The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  Nothing good would come of it.

  I shot ahead and started running, my feet pounding the sand, my arms pumping at the air. At first I was just trying to channel my anger, then I realized I had a place to go. Lola’s one-story house stood in a cluster about a mile ahead, and a light was on.

  My torch in the darkness.

  24

  “Honey, look what the wind blew in from the beach,” Tito said with his usual deadpan expression.

  Her hands curled around the control stick, Lola was so intent on the video game that she could only spare a quick glance. “Ricki . . . hi, honey. I just got to this level and Gollum is killing me.”

  “It’s The Hobbit,” Tito explained. “The boys just got the game.”

  Rusty and Taylor sat on either side of Lola, their arms crossed, their dark eyes intent on the screen.

  “No—Mom! You can’t get there from here,” said Rusty.

  “It doesn’t hurt to try,” Lola said as a thundering crash sounded from the TV and the occupants of the couch relaxed.

  “You’re toast, Mom!” Taylor grinned.

  “Don’t call your mother names,” Lola said in a half-serious voice as she handed the control stick to Rusty and stood up. “I’ll try again later.” She went over to a small wooden box on top of the mantel, then motioned to me. “Let’s go on the porch. It’s more quiet there.”

  The porch was a glassed-in room that overlooked the ocean, furnished with a couch, table, and chairs covered in tropical-print cushions. Lola took a seat at the table, lit a votive candle, opened the box, and started shuffling her tarot cards.

  “How did you know I needed a reading?” I asked as I sat across from her. Not that I stopped by all that often, but I had been here a few times just to visit.

  Lola shrugged, her purple velour robe shimmering in the dim candlelight. “Let’s put it this way, I had a feeling you weren’t here for more clam chowder. How was it, anyway? Did Nate like it?”

  “We didn’t get that far,” I said.

  She stopped shuffling, her eyes catching mine, as if the room had grown suddenly darker. “And now you’re at that crossroad.”

  “I think I’m beyond that point.” I pulled the scrunchee out and finger-combed my hair. “Lola, I think it’s over for Nate and me. And that makes me feel like a failure. It just seems so wrong, that somehow, I just need to know I’m doing the right thing. A sign.”

  “You and your signs.” She bit her lower lip and tapped the cards with a coral fingernail. “Cut the cards. I’d like to give you a longer reading—maybe the Celtic Cross—but we don’t have much time. CSI: Miami is on at ten.” Lola had her chosen shows; just a handful, but she never missed them.

  “Can you take the Fool out of the deck?” I asked. “I don’t want to be a fool, not anymore.”

  Lola splayed her fingers over the cards, as if performing a spell over them. “I cannot remove that card, but I can tell you that if it does not apply, it will not appear.”

  I rested my hand on my chin, sulking. “Promise?”

  The corner of her mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “Something tells me you are now enlightened?”

  I swallowed back my lingering reservations. “I’ve taken a hard look at myself. Picked up on some of the not-so-subtle signs from Nate. All the signs I’ve ignored and denied for so long.” I twisted a strand of hair over one shoulder. “I used to be so good at understanding things, reading between the lines. What happened to my ability to interpret the world?”

  “You’ve been trying too hard. Not every sign is an omen. Sometimes the stop sign simply means that you stop your car while someone else goes by. It’s not always a message to stop your entire life.”

  “Well . . . duh. What can I say? As the cards know, I’ve been a fool.” I cut the cards, not even trying to put a whammy on them this time. Maybe I was moving up in the learning chain.

  Lola lifted the cards and turned over the top three. “The Death card, the Two of Wands, the Prince of Cups. And for your significator . . .” She turned over a card with a trill of delight. “Ah! The Magician! It’s textbook tarot.”

  I blinked, relieved that it wasn’t the Fool. “What does that card say about me?”

  “That you’ve embarked on a journey. What’s intriguing is that this card follows the Fool in the deck, so it looks as if you yourself have embarked on the journey through the secrets of tarot.”

  “At least I’m moving on,” I said.

  “The Magician is often connected to the god Hermes, who was a good shepherd to souls. Hermes was the god of journeys. In pre-Christian times, Hermes pillars stood at main crossroads in the Greco-Roman world. Do you see the symbols here? Journeys, crossroads—many of the things we’ve been speaking of.”

  “As long as it’s just a spiritual journey, I’m in,” I said. “Nate wants to move back to Rhode Island, and I’m so not ready for that.”

  Lola shook her head over the cards. “No, I don’t see that type of movement. Maybe a visit, but you’re not going back there.” She reached across the table and pressed my hand. “We won’t let you go.”

  I squeezed back. “I’ll hold you to that, though you may find me sacked out on your living room sofa.”

  “You’re always welcome, though, as you can see, it gets crowded in there.” She stared intently at the other cards. “The Death card—transformation. This is the end of an era, the beginning of something new. Could signify the end of your relationship with Nate, but with that card in the past position, it looks like that already ended. Then you have the Prince of Cups in the current position. This man is a visionary messenger,” Lola went on, barely able to contain her enthusiasm for this card. “This is a complex hero who inspires. He is gentle. Sensitive. Courteous.”

  I laughed. “Sounds great! When do I get to meet him?”

  Lola smiled. “This man is already in your life. Someone you know.”

  I shook my head. “Definitely not Nate.”

  “Definitely not. But Ricki, you are surrounded by people who love you. Sometimes I think you don’t see that; with your eyes focused on the big symbols, your sights are set on such a distant destiny that you don’t see what’s around you.”

  Clarity of vision. “I think I know what you mean,” I said.

  Next Lola tapped the card in the future spot: the Two of Wands. “This indicates that you are in the process of building an alliance. A partnership of two powers. Yin meets yang.”

  I shook my head, confused. “Romantic? Or in business?”

  “It could be either, though coming with the Prince”—she touched the two cards—“I would suspect romantic. Do you see the two figures on the Two of Wands? One is like the reflection of the other, and yet they are polar opposites. Lunar and solar, male and female. The basic idea of this card is that alliance is necessary if anything is to be accomplished, and each partner must be reconciled to the different qualities of the other.”

  “Well, I’ve always been big on teamwork,” I admitted, “though I don’t see where this card fits.”

  “Let’s say there’s an alliance in your future, and that is a good thing.” Lola checked her watch. “Do you want to stay and watch CSI?”

  I sighed. “I think I’d like to stay the night, if that’s okay. I’m not really up for facing Nate right now.” It occurred to me that he might not realize that it was over, which would entail another huge argument in which he would outline his achievements and finer points in much the same fashion that he profiled a vacation rental home.

  She frowned. “What will you do? Do you have a plan?”

  “I’m working on it,” I said, hoping that Nate would move north sooner rather than later and let me keep the rental cottage. Fortunately, money was not an issue and I could easily pay the rent on my own. But what if Nate didn’t leave? “I’ll figure it out tomorrow,” I said as I followed Lola into the living room, glad to be in the comforting home of a friend.

  The next morning, I awoke to the smell of freshly
brewed coffee—Tito’s favorite blend, which he ordered online from Hawaii. Sipping it in the quiet of the kitchen was heaven. Tito insisted on giving me a ride to my car on his way to work, and by the time I pulled into the drive of the cottage, it wasn’t even seven. Nate was asleep, which was fine by me as I’m a huge advocate of delayed confrontation.

  I showered and pulled on fresh jeans with a winter-white sweater set and wondered if I should risk waking Nate with the noise of the blow dryer. My question was answered when I cracked open the bathroom door and saw the empty bed. Uh-oh.

  “What happened to you last night?” he called from the kitchen. “You didn’t even call.”

  He’d been away for how long without calling, but now I was in trouble after one night? “Look, Nate, let’s not nitpick here. It’s clear that things between us are not going to work out, at least, not in the long run, and I think it’s best for us to just separate now and cut our losses.”

  “What?” he snapped. “What’s this about? Did you meet someone while I was gone?”

  I thought of the conventional wisdom about how it’s always easier to break up when you can claim that there’s “someone else,” but I couldn’t lie just to get myself off the hook. “It’s not about someone else, Nate. You and I have different priorities, different goals. I want a family and, well, you’ve already got one, and it sounds like you’re ready to head back to them, and honestly, I don’t want to stop you. Maybe I’ve been too indecisive before, but recently I realized that you’ve always made the decisions in our relationship; you charted our course with no input from me. Well, I want to make my own plans now, and to be blunt, they don’t involve you.”

  “So dramatic.” He cracked open a soda and sat at the table. I have always hated it when he drinks soda in the morning, but I wasn’t about to harp on that now. Drink away, Nate! Come tomorrow, you drink alone! “You know, Gina told me you would do this.”

  “Did she?”

  “She said you wouldn’t wait for the divorce to be final.”

  “Smart woman,” I shot back, resenting the image of me as a gold digger. “She must have realized that most women don’t hang around for ten or twelve years.” I stewed over Gina’s last stab as I ducked back into the bedroom to dry my hair. Annoying, but I was leaving all this aggravation behind. Though I admit to being surprised at the way Nate was taking this. So far, no broken glass.

  As I coiled the wire on the blow dryer, I tried to broach the subject of territory with some delicacy. “So . . . since we can’t live together, when do you think you’ll be heading up north?”

  “What’s it to you?” he groused. “I expect you to have your things out of here by the end of the week.”

  “But Nate . . . since you’re leaving, I figured I’d keep the cottage. I can pay the rent, and—”

  “My name is on the lease,” he said. “It’s mine.”

  “But you’re leaving!”

  “So I’ll sublet. But not to you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He tossed back a swig of soda, his eyes glittering dangerously.

  “You’re not? That is so low.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll need your key by Monday.”

  At that I slammed the bedroom door in his face. My hand quivered in fury as I took out two suitcases and started piling in my clothes, shoes, cosmetics. I wanted to take as many things as possible right now to avoid small trips back. With productive anger I slapped in pairs of jeans, tucking in bulky sweatshirts and sweaters and zipped-up cases of shampoo and lotion and conditioner.

  Somehow I hadn’t expected Nate to be mean about this break, but his cruelty underlined my resolve in bold, red strokes.

  It was over with Nate. Time to move on.

  25

  I was over the loss of the cottage in about ten minutes. If that was the price I had to pay to scrape Nate out of my life, I figured I could well afford it.

  I marched past Nate, who was flipping through channels, flaked out on the sofa with a major case of bed head. “You’ll get my key in a few days.” You worm. With a carload of suitcases and duffel bags, I sped away from the cottage, gravel flying under my tires. Ha! I’d always wanted to make an exit like that.

  When I pulled up outside The Christmas Elf, Ben was coming out of Miller’s with a cardboard tray of coffee and a paper bag. “Lola sent us bagels this morning,” he called, nodding toward the bag. “She said you two had a late night. Something about a sleepover party?”

  “Something like that.” I unlocked the door, pulled off my coat, and went through my morning routine of turning on lights, checking the thermostat, winding clocks, and setting up a series of Christmas CDs for the day. This shop had been a great escape for me—my real home—and for a moment I wished I could move in here, though that would never work. I sighed.

  “What’s up?” Ben asked, handing me a cup of coffee. “You look like Santa cancelled Christmas.”

  “I’m going to need a place to stay,” I said, curling my fingers around the warm paper cup. “Wow. I guess I’d better call a realtor.”

  “What about Nate? And Munchin Realty?”

  “I won’t be calling Munchin,” I said. “Nate and I split up, and he’s not going to want to help me.”

  Ben nodded, untucking the navy blue scarf at his neck. He slid his rawhide jacket off and sat on a stool beside my worktable. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Actually, better than fine. I feel lighter. Liberated.” I shrugged. “Hey, I just got rid of some excess baggage and it feels great.”

  Ben’s smile lit his eyes and made the corners crinkle in sort of a cowboy way, and I knew he understood it all—the feelings of hurt and failure and liberation, the chance for a “do over.” “Good for you,” he said.

  As we sipped our coffee together, I sat down on the stool beside Ben and thanked God for this colorful scene that was my life; this was just a shared moment with Ben in the shop, but it reminded me that I did have a life. It might seem silly, but I was grateful that I branched out here with the shop and my friends and the folks at the senior center and the kids from Diane’s day care center. All this time, in the years that I’d been here with Nate, I thought I was biding my time—waiting for his divorce, waiting for a proposal, waiting for our lives to begin—when all along, I was weaving my own dreams in the fabric of this community. I was one of the small squares in the quilts from Georgia’s quilting bee: a compact image, and yet an integral part of the exquisite grid of signs and symbols.

  A second later the quiet moment was gone when the door bells jingled and Cracker popped in. “I just spoke to Serge and he’s coming next week—the eighteenth. Will you still be here, Ricki?”

  I nodded. “That’s the last weekend that the shop is open, so I’ll get to see him.”

  “I’ll still be here,” Ben added as he moved over to one of the chairs by the fire.

  “You’re always here,” Cracker said, turning to me. “Is it true about Nate? You two are . . .” He made a chopping gesture at his neck.

  “Something like that. He’s heading back to Providence this weekend.”

  Cracker pursed his lip. “Mm-hmm. The worm turns.”

  “How’s Serge doing?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Did you tell him we miss him around here?”

  “He’s fine. He got some more information on the history of eggnog. Says I should change the name of the bar to ‘Grog and Fog,’ but I think that’s taking it a little bit too far.”

  “So what’s the new nog source?” I asked, always up for Christmas trivia.

  “Well, some people think the ‘nog’ in eggnog comes from the word ‘noggin,’ which was an old European term for a small wooden mug used to serve milk and egg punches.”

  “That would be a cute item to sell,” I said. “Little carved noggins to serve your eggnog in? It could come in sets of—”

  “Wait, there’s more,” Cracker interrupted. “You see, Colonial Americans called rum ‘grog,’ and when
they made this egg beverage in the colonies they added rum instead of wine, which is what the Europeans used. Hence, people began to call the drink ‘egg and grog,’ which might have simply been shortened to eggnog.”

  “Serge is a wealth of information,” Ben said.

  Cracker rubbed his hands together deviously. “Yes, but he has yet to come upon any reference to Voodoo Eggnog, so I must believe that my drink is an original. If I were a man of ego, I’d submit it to some contest or bartender’s journal, but I prefer to maintain the secret recipe in relative obscurity here in these Outer Banks.”

  “Well, Voodoo Eggnog is certainly delicious, but it didn’t work on Nate,” I said. “In fact, it sent him running.”

  “Um-hmm.” Cracker folded his arms. “I rest my case.”

  Later that day, I left Adena in charge of the shop and I headed over to the church to meet with Reverend Forest. He’d called to say that things were developing with the Salems’ housing situation, perhaps I would like to join an informal meeting there? Although I wasn’t sure that I could contribute, I figured it was worth a shot.

  In the church parking lot I unloaded the gift boxes that Adena and I had wrapped in cheerful Christmas prints and tied off with bows containing tiny ornaments. I went to the door that Reverend Forest had directed me to, the building behind the church where Sunday school classes were usually held. I heard a woman’s voice floating down the hall—a familiar voice, so I followed the voice and the light spilling out from a classroom. Inside, Diane—Joey’s teacher—was speaking with two men. The reverend stood up and welcomed me, and as I went to put my packages down I caught a look at the other man . . . Ben.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Now that’s a fine welcome. I might act as the general contractor on this project.”