by Caron Todd
“Fireflies?”
Even Jack had trouble understanding there was nothing cute about her fairies. She’d have to think of a different name for them. “They’d use torches. Thousands of little torches. Heads of wild barley, maybe, doused in oil and set on fire the way we do with cattails.”
Jack brought a blanket downstairs, so Liz could get rid of her coat. They sat on the floor under it, leaning against the sofa, close enough that she could feel his arm move every time he inhaled. A different sort of warmth built inside her. She watched the lights, inside and out, through half-closed eyes, letting her impressions of the evening drift through her mind, and a sense of anticipation build.
There was still something in the way. “You really wrote a code that’s better than anything being used now?” She was afraid he was an Einstein. Could she handle that, even if he was an Einstein who preferred to grow pumpkins?
“It was mostly luck. I was fooling around with work other people had already done and just happened on it.” He smiled at her skeptical expression. “Really. A lot of inventions happen that way.”
“I’m no good at math. Sometimes I count dots to add. When I shop I forget that $6.99 means $7.00. I always think it means $6.00. So by the time I get to the till, thinking I owe twenty dollars, and I’m told it’s thirty, I can’t believe it. Then there’s the sales tax. Don’t even ask me to calculate the tax.”
“Well, that’s it, then. I always said I’d never get involved with a woman who couldn’t write a better algorithm than I could.”
That was exactly what concerned her. Could he care, in the long run, about someone who knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about a subject he loved, work that had once been a vocation, by his own description?
“Tell you what,” Jack said. “You try to write an algorithm and I’ll try to write a children’s book. I bet we’d come out even.”
“Maybe not. At least you know what a children’s book is.”
“Don’t let algorithms intimidate you, Liz. An algorithm is just a list of instructions. Steps to accomplish an objective.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulders. She’d been wanting him to do that ever since they got under the blanket, and if he hadn’t done it soon she would have taken matters into her own hands. She’d had more than enough of Jack’s kindness and consideration. In an urgent undertone, she said, “I made a rather embarrassing stop at the drugstore in Pine Point.”
“Did you? Sounds like a stop I made in Winnipeg when I was planting clues for Reid to find.”
“Oh. Well, the more the merrier.” She felt him smile.
“Still cold?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know if she was, or not. It was the last thing on her mind. He ran his hand along her face, then cupped her chin, his fingertips brushing the soft skin behind her ear. It was enough to send a shiver of feeling throughout her body. With the back of his hand he stroked the warm curve from her chin to her collar bone.
When she moved against him, he pulled her sweater over her head, then drew the blanket higher over them. His hand went to her blouse. Slowly and methodically, as if counting, he unfastened each button. He slipped his hands underneath her thermal undershirt, fingers cold against her heated skin. When they reached her breasts, she couldn’t wait any longer. She tugged off the shirt, then reached around his neck and pulled him closer, feeling the wool of his sweater against her skin.
A little breathlessly, he said, “And that, more or less, is an algorithm.”
Her laughter was muffled against his lips.
A FOR SALE SIGN STOOD near the road, almost hidden by bare lilac bushes. Eleanor had taken the step. A touch ambivalently, maybe. Without the help of a real estate agent, an unmotivated buyer might drive by without seeing the sign.
House and 640 acres. That was short and to the point. You couldn’t say, “For Sale: Five Generations of Family History.” Eleanor was taking the position that she was selling boards and cement and whatever else had gone into building the place, that you took your past with you wherever you went. Jack wasn’t so sure. He didn’t have a segment of his brain or heart reserved for family history. Not even a trunk in the attic. That wasn’t quite true. He did have one thing that tied him to the past. A box of Christmas decorations.
There were moments when he visited Eleanor that he got a feeling that was almost creepy, an impression that other times and other lives were soaked into the walls of the house, waiting to be sensed by each generation. That sort of thing was more Liz’s territory. It was a fanciful thought for an ex-mathematician.
Or maybe not. Numbers could be fanciful when you thought about it, whether you were trying to explain the universe with hyperbolic curves or writing a complicated computer program. Liz had asked him if growing Christmas trees and pumpkins meant he wanted to make things magical for children. If only she could see how ones and zeros were turned into animated movies and the pages of books and graphs of how someone’s business was doing. Most people would never understand how those transformations happened.
Liz was smiling when she opened the door. “Look at you! You’ve come prepared.”
“I hope you’re not laughing at my hat.”
“I wouldn’t! It’s just that you look as if you’re dressed for forty below. It’s a nice day!”
“You think I’m dressed like this for the woods? I’m dressed for my living room.”
They were going to find a Christmas tree for Jack this afternoon. It was a little early to put up a real tree, but he didn’t want to wait. Later in the week, Tom planned to get one for Eleanor. Everyone was demanding a giant of a tree, one that would reach all the way to her ten-foot ceiling.
“Now you two wait just a minute. You should have a hot drink with you.” Eleanor hurried to the cupboard, found a tall, black insulated jar and filled it with strong tea from the pot on the stove. “There’s a second cup inside the lid. You’ve got a hat, Elizabeth?”
“In my pocket.”
“Well, your pocket doesn’t need it.” Eleanor felt in both pockets, found a green toque and pulled it over Liz’s curls. “Fashion,” she said dismissively. “Think about warmth. Besides, it looks pretty. Don’t you think so, Jack? The green brings out the reddishness in her hair.”
“Brings out her freckles, too. Better keep the girls with you, Eleanor. They’d exhaust themselves where we’re going. It’s uncharted territory.”
“Uncharted?” Liz asked, once she was in the truck.
“No snowmobile or ski trail, no farm machinery. Just deep snow. We’ll be okay.” Jack backed out to the road. “Eleanor got down to listing the place, I see.”
“Everyone’s been mentioning the sign. It’s almost as if nobody really thought it would happen. Uncle Will’s been telling Martin and Brian one of them should sell their place and move in here.”
“That must have gone over well. Your family doesn’t like change—whether it’s losing old houses or gaining new people.”
“They’re warming to you.”
He nodded. “They’ve decided to give me a chance. For your sake, I think.”
“For my sake? It’s for the sake of the hockey team.”
Jack laughed. “Maybe.”
“I’m sure they don’t know about us. All the little comments don’t mean anything. They’ve been making those since I got here.”
“Dream away, Liz.” He pulled off the road beside a field that bordered thick woods. It was a quarter section to the north of the original Robb homestead, and it had never been touched. From the first William on, nature had been left alone. The trees were bigger here than they were for miles around. Even the poplars soared. Shrubs grew beneath them, hazelnut, high bush cranberry and saskatoon. Bright red cranberries still clung to the branches here and there, flash frozen where they grew.
“We never cut from this parcel, Jack.”
“I don’t think you’ll mind when you see the tree, but we won’t cut it if you’re not willing.” He pressed his foot down on
one strand of the barbed wire fence and lifted the other, so Liz could get through safely, then she did the same for him. Clean, bright snow, untouched since it fell, lay deep on the ground, swept by the wind into hardened waves and peaks. “The trees were easier to reach the last time I came. You should be all right if you step into my tracks.”
“Snow will get in my boots whatever I do. I might as well walk beside you.” Her tone changed. “In fact, now that I think about it, I might as well knock you down and roll around with you and get snow on your tummy—”
Jack backed away, laughing. “No, you don’t—not until we’ve got the tree.” Then, as far as he was concerned, anything could go. “Make sure you give me a chance to get rid of the saw, before you do anything rash.”
She advanced, the snow well over her boots. One mittened hand reached under his coat and under his sweater. His muscles tightened at her touch. He pulled her to him, trapping her hand between them. It was wonderful to see her back from all the sadness and self-doubt. Not just back. She was more than back. There was color in her face, a sparkle in her eye. She was more ready to laugh, more open to other people’s good intentions.
She still hadn’t said how long she would stay in Three Creeks. Sometimes he got the impression she didn’t want to go back to Vancouver, but then she would talk about her apartment or her next book or fresh seafood and his heart would sink. It was a new feeling for him. He’d been close to a few women, but he’d always kept his sense of independence. Lately he’d begun to worry that his happiness was caught up in Liz’s plans, and that it always would be.
“Would we get hypothermia?” she whispered.
“Almost certainly.”
“Would it matter?”
“Maybe not.” He kissed her lightly. “Maybe just a little hypothermia would be all right. But not until we’ve got the tree.”
He took Liz’s hand as they crossed the creek, the one the kids played hockey on closer to town, and he kept holding it after they reached the other side. They worked their way past some low-growing willows. He didn’t want to tell her what was around the corner. He wanted her to be as surprised, as impressed, as he had been.
“Oh!” The word was soft, almost a sigh.
A spruce tree grew alone in a small clearing, far enough from shrubs and poplars that nothing impinged on its shape. Seven feet tall, maybe four feet across its widest, without a bare spot or brown needle to be seen.
“It’s too beautiful to cut, Jack.”
He smiled at her intensity. “I’m with you there. This one’s just to admire. No one’s pruned this tree, or sprayed it to look greener. It’s come to this all by itself.”
“I wonder if anyone’s seen it before. It’s off the main path, away from the meadow. People aren’t supposed to hunt here. Maybe we’re the first.”
He nearly said they should come every year, every Christmas season, just the two of them. He had to remind himself how unlikely it was that she would ever stay in Three Creeks, given how determinedly she had avoided the place. For all he knew, this was a healing interlude for her. He was a healing interlude.
Jack started walking. “Further in, some spruce are growing close together. Taking one out will be good for the rest. Want to help me pick?”
He led her to an area of dense bush, so protected wind couldn’t reach inside. The snow lay flat, with mouse tracks etched across the surface. All around, branches seemed to move, full of chickadees that fluttered from spot to spot, feathers fluffed for warmth.
They chose a spruce that wouldn’t have room to grow healthily for much longer. Jack started cutting just above the snow line, accompanied by supportive comments from Liz. Just when she was issuing her third offer to take a turn, the tree began to tremble. He checked to be sure Liz was no where near its trajectory, then gave it a push, guiding it past the branches of the remaining trees.
JACK HAD UNWRAPPED EACH of the bells and baubles in the box with infinite care. They had belonged to his mother. Liz’s opinion of his uncle had taken an upward slide. Anyone who saved his sister-in-law’s paper thin Christmas ornaments for more than twenty years and never broke one had to be okay.
They walked back and forth, checking the three sides of the tree that showed for burnt-out bulbs and empty spots.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s beautiful. The most beautiful tree ever.”
Jack stood behind Liz, his arms around her. “Jerry always got us a spruce. Not as nice as this one.”
She folded her arms over his. “That’s the kind we always had, too. That’s what grows wild around here.”
“We got them because they were the least expensive tree in the Dairy Queen lot. I never knew when Jerry would turn up with it. It could be two weeks before Christmas, or two days, whatever evening after work he had money in his pocket and time to look through the lot. I got so excited when the apartment door swung open, wide-open, not just a little bit to let a person in.”
Liz knew just what he meant. Wide open, and nobody making a fuss about letting cold air in or warm air out. The tree was always too big, and it always scratched the door frame, but nobody minded that, either.
“Jerry would walk in beaming, as excited as I was, with a scrawny tree over his shoulder. I guess it was a Charlie Brown tree. Not to me, though.”
“Kids are never disappointed with Christmas trees. They’re always magic.”
“Exactly. It was magic.” Jack’s voice slowed and softened as he remembered. “That woodsy smell filled the apartment, and the lights made everything glow. I could believe there were forests full of bears and cougars, not just on TV, but in real life. And if that was true, who knew what else might be? Maybe there really was a grandfatherly old man at the North Pole who wanted to give me toys.”
“And did he?”
“Oh, yeah. Somehow he always managed.” Liz felt Jack take a deep breath, his chest rising against her back. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you, Liz?”
“Here?” She couldn’t stay here, no matter how much comfort she was finding with Eleanor and Jack.
“With me. Here, Winnipeg, Vancouver, the Gobi Desert…”
She nodded. Even if he was a pirate, she’d stay with him somehow.
AFTER DARK THEY’D MADE LOVE in front of the tree, their skin colored blue and yellow and red and green by the lights. Eventually impatient with the living room floor, they had gone up to Jack’s bedroom, the coldest place in the world. Liz lay in the dark, listening to his even breathing. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. She felt boneless, every trace of muscle tension gone.
“Liz?” He turned on his side, his hand over her stomach, more rounded now than it had been when she first came home and saw all that whole milk and butter in her grandmother’s fridge. “You’re nice to wake up to.”
“Jack.”
“Hmm?”
She ran her hand along his arm, from shoulder to elbow. She didn’t want to hurt him. “You know I can’t give you my whole heart.”
His hand on her stomach went still. After a moment he said, “Of course you can’t. And that’s how it should be. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to be forgotten.”
She raised herself on one elbow, peering where she knew his face must be. Gradually, shapes materialized out of the darkness. The line of his forehead, the curve of his cheek. She felt his chest rising and falling under her. This time, cocooned under the quilt, she took control. She needed to show him how much of her heart she could give.
ANNE HELD THE CRANBERRY and the needle a few inches from her face. Her hand wavered as she aimed the point of the needle at the exact middle of the fruit’s stem end. For the past hour she had patiently sifted through the big bowl in the middle of Eleanor’s kitchen table, looking for cranberries that were perfectly oval and evenly red. Her chain wasn’t very long, but Liz had never seen one more carefully made. Young Will’s, on the other hand, was more than five feet long, and growing, and s
ome of the berries were in danger of falling off the thread. Every now and then he popped one into his mouth, screwing up his face at the bitter taste.
The two children had already helped roll out and cut the gingerbread men destined for the tree, using cutters as small as an inch high and as tall as six inches. Anne had arranged hers on the baking sheet as a family, rounded hands touching so they would fuse together in the oven. When the cookies were cool, Eleanor would help them trace the edges with white icing and draw on icing faces and vests. She had done exactly the same thing with Liz and Tom and their cousins at that age.
“Do you ever get tired of making gingerbread men, Grandma?”
“What? Never!”
Will said, “Never get tired of eating them, either, eh, Great-grandma.”
Anne looked at Liz with quiet curiosity. Liz smiled, intending to reassure her, but Anne immediately stopped staring. Was she wondering who this person was who claimed to be her aunt, who wrote books and never came home and put the phrases “tired of” and “gingerbread men” in the same sentence?
“You should come to a rehearsal,” Pam told Liz. Her students had adapted some of their stories as skits for the school Christmas concert. “You’ll be so pleased when you see the kids. Even Jeremy is getting into it. He’s a hockey player.”
Liz paused while threading a cranberry. She was trying to be as careful as her niece. “Not in Stephen’s skit?”
“Oh, no. Jocks only for Stephen. Jeremy is playing one of Dave’s friends in the creek hockey skit.”
“Has Jennifer found anyone willing to play Charlotte and Smoke?”
Anne raised her hand and bounced lightly in her chair. “I’m Charlotte. I have a long, long tail and whiskers. I have to crawl and meow and follow Jen everywhere.”