This Christmas

by Jane Green

  “I know this is going to sound kind of weird, but, well, as you know I went to Ann Arbor this weekend, and I ran into an old boyfriend,” I began.

  “And?” Jennifer coaxed.

  “I’m engaged.”

  “You’re what?” asked Chad.

  “Engaged,” I said, softer this time.

  “Engaged in what?” he quizzed.

  “Engaged, engaged. You know, getting married.”

  “Prudence, I’m confused. You are married,” Sophie added.

  “Good Lord,” Chad said. “You’re not serious, are you Prudence?”

  I nodded tentatively, my eyes wide for their approval. I told them I’d fallen in love with Matt and the two of us planned to marry this summer after he sold his house in Los Angeles and found a job in New York. “This is my soul mate, you guys,” I said as a preamble to recalling my weekend. “I’m completely and madly in love, so can you just be happy for me?”

  “I’m not following this,” Jennifer said. “What did you tell, what’s his name, Mike? Mark?”

  “Matt.”

  “Matt,” Jennifer corrected herself. “Does he know about Reilly? Does he know you’re married already?!”

  “Not exactly.” I hesitated, knowing this was the cruelest part of my weekend of lies. “I never actually said this, but Matt kind of thinks Reilly’s dead.”

  They stared incredulously.

  “Look, I know this sounds bizarre, even to me,” I explained. “You know I don’t ever do flaky things like this. Isn’t everyone entitled to a screw-up every now and then?”

  “I’d say this is more than a little screw-up,” said Chad. “Pretending your husband is dead so you can fool around with an old boyfriend is a tad vile, dear.”

  Chad owns the gallery under the loft that Reilly and I bought when we first married. He’s a good fifteen years older than us, and was one of those starving young painters who had the good sense to buy a few warehouses dirt cheap in SoHo in the 1970s. He was one of the original artists who helped transform the area into an upscale creative oasis. His partner Daniel is a sculptor who bares a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Clean with multiple earrings. Both are huge fans of pop culture, so they nearly keeled over from delight when they found a computer program that would morph art and inject them into the scene. They created a gigantic American Gothic, using themselves as the farm couple, which hangs over their white velvet sectional. Daniel has been transformed into The Scream with the background changed to the Barney’s half-yearly sale. Chad did himself as a colorful Lichtensteinesque figure, gasping, “What would Judy do!” Chad and Dan’s room is modeled after the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, complete with six thousand pillows, sashes in every shade of pink that fan out from the center of the ceiling to the floor periphery, and a fat mannequin that the guys painted light brown and put a turban on. They hugged me when I was the only one who got that the dummy was supposed to be Cousin Hodgie.

  “I know it’s vile,” I conceded with a mix of humility and impatience. “But this is where I am now, so I’ve got to work with what I’ve got. Telling me that the situation is screwed up helps no one. I already know I fucked up, but I’m going to fix everything. I’m getting to that. Everyone’s going to end up better off in the long run, I promise. Even Reilly. Especially Reilly.”

  “Since when are you and Reilly unhappy, anyway?” Jennifer asked. “You never even said anything was wrong.”

  “Have I ever said anything at all?” I asked.

  “Okay, here I can add the voice of experience,” said Sophie. “There doesn’t have to be anything wrong for there to be something wrong with a marriage, if you know what I mean.”

  By the expressions on Chad and Jennifer’s faces, clearly they did not.

  Sophie sighed through her nose and tried again. “There doesn’t have to be anything terribly wrong with a marriage for it to be over. There doesn’t have to be a big drama. The fact that there’s no drama is probably one of the reasons that Prudence felt a need to shake things up a bit.”

  Chad rolled his eyes and listened to Sophie’s philosophy on the erosion of the drama-free marriage. “Prudence, you know we love you, darlin’, but there’s a big difference between shaking things up a bit and getting engaged to an old lover who thinks your husband is dead. Dead, Prudence. That’s not your garden variety self-aggrandizing fib. You didn’t just lie about your weight, you told a man that Reilly is dead. You know he’s not really dead, Prudence, don’t you?”

  “She already told you to back off, Chad,” Jennifer jumped to my defense. “Prudence already knows what she did was deranged. Let’s not rub her nose in it by constantly reminding her of what a bizarre and disturbing lie she’s told.”

  Sophie turned to me. “Would you mind telling us again about how he took your panties off with his teeth?” she asked.

  I gladly obliged, as it signaled, if not approval, acceptance of my choice.

  “Your e-mail said you needed our input,” Jennifer said. “What’d’ya need from us?”

  “Well, I really need your creative minds,” I began.

  “Good Lord, I’m frightened already,” muttered Chad.

  “I need to find Reilly a new wife to replace me after I leave him.”

  They all stared blankly. Some creative minds, I thought. All they can do is stare at me in disbelief.

  “You lost me, Prudence,” said Jennifer. “Why’d’ya need to find Reilly a new wife?”

  “Because,” I urged them.

  Sophie knit her brow with confusion. “I hate to say it, but I’m not following this either. Who said you have to find Reilly a new wife?”

  “Reilly hasn’t done anything wrong,” I explained. “It’s not right to just leave him wifeless.”

  “Prudence,” Chad said in a soft voice like he was talking to a crazy person. “People divorce all the time without finding their replacement.”

  “I know, but it just seems like the right thing to do. He’s such a decent person. He doesn’t deserve to be dumped like this.”

  “If he’s so great he’ll find another woman on his own,” Chad said. “Mr. Wonderful doesn’t need the matchmaking services of the yenta widow over here.” He gestured toward me. He looked at me again. “Besides, what makes you think he’ll want anything to do with a woman you choose for him. Don’t you think he’ll be a bit miffed with you for divorcing him? Why would he want your consolation prize?”

  The waiter brought our check and Chad slid it to me. “Thank you for letting me choose my own lunch, by the way, love.” He winked.

  “Look, I just don’t feel right about leaving Reilly alone. I want to help him get a fresh start with someone new. Why is that so hard to understand?”

  “’Cause it’s ridiculous,” Chad muttered audibly.

  “No, it’s not ridiculous,” I defended. “I’m cleaning up the mess I’ve made. I’m evening the score. Maybe it’s the accountant in me that can’t stand to see Reilly lose one wife without getting another. I may be a lot of things, but I do have compassion for the man. I can’t stand to think of him alone.”

  “You sure your motives are really so pure?” asked Jennifer.

  All heads turned toward her. “Maybe you just can’t stand being the bad press.”

  Four eyes glided to me, as Jennifer continued. “Dumping Reilly for another guy is gonna make you the bad guy in many people’s eyes.” She paused as if to consider whether or not she was going to say her next thought aloud. “We all know how important universal adoration is to our little Prudence.”

  Jennifer’s tone got more serious. “Prudence, I don’t want to bludgeon you with the obvious, but who else in your life walked out on his family?” she continued.

  “Who?”

  “Prudence,” she said in exasperation. “Your father.”

  “This is nothing like him!” I shouted, disgusted by the comparison. “He should have been so considerate as to find my mother a new husband instead of leaving us high and dry. My father though
t of nothing else other than his own happiness when he left us. I would have loved it if he spent the time to find me a new father—a real father—before he took off to Never Never Land.”

  “You said he lived in Larchmont,” Sophie said.

  “I mean he won’t grow up, Sophie!”

  Now I suppose I must explain Father. I guess I have a lot of explaining to do so I’ll start with Trenton Malone, a selfish bastard who I see about twice a year when he’s gracious enough to invite me to his holiday gatherings with his wife Carla, a young tart who gave birth to my half sister Ashley, exactly six months after my father moved out of our home. Even at twelve years old, I could do the math. Then came Whitney and Paige, pushing me even further into the margins of Father’s life.

  I refuse to call him “my father.” He’s known as either “Sperm Donor” or “Father.” I like to call him Father because it is so formal it reminds him that we have no familiarity. The sound of my voice calling him Father poses such a hideously beautiful contrast to the voices of his daughters calling him “Daddy.” Whenever we’re at events and the older Goldilocks Sisters start in with “Daddy this” and “Daddy that,” I always make a point of going up to him (preferably in front of large groups of guests) and saying with the gloom of Morticia Addams, “Father, you’re running low on canapés.”

  Chad’s unexpected apology brought me back to the restaurant. “We just care about you, love,” he said. “I’m sorry to be so hard on you, but I think you’re making a terrible mistake and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Sophie agreed. “This all does seem rather sudden, you must admit. Let me ask you, what is it that you love about Matt?”

  “I guess I love the way he makes me feel,” I answered. “He makes me feel, what’s the word? Visible. Heard. He makes me feel whole. He completes me.”

  “Isn’t that a line from Jerry Maguire?” asked Jennifer.

  “I don’t remember if it is, but it’s the truth!” I protested. “Matt completes me,” I said, satisfied that I’d answered their question. I signed the credit-card slip and left the copy inside the folder for our waiter to pick up.

  “Complete yourself, love,” said Chad. “What are you telling us, that you’re incomplete? Come on. You’re a hip, good-looking New Yorker with an Ivy League MBA and partnership at one of the biggest accounting firms on the planet. You’re in good health, spend your free time the way you like, you’ve got a closet full of beautiful clothes and fabulous friends like us to hang out with. I don’t know how to break it to you honey, but you are complete. Whether you know it or not Prudence Malone, you are complete.” He smiled. “Now, tell us about the underwear ripping thing again. That was kind of hot.”

  “Do you guys think I’m a slut?” I asked.

  “A complete slut,” Jennifer laughed.

  Sophie had a philosophy on sluts too. When she spoke, Sophie reminded me of honey being poured on a very grateful apple. It’s as if she knows she’s got something special to say and isn’t afraid to make you wait for it. “Women who are branded sluts are truly independent thinkers who dare to question and indeed redefine social mores. They’re frightening to the patriarchal construct because they live life on their own terms. I hate when women are called sluts. It’s so typically American to be so hung up about sex.” Sophie regularly defended her own lifestyle through abstract arguments that sound as though they might be taught in a cultural anthropology class taught by Hugh Hefner.

  The table was silent. “Before I give you the big ‘you go girl,’ let me clarify one thing,” began Chad. “Isn’t your family from Mexico? Didn’t you spend most of your life in San Diego?”

  She nodded again, perplexed as we all laughed.

  “What is so funny?” asked Sophie.

  Chad caught his breath. “Not exactly the bastion of sexual freedom, love. ‘It’s so American,’” he imitated her. “It’s not like you’re from Brazil, honey. You’re from San Diego. Didn’t they host the Republican convention there? Ever heard anyone singing about not forgetting to put flowers in your hair when you go to San Diego?”

  We all laughed.

  “Honey, say it’s stupid, say it’s rigid, but ‘it’s so typically American’ sounds like you’re from a band of gypsy whores who traveled the back roads of Turkey giving blow jobs for gas money.”

  She joined in the laughter. “We did give blow jobs for gas money. Shut up and stop disrespecting our family business!”

  “Okay, back to Prudence,” Jennifer directed. “What do you need from us to help find Reilly a new wife? Sounds like you’ve got some kind of I Love Lucy type of scheme up your sleeve, and if that’s the case, let me be the first to say, count me in!”

  “And let me be the first to say, count me out,” said Chad. “We had drinks last week. You said you were going to Michigan to spend time with your girlfriends. You said you were going for some big football weekend. This is out of nowhere, and I, for one, think you’re out of your mind. I’ll have no part of this. No part. Do you understand?”

  Chad was right. The highlight of my weekend was supposed to be seeing Cindy and Eve. If University of Michigan won its football game, even better. Never did I predict that the homecoming weekend would begin a chain of events that would fundamentally change my life. Chad once told me that when he painted, the canvas always ended up completely different than what he’d originally envisioned. He said his process was one where unexpected choices had to be made, and that art was about being open to change that would inevitably unfold before us. I thought it sounded a bit goofy at the time, but now I’d give anything for him to apply this philosophy to my current dilemma.

  Mistletoe and Holly

  LIZ IRELAND

  Chapter One

  I may be twenty-eight, but I’m a five-year-old when it comes to Christmas. The sight of a trimmed tree fills me with unrealizable expectations of holiday bliss, an affliction I blame on overexposure to those schmaltzy TV commercials and Christmas movies. Though I might gripe about all the over-the-top hoopla, I secretly look forward to it. Put it this way: I am not 100 percent certain what a sugarplum is, but for a few weeks every year I’ve got visions of them dancing in my head anyway.

  And, then, sometime between December 26 and January 1, the festivity ends and I straggle back to my apartment feeling exhausted, broke, and somehow lonelier than before. This is when I start wondering if it might not be better for everyone if Christmas were an event staged every four years, like the Olympics.

  But by the next time the holidays roll around I think, this year will be different.

  This will be the year when I’ll look like I belong in that Christmas picture my sister, Maddie, sends me every January—the one taken with her elaborate, spendy camera equipment. (Dad always brags that Maddie could have been a professional photographer if she hadn’t settled on medical school.) In the picture—which is always the same, every year—everyone is smiling deliriously in front of the nine-foot Douglas fir that sags with decades of accumulated holiday gewgaws. In it, my mom and dad lock arms in a way they never do on any other of the 364 days of the year. My button-downed, razor-jawed brother, Ted, with his beautiful wife, Melinda, a former Pilates instructor, hover over their two daughters, blond cherubs who strike adorable poses without being coached. Then there is my little sister, Maddie, the star of the family, who is always with her boyfriend of the moment—always an overachieving Ivy Leaguer like herself. She’s seen planting an extravagant smooch on his cheek, or jumping piggyback onto him and beaming over his shoulder. They’re usually dressed in matching holiday sweaters, which Maddie says is so dorky it’s cute, when really it’s just dorky.

  And then there is me, the one with the game but shell-shocked look on her face, a smile that says, I’ve drunk way too much eggnog. For a year I’ve known this moment was coming, but inevitably something on me looks askew. My hair is sticking up funny, or my cardigan is sagging off one shoulder, or static cling has caused my skirt to crawl halfway up my thigh. Typic
ally I’ve just had to hop out of Maddie’s way as she streaks from her tripod and leaps into the arms of her significant other, so in some of the pictures I’m little more than a blur trailing off the edge of the frame.

  Every year as the holiday season bears down, I think, This is the year I won’t be on the fringes. Through some unexplainable holiday magic, I will suddenly come into my own and no longer be the black sheep of my family. I won’t feel the crushing pressure of my father’s disappointment in me, always couched in terms of going to grad school. And maybe this will be the year the sibling rivalry I’ve always had with Maddie will evaporate, along with the inadequate feeling I get when I compare my life with my CPA brother’s well-ordered, fault-free life.

  Most of all, I think that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be another year when I skirt uncomfortably around that ubiquitous sprig of mistletoe Mom tacks up every year, glaringly aware that I am the only adult in the family not in a position to take advantage of it.

  Most of the time I’m just kidding myself. But last year was different. Last year, I found Jason.

  What can I say about Jason? He was absolutely everything—absolutely adorable, charismatic, available. Absolutely perfect. Which is surprising, because I met him in a bar. It was just before Thanksgiving. He was there with guys from his Wall Street office, and I was there with Mary Beth, a friend who gave up teaching high school economics for a six-figure job selling mutual funds. (Go figure.) I was just getting the slightest bit bleary-eyed listening to Mary Beth’s office gossip when I happened to catch the gaze of this incredible guy, this Adonis, on the other side of her. The spark in those baby blues of his was like a shot of adrenaline to my system. One look and I was in lust with the man. One conversation (Mary Beth who?) and I was over the moon. One date and I was sure I had found the one.