The Secret Santa

by Trish Harnetiaux

  The first time he took her up to see the view, all those years ago, she knew her future, their future, and the property would be linked. It was one of the only remaining lots that rested in the high planes on a plateau jutting out from the mountain, devastating views of the Rockies in all directions. Yes, what had happened was unfortunate, but the history of the West was full of more brutal dealings than this. The point was they left the world more beautiful than they found it by building the crown jewel of Aspen.

  It was exciting, as first projects often are, and they’d been meticulous in every stage of planning. Claudine had it sold before it was finished to a couple who, she realized, were probably the same age as she and Henry were now. The Lions, a perfect last name for who they were—she a supermarket heiress, he a movie producer. They were glamorous, the ideal buyers for her first sale. They’d kept in touch over the years, had sent clients their way, which was so important when just launching a business. But now the Lions found the winters too hard; they were too old and forced to seek asylum in Scottsdale. Claudine had been their first call. They remembered how smart she was, that she’d been a ferocious negotiator when they bought the house from her. The Lions insisted she take the listing. She’d found the perfect owners once; she could do it again.

  The Lions’ taste in furniture was classic Colorado. Rustic but not shabby. Cozy but not casual. An abundance of leather. Claudine chose just enough pieces that tonight’s guests would have a place to sit, that the gifts would have a grand table to be displayed, then had the rest of the first-floor furniture put away in upstairs bedrooms.

  It was almost time. She was ready. She’d chosen a black silk Alexander McQueen blouse, leather pants, and leopard-print calf hair Manolos that added a few inches to her already tall, slim frame. The jagged lace cuffs and high collar were a tiny bit of punk she knew would appeal to Zara, show they were two of a kind. Topping it off was an art deco locket necklace. She relished the bit of mystery a locket promises, although she kept the inside empty, a reminder to never fall for nostalgia. She and Henry would look good, him in the green velvet jacket she’d laid out, the picture of elegance as they stood in the entrance hall and welcomed their guests, the grand staircase sweeping behind them. The staircase was a point of pride for Henry. He’d modeled it after the stunning one in the capitol in Denver. The marble stairs were low and deep, the curved oak of the handrails regal with a polished brass finish on the top.

  Claudine went room to room, the house a swirl of activity, observing the last of the party prep. In the kitchen, chefs put finishing touches on hors d’oeuvres, plating the ones that came out cold. Poached shrimp on rice crackers, tiny crudité kabobs. Dessert towers were being built, small bites of indulgence on each tier. One waiter was setting out the cheese straws and bowls of holiday nuts. Another twisting stacks of napkins into a sculpture-like formation. The third weaving in and out of each room, a thin dust towel in each hand, making sure there wasn’t a stray particle on any surface. She had told the catering company to send their best-looking group, and they hadn’t disappointed. They were all in their twenties, with the kind of lean bodies that come from spending most of their time skiing. All of their bustling was underscored by the piano player warming up on the Steinway.

  In the living room the bartender was polishing glasses and icing down white wine and champagne.

  “My husband will be the one with the salt-and-pepper hair and can’t-miss blue eyes. He’s sober and I work to keep him that way. We all like a bit of theatre, so please make sure his drinks look like drinks. Serve them in the same glass you would any other cocktail. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “I appreciate your discretion.”

  Since Louisa wasn’t there yet, Claudine hung up her own coat, a tiger print Cavalli. It was a pity Zara wouldn’t have a chance to compliment it. If the weather had been nicer, post–Secret Santa, they would have gathered with hot chocolate around one of the many firepits, the perfect chance to show it off. Oh well, a small glitch in the scheme of things. Nothing would spoil her good mood. She clutched her gift with both hands. The smooth silver paper felt cool. The ivy twisted around like green barbed wire, a substitute ribbon. Jules would be in charge of arranging the other gifts, but with no one else there to see, Claudine personally set hers down front and center on the table.

  Henry

  He was happy to drive over alone, wanted time in the car to think. To transform into a version of himself that could pull off what he needed to. It would help to conjure up something positive to focus on. Maybe his initials would still be there? He’d carved them in a hidden spot and never even told Claudine, a secret between him and the house. Leaving his mark seemed necessary. Initially he thought of it like an artist signing a painting, but over the years it felt more like how someone signs a confession. The deep cut of the H.C. branding both him and the house, making sure neither one forgot what had happened on this spot.

  He punched a button to turn on the seat warmer and practiced smiling a few times into the rearview mirror as he drove.

  Wonderful to meet you, Zara.

  Drumming his restless fingers on the steering wheel, he promised himself to think about it only for a moment. He’d been a Maker’s Mark guy … the soothing clink of ice cubes in a glass … the gentle trickle of the pour. That had been the one good thing to happen after, at least he had stopped drinking.

  He was three miles from the house.

  Zara, when I built this house, I knew someone extraordinary would live here.

  Two miles from the house.

  Zara, let me explain how the garden looks in spring, how everything transforms—part of Aspen’s magic.

  One mile from the house.

  This house becomes part of your very being. You will find happiness here, Zara.

  With a deep breath he turned off the highway and began winding up the long drive. Snowdrifts high on either side of the road. At first he caught only tiny glimpses of the house through the trees. The top of the stone chimney. The glow of yellow light, illuminating the front wall of windows. With every switchback, more house flashed by, the higher he climbed.

  The inevitability of his situation struck him almost as absurd. He was driving toward the one thing he’d spent so much of his life avoiding. Montague House. But he’d also been its creator. So much time given to its design, drafting, drawing, dreaming. Then building, sanding, carving. If he stripped away the emotion attached to the preceding event, there was a dull ache of longing, almost a magnetic pull the closer he got. It was not only the first house he ever completed; it was his best. Every house after was in the shadow of this first great triumph. He’d peaked at his debut. Like love. He believed you only really fall in love one time. Then, if that doesn’t work out and you go and fall in love again, you are only falling in love with the memory of the first time you did.

  Claudine had been his first. The house his second.

  Rounding the last snowbank, there it was in its entirety. Montague House. Enormous, thrusting its beauty confidently into the stormy night, demanding to be admired.

  He knew he wasn’t going to enter through the front door. To him, a front door was a guest entrance. Even though it meant getting snow on his shoes, he went around to the side and entered through the mudroom, which led to the kitchen. Sneaking in this way would be less jarring than being immediately thrown into the heart of the house. He went in fast and unsentimental, determined to win the first battle of even entering at all. Not yet taking in the room, he automatically hung up his jacket without realizing he hadn’t bothered looking for a hook.

  His breathing was all right. He wasn’t shaking. He could handle this.

  Stepping into the kitchen proper, he was reminded how large it was. At once he noticed the steel of the modern appliances. An upgrade that made sense. Lit candles hung from thin wire, floating in every window. Twenty-foot ceilings full of skylights. The rich red of the cherry wood floor, polished like new. The chefs and waite
rs continued prepping, hardly acknowledging he was there. Bamboo serving trays lined the enormous island in the center, waiting to be filled.

  He still knew the floor plan perfectly. Every hall, step, arch, room, closet, pantry, and deck. The view from each of the 164 windows. Another reason he came in through the kitchen: he wanted to see the spot. If he looked through the window, directly in front of the main sink and across a small meadow, he could see the exact patch of forest where they had stood, young, excited, naïve, the first time he brought her here. How old had he been? Twenty-eight? That made her twenty-six. He looked out toward the trees; the grove of Aspens had grown much taller.

  “Why are you in the kitchen, Henry?” Claudine asked from the doorway. His brief moment of tranquility was over. She took in what he was wearing. Initially he thought she was about to compliment him. “What are you wearing? I thought I laid out the green jacket and bow tie?” She didn’t even try to mask her disdain.

  “You did? I didn’t see it. This is the turtleneck you got me last year.”

  This was just like her, to cut him down right when he was starting to feel better.

  “At least take the glasses off.”

  “I’d like to see. I’m wearing the glasses.”

  “Everyone will be in suits, Henry,” she said, ping-ponging between passive putdowns.

  “Doubtful, Claudine. The Alpine brothers don’t own them. Besides, there’s a blizzard.”

  No part of him wanted to argue with her. There wasn’t much time before guests would be arriving, and he wasn’t going to spend it getting worked up. He would ignore her. The impatience in her voice was suffocating. He held tight to his secret, telling himself that he just had to get through the night. Just keep wearing that fake smile. Trying it out, he smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. She stared at him blankly.

  Maybe he needed a bigger change than he thought. Maybe they were broken. The gap too wide. Maybe quitting the business and leaving town wouldn’t be enough. An uneasiness clenched his torso, tightening like a corset.

  “Henry, when we’re showing Zara the house, be articulate. Don’t mumble your words. Diction is important.”

  Interesting, she was crueler than usual. This was normally when she sucked up, played him like one of her pawns. Relied on him to help make a sale. Usually he liked it. Questions flooded him.

  Why was she standing so expectantly?

  What did she want him to say?

  Was she waiting for him to have a complete meltdown before the night even started?

  Well, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of having to manage him. No way. Even if this was his last Calhoun + Calhoun soirée. No, he refused to cause a scene before the first guest had even arrived.

  “The emerald drop earrings were a perfect choice,” he said instead.

  The whistle of a sudden gust of wind howled from outside, a slow whine. The snap of a tree breaking, startling the catering staff in the kitchen. It was one of the taller aspens he’d been admiring a few moments before. He watched as it fell to the ground, swallowed by the snow.

  Zara

  It’s amazing how much snow can fall in two hours. By the time we were on our way to the party, there must have been another three inches. Less cars on the road, less plows. They couldn’t keep up. The driver seemed nervous navigating the roads. He had stopped spouting Aspen trivia and was mostly silent. The windshield wipers were on full blast and it didn’t even help. We could only see like two or three feet max.

  Hoping to help us all relax, I had Dave plug in my phone and I tapped open Spotify. I know Spotify is kind of evil. It takes like a trillion plays to make any real money. Which is fine for artists like me—the math works in my favor—but up-and-coming artists get fucked. On the other hand, it’s pretty incredible to have just about every album ever recorded right there in your pocket. And it’s awesome to think that some young kid living in the middle of nowhere could randomly stumble on an album like Claudine Longet’s Love Is Blue. I hit “play” on her soft, magical song “Snow” and asked Dave to turn it up.

  It’s all over and you’re gone

  But the memory lives on

  What was Liam doing at that very moment? Was he eating Indian food and watching JB docs with some other girl? I had to stop thinking about him. It’s strange how certain people who are clearly no good for you can have such a powerful hold. Later on, I would ask myself the same questions about Henry and Claudine. What was it about her? Why was he so hung up? Because by the time I met them, it seemed that any trace of what brought them together initially was gone. Which is depressing. I guess that’s just the nature of love. It doesn’t make sense. You can never explain it. That’s why, of all those millions and millions of tracks on Spotify, probably more than half are about romance and heartbreak and desire. Writing songs about that stuff is the closest anyone can come to figuring it out.

  We started making our way up a private drive. As we drove, every few feet on either side of the road were flickering gas lanterns leading us. It almost felt like we were driving up to some sort of bizarro winter finale of The Bachelor.

  I felt the house before I saw it. Could feel its presence. Ever since I started seeing my Transcendental Meditation guru a few months earlier, I had been more in tune with auras and celestial vibrations. And I have to admit, the house was putting off some wild energy. It loomed on the mountain above, hard to make out at first, then an outline of a fortress. Wood and stone and glass, the largest picture windows I’d ever seen. It was magnificent, but it definitely made me feel a little uneasy. I should’ve listened more to that instinct. I should’ve told the driver to turn around and take me back to the hotel and spent the rest of the night snuggling with Pip in bed and ordering room service. But I just chalked up that nervousness to how I usually feel when I’m about to meet total strangers, and how weird and awkward they usually get. It was too late, I was all in.

  Around here, if you don’t have money, you’re nothing. No voice, no one protects you. You become insignificant.

  Tommy and I dreamt about the future all the time. About getting out of Aspen. These long, wild talks about the places we wanted to go. They were completely impractical, but that was the point. He had a vision. We’d start in Alaska, spend time camping on the glacial lakes, breathing the sharp, clean air. Then we’d hop a whale-watching boat and cruise down to Seattle, where a car would be waiting for us. A 1965 powder-blue Mustang. He’d talk about sinking down in the bucket seats as we drove cross country. Through Idaho, Montana, South Dakota. Cruise through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio. Cut up through Pennsylvania and New York and keep going until we were lying on the beach, way up in Maine, eating lobster.

  Some nights I’d stay over at Mr. Miller’s house. We’d sit on these rocks near the edge of the property, overlooking the valley, and whisper all night long. If it wasn’t for a few visible lights from new mansions down below, it could have been anytime in history.

  This was only the beginning of the greedy developers and their light pollution. Killing the darkness we’d taken for granted. Some nights I swear I can’t even find Ursa Major anymore. Aspen was changing every day. The signs were everywhere. A town like this always is, but it was turning into something I didn’t recognize. I think one of the things that brought Tommy and me together was neither of us was interested in status. Maybe we should have been. A sick fact about our little town is that protection is a privilege extended only to certain members of the community.

  Claudine

  By 5:59 p.m. everyone had arrived but Zara.

  The guests knew better than to be late to the Calhoun Holiday Party, especially because they’d been discreetly informed of the surprise guest. The Alpine brothers, Jack and Bobby, were the first. Their rugged handsomeness full Colorado. They cleaned up well. Henry was right, no suits. Flannels and Carhartt. It worked. They were already crowded around the beef-carving station chatting with Rashida.

  Captain and Mrs. Tiggleman arrived next. They moved slowly,
both in their late seventies. He had the chiseled profile of an Old Hollywood movie star, and her plastic surgeon had done admirable work. Already their chief concern was the weather. They began talking about it the moment they walked through the door. Louisa took their coats and Natalie whisked them off to the bar, assuring them a cocktail would soothe their worries.

  “Nothing melts snow like whiskey,” said Captain Tiggleman, which made no sense at all.

  Kevin and Jerry were the last to arrive. Henry looked relieved to see his old friends. They were active in the community, involved citizens, which was always good for cocktail conversation. And business. They were regulars at community council meetings and always up with what was happening at the Wheeler Opera House or Theatre Aspen. Plus occasionally they could be helpful, providing inside information about permits and zoning. Kevin worked for the tourism board and had close ties to the Planning and Zoning Commission, and Jerry tended the gardens at the John Denver Sanctuary. They were excited to see Henry, giving him giant hugs, until Kevin pulled back, worried.

  “Ah, we should be more delicate,” Kevin said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  “Such a scare.”

  “Sorry we were almost late, Claudine,” Jerry said, handing her a garish poinsettia. “The car got stuck in our driveway.”

  “This is beautiful,” she said, handing the plant off to a nearby Jules and whispering, “Get rid of it.” Jules also took their two Secret Santa gifts and left, arms full, to place them on the table.

  “The car got stuck,” said Kevin. They were always repeating each other. “Shovels, Triple A, the whole thing.”