Catherine observed how Mel turned to the large coffeemaker—one side regular and the other decaf—swapping out the carafes without a peep of disdain and pouring Tara a mug. No flack at all. A perfectly reasonable request, unlike Catherine’s for a new bottle of ketchup mere minutes ago. In here Catherine Marie Hemmings-now-Trager had been labeled a troublemaker and nuisance, when in life Tara was far worse.
“Oh, and can I get a Reuben? I’ve heard so much about them that I just have to try one.”
Mel glanced smugly at Catherine, then to Tara, almost sunnily, “Anything else?”
“Yeah, put it on her tab.” Cocking her head in Catherine’s direction.
Mel gave a curt, satisfied nod and retreated to the kitchen, while Tara went to work doctoring her coffee with any number of sugars and creamers until it was almost unidentifiable as coffee. Catherine tried to go back to her pie, lifting the forkful that she’d tried once already.
“Did you forget something?” Tara blurted.
Catherine startled, dropping the fork again. She looked down at herself in a panic, suddenly worried that she had missed buttoning some buttons on her shirt, exposing her bra to the town folk of Nekoyah, or something even worse—
“If you break it you buy it, New York!” Mel called from the kitchen.
“See what you made me do?” she snapped, angry at being called out; angry even more at the fact that she was fully clothed and hadn’t forgotten a thing so it was all for naught. She had half a mind to stand up and blare that Tara was the one who was born and raised in New York. One hundred percent NYC. And she probably had the mob ties to go with it.
“I made you do? I can’t make you do anything. Obviously,” Tara growled.
“What are you talking about?”
“Grossman’s.”
A tiny pause, just enough to register through her thick-headedness. “Oh, shit, Tara, I—” She cut herself off. There was nothing she could say that would exonerate her. She’d taken a nap. Slept straight through. And worse, didn’t even realize she’d missed anything.
She was a bad Cat.
At the very least she could have texted Tara back this morning and asked what this Grossman’s thing was about. Better, she could have called and talked to her about it. But now she hadn’t a leg to stand on—
“You made sure you didn’t miss this ‘appointment’ though. At least I know where I stand— Fynn & Cara, your parents, sleep, Reuben, and then me,” Tara said coolly, complete with ranking hand gestures from head to toe. “If I make the list at all, that is.”
“Well, you’re above Georgia,” Catherine smirked, trying to make a funny that was also true, attempting to disarm her.
“I don’t give a flying fuck if I’m ahead of Georgia!”
“Sssh,” Catherine hissed.
“The baby isn’t going to pick up swear words in there.”
“Look around, Tara.” The diner was only almost empty.
“Those old guys over there? They might hear as well as a baby in utero. If they’re lucky.”
“You can swear at me all you want, I deserve it. But could you at least not do it here?” Mel was her real concern. No more fuel needed on that fire.
Tara relented, slumping in her stool. She sipped her coffee and Cat poked at her pie, afraid to try to take a bite for a third time.
“I just really wanted you there today,” Tara said after a while.
“Where?”
“At Grossman’s!” Her voice shot several octaves higher.
“I know Grossman’s, I mean for what?”
“Because I’ve made some decisions, and you’re my closest friend, and I wanted you there with me to celebrate.” Tara’s face flushed with excitement though her tone remained more or less monotone.
“What kind of decisions?” Catherine asked warily. Tara’s decisions weren’t always on the up-and-up. They weren’t always even-keeled. And they certainly weren’t always in anyone’s best interest.
Tara sipped her coffee and put it down before speaking. “Well, I’m going to settle down. Kind of have my own baby.” She ran her finger along the edge of the mug, her eyes on the stoneware.
“A baby? As in a baby?” Catherine choked out. Her eyes went to Tara’s midsection that was hidden beneath volumes of winter clothing, and her hand went to her own round belly, protecting Eve from the shock. Baby? That one word had become so commonplace in her everyday thoughts and imaginings and conversation; yet suddenly it sounded completely foreign to her ears. She felt like she was in a dream, detached from the world around her.
“In a way. Isn’t it great?” Tara lifted her eyes to Catherine, challenging her to say no.
“Uh… great isn’t—does Jason know?”
Tara pffted. “He doesn’t need to know. I told you that’s over.”
“But why? Did you cheat on him?”
“No, I didn’t cheat on him. Why would you ask that?”
“Because if you didn’t cheat on him, shouldn’t he know? I mean, if he’s the—”
“We aren’t compatible,” Tara said flatly.
“But doesn’t this change things?”
“Why would it change things?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” Total disbelief.
“I’m moving on. Improving myself. Finding myself. Building a life,” Tara reasoned. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
Catherine was frozen, mouth open, pie completely forgotten.
Mel came trucking toward them, sliding Tara’s order onto the counter in front of her. “Need anything else?” Again, the offer came without the side of disdain Catherine always got, which made her wonder if maybe Mel had a crush on Tara. It was possible. Mel’s sexuality was undetermined, although she’d have pegged her more for sexually agnostic if not wholly asexual more than playing for the other team.
Mel turned to her as if she could hear her thoughts. “Shouldn’t you be on your way?” she challenged.
Catherine blinked. She was being kicked out now?
“It’s almost four.” Mel pointed to the old clock on the wall.
“Oh! Yes, I—crap—I have to go.” She gathered her things, tossing her scarf over her shoulders and struggling into her coat.
“I guess I’ll see you around then,” Tara said around a large bite of her sandwich.
“Are you still… going to be… in town?” Catherine’s words stilted with surprise.
She nodded. “I’m staying with Drew.”
“With Drew?” Her own sister-in-law was putting her up? And she hadn’t said anything? Suddenly she could keep a secret? Was this some vast conspiracy? Did everyone hate Cat now?
“Yeah, she lent me a room.”
“Isn’t that nice.” Spoken through gritted teeth because it wasn’t actually nice at all. It was called enabling. Catherine dropped some cash on the counter; plenty to pay for herself and Tara. Then she spun on her heel and headed for the door, slipping out into the cold beyond where she could breathe again.
“Cat!” Tara called from behind, catching the door before it could close.
“What?” she demanded, whirling on her. “You can certainly cover the tip, I’d think.”
“Wow, I was just bringing you your gloves.”
“Oh.” Her already cold, red face went a shade brighter.
“Why do you have to be such a spastic nerfbag about everything?” Tara asked, handing them over. “You’re so uptight and crazy-eyes about stuff that doesn’t make any difference to you. This is my life. Mine.”
“You’re in my town.”
She stared back in disbelief. “And Nekoyah isn’t big enough for the both of us? Did I just step into the Wild West? … I hate to break it to you, Sheriff Cat, but it’s a free country.”
Tara reached out toward her and Catherine ducked out of the way. “Jumpy much?” she chortled, plucking a flyer off the lamppost behind her. “Holy cow! Is this one of those contests like they have in those fictional towns in all the Christmas movies?” Her eyes were prac
tically aglow.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Catherine groaned, seeing how things were about to go from bad to worse.
“Whatever do you mean?” All innocence.
“My house is not on the list of entries.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because it isn’t worth the effort.”
“Grinch,” Tara grunted.
“I have too many other things to deal with right now to get caught up in a contest only Sophie Watts can win. And obviously so do you,” she added pointedly.
“Who is this Sophie Watts of which you speak?”
My nemesis. “One of those do-everything, be-everything, win-everything people.” She didn’t add the rest of what she believed—that Sophie Watts was the perfect villain for a Christmas movie plot, a character who probably cheated to win each and every year. There had to be a villain in every sugarcoated tale. And this was a sugarcoated town. But that would just encourage Tara.
“So beat her.” Simple.
“Tara, I don’t have the energy to go to war over Christmas lights.
She shook her head sadly. “It’s just a shame not to take her down a peg, like we did with good ol’ Rachel Craig when we took her cake.”
“Don’t remind me. You know there are wanted posters all over my hometown for me and my unidentified accomplice—”
“No shit, you mean I’m famous?” Tara looked totally proud of herself, and Catherine shook her head.
“Well, just because you don’t want to take part doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it, Tara,” Catherine cautioned. “Remember, after all is said and done, I still have to live here.”
“I’m just sayin’, just because you won’t or can’t or whatever, doesn’t mean your house couldn’t beat the hell out of her. I know you hate that I showed up here like this, and I could repay you by bringing home the trophy. This is right in my wheelhouse.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. Tara would insist brain surgery was in her wheelhouse if it was a means to an end.
“There’s no trophy. It’s just bragging rights and an oil change at Frank’s Auto Shop.”
“And who wouldn’t want a free oil change? God, Cat, they don’t just give those things away,” Tara joked.
“Don’t. I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t have time for any more craziness. I kind of have to birth this kid in less than two weeks. And during all that there’s… just so many other things going on already with my parents and Cara and—”
“I get it. You’re Santa now. There’s a lot to prepare for.”
“I’m Santa now?” Like Tara couldn’t have said something more ridiculous.
“I imagine the suit fits pretty well though, so that’s good.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The jolly guy with the big red suit. Ho-ho-ho and all that.” When Catherine didn’t respond, she added, “Most people ease into the position, but you went from no kids to a six-year-old like that. Has to be a lot of pressure to perform.”
“Santa. Oh my God, I’m Santa.” Catherine’s heart was in her throat. “I didn’t—” She couldn’t even say the words. She had bought Cara lots of presents. Wrapped them in a fit of organizational genius. And put them under the tree. All of them from her and Fynn. She hadn’t even thought about Santa. She didn’t have any gifts left. Nothing to tag: Love, Santa. Nothing to put out on Christmas Eve. Nothing at all. She’d thought she was being efficient by wrapping everything early; that the gifts looked pretty as a picture sitting there under the tree.
“You okay? Oh my, Cat, did I just ruin Santa Claus for you? Did you still believe?”
She slumped against the lamppost.
-27-
“I cannot believe how selfish—” Catherine slammed the cabinet drawer on the vanity, unable to find her tweezers. The ones with pinpoint accuracy. The ones she needed for the obnoxious whisker poking out of her chin that had not been there this morning. Worse than sprouting gray hairs, Tara was making her sprout whiskers “—she’s acting like a child—”. Catherine opened the doors, pulling out the basket full of products she felt too guilty to throw away after using them and finding they were less than the holy grail of beauty and more than a waste of money. She rooted through the jumbled mess, hoping to find the backup tweezers she didn’t like much either. “—and children having children is a bad idea, just ask anyone.”
“What are you grumbling about in here?” Fynn asked, coming into the bathroom where she sat on the floor.
“It’s Tara. Of course. It’s always Tara, isn’t it?”
Fynn shook his head, pretty much saying it wasn’t. It was always something, but that something could be anything as far as he seemed to see it.
Catherine’s head had been spinning since the diner. Nonstop. The ramifications were huge, regarding Tara’s life and Cara’s Christmas and her own sanity. “She’s completely out of control and I don’t have time for it. I have my own problems, like, for one, this.” She poked her chin up toward him, running the back of her hand underneath, against the grain, where she could feel not just that one whisker, but several more now. Just in the last hour. She groaned.
“You know that you just flipped me off.”
“No I didn’t. This is flipping you off.” She held up her middle finger.
“Flicking your hand under your chin like that is a foul gesture too. You might want to keep that in mind before you start telling librarians and cops and senior citizens to screw off,” he chuckled.
“I’m not telling anyone to screw off… except maybe you now. Can’t you see that I have a friggin’ five o’clock shadow starting? Only it’s coming in white because I’m old.”
“A bearded lady, and she’s all mine,” he swooned.
“You, Mr. Trager, are not helping. My hormones are so out of control that I’m going to have to start shaving my face.”
“Maybe I need to leave you to that then.” He turned to go, deciding this wasn’t fun anymore.
“That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”
“You obviously don’t need me here. You seem to have it all under control.” Brittle.
“What do I have under control? I have nothing under control.”
“That’s my point. You’re intent on freaking out whether I’m here or not. So I choose not.”
“Nice. That’s just fucking brilliant,” she growled. “Leave me to this just like you’ve left me to everything.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everything! Did you ever once think about the Santa thing?” she challenged, angry at him when she was more than enough to blame for it as well. This was a joint oversight.
“What Santa thing?”
“The fact that it’s our job to be Santa. We inherited that position for Cara, and if we don’t do it no one else is going to.” Considering the sensitive nature of the conversation, it was good that her parents had taken Cara out for a gumball sundae at the ice cream parlor. William Hemmings had asserted that he had no idea why anyone would want to eat ice cream in this kind of weather, but since that anyone was his granddaughter, he obliged.
“I thought you had a handle on that,” Fynn deferred.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you direct all the shopping. For everything. And you’ve been out shopping and talking about shopping and shopping online. I figured it was more than enough shopping to cover all the bases.”
“Except I didn’t even think about that base.”
“What do you mean you didn’t—”
“I didn’t do the whole Santa thing. And why should I be the one? What about you? Or us?”
“I don’t—I guess I just assumed—”
“Ass-umed. Great. Now what? I wrapped everything already. It’s all under the tree. And I don’t even know what she wants from Santa anyway.”
“Just ask her.”
“I did. Today. On the way back from the bus. She sai
d that she is only telling Santa this year. That way, if she gets what she wants she’ll know that he really is real. And you know why? Do you? Because of Sophie Watts and her devil progeny.”
He rolled his eyes, making the “here we go again” part unnecessary.
“I’m serious. She told me that Sally told her that Santa isn’t real! Little Sally Watts. I knew she was trouble. I think Sophie cloned herself. You can’t trust a woman who vanity names her kids. All of them S’s. Figures. Of course her spawn would try to ruin Cara’s Christmas just like her mother sabotaged my room-mothership.”
“It’s just kids being kids, Catherine. There is always some kid who is the first to learn the truth and spreads the news like wildfire.”
“But Fynn, this is her first Christmas without her mother and now she’s going to lose Santa too?”
“So we’ll figure out what she wants. She’s a six-year-old; they aren’t known for keeping secrets.”
“Cara is a tough nut. Like Fort Knox. She said that Santa, if he really exists, already knows what she wants. What, does she have his cell phone number?”
“Oh.” The syllable was like a breath of guilt.
“What?” Catherine demanded.
“I… think she mailed it.”
“Who mailed what? My mother?” But of course.
“Cara,” Fynn said. “The other night. Her Christmas list. That’s what you had me walk her to the mailbox to do.”
She ignored the you had me accusation and focused on the other part. “She mailed her list? To who?”
“Well, I’m guessing it was to Santa.” Duh.
“And you didn’t stop her?” See, two can play the accusation game. She went silent, first stewing then mourning their idiocy.
“Wait, what does the post office do with undeliverable mail to the North Pole?” she asked.
“Beats the heck out of me. I never wrote to Santa. I always went directly to his lap and asked for what I wanted.”
“Funny, Fynn.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she asserted.
“Oh no,” he lamented.
“What?”
“Don’t get any brilliant ideas about breaking into the post office. That’s a federal offense. You’ll end up having our baby in jail. And don’t mention it to Tara or she’ll take it as a dare.”
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 16