by Gigi Blume
There was a length of silence that could have been awkward, but remarkably, it wasn’t. Then he suggested we take a ‘tour of the grounds,’ as he put it. I laughed inwardly because that was an incredibly posh thing to say, but it came out so casually, like he was asking if I’d like a beer or to watch TV. With an offer like that, how could a girl refuse? So, he led me past the tennis courts, down a stone path, and to a crest overlooking the city lights. He had some avocado and citrus trees and a few quiet places to sit along the way that I fantasized would be great places to read a book or maybe do something creative like draw. I wondered if he did stuff like that. I would if I lived in a house like that.
As we meandered the ‘grounds,’ we talked about nothing in particular, laughing at the light and breezy banter we exchanged so easily. He gave me his coat when the warmth of our adrenaline wore off and told me about things like his first film. I admitted I’d seen it. Then I unabashedly admitted I kind of sort of binge watched his Fast and Dangerous movies, imputing it to research or some other nonsense. He raised one brow.
“Research, huh?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
He asked about my family, and I told him about my practical father, my overbearing mother, and my holier-than-thou but somewhat shy little sister. We discussed things like my college experience, shows I’d done, the long hours of his youth spent on set with his dad, or getting into trouble snooping around backstage at the Gardiner. I was surprised to learn how familiar he was to the ins and outs of the theatre. He was practically brought up there.
As we trailed the perimeter and found the path back to the house, I made an off-the-cuff comment about the size of his property.
“This is a lot of house for one and a half residents,” I said brightly.
I didn’t mean to imply anything, just a joke really. But a shadow overcame his features, and his tone grew serious.
“It was my dad’s intention to fill this house with a large family.” He slowed his pace and snapped a twig from a bush. “But after my sister was born, my mom got ovarian cancer. So that was that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered even though I knew it was a lame reaction. I’m sure he’d heard it all in the sympathy department. Who knows why he was even telling me all this but once he began, it was like he couldn’t stop.
He told me about how hard his dad took it when his mother died. He was so lost without her, he remarried a few, short years later. Blindly. Everybody, including Stella, advised him against it. And for good reason, too. The woman was a gold digger, and Martin Darcy didn’t believe in a prenup.
“The house was in my mother’s name, but she got everything else,” he said with a trace of regret. He shrugged it off and smiled brightly. “We probably missed dessert.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m more of a savory treat kind of gal.”
“Like pork rinds?”
“Eww. No.”
“I’m just kidding.” He laughed. His laugh was contagious. I decided I could probably laugh myself silly over nothing at all as long as he was laughing too. I think we were a little slap happy to own the truth. I was so lost in the mirth of it all, I lost my footing, and the heel of the ludicrously expensive shoes I wore, wobbled under my weight, and I tumbled over, nearly falling on my face. Will’s arms swiftly broke my fall. The warmth of his body enveloped me as he caught me around the waist, but not before my ankle did something wonky, and a tearing sensation shot through my ligaments.
“Brother Jeremiah!” I cried. I could already feel the swelling. But the dull pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment of injuring myself in front of Will—again. I lifted my eyes to his with the intention of sucking it up to save face. Like it was no big deal. I guess I expected him to at least pretend to be concerned. But his eyes were stunned wide, and he had the goofiest grin frozen on his face.
“Why am I getting a crazy clown vibe from you?” I asked suspiciously. “Are you okay?”
He should have been asking me if I was okay. I was the one with a gimpy ankle. But his grin widened, and he shook his head.
“It’s your Something Rotten day.”
“Ummm… yeah?”
“Something Rotten,” he repeated as if it was a wonderful thing. “That’s why…”
His words tapered off into internal thoughts.
“That’s why what?” I questioned. Unfinished sentences were one of my pet peeves.
“Nothing.” He shrugged and made a meh face. “Never mind.”
Grrr. A meh face. Impossible! I was poised to pounce—figuratively. But he remembered to be a gentleman and carried me into the house and got me some ice from his wet bar, so I overlooked the offense.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked with genuine concern. “Can I get you anything else?”
I was more than comfortable. I could happily die on the sofa I was lounging on, like floating on clouds. And no wonder. It wasn’t a new fancy, designer sofa. This particular piece of furniture, like the rest in the room, had character and was worn with age.
We were in the den by the looks of it. This room had Will’s signature written all over it. A big-screen TV with video game consoles attached haphazardly, books on every surface, strewn about in a way that proved they weren’t just for show. The wet bar where he’d gotten ice for my ankle and a cozy fireplace he lit while I rested.
“Actually,” I replied, “I wouldn’t mind if you’d bring me my clutch.” I gave him my pretty please face and told him where to find it. I didn’t think anyone would be interested in my stuff in this place, but I still felt more comfortable having it near me. I remember being so swept away with Georgia’s performance, I forgot to take it with me into dinner. No wonder she was at Juilliard. The piano was a Christmas gift from Will. She said something about it being the finest piano manufacturer in the world and was custom crafted in Italy. That was some Christmas present.
Will swiftly left my side like a man on an urgent mission. I thought I heard quick footsteps, like he was running. With the room to myself, I had an opportunity to take in my surroundings a little better.
This was probably where he spent most of his time. A large, fluffy dog bed caught my eye next to a ratty recliner. I imagined Will reading one of those books with his feet up and his free hand hanging over the side of the chair while Lady was the happy recipient of his scratches.
A pair of tennis shoes was strewn under the coffee table, and countless framed photos covered the mantel, side tables, and shelves.
But the most striking thing of all was a quaint (normal sized) Douglas Fir adorned with crafty decorations made by a child’s hands. I got up too admire it up close. My ice compress gave me some comfort, enough to hobble over through the dull pain. There wasn’t a designer ornament in sight. Every single piece hanging from that tree must have held some kind of sentimental value. Most of them looked homemade. And all of them had a year printed on them, either etched or written in permanent marker. Baby’s first Christmas, Will in second grade, Georgia’s little face cut out of a photo and glued to a clay gingerbread figure adorned with beads and glitter. Some of the beads had fallen off. She must have been in preschool or kindergarten at the time. A few of the year bulbs were dated over thirty years ago. It was the most colorful hodgepodge of Christmas ornaments and mismatched ribbons and lights I’d ever seen. A far cry from the fancy tree in the foyer.
“Your bag has been buzzing non-stop since I picked it up.”
Will held my bag over his head as he entered the room but halted when he saw me by the tree. “How’s your ankle?”
“A little better, thanks.”
He joined me by the tree and handed me my clutch. The entire thing buzzed relentlessly.
“See what I mean?” he said.
“It’s probably my notifications,” I said dismissively. “I’ll check on them later.” I waved the little, gold bag like a glitzy maraca. “I probably should have left it upstairs.”
I put my phone in the clutch because I’d
wanted to take some pictures, but with the excitement of the evening, I totally forgot. Maybe I was just nervous about the duet.
“Well, it matches the dress,” he said. “I have to admit, when the packages came in for you last week, I didn’t know what Stella was up to. But I have to say, I really like the results.”
His eyes swept over me in open assessment, and the heat from his stare could have melted down the gold from my dress. I could almost feel it dripping hot and molten on my skin. It took me a moment to register what he’d said.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Last week?”
“Yeah. Imagine my reaction when I saw your name on those delivery boxes.”
“You mean this isn’t a rental?”
My thoughts raced to dinner, and the carefully planned-out seating arrangement with Anne and the super-hot, non-peanut-eating African-American man. Then to all the little comments Stella had been making lately, discouraging me from getting too close to Jorge, inviting me to the charity, the limo, the dress, the duet.
“Is this all part of some elaborate machination? The dress, the shoes, the bag, Bing cancelling tonight…” I used air quotes on the word cancelling. “the teenager with the slushy…?”
Will laughed from somewhere deep inside. It was a belly laugh. “Stella’s pretty ambitious, but I think that’s a stretch even for her.”
“Okay, maybe not the slushy.” I had to admit it was hilarious, and Will’s laugh, as I mentioned earlier, was unavoidably contagious.
“I’ll tell you what I do think,” he said with mirth. “Once Stella has it in her head she wants to do something, she’ll take every opportunity to make it happen. And the funny thing is, she’s one of those rare individuals that the stars align for. It’s her special kind of magic.”
“And what do you suppose she has in her head now?”
His eyes flashed over my features with awareness. There was an answer hanging in the air, just lingering there, perched on his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, or maybe for some other useful occupation that involved my lips, too. But then he froze like he just realized he’d been duped into eating mind-altering lotus flowers and turned his attention to the tree.
The tree.
The most interesting tree in the world with a trunk and branches and pine needles in a particular shade of green, some on the verge of turning brown and brittle.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I asked.
His face lit up at the mention of it. He made a contented hum, stroking through the branches in search of the one ornament he liked best. “I think this one.”
He cupped a simple glass bulb with his palm and lovingly stroked his thumb over the etched numbers. It was completely clear with a frosted etching of only four numbers. A year. And it was before he was born. A frayed red ribbon made a flat bow on the top that had seen better days.
I inched to see it closer. He didn’t take it off the branch, just cradled it in his palm.
“This was the year my parents met,” he said. “My mom bought it at a craft fair, and she continued to buy one bulb a year to put on the tree.”
I could see a few of them from where I stood. Some were elegant or hand-painted masterpieces and others were simple, like one that just looked like the slice of a tree trunk.
“Georgia and I never gave up the tradition. She brought this one from New York this year.”
He tapped at a tin Statue of Liberty with a holly crown and the current year in raised metallic red.
“It’s a tree of memories, I guess.” He smiled as he took in the sight of all those memories. Some happy and others not so much, I supposed.
“I love it,” I said. “We’ve always had a fake tree because the branches make my dad itch because of allergies. And my mom isn’t sentimental enough to decorate it with crafts we made in school. She has to color coordinate. One year, all her decorations were purple. Even the presents were wrapped in purple paper.”
“Ouch.” He laughed.
“Yeah,” I said, remembering. “That was the year my dad mysteriously had a lot of extra work at the office. They’re funny like that in a passive aggressive way.”
“They sound charming.”
“Oh, they are. It’s almost scary how charming they are.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he said with the most devastating smile. It made my heart gallop to know I was the only one in the room and Will Darcy was still smiling.
“Do you have a fake tree in your house?” he asked. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
“Me? Nah. I’m almost certain my dad made up the tree allergy, so he wouldn’t have to do the whole tree lot thing.”
“What’s Christmas without the tree lot thing?”
“I know, right?” I agreed enthusiastically. “It’s an integral part of Christmas. Like baking cookies.”
“Or going to those neighborhoods to see the lights,” he added.
“Or singing Christmas carols.”
“Or watching the Charlie Brown Special.”
The energy between us was palatable. Who knew this misanthrope of a man could be so much fun? Misanthropes don’t care for things like Christmas lights or cookies or Snoopy. Maybe his grinch heart grew three sizes, or maybe three ghosts had visited him. Or maybe I was wrong about him all along.
Will held my gaze for a long moment, sharing the same heady air particles and probably having his own epiphany about cookies and lights and Snoopy. Then he bent down, reaching for something under the tree branches and came back up with a box wrapped in embossed red paper with a gold bow.
“Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.”
His words were softly spoken and he held out the box in front of me. I stared at it. What the…?
“You got me a present?” I couldn’t imagine he’d actually thought to get me a present. Maybe it was one of those generic gifts that wealthy people keep under their tree for unexpected guests. Like lotion. Or salt and pepper shakers.
“I didn’t get you anything,” I said.
“It’s not a quid pro quo kind of thing,” he said, urging me to take the box. “It’s a gift. Please. Open it before I feel like a complete idiot.”
I laughed, taking the box from him. “I’m sure you have zero experience feeling like an idiot.”
“Not until I met you, Elizabeth Bennet.”
“What?”
His lips curled into a devilish grin. “Just open it.”
I placed my buzzing clutch at my feet, so I could use both hands to carefully loosen the paper without ripping it. For some reason, I wanted to savor every moment like it was the only gift I would ever have in my entire life. I wanted to make it count.
“Are you one of those never-rip-the-paper kind of people?” he said with annoyance laced in his tone.
“Not until I met you, William Darcy.” I gave him a wink, and I swear he turned into butter. Then I savagely ripped at the paper, crumbled it into a ball and threw it at him.
“A bit of my family tradition,” I said with a laugh. “California snowballs.”
My family wasn’t just boring fake trees and purple decorations. We had fun. Every year, after we unwrapped all the gifts, we’d have a snowball fight with crumpled up wrapping paper. We called them California snowballs.
Will gave me his best you’re on, sister expression and tossed the paper in the tree. When I opened the box, my heart stopped. It was beautiful. Nestled in a cushioned bed of silk was a blown-glass bulb with a hand-painted scene of a pirate and a maiden. The pirate looked very much like the Pirate King, and the maiden wore the same dress as I did in the show. What’s more, was that the face bore a striking resemblance to me. At the bottom of the hand-painted image was the year. He got me a year bulb. Not just any year bulb, but a custom-made art piece he likely ordered weeks before. I didn’t know if I wanted to implode spectacularly or throw my arms around him to rival any wonderfully sappy Hallmark movie. It was too much. Why couldn’t it be soaps or lotions?
At length, when I hadn’t s
poken for some time, he asked, “Do you like it? Too weird? I’m not good at painting faces.”
Hang on now. He painted this? Now, I really wanted to implode.
“It’s… it’s… amazing.”
Good one. Here I was standing next to Michelangelo, and all I could come up with was amazing.
He shifted on his feet and shrugged in a school-boy-with-an-art-project sort of way and grinned at the floor.
“Something to remember me by,” he said shyly. “Or not. Whatever.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure I wanted something to remember him by if it meant needing an object to have a piece of him in my life. You don’t need to remember someone if they’re right there next to you. And so I looked up at him through my lashes and smiled. “I choose whatever.”
He lifted his eyes to meet my gaze and studied my face, reading the meaning behind my words. He drew closer to me, gently trailing a feather-light touch over my hands holding the box. It had to be an enchantment. It was all there in the air between us, in front of a colorful memory tree. Magic Christmas dust descended on our heads, a chorus of angels serenaded us, a harp sounded from somewhere, and the earth vibrated where we stood.
No.
The earth wasn’t vibrating. That was my phone, which was in my clutch, currently on my feet. I read somewhere that one should never put their purse on the floor because it hurts your finances. I didn’t consider myself superstitious, but I wasn’t about to take my chances. So I’d placed it on my toes.
“Maybe you should get that,” he said, swallowing hard.