The Alpine Christmas

by Mary Daheim

  I was gazing into the fire, listening to the Mormon rendition of “Away In A Manger.” “I feel sorry for the Nyquists. Travis is a terrible blot on the family escutcheon. Poor Louise. But maybe reconciling with Evan’s side of the family will help.”

  “Evan will help,” Ginny announced, surprising all of us. “I hear he’s going to stay in Alpine and work at the Marmot. He’s nuts about movies. After all, Oscar can’t live forever.”

  “He’s working on it,” Vida said without enthusiasm.

  I got up to get the dessert out. The Upper Crust had provided me with a buche de Noël that looked too good to eat. Almost. To my surprise, Adam came out to help me. To my amazement, Carla and Ginny tagged along to help Adam.

  Ginny and Adam busied themselves with plates, forks, and more napkins while Carla lounged against the counter. “Now why couldn’t Travis turn out to be a good guy so he could dump Bridget and become eligible?” She uttered a dramatic sigh. “He was handsome, rich, charming.”

  “And a crook,” I noted, carrying cups and saucers back into the living room. I checked my big pot that stood on the dining room table; the coffee had finished perking. Vida would probably want tea. The phone rang on my desk across the room. Ben volunteered to answer it. There was no one at the other end, but the answering machine clicked on.

  “The phones still aren’t working quite right,” I said. “If there’s a real message, I’ll get it later.” It couldn’t be an emergency affecting anybody I cared about, since they were all under my roof. If it was for Milo, his beeper would have gone off. I went back into the kitchen.

  Adam, Carla, and Ginny were clustered together like a baseball conference on the mound. They were laughing and whispering in a conspiratorial manner.

  The only words I caught were Ginny’s: “ … Bugsy starts next…”

  All three jumped at my intrusion. I stared. They grew awkward. I frowned in puzzlement. And then it dawned on me. I dove for Adam, grabbing him by the front of his beige sweater.

  “You! I don’t believe it! How could you?”

  “No, hey, really, I only … uh …” My son tried to escape my clutches, his eyes darting back and forth between his accomplices.

  Carla doubled over. “I can’t help it! It’s too funny!” She held her sides, giggling and jiggling away.

  Ginny was the first to regain her composure. “Carta’s right. It is funny. And what else is there to do around this town in the winter? What’s the harm? It’s good publicity for the Marmot. Who can resist checking out that marquee every day?”

  I released my son and bit at my cheeks to keep from smiling. My gaze remained on Adam, who was adjusting his shirt collar and straightening his sweater. “When did you join this merry band, my boy?”

  “Uh … last night. We couldn’t ski. The weather was too crummy.”

  I gave a shake of my head. “I can’t condone this.”

  Carla had gotten her giggles under control. “You don’t have to. Would you rather we shot out Christmas lights or stole wreaths off doors?”

  I sighed. I would rather they acted like responsible adults, but that was expecting too much. At least Carla and Ginny weren’t selling themselves to the Alpine Kiwanis Club and Adam wasn’t hustling crack to the Rotarians. Maybe I ought to count my blessings. I started back into the living room, made a quick change of direction, and went into the bathroom.

  And laughed my head off. Carla could spell! Ginny had imagination! Adam wasn’t rolling around with either of them in the snow!

  Or maybe it was Carla’s imagination and Ginny’s spelling. It didn’t matter. At least I might be right about Adam. Then again, we don’t always get our wishes, not even at Christmas.

  By eleven-thirty everyone had gone home, and Adam was in bed. I started the dishwasher and put on a German boys’ choir Christmas CD. Except for the tree, the living room was dark. No, I was mistaken. The answering machine light was on. I turned the volume to low and played the tape.

  “You must be out reveling,” said the mellow voice of Tom Cavanaugh. “Sandra and I are leaving for London tomorrow. She’s always wanted a Dickensian Christmas, so I’m going to let her shoplift Royal Doulton at the Olde Curiosity Shoppe. I’ll be back in San Francisco the twenty-seventh. Sandra’s going to spend a few days with her sister up at Lake Tahoe. Any chance you and Adam could fly down to welcome Baby New Year? The trip’s on me. Merry Christmas.” There was a pause, then Tom’s voice deepened. “Every Christmas I miss you like hell. Now that I’ve finally met Adam, I miss him, too. Damn and double damn. Why is life such a pain in the ass? I’ll call you the twenty-eighth.”

  I replayed the tape three times, foolishly drinking in his voice, savoring his sentiments, wishing I weren’t such a sap. There would be no New Year’s party for Tom, Emma, and Adam. Ben would still be in Alpine, and I couldn’t run out on him. Oh, he’d try to make me go if I told him about the call. But I wouldn’t. Tom had his principles, which some might call excuses; I had my own sense of honor. And I’d call it what I pleased.

  I hung the last angel above the stable. All the sheep were on their backs, looking as if they’d been mowed down by an outbreak of anthrax. I righted them, then adjusted the angel who seemed intent on flying off to the port side. Through the speakers came the pure, youthful voices of the boys’ choir. Stille nacht, heilige nacht. I stood next to the tree, the lights shimmering, the icicles dancing, the ornaments sparkling. Outside, it was still snowing, though not nearly as hard as the previous night. Silent night, holy night.

  Christmas was five days away. There was one more Sunday to go in Advent. The last ten days had taken a terrible toll. I realized I was exhausted. But tonight I felt contentment wash over me. I unplugged the tree, but paused again by the crèche. The tiny manger was still empty. Baby Jesus wouldn’t bide there until Christmas Eve. I smiled and headed for bed.

  Sleep in heavenly peace.

  In Alpine, murder always seems to occur in alphabetical order

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  THE ALPINE ESCAPE

  THE ALPINE FURY

  THE ALPINE GAMBLE

  THE ALPINE HERO

  THE ALPINE ICON

  THE ALPINE JOURNEY

  THE ALPINE KINDRED

  THE ALPINE LEGACY

  THE ALPINE MENACE

  THE ALPINE NEMESIS

  THE ALPINE OBITUARY

  … and you can be sure Emma Lord, editor

  and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, is there to

  report every detail.

  THE EMMA LORD MYSTERIES

  by Mary Daheim

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group.

  Available wherever books are sold.