantly buzzing cell phone. It went without saying that, Mattie was off-limits. If things went south, the long-term repercussions were unimaginable. Not only would I lose her, I’d lose my oldest friend, and more importantly, my mom would lose the closest thing she’d ever had to a daughter. I’d rather have Mattie call me an asshole than not call me anything at all, so I’d always kept my distance. Especially after she’d made it clear she didn’t want me around.

  Mattie sagged against the counter and fanned herself with a stack of wrinkled papers. “I’m sweating like a whore in church here, Boomer, and I can’t take a break till my line is empty.” In other words, pay her. Mattie took the five dollar bill I handed her and said, “You know Greta would have comped your lunch—”

  “—but you won’t,” I finished with a laugh. God love her, Mattie was a straight shooter. I respected that, if not her foul mouth.

  “No way,” she said, her full lips curving into a snarky smile. “School district’s too poor to be giving free lunches to the likes of you.”

  Ignoring her little jibe, I said, “Sorry I missed your graduation.”

  She shrugged and handed me my change. “You’re Boomer Kendall. You never have to apologize for anything!”

  Her words stung, but I took them as my penance—like always. “You ready for the party tonight?”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’d rather peel 500 pounds of potatoes for Greta. With a paring knife. A dull one.”

  “Aw now. It won’t be that bad.”

  “Have you met my sister-in-law?”

  I covered my laughter with a cough. Louisiana could be pretty intense, but she seemed to really balance out Marsh who’d grown so damn mellow.

  Mattie put on what I liked to call her fake perky-serious face: wide-eyed, earnest and smiling. “Seriously, she’s at home right now hand-weaving napkins and churning butter for tonight’s dinner party.” She added with a nod, “While she breastfeeds.”

  “And we’re going to get to hear all about it at dinner, right?”

  “You better believe it. A day without one of Louisiana’s breast-feeding stories is a day wasted, Boomer.” She handed me back my changed. “You know that!”

  “Well, at least my parents will be there.”

  “Oh good,” she said brightly, “your dad can annoy you while Louisiana annoys the rest of us.”

  “Fair enough.” I nodded toward the tables full of children. “I should probably get out there.”

  “Before they riot.”

  “Bet you’ll be glad to be shed of this place,” I threw over my shoulder. Mattie’s agreement didn’t sound very convincing.

  Bailey sat alone at the end of the table, so I took a seat across from her. Fork in hand, she stared for a good twenty seconds or so before jabbing up some meatloaf. I did the same, and we ate in silence until Marsh joined us. From where I sat I could also see Matilda sneaking peeks at us before she finally disappeared for her break. Interesting.

  Frowning, I mixed my mashed potatoes and gravy, and then took a bite. “So, Bailey—”

  “My mom’s white.”

  Marsh choked and coughed.

  “What?” I said after I’d swallowed.

  “You’re going to ask about my name. Everyone does. My mom’s white or something. I don’t remember her. Dad and grandma both hate her so…anyway, she’s the one who name me Bailey. Bailey Ramos.”

  “That wasn’t my question, but okay.” I forced myself to take another bite of my lunch before I spoke again. “What position do you want to play?”

  “Wide receiver.”

  She never hesitated. Never blinked.

  “Really,” I said as a few brave kids quietly joined us.

  “Really. I was hoping to play for Coach Weiland, but he’s retiring–” she shrugged, “—it’s okay I guess, since he’s not a big fan of girls playing football anyway.”

  “Really,” I said, glancing in Marsh’s direction. He was avoiding eye-contact again. “I had no idea.” Even my dad had failed to mention it. Between this and the death of Miss Molly…I swallowed my irritation, filing it away to deal with later.

  “You can’t play football,” one of the boys said.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Bailey beat m
e to the punch. “I can do whatever I want!”

  “No you can’t,” he said. “Boys play football; girls play with pom-poms.”

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed and still Marsh hadn’t said anything, so I did—before one of those little shits ended up with her lunch all over them. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.” I might not have been sold on the idea of Bailey, or any girl, playing football, but I wasn’t going to let her get pushed around. “You’re Philip, right? Philip Monte. Joe’s son?”

  Joe and I had played football together in high school. The ink had barely dried on his diploma when he’d gotten married. I seemed to recall tossing footballs with Philip’s older brother last year.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Philip, many colleges have male cheerleaders. Same for some of the larger high schools.”

  “Douche-nozzles,” Phillips scoffed.

  Marsh and I both frowned in his direction. “I’ll see you after school for detention,” Marsh said.

  I also seemed to recall Philip’s older brother bloodying somebody’s nose with a football last year and getting detention, too. The Monte boys were making me never want to have children.

  Again Bailey opened her mouth, and again I interrupted her, “Women play soccer, lacrosse, rugby—have you ever seen a rugby game, Philip?” I leaned forward and stared at him, aware of Marsh in my periphery. Also aware of the phone vibrating in my pocket, and across from me, Bailey staring at me with a mix of skepticism and hero worship on her face. “It’s just as rough as football.”

  “So you’re all for women in the NFL then?” queried a very grown-up female voice from just behind me. Mattie.

  “No, but they can have their own league. I’m down for that.”

  Bailey rolled her eyes and went back to eating her lunch, Marsh groaned, and Mattie sighed. She rested her hands on my shoulders, gently digging her fingers into tight muscles. I wondered how much it’d cost me to get her to do that all day. Probably my soul, which I’d gladly hand over.

  “So,” Mattie said, “separate but equal then.”

  Lulled by the fingers working tension out of my shoulders, and thought of her touching me in other places, I nodded at Bailey. “Yeah.”

  Mattie give my shoulders one last, extra-firm squeeze and said, “That’s segregation, you asshole.” All the tension her magical fingers had worked out came rushing back and brought the start of a headache along for the ride. Talk about walking into a bear trap.

  “Yeah,” Bailey said. “That’s segregation.”

  I turned to scowl up at Mattie. “Do you really want to watch a 130-pound girl get tackled by a man two times her size…or more?”

  “Like a female football league wouldn’t have 200 pound linebackers?” Mattie countered.

  “Yeah,” Bailey said again.

  I looked to Marsh for help just as this phone in my pocket vibrated again. I’m not sure what was worse: dealing with the mess I just walked into or the mess I’d run away from when I left Houston two days ago.

  “Mattie, for the love of God, it’s Christmas,” Marsh finally jumped in, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be much help if a reference to Christmas was all he could come up with.

  “Why? You know I’m right. The guy who tore up your knee was 257 pounds. And you were what back then? A buck-ninety? Not a huge diff, but still.” Her fingers dug even deeper into my shoulders. Deep enough to make me want to lean away, but I didn’t dare. Once Mattie got going, it was best to just leave her be till she ran out of steam. “What was his name again? Oh yeah, you don’t remember, but I—”

  “Jack Parker.” I jabbed my fork into my lunch, which was now stone cold, and pushed it away. “His name was Jack Parker.” Marsh might not have remember, but I did. And it didn’t surprise me that Mattie did as well. Kind of hard to forget when he’d been drafted by the Patriots in the second round the same year I’d been drafted by the Texans. Kind of hard to forget when he’d had such a profound effect on my life. “Why are we even having this conversation with you when you hate football?” I asked.

  The suspicious frown Bailey shot Mattie was almost worth the trouble.

  “I don’t hate football–”

  I stood to face her, happy to call her on her bullshit. By now the cafeteria had fallen almost silent with just the clang of pots and pans being banged around in the kitchen area. I’d bet money Matilda had forgotten about our semi-innocent and corruptible young audience. “That’s a lie.”

  “The fuck it is!”

  Three things happened simultaneously: I smirked, Matilda’s face turned red, and Greta shouted Matilda’s name from the kitchen.

  As she walked away I muttered, “Damn good thing this is your last week as a lunch lady, huh?”

  Her reply? “Fuck you, Boomer. You’re an asshole, you ruined my life, and I don’t give a fuck who knows it.”

  I forced my lips to curve into a smile and shrugged in Marsh’s direction. “Guess that’s going to make tonight’s party kind of awkward, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you do that to her?” A pained looking Marsh asked with a slow shake of his head.

  “Because I can?” I replied with a shrug. It was just the way Mattie and I worked.

  Someone had to call her on her bullshit.

  5

  Matilda

  After Greta got done chewing my ass out, I got put on dishes again. I didn’t mind. All those dirty, oversized pots, pans, and trays gave me something to work out my frustrations on. As soon as I finished, I pulled out my cell phone and texted Boomer: fuck you. Don’t come to my party. Asshole.

  It was childish. I was childish. But I was past caring.

  Needless to say, he didn’t listen. I hadn’t figured he would, since his parents had also been invited, but I felt marginally better for having said the words. I did, however, catch Boomer just as he pulled up in front of Marsh’s house. Mostly because I’d been waiting on him.

  Before he could even get the truck in park, I managed to open the passenger door, hike up my ankle-length skirt, and climbed in. The scent of men’s cologne mixed with leather made me a little dizzy and distracted me, but I’d be damned if I wouldn’t have my say. I leaned over the console and press my fingers against his lips to stop him from speaking. “I don’t hate football, Boomer. I hate you.”

  Boomer’s name blared from the truck speakers, and I reared back in the passenger seat. Apparently, I’d interrupted something. “Boomer, what the hell is going on?”

  “I’ll call you back, Joe.” Boomer punched a button on the steering wheel and turned to glare at me. “Happy?” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” I stammered. “But I know you think me calling you an asshole all the time and being rude to you is some sort of a joke, but it’s not.” I shook my head, and then looked him square in the eye and said, “If you hadn’t talked Marsh into going to OU, my parents would still be alive.”

  He visibly winced and opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn’t having it. I’d waited ten long years to have my say. “If you hadn’t talked Marsh into going to OU with you, he wouldn’t have torn up his knee, my dad wouldn’t have died in that accident on the way to the hospital, and my mom wouldn’t have ended up in a coma. But that’s what happened. While you got to be a big star, and win big fancy rings, and buy a big fancy house, and all your fancy fucking cars, I was here planning my father’s funeral, carting Marsh back and forth to rehab and, oh yeah, changing my mom’s diapers.”

  His lips thinned and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. I hadn’t just hit one nerve, I danced over all of them. And I didn’t care.

  “I’d be managing a farm by now. Or running my own. Instead I’m a fucking lunch lady who grows organic vegetables in a half-assed, too small greenhouse.”

  That’s when his lips started twitching and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Farmer Mattie.”

  “You think this is a joke?” I screeched. “I worked my ass off helping Marsh get through his rehab and then college and then paying f
or my own college, Boomer. In case no one told you, lunch ladies don’t get full rides to the college of their choice. And neither do football players who can’t play football.” I shook my head again and leaned across the console as I jabbed a thumb toward my brother’s house and said in a shaky voice, “I could be the one married with children right now.”

  He reared back in his seat as if I’d slapped him and looked me up and down, with a sneer on his face. “Is that really what you want? A houseful of kids and a husband who drinks too much beer? Because that’s pretty much all you’ll get around here.”

  “So that’s what you think of us? That’s what you think of Marsh? Your oldest friend? The mighty Boomer Kendall here to grace us all with his presence like the freaking baby Jesus or something.” His face twisted and darkened in a way that almost frightened me, but this was Boomer we were talking about, and Boomer never lost his temper. I grabbed the door handle ready to bail but not before I finished having my say. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want you at my party. I don’t want to see you at the Christmas parade, I don’t want to see you at the dancehall for your cousin Susie’s party, and I don’t want to see you Christmas Eve when you open presents with Marsh and Louisiana. I hate you Boomer Kendall. You ruined my life. And that’s all I have to say.”

  “That’s what you keep—”

  Before he could finish, there was a rap on the window behind me. We both sucked in a breath and forced ourselves to smile because I didn’t need him to tell me that it was his mom knocking. His face said it. I opened the door, welcoming a blast of chilly, smoke-tinged air, and gushed, “Hi, Irene.”

  I had one foot on the running board, ready to step out, but Boomer’s mom wasn’t having it. She stood in my way, the sweet smile on her face forcing me to swallow angry tears. “What are you two kids plotting? It’s okay. You can tell me.”

  I opened my mouth, but Boomer was faster, “Fatty Mattie’s gonna be my elf when I hand out the kids’ toys Sunday after church.” He was so fucking dead.