Nickolai's Noel

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Maybe I’ll keep it for a decoration.” He hung the cane from the neck of his shirt. “There. I’m a gift.” He spread his arms wide, as if he were presenting himself to the world.

  “Yes, you are.” A fleeting gift, but a gift. “If you’ll hand me your plate, I’ll fill it.”

  He stood and handed her both plates. “Can I help?”

  “Pour us some coffee, please.” She gestured to the pot on the counter. “Or would you rather have tea?”

  “I like both.” He filled the mugs she’d left ready. “Mugs with Christmas trees. Americans love Christmas. So do Canadians.”

  Noel refilled their juice glasses and set the plates on the table. “Do Russians not?”

  Nickolai waited until Noel picked up her fork to pick up his. “They do. Sure. But not so much as here. Everything is bigger here, you know? More. But I like it here. I like your little house here more than my condominium. Too fancy for me and more than I wanted to pay. But good resale value is important.”

  “What were your Christmases like as a child?”

  “Hard to remember.” He frowned. “Some special food, I think. Cakes. We would get a shoebox filled with things—little toys, socks, maybe soap. Things for school. Once I got a Game Boy. That was the main thing I remember. It was the best thing anyone got that year. I shared.”

  Of course he had shared. He was a pleaser. She felt humbled and sad when she compared his scanty memories to her lavish Christmases—perhaps not quite as lavish after her father died, but still plenty lavish. And she’d been with family. Even though they were exasperating, she loved them. And he had no one. He must have sensed how she felt because he covered her hand with his and smiled.

  “This Christmas, I won’t forget. It’s the best ever.” More sweet lies. He took another bite of grits. “And your grits are much better than Cracker Barrel’s.” That was probably the truth.

  “You never get tired of Cracker Barrel?”

  “No. They have lots of things on the menu. You can get breakfast food at night. That comes in handy if you get hit in the mouth and you need to eat scrambled eggs and grits. My favorite waitress, Dede, gives me biscuits and cornbread if I want it. I give her tickets so she can bring her little grandson to see the Sound, and she helps me with my Southern English.”

  “How’s that going?”

  He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “Bless your heart, don’t you try to make out like this likker’s not yours. That dog won’t hunt. Y’all are drunker than Cooter Brown. And that would be if you’re talking to more than one person. Y’all is only for plural.”

  “That’s right.” Noel laughed. “Good job, Dede.”

  “Dede also says I should try harder not to leave out the word it.”

  “Bad job, Dede. I think that’s charming.”

  “Do you? Is more important to please Noel than Dede.”

  “But I only gave you biscuits.” She held up the breadbasket.

  “No, lyubimaya. You gave me more than biscuits.”

  “Grits?”

  “The best grits I’ve ever had. But there’s something I must know.” He rose and came toward her with an impish little smile. He ran his hand down her neck and hooked his fingers in the neck of her shirt. “I am wondering what naughty underthings Noel wears today.”

  “Yes, yes!” her naughty bits cheered.

  “Pipe down!” she yelled at them.

  “Hypocrite! You’re letting him look!”

  And she was.

  “Ah, Noel does not disappoint.”

  Had she chosen her most provocative set today—the cropped bustier and matching boy shorts—hoping this would happen? She’d told herself it was because her clothes were black and she needed black underwear, but what a lie. It’s a thousand wonders she hadn’t put on a garter belt and stockings.

  He started to pull her to her feet, but she stopped him. “Wait.”

  He opened his eyes wide and tilted his head, waiting.

  “I should tell you I heard on the news that the salt trucks are out and the interstate should be passable by noon. That’s in about an hour.” After all, if he weren’t trapped here in this snow globe, he would probably want to leave.

  He shrugged and pulled her to him. “No difference to me. I have to be at practice tomorrow at eleven-thirty. Unless you want me to go”—he kissed her until her bones disappeared into nothing—“I like it here until then. Especially, if you will let me wash my clothes tonight while we sleep.” He laughed a little around the word sleep.

  What the hell? What difference did it make if she stayed in this snow globe just a little longer?

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He ran his hand underneath her shirt and worked his fingers under the lace of her bra.

  “Good. I think your naughty lace sent a text message to my penis, inviting him to a Christmas party. He would be very disappointed.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Noel’s naughty bits said.

  “Shut up!” she commanded.

  But she let him chase her into the bedroom.

  Chapter Seven

  The dogs got the turkey, and Nickolai laughed out loud again. He liked that movie, A Christmas Story, especially the parts about the leg lamp and where Ralphie’s friend gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole. Nickolai could see why they ran it for twenty-four hours, and that was working out especially well for him since he kept dozing off. He might manage to see the whole thing by the time the day was over. Ralphie and his family were in the Chinese restaurant again. He’d seen that part several times, so he took the opportunity to look to the other end of the couch where Noel sat sewing with his feet in her lap. He’d started out with his head in her lap, and he’d liked that better except she had kept covering his face up with her little quilt thing.

  “How are you doing down there?” he asked.

  She glanced at him. “I’m doing okay. Did you decide to wake up again?”

  He yawned. “Da. You wore me out.” Not far from the truth. If possible, the second time had been even better than the first. Every time he thought he couldn’t like her more, she surprised him with something else. Who could have guessed she would be wearing the underwear of a high-price call girl under her prim little clothes? Or that she would be so bold in bed?

  “I think you’re worn out because you sat up all night with a Yule log.”

  “I don’t want to displease you because I keep sleeping.”

  She looked up surprised. “Why would that displease me?”

  He hesitated. “Some women, you know. They like the attention.”

  She went back to her sewing. “I like the attention, too. But not all the time.”

  He watched her for a while as she moved her needle quickly up and down through the fabric.

  “I like to watch you sew. You look happy.”

  “I am.” She gave him a shiny-eyed smile.

  “Did you always know you wanted to make quilts?”

  She paused and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “Not always, but I was always good at needlework. My grandmother does lovely embroidery and needlepoint. She taught me when I was young. When I was eleven, I bought a little kit to make a quilted pin cushion.” She laughed a low little laugh. “It was shaped like a chicken. So ugly. But making it was fun, and I did a good job.”

  “So that’s when you knew you would be a quilter.”

  “I guess I thought it would be a hobby. I thought I would go to college.”

  “This was something you wanted? Why didn’t you go?”

  She sighed. “Money. My mother’s plan was for Paige to go to college and marry well, and he would pay for my schooling. I was having no part of some unknown man supporting me. So I did some research, found out how much money you could make from a well-made quilt, and sold my first one at fifteen. And it’s a good thing I didn’t go with my mother’s plan. Webb works hard, but he didn’t have any more money than we did.”

  “But
you make your own money now. You still could go to college.”

  “I don’t want to. It’s not like I was thirsting for some elusive magical wisdom that could only be obtained behind some ivy-covered walls.”

  “What? I don’t understand.” Sometimes he didn’t get the meaning of things, especially if imagery and symbolism were involved—though he wasn’t sure if either or both of those things had been in that string of words.

  “It wasn’t like I was dying to go to college to prepare for a specific degree. I just thought I’d go and figure out the career part as I went. Now, I’d rather quilt.”

  “You are successful.”

  “I’ve been lucky. I won a few contests. That got me some notice—that and the quilt shows and crafts fairs I went to. I worked and sold from the house I grew up in until I got the opportunity to open this shop.”

  “It is good that you are so happy with your work. But, still, your family did not take proper care of you.”

  She smiled. “I take care of myself. And you don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

  “I’m glad you think so. In this country, some go to college and play hockey and then play professionally. Some play hockey right away. In Russia, if you play hockey, you play hockey. That’s all.”

  Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. “Speaking of … family.” She started to move his feet. “I’ll go so you can nap and watch the movie.”

  “Don’t go.” He was warm and comfortable, and he liked how every once in a while she let her hand rest on his shin. “Unless you need the privacy.”

  She shrugged and settled back in her seat. She’d talked to her family several times today when they were trying to cook a meal.

  “Hello, Mama. That’s great. The interstate is clear here, too, though the streets around town are still icy. But it’s going to warm up, and they’ll be clear by mid-morning tomorrow.”

  There was a pause, and Noel didn’t look happy.

  “No, Mother. That doesn’t mean I can come there tomorrow. I told you from the onset I had to be here the day after Christmas to open my shop.”

  More pausing and frowning.

  “I do. You know I do. But Ora’s children and grandchildren are here from out of town. She worked Christmas Eve, and I promised her she could be off Thursday and Friday … No, I absolutely am not going to do that. I cannot leave those two teenage girls alone. Yes, I am the boss. But I won’t be long if I start treating people like you’re suggesting, because they’ll quit. In case you haven’t noticed, slavery was outlawed a while back.”

  More frowning and a little sighing from Noel.

  “I can leave Friday after I close and not a second sooner. We’ll put on the matching nightgowns and take pictures then. We’ll just pretend it’s Christmas. And yes, I’ll stay until Sunday. Yes, I’ll go to church and leave then. Yes, Mother. That will be fine. Yes. I’ll do that. Goodbye. Yes. I love you, too.”

  So she’d be gone all weekend. He had away games on Friday and Sunday, but maybe he could see her Sunday night. Finally, she hung up.

  “Sorry about that. As you may have gathered, they’re a little dependent on me. They wanted me to go to the after-Christmas sales with them, but I have a sale of my own to worry about.”

  “What do you mother and sister do for work?” he asked.

  She looked up in surprise. “Work? They don’t work.”

  “They don’t work? How do they live? How do they pay for things?”

  “Well, my mother has a small pension from my father. There was some inheritance from him, savings and insurance and such, but she wasn’t very wise with that. My sister has her husband, and he’s an attorney. For the most part, he supports them all.”

  “So they clean the home?” It was clear they didn’t do much cooking.

  “Some. In the summer, they garden a little. But mostly, Shirley cleans and does laundry. When Daddy was alive, she came in every day. Now, she works three times a week.”

  “And these women do no work? How can that be? You work. This Webb, he works. Everyone works. Even here on Christmas you’re working.”

  She held up her sewing. “This isn’t work for money. It’s for love—Emory’s gift. But not everyone works.” She tried to sound defensive, but he could tell she didn’t feel it. He could also tell she liked that he was saying these things, because she was trying to hide a smile. “I bet some of your teammates have wives who don’t have jobs.”

  “Some don’t,” he admitted. “Some do. Brian’s wife is a doctor. Jean Luc’s wife paints pictures of people. Mikhail’s wife Sharon, she—what do you call it? Sells houses. She found my condo for me.”

  “Realtor.”

  “Yes. That’s it. Others—most of them care for the children and work for free for good causes.”

  “My sister takes care of Constance and does volunteer work.”

  “Does her husband make the money of a professional hockey player? Is he supporting only his own wife and child?”

  “No.”

  “I worry what I will do for work when I can no longer play hockey.”

  “Will you have to work?”

  “Of course. Everyone must do work. I’m careful so I will not need to worry for money, but people must do things.” He playfully poked at the fabric in her hands with his toe. “Perhaps you will teach me to do this sewing? Or maybe I could help in your shop? Hang quilts on the wall and take money from customers?”

  She laughed that pure, crystal, soul-healing laugh. “Maybe. But I think you have a few years before you have to worry about that.”

  “Could be. If I don’t get hurt. Is never too early to worry.”

  “I know. I’ll hire you to teach my family your work ethic.”

  “I speak my mind too much. That’s what Mikhail says. Sorry.” But he wasn’t. These people wanted too much from Noel—her time, and, he suspected, her money. “But they could use some of their time to learn to make a Christmas turkey, I think.”

  She let her smile come through. “You haven’t said anything I haven’t thought. But in the end, they’re family. I love them.”

  And he wouldn’t know anything about that.

  He held out his arms. “Come here, zvezda moya. Put aside your sewing, and let’s watch Ralphie together.” He wasn’t going to make love to her again right now. That would come tonight when they went to bed. He just wanted to feel her warm in his arms.

  She carefully put all her little things in a basket and came to him. With her head on his chest and his arms around her, he owned the world.

  • • •

  Noel catnapped off and on—mostly off. It felt odd to be doing nothing in the middle of the afternoon, even if it was Christmas. If she’d been in Louisville, friends and neighbors would be dropping in for a Christmas visit by now, and she’d be serving dessert, pouring coffee, and replenishing the silver dishes of cheese straws, candy, and nuts. Her mother had been beside herself because there would be no cheese straws, bourbon balls, and divinity for the guests. All that was still sitting packed in tins in Noel’s car at Beauford Bend.

  It made her tired to think about it. She liked where she was now just fine. And why not?

  Though Nickolai was sleeping soundly, he hugged her tight from time to time. She refused to wonder who he might be dreaming about; she refused to do anything except enjoy these last hours with Nickolai. Somehow, she was beginning to get the feeling that he didn’t know these were their last hours; he seemed to believe he’d think about her again after he left.

  But Noel knew better. He’d go to practice and snap into his real life of glamorous women, reporters, and ad campaigns. She had no illusions about how devastated she was going to be. Nickolai might have enjoyed this unexpected magical lark, but, for him, it was only that—a lark. For her, it was life changing, and probably not for the better.

  But for now, there was still magic to be had in her sweet little snow globe, and she was going to enjoy it.

  And she did—until the soun
d of that earsplitting doorbell ripped through the quiet peace of her cozy haven and set her snow globe on a precarious perch.

  Chapter Eight

  —

  Noel jumped off Nickolai and began to search for her shoes. She had always hated the shrillness of that doorbell and never more than now. It had all the charm of a World War II, Nazi Gestapo siren.

  “What? What?” Nickolai was on his feet, bleary-eyed, with his head snapping around like a spectator watching a fast tennis match.

  “My doorbell!” Noel had to raise her voice to be heard because whoever was down there was now leaning on the bell, and the sound was relentless. “Someone’s downstairs.”

  “Don’t go. They’ll go away.”

  “I can’t.” She moved toward the door. “Lots of the of the owners live above their shops. These people are my friends. Someone must be in trouble.”

  He was hot on her heels as she trampled down the stairs. “Maybe it’s a robber come to loot. Such things happen in disasters.”

  “Yes, because looters are usually quilters who always ring the bell. And this is hardly a disaster.”

  “Is disaster,” he grumbled sleepily. “Tore Noel from my arms.”

  At the back entrance, Noel punched in the security code and threw open the metal door.

  And there stood Tewanda wearing boots with four-inch heels and a calf-length, white fur coat. It looked like mink, maybe fake but probably not.

  Nickolai gasped like a dying man, and Noel’s world stopped.

  Tewanda dramatically threw back her hood, and the wide aura of fur that had surrounded her face fell to drape around shoulders. Noel had no choice but to step aside as Tewanda strolled in as if it was her due. As she passed, she looked Noel up and down.

  “Sweet shirt, Noel.” After their second round in the bedroom, Noel had put on an oversized red monogrammed sweatshirt because Nickolai had gotten baby oil on the shirt she’d had on earlier. Never mind how. “I’m always amused at women who feel they must put their initials on everything they own—makes me wonder if they plan on scattering their clothes hither and yon. Though you’re not the type.” Tewanda smiled the meanest smile Noel had ever seen. “Or are you?”