Tinsel and Temptation

by Eileen Rendahl

  Roman and his family, in their haste to abscond, had left bag and trunk. My first impulse was to go through them hoping to find some identification, an address of Roman’s wife, some way or means to send the constabulary to return my goods and dignity to me. But there was nothing there but cheap costumes and dogeared playbooks.

  Further, it was ridiculous to look for an address, to even imagine I could find Roman through his wife. The man didn’t have a wife, much less a beautiful one. The only magnetism Roman had was drawing fools in to sucker.

  It was a sad and long Christmas morning for me. I tortured myself repeatedly with the image of Phaegin’s Christmas morning. Did she think I’d abandoned her? Did she care? Perhaps she was enjoying the day with Randall Allan. My mind’s eye saw Phaegin tearing open package after package of Randall’s sweets and pretties, the prettiest of all his golden ring.

  Would she accept it?

  Would she be so foolish as to turn the good life away a second time? How could I love her and hope she would do so and wait for me, a useless, gullible, rube?

  As the sun climbed to its cold zenith I heard the jingle of harness approaching. I ran outside and waved my arms about in the manner of a castaway flagging a ship.

  The wagon soon enough approached so that I could see particulars of the driver, a woman with platinum hair braided to her waist. Her lips were red, her eyes dark, and she carried herself like a queen.

  I could hardly believe it. I stuttered hello, practically struck dumb. Could this be Roman’s wife? If so, he’d certainly not been exaggerating the woman’s beauty.

  She alit from the wagon and asked simply, with a thick Russian accent, “Roman—where?”

  I was afraid to tell her he had absconded with the wagon, not sure if she would blame the messenger, or indeed if she was as much of a rake as the rest of her family seemed to be. I merely shrugged my shoulders.

  She took it in stride and seeming to accept that I had little more intellect than the horse who pulled her wagon, did not introduce herself or ask my name. Indeed, she said nothing more and went directly in went to wait for Roman’s arrival.

  I followed her through the door. She took a look around, noted the dying fire, grabbed the ladder backed chair that Deka had been sitting on the night before and broke it over the back of the trunk. She picked up the pieces and stoked the fire. That done she sat down and took out a comb, unbraided her hair, combed it and did it up again.

  She stared at me a bit, but didn’t ask who I was and further didn’t seem to care much when I volunteered the information. I finally ventured that I wasn’t sure that Roman was planning on coming back.

  She pointed to her perfectly shaped ear. After a moment I understood that she meant for me to listen.

  In the hushed quiet I finally discerned a note or two of music. Could it be a guitar? I rushed to the door and flung it open. Far on the horizon I could see a wagon, hear the wind staggered notes of a song.

  In but a few minutes I could discern that it was my wagon, pulled by Wraque’s mule. Roman driving. Roman, Deka, Sinta, Lugar, and good God, Phaegin were all there. They piled out of the wagon, Phaegin and I laughing and clasping hands Roman, his most beautiful wife in the world, Deka, Sinta and Lugar all shouting in Russian and hugging. We had the most tumultuous and wonderful of Christmas greetings.

  Roman’s wife—whose name, I learned, was Lyvia—had indeed brought gifts, to the delight of the children. Lugar looked as animated as I’d seen any young boy, riding his stick pony as though he were Kit Carson, only grudgingly giving Sinta a turn on it so she could introduce her new china doll to the pleasures of horsemanship.

  Phaegin brought food and after I’d helped unload the wagon (finding every penny of the cordial money intact in the box under the seat) we forthwith sat down to grand repast.

  After we ate, I asked Roman why, if he had only meant to pick up Phaegin, he had taken his entire family with him to Fiji.

  “My friend, I would not expect a woman of your caliber to get in a wagon with a man like me. And I did not want her to fall in love with me before I got her to you. So my family came to help.” I nodded, glad Phaegin hadn’t decided to throw me over for the hirsute man “Besides,” Roman said, “What is Christmas without a surprise?”

  Roman and I took a moment together to give one more goodbye. I gave him the last cordial I had left and a deerskin porch with twenty-eight silver dollars inside. He handed me a rolled piece of paper, a braided ring of platinum hair holding it closed. As Roman opened the pouch he exclaimed he couldn’t possibly accept the money (even as he slipped it into his pocket) and I slid the ring off the paper and saw the document inside was the deed to the little house and ten acres on either side.

  “Roman! You are giving me this place?”

  He shrugged, “What is a house to an artist but a yoke on a bluebird? It is yours, Ned. Don’t let it age you overmuch.”

  He took me into a bearhug that was twice as uncomfortable as the squeezing that Lugar and Sinta had subjected me to. He climbed into the wagon with his family and they waved until they were small on the horizon.

  Phaegin and I returned to the tiny house. I was feeling the warm success of Christmas, but when Phaegin pulled a package about the size of a man’s fist from her pocket and gave it to me I realized I still had no gift to offer her. I slowly pulled the wrapping open and found she’d made me a cravat from patchwork pieces of silk she’d somehow located in the silkworm-less wilds of the Dakotas. I wrapped it around my neck and told her it was both beautiful and warm, just like her.

  She stared at me expectantly.

  I felt a little too warm as I thought of telling her how the sticks of peppermint and the ribbon met their end, hoping the story might be enough of a gift. I wondered if she would even believe the ring I’d meant to place on her finger was now circling a mouse’s throat and wondered if I could blame her for not.

  Burrowing my hands into my pockets I felt the cleverly braided platinum ring, slick and soft against my fingers. I pulled it out. It shone in the white winter light. Phaegin smiled, and I took my knee and pledged my love, a foretold fortune, and slipped the shining loop on Phaegin’s hand.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Spring Warren is a Northern California writer. Read more about Ned and his adventures in Turpentine (Grove Atlantic) and about gardening in The Quarter Acre Farm (Seal Press).

  THE MERRIEST OF MURDERS

  Kris Calvin

  The December Sacramento sky was a steely, starless grey, dark clouds coming in from the east, a threat of rain. It was only 7pm, but winter sunsets came early to California’s capital. The thickly landscaped terrace at the far edge of the estate was dimly lit, so Johnny Jameson didn’t see her until she stepped out of the shadows.

  “Why are you in blue and silver?" the woman asked. “There’s nothing jolly about blue and silver.”

  Johnny was uncertain how to respond—the large handgun she was pointing at him seemed to have short-circuited critical pathways to his brain. But he realized he had to say something.

  If only to buy time.

  Moments earlier, Johnny’s mood had been light. Although his position as Chief of California’s Health-for-All division was a powerful one, he’d once dreamed of being an actor. He’d arrived early at tonight’s gala fundraiser to change into costume, and been directed to the secluded guesthouse since his grand entrance wasn’t scheduled for another hour—it was to be a surprise to all but the Senator and, of course, the Governor who, per protocol, wasn’t to be surprised by anything.

  Now, face-to-face with a gun for the first time in his life, Johnny experienced an all-over numbness, a weakness in his muscles and joints. It took great effort for him to draw sufficient air to project his voice above the recycled water that flowed heavily from rock formations onto the surface of the nearby spa, which in turn fed the Olympic-size pool on the level below.

  “It’s to go with the theme," he managed to say. "Of the party. Winter Wonderland.” As
Johnny spoke, he forced his eyes from the weapon to two large french doors that led to the main room of Senator Stanton’s modern and imposing three-story home, all concrete and glass. It seemed a great distance away, past the large spa, the pool and a garden of succulents rising up out of colored gravel, having replaced an expanse of lawn in deference to the ongoing California drought.

  There were a few guests mingling about inside among uniformed catering staff, but hopelessness washed over Johnny as he realized no-one could see him or the gun–wielding woman in darkness at the back of the property. And although he had his phone, there was no way he could extract it from his pocket without her noticing.

  The guesthouse was a simple, grey concrete building, but inside it was home to meticulously maintained mid-century furnishings, crystal planters filled with orchids and ocean-themed art on the walls. When Johnny arrived a garment bag was laid out on the bed, a bottle of chilled Napa Valley Schramsberg champagne in a bucket and Belgian chocolates on the nightstand.

  Nice touch, he’d thought, pouring a glass of champagne before unzipping the garment bag and putting on his costume. Getting the false beard right was the difficult part, it hooked awkwardly over his ears. A wide black belt with an oversized silver buckle and heavy black boots completed his transformation from state bureaucrat to holiday icon.

  “But you are Santa?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing to near-slits as she gripped the gun tightly. “You are meant to make children happy?”

  He wanted desperately to answer her correctly, it seemed important under the circumstances. Johnny looked down, as though to confirm. Despite the velvet suit he wore being powder blue rather than red, his firm stomach—a product of countless crunches at the gym—was padded to jiggle, and together with the full white beard made his identity unmistakable.

  “Yes.” He felt raindrops as he spoke, his head bare. He noticed the forgotten stocking cap in his hand, trimmed with white faux fur. He put it on, his hands trembling. “I am Santa.”

  “Good.” She smiled and lowered the gun.

  Johnny took a deep breath. It had to be a prank, he realized, her weapon can’t be real. It was the holidays after all, he was wearing a fake beard! Then he saw her smile vanish as she raised her arms, the gun held with both hands, steadying her aim.

  His mouth dropped open.

  The first shot clipped his right shoulder. The second missed, but not by much. With the last she found her mark, the center of his chest. Johnny staggered backwards, falling over the unguarded edge of the terrace to the level below, where the rushing waterfall forced his body to the bottom of the silent pool.

  To stay home, while tempting, would be the coward’s way out, and California state lobbyist Maren Kane was no coward. Neither was she a beauty, she knew that. But her thick mane of deep auburn hair and arched brows above turquoise-blue eyes put her on the right side of pretty. Although that didn’t mean men were knocking down her door.

  Maren had always been awkward at flirting, and a history of failed serial monogamy hadn’t improved her skills. Still, the holidays were no time to be alone in Sacramento—the legislature was in recess and the halls of the Capitol deserted—so she’d resolved to put the ugly break-up with her ex behind her, get out there and meet someone new. And what better opportunity than Senator Stanton’s much talked about holiday gala? Plus, Maren figured even if she didn’t meet an eligible man at Stanton’s party, it was still likely to be an interesting evening.

  The most famous member of California’s legislature, Senator Stanton had recently published a best-selling autobiography featuring her transition from Michael to Michelle, which made her the first transgender elected official in the country.

  Stanton had won her North Hollywood Assembly seat six years prior as a man. But while campaigning for re-election, Stanton was arrested for shoplifting an expensive necklace from a downtown Sacramento jeweler. Although legislators running afoul of the law was not uncommon in California or elsewhere in the country, Senator Stanton was facing a formidable opponent, an heir to a popular restaurant chain who had buckets of money which he invested in negative ads highlighting Stanton’s arrest.

  But when Stanton announced she’d been under duress when she took the necklace because she was coming to terms with the personal and difficult decision to embrace her true gender identity, enough voters applauded her courage that she edged out a victory. Since then, Michelle Stanton had been elected to the California Senate, moving up through leadership to chair the powerful Senate Health Committee.

  Maren took another look at the invitation—Senator Stanton’s image front and center in a silver gown, her dark hair piled atop her head in a prom-type style. The invitation specified “White and Silver Cocktail Attire”.

  Not something Maren had on hand in her closet.

  Fortunately, the white, strapless, knee-length dress Maren purchased for the occasion had a side-zipper or she’d never have gotten into it on her own. She took a turn around her living room in her new three-inch silver heels to be sure she could do so gracefully. The shoes had their intended effect. Her legs looked longer and her ass higher than in the low-heeled red western boots she wore daily in the Capitol. Representing a fledgling eco-friendly toy company on issues related to the health and safety of children, Maren’s boots, mid-length skirts and unstructured, jewel-tone jackets suited her firm’s image. But tonight she was aiming for something sexy. Maren wasn’t asking for much from Santa this year, but she did want to be kissed by a man—deeply and seriously kissed—before the New Year rolled in. As a final touch she picked up her silver clutch, cinched the belt on a midnight-blue trench coat and raised her collar against the December chill and first drops of rain.

  Senator Stanton’s front door opened directly onto a spectacular cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling three stories above the ground floor, a massive skylight in the center. The light rain beginning to fall beat a soft rhythm as it struck the glass.

  A dozen seating areas with varied versions of chrome and white leather chairs and chaises were sparsely occupied when Maren arrived a little after seven. Guests, seated and standing, balanced drinks and hors d’oeuvres on small plates. Jasmine and pine floral arrangements infused the room with a fresh, outdoorsy scent. Nearly everyone wore white or silver, in compliance with the invitation. A woman in a gown that looked to be made of white feathers executed a complex jazz riff on a grand piano in a far corner, with a trio on stand-up bass, saxophone and drums providing backup.

  "May I take your coat?”

  Maren would have missed the young man at the makeshift coat check station to her right if he hadn’t spoken. She removed her trench coat in exchange for a ticket that she tucked into her clutch, then headed towards a chair out of the main traffic flow. She wanted to get her bearings. This was the part Maren hated most about going to a party unaccompanied, the first few minutes where there was no getting around the awkwardness of being alone.

  Then she noticed two men across the room, deep in conversation. Both looked familiar to her. In their late forties or early fifties, in great shape, she might have assumed they worked security for the event, if not for the drink each man held.

  One was very tall, maybe six foot five, with a strong, pale face and a boyish bowl-cut of light brown hair. He had oversized hands that he couldn’t seem to keep still, gesturing expressively each time he spoke or laughed. The other was of average height, stockier, his skin a soft caramel tone, with dark eyes and a full head of black, straight hair, nearly to his shoulders. He wore an off-white sports coat over a dress shirt and slacks in shades of black that didn’t quite match. He seemed serious, although smiled broadly once at something the first man said.

  A young woman circulating with a tray of champagne flutes offered one to Maren, which she accepted with the intent of making it last since she would be driving home later.

  As she took her first sip, it came to her—the taller one was Sarunas Marciulionis! From Lithuania, he was the first Soviet-born p
layer to be offered a spot in professional basketball in the U.S. He’d been one of Maren’s favorites on the Golden State Warriors when she was growing up. She and her dad watched games from tip-off to final buzzer, yelling at the TV in unison when the refs blew a call and sharing high fives when Marciulionas executed a perfect shot.

  Maren felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when she believed a love of sports could hold a father and daughter together, despite wildly differing natures. But then Marciulionas left the Warriors, ultimately landing in Sacramento with the Kings until knee injuries forced him to leave the NBA the next year.

  That was also the year Maren’s mother died, her father left, and nothing was ever the same again.

  But here he was, in the flesh over twenty years later, Sarunas “Rooney” Marciulionas, his blues eyes sparkling as they met hers across the room.

  Next stop, mistletoe…

  The room was filling with more white suits and silver dresses worn by politicians, community leaders and fat-cat donors from Senator Stanton’s Hollywood district. Tickets for the event ranged from $50 to $5,000 each—a large contribution meant bigger font for the attendee’s name in the program and greater likelihood of his or her photo and a mention in the post-event press.

  Several guests swayed in place as the jazz quartet picked up the pace with a Latin number. Others embraced friends and colleagues in greeting. Maren found the holiday spirit contagious, and although it had been fleeting she felt as though Marciulionis had looked at her the way she needed a man to look at her, it was what she’d been missing since she and Garrick split. She finished the champagne she’d planned to make last for the evening and picked up a second glass.

  Maren estimated there must be over 100 people in the room now, and could see no clear path from the middle where she stood to where Marciulionas was seated. The quartet launched into a jazzy rendition of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, the high ceiling amplifying the bass notes against a blend of cocktail chatter and high-pitched laughter.