The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  Ignoring the dead air in my lungs, I went to the register beside Georgia to wait on the next customer. “Thanks, guys,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “You’re really saving my skin.”

  “We’ll get you through the weekend, honey,” Cracker said. “What are friends for?”

  19

  “We are the children,” the kids on stage sang, swaying in the red, green, and white felt aprons I’d stitched for them. “We are hope!”

  Sitting beside Georgia, who gasped at every adorable sketch in the school Christmas pageant, I felt myself choking up over their song. Unlike the similar bit of sludge that Michael Jackson had slung out a hundred years ago, these lyrics tugged at my heartstrings, reminding me that children were the future of the world. Taking in their little pugged noses and toothless grins, I wanted to bask in their innocence and simplicity. I wanted to have a pure heart again, a heart unmuddled by vicious ex-wives and blustery boyfriends who abandon you when you need them most.

  “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,” the children sang as the players in the nativity scene began to gather. A white-veiled Mary winced as Joseph took her hand. Together they followed two donkey-hooded children who danced under the sparkling silver and blue star I’d made.

  “Aren’t they the cutest?” Georgia nudged me. “I just love their little chirpy voices. Better than the choir at my church, and our choir is good. Professional quality. Hey, are you coming to church with me for Christmas?”

  She’d been after me to visit her church for months, but the hellfire and brimstone reputation of southern churches had held me at bay. “We’ll see.”

  “Oh, look! Here comes Isabel,” Georgia said, turning to wave down the aisle to her niece, who was dressed as an angel.

  Shepherds moved onto the stage, the trim on their purple and blue costumes sparkling under the stiff white lights. As the children tucked the baby-doll Jesus into the manger and sang “Silent Night,” I mourned my own lost innocence.

  When did my life become tainted? Of course, it didn’t happen overnight, but somehow I’d become one of the women I’d always felt sorry for: an entrepreneur who chased her business voraciously while waiting on a man. And somehow, since my business capitalized on Christmas, my life seemed worse than the norm.

  I was relieved when the principal took the stage to thank the little performers and to invite everyone to the school cafeteria for punch and goodies. Introspection can be a dangerous thing when your heart is in a tangle.

  Inside the cafeteria, children were yipping and crowing over the gingerbread village. A few little girls jumped excitedly as they pointed to their favorite parts. Boys smacked their foreheads and raced around the table to check it out from every angle. Parents and teachers nodded with admiration.

  “Nice work, partner,” Bitsy said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “They seem to like it.”

  “They love it!” Georgia gushed. “It’s so magical, you almost hate to see it broken apart.”

  “Ah, but it’s meant to be eaten,” Bitsy said. “Can’t hold onto beautiful things forever. Got to enjoy as you eat. Seize the moment, that’s what I say.”

  That advice had been chasing me around lately, but somehow, without Nate, I didn’t feel quite ready to seize. My moment was on hold, my happiness a pretty package dangling beyond my reach.

  Not that it wasn’t gratifying to see the kids tear into their gingerbread tiles. With help from a few parents, the village was divided and doled out in decorative squares to the children who had formed a line. I recognized some of the kids from Diane’s preschool group, as well as their older siblings, parents, grandparents, friends, and neighbors. Mr. Winslow had hitched a ride with his neighbor, whose daughter was one of the angels, and he summoned me over to warn that a storm was blowing in.

  “A whopping nor’easter!” he rasped, his hands splaying out to emphasize the enormity of it all.

  “Not a hurricane?” I asked, studying the light in his eyes.

  “Oh, no, no! This is a different storm system entirely. You have your winds blowing up from the northeast, pulling up the warm, moist air from the Gulf Stream.”

  I sat down on the folding chair beside him, knowing there was more. “Okay, and then what?”

  “Well, as the northeasterly wind pulls the storm up the coast, it meets with cold, arctic air blowing down from Canada. When the two storm systems collide”—he smacked his hands together—“you’ve got a rainy mess.”

  I nodded, wondering if my father would have aged as gracefully as Mr. Winslow, settling into a community, keeping up with his hobbies. My father had just turned fifty-eight when he died quickly of a heart attack. Honestly, I didn’t miss him all the time, not until certain “Dad” qualities turned up in people around me, people like Mr. Winslow. “So what’s your prediction on this?” I asked. “I’ve got loads of people driving in from the mainland tomorrow.”

  “Mmm. Could be dicey. Wind is already kicking up out there, but it may be that the precipitation holds until tomorrow night.”

  “I close at seven tomorrow,” I told him. “Could you stave off the rain till, maybe, six-thirtyish?”

  He winked, his furred brows arching. “I’ll do what I can.”

  As the party began to wind down, my energy began to sag along with the “Merry Christmas!” banners. “I’d better get going,” I told Georgia.

  “And what are you rushing home to?” she asked. “Listen honey, why don’t you come on home with me? We’ll hang. Grab some dinner. Drink some wine while we watch old videos.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I need to get some sleep for tomorrow. Plus we’re supposed to put up our tree this weekend. Which reminds me . . .” I winced, peering through the glass wall of the lobby to the wavering trees in the parking lot. “That wind looks nasty, and our tree is leaning against the wall out back. What do you think the odds are that Nate brought it inside before he left town?”

  “If he’s anything like my Daniel I’d say you’d better find yourself a new tree. But you shouldn’t be decorating your tree all alone this weekend. You shouldn’t be alone at all, Ricki. Come on over to my place.”

  “No.” I touched her shoulder. “You’re being so sweet about helping out tomorrow and I really appreciate it. But really, I just want to get home and crash.”

  Reluctantly, Georgia helped me into my coat. “Now you drive safe, okay?”

  I smiled, thinking back to how that had thrown me when I’d gotten here—constant reminders to get home safely. The questions brought on when someone caught you frowning. The veracity of people inquiring after your thoughts. It was all so downright . . . personable.

  At the door I came across Diane, looking every inch the concerned preschool teacher as she held onto Joey’s shoulders. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk home, Lila,” she told a girl who had the same wide brown eyes and sandy-colored hair.

  Although the girl couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, she took Joey’s hand with authority. “My mom says we have to walk—there’s no one to pick us up tonight.”

  Diane leaned down so she could be eye-to-eye with the girl. “I realize that, sweetheart, but I’m sure your mom didn’t count on this storm kicking up. How about if we find you a ride?”

  “I’m heading out now,” I said. “I’d be happy to drop you somewhere.”

  Lila raised her shoulders defensively.

  “It’s okay. I know her,” Joey said, smiling up at me. “She’s Wicki.”

  “I know her, too. Ricki Conner, this is Lila Salem,” Diane introduced us, then confided that she’d drive the kids herself, but she was late for a doctor’s appointment.

  “I’m happy to give them a ride,” I said, “if it’s okay with Lila.”

  The girl shrugged, peering at me curiously through her bangs. “Whatever.”

  Outside in the parking lot, I looked at my little VW convertible and turned to the kids. “I don’t have a car seat,” I said aloud, thinking of the machinations my marri
ed friends up north went through whenever they needed to load kids into a car. “How old are you, Joey? And what’s the rule here? I didn’t even think of that.”

  “It’s okay,” Lila said, folding the passenger seat up while Joey slid into the back. “He doesn’t use one.”

  “Oh, you’re a big guy, huh?” I teased as I got into the car. In the mirror I saw that Joey was smiling, but Lila looked pained as she reached for the seatbelt. A less well-mannered child would carp: “Just drive, lady!” but Lila sat back in the seat and steamed quietly behind her bangs while Joey observed how the wind was bending the trees and rolling a metal trash can right across the parking lot.

  At least one of the kids in my car didn’t hate me.

  I switched off my CD of Christmas carols for fear they’d annoy Lila, then followed her directions south on the Croatan Highway. With one major highway cutting a swath through the center of this narrow strip of land, the Outer Banks is easy to navigate, though sometimes a little creepy after nightfall. Lila directed me to the south end of Nag’s Head and had me turn right onto a dirt road that seemed way too narrow for a car. My headlights washed over a graveyard of junked cars, their rusted chassis scattered in odd clusters, as if their busted headlights were eyes and the grills mouths that could whisper messages to each other as their frames sunk into the mud. Did I say creepy? I couldn’t imagine these kids walking down this lane, even in the best of weather.

  Quickly I twisted my focus back to the road, but not before my car hit a rut.

  Joey laughed at the huge bounce of the VW. I gritted my teeth and slowed down, trying to find the lights of a house on the horizon.

  But the landscape was bare of any real structures as the dirt road in the beam of my headlights gave way to sand and muck and tall swamp grasses that danced wildly in the wind.

  “Which way?” I asked, pressing on the brakes gently.

  “This is fine,” Lila said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “We’re just over there. Come on, Joey.”

  “Over there” turned out to be a narrow path through the tall grasses. I could barely make out the rusted frame of a portable trailer—the kind that popped up once you parked. What could be inside? A sleeping compartment? Certainly not a bathroom or kitchen, and even if there were such accommodations, there were no water or electric hookups back here.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I asked, trying not to sound judgmental but worried that this was not a safe place to leave two children.

  “I said come on!” Lila reached over and unbuckled Joey’s seatbelt, then reached forward to collapse the front seat. “Thanks, Ms. Ricki. Move it, buzz.”

  Wind whistled into the car as she pushed the door open and melted into the evening. Joey leaned between the two front seats and patted his new scarf in the light above the mirror. “Bye,” he said reluctantly, then followed his sister out into the dark.

  I sat there tamping down disturbing questions as the children disappeared among the tall grasses. Had they always lived this way? How did they eat and bathe? What did their parents do for work? Did they even have parents?

  Mostly, I felt that someone should be intervening here—that someone being government agencies—and I could not fathom why that was not happening.

  Eventually, realizing that Lila and Joey were not going to emerge from the swamp grass, I put my sand-pelted car back in gear and rolled out of there. I pulled onto the Croatan Highway and headed north, longing for reassuring signs of civilization. The Dairy Queen. The Multiplex. The children who would be exiting the elementary school shielded from the wind under Dad’s coat or holding hands with Grandma.

  But the school was now deserted and dark, of course. Anyone with a lick of sanity would be taking cover from this storm at home. Mr. Winslow was right about his nor’easter. This monster was roaring into town with a fury.

  The traffic light above my car blinked red as I looked to my right, wondering if the DQ was still open for a quick bite. Something teased the space at the edge of my headlights—a rope wavering in the wind. The garland I’d strung around the street sign had come loose and now it was slicing through the air.

  Again, that feeling that somebody should fix this, and in the rushing storm and flying sand I didn’t want that somebody to be me . . . but there were no other cars on the road and it was my decoration, my responsibility. I threw the car into park, shielding my eyes from the sand as I stepped out of the car. My hair flipped around my face, blown straight up, plastered back and pulled to the side as I hurried to the sign and chased the dancing garland. I managed to catch it before it whipped me in the face, but the plastic tie-back was nowhere in sight.

  Cowering in the wind, I gripped the garland and wondered if it all came down to this—this cheap tangle of plastic tinsel. This was the great demonstration of my work? This was my contribution to the community? This was the sum and measure of my life?

  I yanked the string hard, once, twice, finally ripping it off the signpost. Tossing it on the seat beside me, I drove home locked in resolve to take two Tylenol P.M.s, change into my jams, and sip chicken soup till I passed out.

  That plan changed as I stepped into the cottage and discovered the electricity was out. I fumbled my way to the fuse box and flipped switches to no avail.

  So I was alone in a dark, isolated cottage—the stuff of a suspense novel. I fumbled to the door and stumbled over something heavy—the empty tree stand. Where was our tree? I hadn’t noticed it leaning against the garage on the way in.

  Back outside, I circled the house. Not a trace. How far could the wind blow that thing?

  I found it down on the beach, lolling in the surf, ruined.

  For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to believe in symbols and signs.

  20

  “So you’ve had a rough night, sugar,” Cracker said as he buffed the wooden surface of the bar with a soft rag.

  “I’ve had better.” I had told him about Lila and Joey’s dilapidated home, the power outage, and my runaway Christmas tree, figuring that was enough bad news without going into my sham of a life and a relationship. A girl’s got to maintain a little privacy.

  “I can’t believe that you walked all the way here, though. What if our power was out, too?”

  “I would have banged on the door and demanded that you stay open by candlelight.”

  “Now that I would have liked to see.” Cracker tossed the rag over one shoulder. “I’ll help you put up your tree, if you want,” he offered, his voice suddenly sympathetic.

  “I think it’s a lost cause.” I took a sip of chardonnay and plunged into the worst-case scenario. “What if I don’t put a tree up at home this year? God knows, I’ve got a dozen of them set up at the shop. I mean, how much Christmas does one person need?”

  “Get outta town. You told me yourself you can never get enough Christmas.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ve reconsidered.”

  “Ooh! Big talker!” Cracker folded his arms. “Have another glass of wine and then we’ll see where you stand.”

  “Or if I can stand,” I said, knowing that was more big talk. Although I enjoy an occasional glass of wine, I’ve never had much of an aptitude for alcohol. Two glasses of wine and my body simply shuts down, lips sealed tight. Pathetic, I know, but I couldn’t even bury my troubles in an alcoholic stupor.

  Behind me the door opened and I turned to see Ben rush in, his hair tousled and stark against his black leather jacket.

  “Windy,” he remarked, joining me at the bar.

  “A nor’easter,” I said, oddly happy to see him. Maybe if I surrounded myself with friends I could put off thinking about the things that were bothering me. Wasn’t that the point of a night out?

  “Really? It seems to be moving through quickly.” He grabbed the remote and clicked the TV mounted by the ceiling to the weather channel. “Is that what blew you in here?”

  I laughed. “Well, yeah, pretty much, but I’ve been in here before. I used to be a regular when I first moved
to the OBX.”

  “Before you were gainfully employed.” Ben took the bar stool beside me, his eyes on the TV. “What’s for dinner, Cracker? Got any crab chowder left?”

  “Just enough for you two,” Cracker confided, glancing over one shoulder at the occupied tables in the corner. “You want that now, or should I heat up some bread for you?”

  Ben turned to me. “What do you say?”

  I lifted my wineglass, settling in for the long haul. “Bring it on, bread and all.”

  As we broke into a crusty loaf of bread and made small talk, Lola and Tito sneaked in, called a hello, and took a table in the back. “It’s date night,” Cracker explained. “They’re here every Friday, just the two of them. They make the kids eat pizza while they step out for fine dining.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said.

  “Sweet? It’s a necessity when you’ve got a houseful of kids. People need time alone.”

  Savoring a bite of sherry-laced soup, I wondered if I could fool myself into believing that Nate’s time away would be good for our relationship. Doubtful, but now that he was hundreds of miles away Nate seemed to be the least of my problems. He’d been bumped from the list by a much more personal dilemma—my insignificant life. My tinsel existence. I was a Christmas Carpetbagger.

  Elbows on the bar, I was watching the end of a rerun of Full House and thinking about heading home for those two Tylenol P.M.s when Lola appeared beside me, a hand on my shoulder.

  “Come join us,” she said.

  I tried to decline, but she insisted that they’d finished eating and, “I see you’re in a bad way, sweetie. Come. I’ll read your cards.”

  Not exactly what I had in mind, but when someone offers to provide a glimpse to your future, the bait is irresistible. “Maybe just a few cards,” I said. I excused myself, and Ben nodded as I followed her over to the table, where Tito sat scrolling through the mini-jukebox selections.

  “Uh-oh!” He stood up and scooted his chair back. “Looks like Madame Lola is open for business.”