by Lara Hunter
“But I’m sure all of you look back at it with happy memories,” Michael laughed, leading them down the hallway. “No real memory of your twin brothers scrambling around, or of you ditching them and disappearing for a few hours. We always remember the good parts, don’t we?”
Grace laughed, shocked at how much he remembered about that fateful day. “You know how parents are. They block out all the bad times. Especially over the holidays.” She swallowed, unsure if Michael’s adoptive father had been anything like her parents, before his death. “At least, that was my parents’ way.”
Michael didn’t answer. He led them deeper into the airport, through a specialized security area that requested almost nothing from them. Grace looked at him inquisitively, but Michael just waved his hand. “When you’re this rich, you don’t need security,” he said simply.
Grace followed him, scampering down the hallway and toward the final boarding gate, where a private jet sat on the tarmac, awaiting them. Grace’s jaw dropped. She’d expected to travel first class. But a private plane?
“You sure know how to travel in style,” she said playfully, curving her shoulders in a sultry manner.
Michael grinned, clearly pleased that this aspect of his wealth had impressed her. They stood at the gate, eyeing the sleek aircraft.
“I’m constantly having to fly out to Seattle and San Francisco,” Michael said, his voice casual. “I couldn’t rely on commercial airlines like that, so about three years ago I bought a jet and hired my pilot, Pierre, and my stewardess, Theresa.”
“And how exactly does one going about hiring a pilot?” Grace asked, her eyes wide. “Did you conduct interviews? Have them fly you around?”
“Actually, yes. And that was truly one of the better months of my life. One of the candidates said he could make it to Iceland in no time at all, so I let him. I ended up working from there for two full weeks. I couldn’t get enough of it. It’s such a beautiful country.”
Grace flashed a surprised, perfect smile. She followed Michael to the tarmac where the small jet awaited them, its wings cutting clear white lines across the grey horizon.
“I think you’ll like Pierre,” Michael offered. “He’s Canadian. From Montreal. He loves working for me. I fly maybe four or five times a month, so most of his life is partying in Brooklyn.” He winked toward her before taking a first, confident step upon the staircase, up toward the body of the plane. Grace followed with tentative steps, relishing the cinematic moment as her hair whipped behind her in the wind.
Once aboard, Grace and Michael sat side by side on leather recliners. After takeoff, once they plane had leveled off, Michael popped open a bottle of champagne, and Grace watched the bubbles as they filled her glass, excitement brimming within her. She hadn’t been on a plane in over eight years, since she’d spent a semester studying abroad in Italy. She told Michael about this, about the pasta making classes she’d been to, the sound of accordions echoing through the streets on her long walks to take in the sights.
“I’m so jealous you got to study there,” Michael said. “I lived my entire four years, plus grad school, inside of a computer lab. I’ve hardly seen the world.”
“Well, nothing is stopping you seeing it now,” Grace said, her eyebrows high. “You just have to make the leap.”
“Sure, but who’s going to look after my company while I’m gone?” he asked. “The moment I look away, we could lose enough to ruin us. I have to keep the shareholders happy. I wake up for them. I don’t sleep, all for them. My health will be ruined by the time I’m forty, I tell you.”
“And look at you now, taking a vacation with me,” Grace said, sipping her champagne. The bubbles fizzed against the back of her throat. She giggled slightly, loopy with the feeling of flying so high in the air, so far removed from her real life.
“I suppose we all need a break once in a while,” Michael affirmed.
Grace grinned widely. It was happening. She was starting to uncover the real him.
***
As the plane continued its trajectory toward Woodstock, Vermont, Michael informed Grace that there was a small airport just outside town, and that a car would pick them up from there to take them to the café. “Just in time to catch the lights at nightfall, and to have some wine.”
“They serve alcohol at the café?” Grace asked. “All we drank was over-sugared coffee, if I remember correctly.”
“I remember daring myself to try to buy us a round of beers. I didn’t think the guy would card us, since he was about our age, and it was Christmas, and all.” He snickered. “But I chickened out, since you were so pretty. I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Well, what a thing to tell a girl, all these years later,” Grace said, her cheeks flushed with drink. “I suppose I was pretty nervous around you, too. But you were so earnest and so excited about life; it wasn’t long before you drew me out of my shell.”
“Excited about life?” Michael asked, his voice incredulous. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Well. It most certainly was,” Grace whispered. Even now, she was nervous to give away too much of her opinion about him, or declare how much he’d changed. Perhaps he’d sense it in himself, walking through the town in which they’d first met. The place that held magic for them.
The plane made a jagged landing, jolting their bodies left, then right as the wheels found their footing. “That Pierre. I swear, he does it on purpose,” Michael said, laughing. “He knows I love the thrill.”
Grace grinned, scarcely able to believe the events that led them to this moment. She looked out the window nostalgically, noting the grey farmlands of Vermont in winter. She’d never been to the state during the summer; had never seen the stunning colors of fall. To her, Vermont was bleak, except for that single, solitary café, deep in the center of town.
Michael led her from the plane, yelling out a “thank you!” to Pierre as they descended. Already, the pilot had leafed through his bag and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He sent an enthusiastic goodbye down the staircase, telling Michael: “I don’t know what you expect me to do here in Vermont for two days, but I’ll get up to something good.”
“I know you will, Pierre,” Michael said, winking at him.
Grace grasped Michael’s hand as they walked swiftly toward the entrance of the airport, her heels clacking upon the tarmac. The wind whipped around them without reprieve, causing her to briefly miss the protective buildings of New York. With Michael by her side, offering such a firm, reassuring grip, she allowed her fear to float away.
Sure enough, a car greeted them at the entrance of the airport. Michael greeted the driver with a firm handshake, introducing both of them. The man’s name was Henry, and as they drove through the countryside, he told them more about himself. He’d been a farmer for over thirty years, until he’d broken his arm and realized that he didn’t like the farm life so much. He’d sold his farm, bought a car, and had been making a pretty good living driving people around ever since.
“You don’t need a lot to get by, here. Not like New York,” Henry said, zipping them past endless fields. “And my wife doesn’t miss milking the cows. I can tell you that for sure. Sometimes, she’d fake sick, and I’d have to do it all by myself.” He laughed heartily.
“Do you have any children?” Grace asked, her voice light.
“One son. But he didn’t enjoy working in the fields. He liked to read. I was so proud of him when he got into Yale. He lives in NYC now, like you folks. He calls once a week to talk to his momma. And he hollers at me once in a while, too. We don’t have all that much to talk about, mind; the city life doesn’t interest me much.”
Grace allowed her head to rest on Michael’s shoulder as they rode to downtown Woodstock. She daydreamed, listening to Michael and Henry’s voices as they made pleasant small talk, creating a patchwork of sound. She felt comforted, safe.
The car eased into the brightly lit downtown, which was fresh in Grace’s mind, almost as if she
’d been there more recently than twelve years before. She inhaled sharply, staring at the Christmas tree near town hall.
“Can you believe it’s exactly the same?” she whispered.
Michael looked at her, his emotions unreadable. “I can’t,” he murmured. He swept a loose lock of black hair behind her ear, gazing at her with those penetrating eyes. As they shared this intimate moment, the car came to an abrupt stop next to the café, and Henry turned toward them, interrupting their reverie.
“That’ll be—” he began, to tell them the fare.
But Michael held up his hand, delivering a clutch of hundred-dollar bills to the man’s fist. The man balked, clearly amazed. He gazed at the bills, showing them off like a card deck. His eyes glittered with the Christmas lights, outside of the car. “Wow. Thank you, sir. Thank you. And please, let me know if you need a ride back.”
“We will, Henry. Thank you.”
Michael flung open his door before Henry had a chance to do it for him, and he ran toward Grace’s, helping her onto the snowy sidewalk.
Grace shivered slightly, noting she’d forgotten her gloves, like she always did. She shoved her hands into her deep, dark green coat pockets, giving Michael a large, excited grin. She was thrilled he’d given such a large sum to their driver—she felt it was a small amount of Christmas spirit, still living within him. “Ready to dive down memory lane?” she asked.
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Michael teased, lifting his arm and edging the café door open, allowing her entrance. In spite of herself, Grace’s wayward heart did a flip.
FOURTEEN
The moment Grace walked into the café, memories washed over her, causing her to lose her breath. It seemed the owners had been using the same Christmas decorations for the past twelve years, without noticing or caring about their increasingly tired appearance. The same Christmas tree stood, crooked in the corner, weighed down with bulbs and twinkling lights. Nat King Cole’s voice crackled from the speakers, and a couple dozen patrons, most of them old and gray, sat drinking hot spiced wine, their worries pushed to the side for one festive night.
Because of the late hour, the café was offering only table service. Grace and Michael found that the very table they’d been seated at all those years before was available, scrubbed clean, still in its position near the fire. Grace chuckled. “We should have carved our initials in the wood or something,” she said. “But I suppose we could have never known this day was coming.”
“Never,” Michael agreed. “And at the time, I’m sure I would have thought an act of such delinquency would get me denied from college acceptances.”
Grace laughed. She eyed the menu and ordered a glass of spiced wine, while Michael opted for a dark stout beer. They gazed at each other with wistful smiles, feeling vaguely unsure of themselves in the first minutes back, surrounded by gaudy décor and swirling memories. Grace’s eyes turned to the window, where she could almost see the image of her younger brothers, Edgar and Tommy, rushing around in the snow, frozen in time as twelve-year-olds. She ached for that past.
They sipped their drinks, speaking in warm, quiet tones. It was clear that Michael was already in the process of stripping off his New York persona. His words were more playful, and he reached over the table and stroked Grace’s hand, causing electricity to bolt up and down her arm.
“Do you feel older?” Grace asked him, her voice soft. “Than you did at eighteen, I mean.”
“I don’t know about older, but I certainly feel different,” he answered, after a pause. “Back then, I was so sure of so many things. I thought I knew what I wanted out of life.”
“And what was that?” Grace asked.
“I wanted love. I wanted friendship. I wanted to do things on my own terms.” He sighed, looking down. Perhaps he could sense how far off-track he was.
“What changed, do you think?” Grace asked. “Did it have something to do with your father’s death?” She felt her head buzzing with alcohol, the fuel of liquid courage. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped.
Her words didn’t seem to bother Michael. “I’m not so sure what happened. I know that I used to love Christmas. And now, I think I’ve more or less forgotten that—or any kind of love, really.”
Grace nodded. “I remember. You were going to tell me just what was so important about the holiday for you. Why it got you all excited. I could feel your joy from across the table, where I had none of it. Only teenage disdain,” she joked.
Michael fell quiet, absentmindedly drawing lines in the condensation on his beer glass. “You know, I didn’t have an easy childhood—I suppose most people who were adopted can say that. My father was very rich, very successful, and he didn’t have much time for me. It’s hard enough knowing you had two parents that didn’t have time to raise you, let alone a third.”
Grace swallowed, feeling the heaviness of his words. She wanted to bring her hand over his once more, connecting the two of them. But she sensed he needed to stand alone with his words.
“Always, around Christmas, for some reason or another, my father would open himself up to me. He became the father I craved all year round. He took me on trips like this one. We would go skiing, or visit cities in Europe.” He sniffed, his eyes filling with nostalgia. “It was the only time he ever showed real love for me, you know? The rest of the year, he was consumed with his job. I’d see him a few hours a week when he had time to sit down for dinner—usually takeout—and even still, he’d be on the phone for most of the time.”
Grace closed her eyes, nodding in empathy. She remembered the tall man standing beside Michael at the parade. He’d seemed bright, happy. Christmas cheer had pulsed through his veins, as it had with nearly every adult in the crowd. But, as with so many families, this wasn’t reality. They had to weather so many storms to achieve those brief moments of joy.
“That’s so sad,” Grace whispered. “But I know he loved you, Michael. I know he wanted the best for you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have changed his will like that.”
“Yeah. Like that was really the way to show his love,” Michael scoffed. “Making it more difficult for me to inherit the money he made when he was bailing on me, day after day, year after year.”
“Good point,” Grace murmured, lowering her eyes to her mulled wine. She swirled it, watching the reflected twinkle of the lights in the dark liquid. She remembered the fun she and her family had shared all throughout the year: on the boat at the lake, striding through the snow to play on the hill, jokingly shouting at each other in hours-long monopoly games. She’d reaped the rewards of their love; so many didn’t have that privilege.
As her thoughts churned, she looked up and caught Michael’s eye. He was looking at her with curiosity, as if he were trying to read her.
He swallowed, hesitating. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Grace breathed.
“I’ve been wondering it ever since I saw you again in your office. Actually, I’ve been wondering it for twelve years…”
“Just ask,” Grace said, unable to handle the suspense.
“Okay, okay! Well, this will probably sound insane to you, but I’ve always wondered why you didn’t show up after we made plans to see each other again.”
Grace’s lips parted involuntarily. Around her, the sound of a Dolly Parton Christmas song filled the air, wrapping them in holiday cheer like a giant blanket.
“You wanted to meet here at 2 p.m. Sharp. I remember you saying it, clear as day,” he went on. “And I wouldn’t make it up.”
“No, I remember it, too,” Grace answered wistfully. “And I remembered how much my heart hurt when 2 p.m. passed by, and I knew you were here. Waiting for me.”
“I drank three hot chocolates, just hoping you were running a little late,” Michael said. A grin stretched over his face, assuring Grace that he wasn’t upset about it any longer, just curious, hoping to retrospectively soothe his eighteen-year-old heart.
“That’s horrible—but probab
ly better than if you’d tried to drink the coffee again,” Grace said.
“I definitely wasn’t cut out for that yet. That’s for sure,” he laughed, his eyes still light. “So now. Fess up, Miss Long. Why did you stand me up on our second date?” He winked, reminding her of how far they’d come.
Grace lifted her eyebrows high, sighing. “We were the victims of terrible timing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“That night, when I was in bed, I stayed awake, thinking about you. I even wrote about you in my journal. I still have it somewhere, if you want proof.”
“How would I know you didn’t just write it out now, to fool me?” Michael asked.