Been Searching For You

by Nicole Evelina

  I elbowed Alex. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  He smiled. “We just found out.”

  “To Annabeth and Alex.”

  Everyone raised their glasses and repeated his toast. As I looked around the table, I was struck by how much love was in the house and how fortunate I was to have such a supportive family. When I caught Mirabelle’s eye, I could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. Chuck winked at me. Only my mother refused to participate more than strictly necessary.

  The evening carried on this way for another half an hour before the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, whoever could that be?” my mother asked with feigned innocence as she rose and headed toward the door.

  I glanced at Mirabelle. She shrugged.

  “Well, hello, dear.” My mother’s exuberant greeting carried into the dining room. “Merry Christmas.” She kissed whoever was at the door with a loud “mwah.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Coe.”

  I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms standing on end. I knew that voice. It had echoed within these walls most of my life. No. She hadn’t. She couldn’t have. I grabbed Alex’s leg under the table, my fingernails digging into his pants.

  My mother returned, beaming. “Look who the cat dragged in.”

  Nick trailed behind her like a puppy, carrying two neatly wrapped boxes. He nodded to my dad. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Coe. Mirabelle, Chuck.” He caught my eye. “Annabeth, nice to see you.”

  I gave him a mocking smile.

  It was only then that he caught sight of Alex, whose expression had visibly darkened. Nick reached out a hand. “Alex, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I could say the same about you,” he ground out while they shook hands.

  I turned to my mother, whispering furiously, “You knew Alex was coming with me. Why did you invite Nick to dinner?”

  My mother placed a hand on her chest as though to protest her innocence. “I was simply being kind to an old friend.” She raised her voice so that everyone at the table could hear. “Nick is like a son to us. We couldn’t in good conscience leave him alone on Christmas Eve.”

  Nick’s parents had both died a few years back. The last I’d heard, his sister wasn’t speaking to him, so he had no reason to be in this state other than my mother’s incessant machinations.

  “Why are you back home, Nick? There’s nothing bringing you here—unless Alyssa finally forgave you,” I said.

  “Annabeth,” my mother chided, aghast. “That is no way to treat a guest. Where are your manners?”

  Nick ignored her. “She has, in fact, thank you. We’ve called a truce for the holidays. I hope you will extend me the same courtesy.”

  I looked at my empty plate, embarrassed to be called out by both of them, especially when they were right. I was being rude.

  Mirabelle stood and cleared the plates. “Annabeth, be a dear and help me with these, won’t you?”

  I gave her a grateful smile and stacked dishes. When we were both in the kitchen, with running water and clattering dishes to cover our voices, I finally said, “What. The. Fuck? Is Mom insane?”

  “Yes, but we knew that.”

  “Seriously, is she trying to kill me? Because she just might. Is there more wine? I’m going to need my own bottle to get through this.”

  Mirabelle nodded at the counter. “Three more bottles. But please, try to behave yourself. This is Christmas, and the two of you aren’t children anymore.”

  I sighed. “I know. But do you have any idea how strange it is to have your ex-boyfriend who is now your boss and your current boyfriend sitting at the same table?”

  She started to reply, but Chuck stuck his head in the door. “Um, Annabeth, you may want to come out here. Nick is up to his old tricks.” He mimed incessant chatter by opening and closing his hand.

  When I sat back down, Nick was regaling my parents with a tale of how he had “singlehandedly” convinced one of our celebrity authors at the October book signing to make a sizable donation to the university. “I just told him, ‘Look at all these eager young faces. How could you not want to ensure several more generations have the benefit of learning from your writing?’ Sometimes you have to appeal to their ego to get the job done.”

  “Too bad fundraising isn’t your job,” I said.

  My mother glared at me but directed her words to Nick. “And what was your role in the event, my dear? Besides showing that writer some of your signature charm, I mean?”

  Nick beamed like a schoolboy. “I helped Annabeth with every aspect of the preparations, did whatever she needed.” When he saw my scathing look, he hastened to clarify, “She did most of the planning while I was still getting my feet wet, but I helped her with all the last-minute details.”

  “That’s just like you, Nick—so dependable.”

  Alex nearly choked on his wine but quickly recovered. “Yes, we don’t know what we would do without him.” His voice held just enough sarcasm that Nick and I caught it but my mother was oblivious.

  My father, visibly agitated, stood suddenly and asked, “Who wants dessert?”

  Ten minutes later, we were munching on my mom’s signature pistachio Bundt cake and sipping coffee. The apple pie I’d smelled when we arrived was for tomorrow, or so I was told.

  “Do you remember the year the three of you decided to make this cake on your own?” my mom asked.

  Mirabelle rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Please, don’t remind me.”

  Nick laughed. “We didn’t have any baking powder, so we used baking soda instead.”

  “And the lid came off the cinnamon. I’ve never seen that much spice in one place in my life.” I made a face.

  “Hey, I did a pretty good job of scooping it out,” Nick said.

  “Not good enough. That was most awful cake I ever tasted,” my dad said, shaking with laugher and wiping tears from his eyes.

  “How old were we? Eleven?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” Nick said. “This cake has a ton of history to it. This is the same thing you served when Annabeth turned twenty-one, only you forgot to tell anyone you’d soaked it in rum.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that, Mom,” I said. “It went really well with all the other alcohol people were plying me with that night.”

  “Yeah, Mom, you weren’t the one who had to sit up with her and hold her hair back when it came back out,” Mirabelle said, grimacing.

  “You’ll hear no complaints from me. I credit that cake with a lot of fun that night.” Nick winked at me. “If you know what I mean.”

  I glanced at Alex, who had stopped eating and was slowly turning red. A cord of muscle stood out on his neck.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I can’t help that I was young and dumb.”

  “Hey, isn’t that a line from a song?” Mirabelle asked. She thought for a moment then started singing the line from “Cherry Lips” about a girl who had just turned twenty-one.

  Nick picked up the next lyrics, and soon all three of us were singing.

  By the time we finished the chorus, I was breathless with laugher. “Didn’t Garbage sing that when we went to see them?”

  “Yeah, Shirley said they didn’t usually perform it in America since it wasn’t a single here.” Nick shook his head. “Man, that was an awesome night.”

  “So many memories,” my mom cooed, looking between Nick and me. “And more to come, I’m sure.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Nick said, grinning at me.

  Alex politely excused himself. When he didn’t return after a reasonable amount of time, I used the excuse of refilling the coffee pot to go look for him. I found him in the living room, looking at the photos on the mantel. Most of them were of Mirabelle and me as kids, but many of them also contained Nick.

  “How can I compete with this?” Alex asked without turning around. “You have so much history.”

  I put my arms around him from behind, resting my cheek against his back. �
��And that’s exactly what it is—history.”

  He humphed. “That’s not what it sounded like in there.”

  “So we shared a laugh. We’re old friends. It’s going to happen. But nothing else is. End of story.” I took his hand and turned him around. “My mom may be living in the past, but I’m not. I’m interested in the future—with you.” I stood on tiptoe and waited from him to tilt his head down to mine. When he finally relented, I kissed him long and deep. “I can promise you Nick never got a kiss like that, with or without rum pistachio cake.”

  Alex laughed. “I hope not, or I really will have to throttle him.”

  “No need for that. But I do think our unwelcome guest has stayed long enough. What do you say we find a way to kick him out?”

  “With pleasure.”

  We would open most of our presents tomorrow morning after coming back from dawn church services, but now that Nick had gone, we were gathered for my favorite part of the holidays. On Christmas Eve, after dessert and some time relaxing by the fire, we each selected one present to open. We believed that the gift contained a special meaning for the year to come.

  We sat in a circle on the floor in front of the Christmas tree in the foyer. My mom went first, opening a box that contained a plush cashmere sweater from my dad. It was a deep forest green, and she declared it a sign of fortune and luxury to come. Mirabelle and Chuck chose a joint gift from my parents, which turned out to be a two-parter: a statue of St. Joseph and a check for several thousand dollars.

  “We want to help you sell your house and make sure you have a down payment on the home of your dreams,” my mom said.

  My dad selected a gift bag from which he pulled a scrapbook Mirabelle and I had been collaborating on over the Internet. She’d done the actual design, but we both contributed photos, and I wrote the captions. It started with photos from when he and my mom were dating and continued through the present, with a placeholder near the end for a group photo we would take after church tomorrow plus a few blank pages for new photos.

  “Thank you, girls,” he said, voice quavering with emotion. “I say this means I’ll have many more wonderful memories with those I love.”

  Alex picked the heaviest gift I’d packed. “I want to know what I almost broke my back carrying all the way here,” he said, tearing into the green-and-red wrapping paper.

  He uncovered a dark blue hardcover book sans dust jacket, the kind of tome you’d expect to see in a college professor’s office. Embossed on the cover in gold letters was the title, The Harry Potter Generation: A Study of the Influence of Young Adult Literature on High School and College Students. It had just been published and was in high demand. Alex was obsessed with the author, John Fitzpatrick, whom he held in utmost respect as a peer and a kind of mentor.

  “Open the cover,” I instructed him.

  It was autographed with a note about how impressed the author was with the coverage he’d seen on Alex’s teaching methods and an invitation to collaborate on a future journal article.

  “Oh, Annabeth, this beyond perfect. How did you get this?”

  I grinned. “A girl has to have her secrets, but I’ll say that my work with your dean has its advantages. I’m so happy you like it.”

  “How can I not?” He gave me a grateful peck on the lips.

  I selected a small box wrapped in shiny silver paper that said it was from Alex. Slipping a fingernail under the tape, I arched an eyebrow at Alex, who was grinning like an idiot. I opened the first box only to encounter another. Tearing through another layer of paper, my heart began to race. The weight, size, and shape confirmed my suspicions. It was most certainly a ring box. My hands were sweating by the time I pried open the velvet lid. Inside was a beautiful white-gold ring made from two hands clasping one another. The cuff at the wrist of each hand had four tiny diamonds inlaid in it.

  Alex took out the ring and placed it on the ring finger of my right hand. “This is called a Concordia ring. This particular one has been in my family since 1910, but they date back to Roman times. The ring is sacred to the goddess Concordia, who is the lady of harmony. She watches over all manner of relationships but has a special affinity for friendships that grow into deep love. I hope you will accept this ring as a symbol of my commitment to love only you.”

  Heat bloomed in my chest as love boiled up and bubbled over. I was so overwhelmed I could barely breathe. “Yes. Of course.”

  As I pulled him close and buried my face in his neck, the full weight of the meaning behind the ring started to sink in. It wasn’t quite an engagement ring, but it was a close second. Alex was serious about us. After only six months, he was willing to make a deep commitment to me in front of my entire family. That was more than most men did after several years.

  After we finally parted, Mirabelle pointed up. “Did either of you notice where you’re sitting?”

  We both looked up. Above us, a spray of white berries and green leaves hung from the ceiling.

  I covered my face with my hands. “I’ve never been kissed under the mistletoe.”

  “Really?” Alex pulled my hands away. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

  “You seem to be a lot of firsts for me.”

  “First and last, that’s the goal.”

  I laced my fingers in Alex’s wavy hair, one hand above each of his ears, and held his gaze so he couldn’t look away from me. “I love you. More than anyone or anything in my life.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.” He leaned in and kissed me.

  After a minute of Mirabelle and Chuck catcalling, my mother interrupted. “All right, that’s enough of that. We should all retire to bed. We have an early start in the morning.”

  Our group broke up then, heading to various sleeping arrangements. My sister and her husband disappeared in the direction of the den, likely to sleep on the pull-out bed, while my dad walked us up to the guest room my parents had made out of my old bedroom.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not so old-fashioned that we expect you to sleep in separate rooms, although I have a feeling it would please your mother.” He kissed my cheek. “I’m very happy for you, kitten.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Alex held out his hand to my father, who pulled him into a hug. “You take good care of my little girl, you hear?”

  “That’s my mission in life, sir.”

  “Good man.”

  That night, as the house slumbered and I lay in Alex’s arms, I sent a thousand prayers heavenward in thanksgiving for my good fortune and one that my mom’s heart would embrace Alex—even if it took time. Her reserve was the one shadow on the gleaming starlight that was my life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Three days later, after a quick flight back to Chicago to repack, Alex and I were ensconced in a cozy little lodge in the mountains outside Denver. My parents had given Mirabelle and Chuck a voucher for an all-inclusive stay, but Mirabelle had quietly slipped it to me as we were saying our farewells the day after Christmas.

  “Bella, I can’t accept this,” I’d protested. “You and your hubby need this time off more than we do.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Chuck’s job has come calling, so we won’t be going anywhere.”

  Chuck stuck his head into our little circle. “Yeah. IT may pay well, but being on call all the time sucks.”

  “Don’t you love saving the world?” I asked.

  “Oh, if only my work were so sexy.”

  Mirabelle held the envelope out to me again, shaking it slightly. “Come on, take it. We don’t want to see Mom and Dad’s money go to waste. They don’t need to know what we did with it.”

  And so Alex and I were in a secluded lodge in the middle of the Rockies while Mirabelle and Chuck had returned home to North Carolina. The lodge was like a dream come true, with roaring fires and a hot tub in every guest room, gleaming timbers as tall as sequoias, fur rugs and blankets in abundance, and a nonstop supply of top-notch food and wine at our disposal wit
h a single phone call.

  Between this and the ring, I felt like a bride on her honeymoon. We spent the first two days of our stay in bed, cuddled together, while snow fell in giant flakes outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. When we weren’t making love, we were watching movies on Alex’s iPad or quietly reading side by side like some old married couple. It was heaven.

  On New Year’s Eve, we decided to venture out and mix with the other couples at the lodge’s champagne bash. As usual, Alex was ready long before I was. While I hopped around, trying to get my heels on while pinning up my hair, he leaned against the edge of the sofa in the suite’s sitting area, watching me with great amusement.

  “How you women survive any event is beyond me. There’s so much… preparation.” He shook his head.

  “Oh hush. You know you love the end result.”

  “That I do.”

  “Honey, will you get this for me? I can’t seem to fasten the clasp.” I held out my right wrist, from which dangled a silver-and-diamond bracelet, the two straps twined in an infinity knot—his latest gift to me. That was when I noticed he was absorbed in his phone. I placed a hand on his. “Is everything all right?”

  He looked up, his dark blue eyes wide in the dimming light blazing through the windows behind him. “Yeah.” He took my hand and led me over to the couch. “Annabeth, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  I sat, fear knotting my stomach. I took an uneven breath.

  “Back in May, long before we started dating, I applied for a guest lectureship at Oxford. It was a long shot. I’m American, and I don’t teach the stuffy, overly academic classics, so I didn’t think I had a chance. But it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

  I was queasy, easily guessing what he was about to say. But I nodded, afraid if I spoke I might throw up on his fancy black suit.

  “I just found out that I’m a finalist. They’re doing interviews at the International Conference of Teaching and Learning next week since most of the candidates will be there.”