The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  Having grown up in New York and been educated in Providence, I had been a little put off by the slow pace here. Everything from the mail to the traffic seemed to move three notches slower than in the rest of the world, which could be maddening when you come from the land of fast food and speeding trains. But over time I’d grown accustomed to the laid-back atmosphere here: the slow smiles, the friendly conversation with the kid pumping gasoline, the elderly ladies who graciously counted out their pennies, the strangers who insisted on holding doors for me, the friends who stopped into the shop just to say hello and chat.

  I’d found a home here, but I wasn’t so sure that Nate felt the same way.

  What was going on with him, anyway? He kept promising the divorce would be final by Christmas, but he’d been so moody and distant lately. Part of his funk had to be because Gina had been stalling for so long. I felt that pain, too. We’d all been waiting for that stubborn woman to cave so that Nate and I could get married and think about starting a family. Nate had been out of Gina’s house and living in another state for more than two years now; you’d think the woman would let go. But every time Nate and Gina seemed close to reaching a settlement, Gina would throw another wrench in the works. Like sending the lawyers photos of Nate and me together in a restaurant. Or demanding the right to move to England or Borneo with Nate’s two kids. The woman was impossible! Granted, there are two sides to every story, but if I had been married to Gina, I’m certain I would have locked her in a closet by now.

  Cracker picked up a small ornament that had tumbled from my table and handed it to me. “Sometimes I get the feeling that Nate isn’t happy living here.”

  “That’s not true,” I said quickly, automatically. “It was Nate who initiated this move, Nate who accepted the job with Munchin Realty. Of course he likes it here. He’s just under some pressure right now.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Cracker nodded. “Like a pressure cooker. Only, if you don’t let the steam out, you know what happens? Those things explode.”

  Dipping my paint brush in sealer, I tried to block out unpleasant thoughts and soak in the dulcet tones of Perry Como’s Christmas album, the laughter and conversation, the warm atmosphere of friends and sparkling lights and smiling Santas. Dabbing the brush over the giant, glittering Christmas star, I thought of the wish I’d made earlier.

  Oh, Nate, please pull yourself together.

  We had so much to look forward to, if he could just put the past behind him and look ahead. Follow his star.

  Finishing up the laminate, I lifted my brush and eyed the glittering piece of cardboard. A Christmas star could work wonders. If only Nate would look to the sky.

  16

  When I got home that night, Nate was asleep on the couch, the television blaring across the room, an empty wineglass on the end table. I switched off the TV, turned on the gas fireplace, and leaned over him to kiss his forehead.

  His eyes opened, catching me as if I were an annoyance.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I said, straightening without kissing him. “Long day?”

  He tossed up the blanket and sat up, as if I’d just blown a reveille. His light brown hair, mussed by sleep, shot straight up behind his head. I wanted to reach over and smooth it down for him, but he hated when I doted. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Just eight-thirty. The caroling went well. We totally rocked at the senior center. We’re going again next week, if you want to come along.”

  Nate rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot going on.”

  “All week?” I didn’t mean to press him, but someone needed to pull him out of his self-absorption. “Can’t you take one night out of your schedule next week and go caroling with me?”

  “What’s eating you? You’re worse than a nagging wife!”

  “I . . .” Oh, no, not the nasty wife comparison! When he said things like that I felt my ultimate goal of happily-ever-after zooming light-years beyond my grasp.

  Frustrated, I raked my hair back and told myself to let it go. Keep quiet. Remember the wish you made on that star, and let it work its magic on Nate.

  “It’s nothing,” I said with restraint. Then, I lost it. “Actually, it’s just that . . . This is my busiest time of year, and still I manage to find time to go caroling and work on a few volunteer projects.”

  “The point being?”

  When Nate snapped that way I just wanted to flick him, just to inflict a little pain, to humanize him and remind him that he isn’t entitled to behave badly just because he has dark, seductive eyes and thick hair that calls out for feathering by female fingers.

  To be totally honest, my first attraction to Nate was physical. When I spotted him across the room, looking so together in his dark slacks and sports jacket and necktie, I remember staring blatantly. Just staring in awe. It wasn’t only his shiny brown hair and velvety dark eyes, the shadow of stubble that glazed his jawline or his tight, tightly wound body; Nathan Graham had a presence that was unmatched by anyone else in the room. A certain vibe that made it clear this man was not a student or a professor or a beleaguered administrator. Nathan Graham was a man who chased after anything he wanted.

  And for a time, that thing was me. I sat abruptly in the navy velvet Queen Anne chair, reminding myself of that time. My surprise at being the chosen one. The thrill of the chase. The joy of surrender.

  Yes, it had all started over Nate’s good looks, but lately I’d been working hard not to succumb to the lure of the physical. I tried to pretend those dark eyes didn’t tug at my emotions so that my voice wouldn’t wobble when I popped the big question: “You haven’t given me an answer about Christmas yet. Are you coming to New York with me? I have to let Jane know.”

  “Why? So she can set up that lumpy sofabed in her living room?”

  “That’s not fair,” I said, hating the way he argued. “You only slept there once, and it’s nice of Jane to put us up. But if you’d stop snapping and listen a minute, I’ve been wanting to tell you that I made a reservation. Three nights at the Waldorf-Astoria, just the two of us.”

  “That’ll cost a fortune!”

  “I can afford it. The Christmas Elf is doing really well, and we never really took a vacation this year, so I figured that—”

  “You already made reservations?” He pressed his hands over his ears, as if it was too painful to absorb. “You made the decision for me, without even asking me?”

  “Nate . . .” I know, I know, he just woke up and here I was sounding whiny, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why can’t you make a commitment here? I’m just asking for Christmas, not your eternal fealty.” I would have to work on the fealty part in the new year. “Are we going to spend Christmas together or what?”

  He pressed his hands over his eyes. “You know my life is in a total state of flux! The mediator keeps yanking my chain, and I’ve got papers to sign and maybe even a court appearance to make.”

  “On Christmas Day? I don’t think many divorce mediators schedule court hearings on December twenty-fifth, Nate.”

  “Of course not,” he sneered. “You’re always so dramatic, Ricki.”

  “Am I?” I stood up and turned away before he could see the wimpy expression on my face. “Is it dramatic to want to know whether we’re spending Christmas together?”

  “Of course we are,” he said. “What else would we do?”

  “Well, we weren’t together last year,” I pointed out, thinking back to the Christmas I’d spent with my sister in New York. Jane had been going through a scary health crisis, and I’d actually been relieved that Nate wasn’t around to get in the way and distract me from cheering her up. But he didn’t have to know that. “Actually, Nate, we’ve never spent a Christmas together.” I shot him a lethal look. “I just realized that. You’ve always been tied up with Gina and the kids.”

  “And there you go again, twisting things around until it’s all about you. I never hid the fact that I had two kids from you, and I thought you agreed th
at Christmas is for children? Granted, my kids are older, but they still need their dad.”

  Just cut my heart out, why don’t you? I thought, hating the way he twisted my words. “Christmas is for children, Nate,” I said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to act like a child.”

  “See what I mean? You always go for the drama.”

  I feigned interest in my snow-globe collection, sorely tempted to smash one against the wall, but since they had sentimental value I contented myself with shaking the globe of Manhattan till the wax snow swirled furiously. “I’m not sure whether it’s drama or just stating the facts. The facts being that for almost four years, for the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve been on the verge of getting a divorce from Gina. I think I’ve been supportive, and I’ve pretty much tried to stay out of it, but here it is, years later, and . . .” My voice was hoarse, but I couldn’t stop now. I slammed the snow globe onto the shelf, taking a dink out of the wood though the globe didn’t crack. “Four years that we’ve been together and somehow, after all this time in which you’ve claimed to be so in love with me, you’re still married to someone else.”

  “Oh, here we go. At last, we get to the real problem.”

  “And you call me dramatic?” I swung around to face him. “Be honest here, Nate. There’s something grossly wrong with this picture.”

  He raked his hair back into place, his eyes dark and distant until he lifted his chin and connected with me. “Babe . . .”

  I folded my arms, determined not to cave.

  “You’ve been great,” he said. “Nobody’s denying that. And I know I’m totally stressing over everything, but the truth is, the divorce is going to be final soon. We’re in mediation. Mediation! Do you know what that means? Gina can’t put the brakes on anymore.”

  I’d heard this story a million times before, the old “Big Bad Gina” song that Nate played whenever he wanted Ricki to do the sympathy dance of seduction.

  Well, not this time.

  “You know,” I said, “I’m beginning to wonder how much of this is Gina and how much of this is you, Nate. Maybe you don’t really want to be divorced.” Was I saying this? Really saying it? I hadn’t really allowed myself to think it until recently. But something Cracker said had hit me . . . about Nate not being happy here. Did Nate regret leaving his old life behind?

  Nate shook his head. “You’re talking crazy, girl.”

  I stood my ground. “Perhaps the possibilities of life after Gina frighten you. Have you ever considered that? Maybe holding on to your paper marriage is a way to ward off future commitments—things like marriage and kids . . .” And happily ever after, I wanted to add.

  “Oh, to hell with that!” He shot off the couch and crossed, suddenly in my face. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Ricki. Don’t ever tell me what I want.”

  “Why not? Someone’s got to tell you. Obviously, you’re mired in indecision. Totally lost. A miserable man stuck in a miserable situation.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, right! If it’s so miserable, why are you still here, then? Nobody’s got you chained to this cottage, you know.”

  Furious, I pushed him away and stormed into the bedroom, not sure whether to start packing a suitcase or to barrage him with pillows.

  “I must have hit a nerve,” he called from the doorway. “Right? You’re not leaving because there’s something you like here, is that it?”

  “No!” I grabbed a square gold-tasseled pillow from the bed and flung it at him. “No!” I tossed up the quilted red star. “No! No! No!” Decorative green pillows bounced off his chest and shoulders.

  Nate caught the last pillow and lowered his hands, eyeing me with a hint of satisfaction. “You sure?”

  I sighed. “Damn you! Why are you such a workout, over and over again? You do this to me every time, Nate. You’re so mushy about commitment and I hate that about you. Always sending out mixed signals so I have no idea what you want.”

  “Come on, Ricki.” He moved closer. “You know what I want.” He pulled my sweater over my head, tossed it away, and ran his hands over my bare skin, working over my shoulders and back, around to cup my breasts.

  I was a sucker for bare skin massage.

  “This is what I want, and you know it,” he said, squeezing hard, then kissing each nipple through the thin fabric of my bra.

  I hated fighting with Nate, but somehow our arguments usually spilled over into incredibly passionate, practically primordial lovemaking sessions in which we both greedily staked our claims and arose victorious. As he pushed me back onto the quilted red comforter and pulled down my bra, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sharp sensations that rushed through my lower body.

  “I hate you,” I whispered as I worked my fingers through his hair.

  He yanked open my jeans and dipped a hand down into the moist folds there, making me toss my head against the covers and groan. I dug my fingers into the plush comforter. “I love you.”

  His eyes were dark as he smiled up at me. “Now who’s sending out mixed messages?”

  17

  The next day as I leaned over the bed to kiss Nate good-bye, I was still worried about him. Great sex was, well, great, but our issues remained.

  Fortunately, there was no time to mull over personal matters as today was December second, which meant that the Christmas season was in full swing and The Christmas Elf would be a wonderland of sugar-coated, tinsel-covered insanity until I closed the doors on December seventeenth.

  As I unlocked the shop door, Lola waved at me from the window of Miller’s, giving me the “big, wide” symbol for packages. I ran across the parking lot to pick up the delivery she’d signed for: three huge cartons, which Ben helped me lug over. He disappeared while I listened to the phone messages, lit up the place, and turned on some carols. I was on the phone with the woman who’d reserved the poinsettia quilt when he reappeared with two steaming cups of coffee.

  “It is a gorgeous quilt and I have to admit we’re going to miss it, but I’m sure you have the perfect home for it,” I told Mrs. Papadopoulis. I mouthed a “thank you” to Ben, watching him settle in to read the newspaper by the fireplace before I turned away to set up the Styrofoam forms for some custom-ordered wreaths. The wreaths required handmade angels with heads made of large pearlized beads, halos of tiny gold beads, and skirts made of crystal beads, and as I strung them together and sang “Let It Snow!” along with Bette Midler, my spirits lifted. There is something therapeutic about being in this industry of renewal and good cheer. When the message is “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men,” you can’t nurse your own worries for too long.

  By midmorning, the shop was bursting with people and activity. Nate had called twice to chat, but I was so busy I couldn’t focus on his details about new listings and storm damage to local streets, especially when Bitsy arrived with the gingerbread slabs. “Sorry, honey, but I’ve got a major construction project here,” I told Nate.

  “What are you talking about?” He seemed impatient.

  “A gingerbread house for the school pageant.”

  “Why don’t you have Adena do it?” he asked. “It’s what you pay her for, right?”

  I glanced over at Adena, who was loading up boxes with merchandise and bubblewrap, trying to fill orders before the UPS driver swung by. Nate didn’t seem to understand the volume of work we had as Christmas approached.

  Besides that, a group of preschoolers from Tuckaway Day Care clustered on the rug, constructing Christmas gifts for their parents out of foam pieces and flat, glittering faux gems under the guidance of their teacher, Diane. The shop was really hopping at the moment.

  “We’re really busy,” I told him. “I’ll call you later.” Sliding the phone into my pocket, I turned to Bitsy. “Let me help you unload,” I said, following her out the door and to her van.

  A few minutes later, we stood at my craft table, gloved and aproned and ready to frost and decorate the surrounding gingerbread. Ben had taken it upon himself to
wait on the customers who’d stopped in, chatting them up and giving them personalized attention while Bitsy and I focused on architectural issues.

  “I’m not sure this will hold up once we’ve got it put together,” I said, gently lifting one of the slabs of gingerbread that Bitsy had baked in her industrial oven. “And even if we do, will the house survive a move to the school?”

  “Good point.” Bitsy whirled the electric beaters around the bowl of frosting one last time, then turned them off. “We may have to strike the mansion and subdivide.”

  I nodded. “A gingerbread community. Seems like the only way. But can we cut the panels?” I tested one slab of gingerbread with my fingertip. “Seems moist enough, but it seems a shame after all your hard work.”

  Bitsy was already cutting efficiently with a sharp knife. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” she said wryly. “Don’t worry. If we need to cover up rough edges I’ve got plenty of extra frosting.”

  While she held two roof panels together, I caulked the seams with frosting. Then Bitsy moved on to assemble another house as I methodically applied “snowcapped” shingles to the roof. As I worked, I overheard the children fielding questions from their teacher.

  “And who is going to visit your home on Christmas Eve?” Diane asked her group.

  “Santa Claus!”

  “And how does Santa get in?”

  “Down the chimney!”

  “But Miss Diane, my house doesn’t have a chiminee.”

  “That’s chimney, Joey. And I wouldn’t worry about it. If you’ve been a good boy, Santa will find his way in.”

  “He wasn’t that good,” another kid said. “Not as good as me.”

  “Was so!” Joey protested. “I’m always good, but I told you. Santa can’t come because there’s no chiminee.”

  I lifted my head from the frosting bowl for a look at Joey. Was it possible he was telling the truth?

  “Come on, now,” Diane said, tousling the boy’s sandy brown curls. “I know Santa visited you last year. Didn’t you get a train set?”