by Maia Ross
I go around behind Luna’s café because the front door will be locked so early. I step into a hallway and then into the heart of the bakery, all the stainless-steel glowing in the light. First I stop in front of a side table that’s stacked with mail. Then I glance over the pile, the letters all stamped in red, some of the writing lacy and festive, looking for a spot to park my purse. I move a few envelopes aside, set my purse down, and hang my coat up.
“Good morning, dear.”
Luna is bent over the sink, up to her elbows in suds. The bakery smells delicious; tart and sweet all at the same time.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Irma,” she says. Her smile is radiant, her cheeks rosy with heat.
And so we get started. She puts on some Christmas music and sets herself up, decorating a cake, and I start folding some croissants. We work through all of her projects one by one, the ovens spurting heat, the cooling racks simmering, until everything is baking or cooling or iced or sugared.
Luna brews me up some hot chocolate and settles herself in a seat opposite me, a croissant on her plate, a protein muffin on mine. All of my sweets are cooling, ready to be boxed up.
Luna picks up her hot chocolate and clinks her mug against mine, smiling. Until she sees my face.
“How is everything, dear?” I ask, once it’s clear she isn’t going to speak. My heart is slamming against my ribcage, and my words pop out a little more harshly than I’d meant.
“Good,” she says, but some of the light has gone out of her eyes.
“Really?” I sit back and let the silence harden between us. I look around at the bakery; there’s a water stain in one corner, a big one. The racks look old and worn. There’s chipped flooring in front of the sink. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it earlier.
Then I pull out the letter I plucked from the pile by the door and slowly place it on the table. The letter is almost festive, stamped in red. But not Christmas red. Overdue notice red. And it’s not a letter at all, it’s a bill. Just like all the other envelopes in that pile.
Luna reaches over to take the letter and I hold it out like I’m going to give it to her, but when her fingers close in on it, I yank it back, which pulls her forward. “What’s going on, Luna?”
“Everything is okay,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. “Everything will be okay,” she repeats, rocking a little in her chair, letting go of the envelope. She used to do that when she was a child, when she was upset about something. It makes something tear open inside of me. I’ve known this girl since before she was born. I used to babysit her so her parents could go to the drive-in on the mainland.
“I can help,” I say softly.
Her head swivels back and forth, no.
“Luna,” I say, and then pause. “You remember Violet, don’t you? My friend who stayed with me last summer?” She should remember her—Violet spent a small fortune here.
She nods.
“I was asking her how someone could have done this, how they would have known about Bailey’s account, what her password was. Do you know what she told me?”
Luna shakes her head, eyes on the floor.
“That most of that information would be on her phone. The same phone Bailey always forgets in the box behind the cash.”
Luna looks up and for a minute she looks thirty.
“You could have helped yourself to that phone and all the information on it just about any time you wanted. And who else would know Bailey’s social insurance number other than her employer?” I stop speaking abruptly. I don’t want to be here in this bakery, the one I sat with her mother in, thinking about the future, about her plans for her little girl, making that little girl’s mouth fold in on itself. But I don’t want to hear Andrea’s little girl lie either. And maybe Luna still thinks she can get away with it. Why bother to start otherwise? Once someone, even someone good, is committed to something bad they’re often so far gone they can justify what they’re doing.
“Hard summer,” she says finally. Her eyes—her mother’s eyes—are shiny, but she’s refusing to cry. You can see it in the slope of her shoulders, still square, still holding on to everything. “With the water leak in July and all the damage. I just couldn’t get back on my feet.”
I’d forgotten about all that. For some reason last summer feels so long ago. “You could have come to me,” I say quietly.
She chokes on her drink and it takes a minute for her to pull herself together.
“I don’t need help,” she says simply. “I’ve got it all worked out.”
“Do you?”
An alarm sounds in the distance, ping. A normal, everyday sound.
But this isn’t a normal, ordinary moment. I’m sitting quietly and calmly, but the look I’m giving Luna tells her: I know. I know everything.
She clears her throat and goes to turn off the timer and sits back down all in the space of three minutes, but her face has changed when she’s done.
It is indescribably sad.
“I was going to lose everything,” she says weakly. “And Christmas season always catches us up—you see how busy we’ve been. I’m so close…I was going to pay it all back. Before anyone even noticed.”
I give her a small shake of my head. “Bailey needs money now.”
“I didn’t know,” she whispers. “She told me what’s going on last night. I had no idea.” She shakes her head, her eyes glazed.
“Tell me.”
“It was just one time.” She drags her hand through her hair. “It was just one time…and then it wasn’t. Then it was just two times. The water came down last summer and ruined everything. Can’t have mould.” She meets my eyes, the tears pooled in the corners, but still she doesn’t cry. “Not in a bakery. I got a contractor here from the mainland. And it’s an old building, so there were more and more and then more things to fix. And no money coming in.” Her voice is speeding up, she’s starting to gulp her words. “She has so much…” A plea.
I put my hand on Luna’s. “She has nothing, dear.”
She looks down, and I can see her shivering, her body not able to contain her confession.
“What am I going to do?” It’s almost a wail. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You’re going to make it right,” I say, failing utterly at keeping the tremor out of my voice.
And that’s when she cries.
My nap goes swimmingly. I feel much better. Clearer. Christmassy-er. The house is swaddled in red and green, accented in blue-grey silver, stuffed beavers with Santa hats as far as the eye can see. The long table in the formal salon is pushed up against the wall, folding chairs—comfortable ones—tucked into all the spaces. We’ll do a buffet. Too many people coming for a sit-down dinner. Of course, this happens every year. No one can really remember the last time we had a formal dinner. Probably back when Mother was the lady of the house.
I pass my very favourite picture: the three of us on the dock that juts from the back of our property all of the months of the summer. We’re fishing, our lines slung in the water. Nothing is biting, but we don’t care. Sun bathes the three of us and we look like an advertisement for the eternal summer. My mother is beautiful, my father looks like a proper gentleman, wearing a suit, even on a Sunday, even on vacation. I am six, wearing a sundress, my feet bare. It’s uncomplicated, something my family rarely was.
I put a hand on the bottom of the frame for a moment. “Merry Christmas,” I whisper. I miss them so much I can feel it right in the middle of my chest.
The helpers I’ve hired are doing last minute cleaning and organization. My job, they say, is to stay out of the way. One of them makes me a cup of tea and shoos me to my living room.
I don’t mind it, even though the tea is much too weak. I blow on my mug and pick up the phone. I speak to Roger’s secretary for a moment before she passes the phone to Roger. We chat for a bit. He’s not thrilled about my suggestions, but he eventually agrees. It’s Christmas, after all. I call Bailey and tell her to pack u
p her things because she is going to come stay with me for a while. Then I make myself a light lunch, strap on my skis and go collect Mr. Pugglesworth, my neighbour’s dog, and ski along the shoreline so he can stretch his legs. I try to do this every few days and I’ve been neglecting him this week.
But Mr. P sits down no less than three times—three!—and I finally have to load him into my backpack, his breath hot against the back of my neck, so I can finish my workout. When I get home, I have a leisurely bath and then put myself together for the party. I wear a classic Chanel suit, Christmas red, obviously, and kitten heels with extra tread on the bottom. You just never know when you might need to run.
Mo arrives first and tunes the piano. A drink is poured and he plays me a few pieces.
“Your granddaughter seems unhappy,” I say gently, after he finishes Silent Night.
His shoulders slump. “Hasn’t done well since her mother up and died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
He nods, a halting, sad movement.
“Have you thought about getting her into martial arts?”
He turns and fixes me with a wobbly gaze. “What on earth?”
“She has good timing, she’s fast on her feet.”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“And has some aggression she might want to work out.”
He smiles. Eventually he laughs. “You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you?”
I smile along with him. I know a protégé when I see one.
The front door is flung open and waiting, the house is ready, and the guests start to come. I position myself at the door, the cold air hitting me like a slap. I don’t mind. I like the cold. It’s invigorating. Helps you know you’re not dead yet.
Stu arrives first, a bottle of good scotch in one hand, a wrapped present in the other. What will it be this year? Paper targets? Ammo? I can’t wait to find out. Mrs. Sepp comes, Mr. Pugglesworth dressed in a Santa hat and jacket. He looks slightly peevish because of our afternoon jaunt, but I let that roll right over me. Roger and his husband come right before Mandy bursts into the house, a pot pie in one hand and three grandchildren hanging off her, all of whom give me ferocious little hugs. It’s no surprise whatsoever that Mandy’s offspring have goodness baked right into their genes. Agnes O’Muffin rolls in on her rascal like she’s the Queen and presents me with a stuffed beaver dressed as Santa Claus. Theresa from the Club comes, Nathan and his parents come, Lorraine comes after closing up the post office and brings Dr. Julian with her, Sandy and her rambunctious teenagers come, everyone comes, the house bursting with life. Except for Violet, who’s snowed in in Toronto, bless her heart. Drinks are poured, appetizers are served, crumbs litter the floor. It feels like we’ve captured Christmas and are holding it hostage.
And then Bailey comes. At first I think she’s alone, but then I see Jaydyn and her father behind her. Bailey’s little sister is probably at home, Harriet watching her as some sort of petty revenge for my chat with Jaydyn yesterday.
Jaydyn swishes past me, wearing a winter red dress, not festive at all somehow. Douglas pushes his glasses up his nose, absently kisses me on one cheek, and potters into the house, a book tucked under his arm. I remind myself to schedule a sit down with him after the holidays are over because I am most certainly going to fix his wagon.
Bailey engulfs me in a hug and I hug her back, my arm crushed against the suitcase she’s holding, a wee one. Then she says, in a tiny voice, even smaller than that bag, “Are you sure?”
I throw myself at her in another hug. I don’t mean to, it just happens. “Of course I’m sure you can stay here.” I put my hands on her shoulders and give her a little shake. Her head lolls forward as I wiggle her. “What did your father say about it?”
She meets my gaze squarely. “He won’t even notice.”
I press my lips into a sympathetic shape and pull her into the party. There are so many guests now that some people have taken spots on the grand old staircase that splits the house in two.
Bailey stows her things in an upstairs bedroom and joins the rest of the young people. But I stay at the front door. I should probably abandon my post, but there’s one person who still hasn’t come. I check my watch, a little worried.
Janie, the lovely letter carrier who’s not trying to kill me, engages me in a spirited debate about female MMA fighting for a while, and the caterers tell me they’re ready to serve dinner. Wait, I tell them, Please.
More drinks are poured, more smells escape the formal dining room, meaty with a hint of sweetness.
And then she comes, walking slowly but carefully up the driveway that has been shovelled twice.
Luna.
Chapter Ten
I leave Luna and Bailey in one of the upstairs apartments together. I don’t know exactly what they say to each other; that’s between them. A lady never pries.
What I do know is that even though the credit union is mostly closed down for Christmas and the loan committee members are scattered to the winds, they held an emergency session this afternoon and decided to put Luna on a payment plan so she can clear the debt she took out in Bailey’s name. Then they issued a loan for Bailey, enough to cover her school expenses until the end of the semester. And if a bank pulling together during the holidays isn’t a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is. All Roger asked me in exchange was that I owe him a favour. A big one. I don’t mind. They’re both good girls who deserve a second chance, and they shall have one.
Jaydyn rounds the corner, a piece of my grandmother’s china in her childlike hands, a sneer on her face. “So sorry Harriet couldn’t make it. I know she wanted to come so, so badly. Such a shame,” she says in a voice so snide I’m surprised she doesn’t choke on it.
Anger boils in my chest and I struggle for a bit before I can tamp it down. Jaydyn and I are standing in an alcove off the kitchen and I glance around to confirm we’re completely alone. And—how lovely!—we are.
Focus. I exhale and feel some calm run through me.
Things happen very fast, then. “Are you ill, dear?” I ask Jaydyn, sliding the maitai out from the inside of my sleeve.
“What?”
“You’re falling.”
“No I’m not.”
But she is: from the jolt the maitai delivers to the small of her back, addling her legs and brain at the same moment. The nice thing about the maitai, Edward told me when he asked me to test it out for him, is that the receiver never really knows what hit them. Not even afterwards.
As Jaydyn starts her long voyage to the floor, I take the plate out of her hand—a Coalport My Fair Lady saucer—and step firmly on the side of one of her shoes, on the chunky heel that’s holding her up. I had no idea big heels were in style this year, I muse. The heel snaps off and she bounces off the sideboard, good old mahogany that’s taken more than a few knocks in its time and still looks beautiful, and comes to a rest with her legs folded under her, the heel of one shoe dangling like a leaf. She looks stunned. How can she not? It all happened so fast.
Maybe later she’ll want to accuse me of something, but who will believe her? Who invites someone to a Christmas party only to tase them? That would be crazy.
I think about leaving her on the floor. Really, it’s a struggle. But it’s Christmas and the good Irma makes a compelling case not to. It’s cold down there and, let’s face it, Emily Post would not approve.
I clear my throat. Good diction is so important. “All I want this time of year is a little bit of peace on earth, and don’t think I won’t bust a cap in your ass to get it,” I say jovially. “Now, let’s get you up.”
Mrs. Sepp rounds the corner, Mr. P in tow. She’s got one of her signature ugly Christmas sweaters—blinking lights and demented-looking reindeer—draped over her pleasantly plump frame. She’s younger than I am but has more wrinkles accenting her kind eyes. She must have tried, earlier, to fashion her hair into an updo, but quite a bit has escaped, making
her look a little like a lion. “Oh, my! What happened?”
“A little too much nog,” I whisper. Mrs. Sepp nods. Estonians are no stranger to the nog.
We each grab an arm and pull Jaydyn to her feet gently. “There, there,” I say. “Are you feeling any better?”
Jaydyn looks dazed. “I think so.”
“You fell,” I murmur in her ear.
“I did?”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re fine now.”
“I am? That’s good, then.” She sounds relieved. Truly, I love this little maitai. I just don’t know what I used to do without it.
“And thank you so much for saying Harriet can come to the party,” I say as me and Mrs. Sepp walk Jaydyn to the living room. It’s a bit of a struggle because of the broken heel, but we make it work. “Stu is going to go pick her and your little one up so they can enjoy the fun. I mean, it is Christmas after all.”
“How wonderful!” Mrs. Sepp pats Jaydyn on the arm.
“I…” Jaydyn still looks shell-shocked. “Okay?”
“Lovely.” In seconds, Jaydyn is ensconced in a chair in the living room beside Douglas, and Stu has been dispatched to collect Harriet and Bailey’s little sister so they can join in the festivities.
Mrs. Sepp picks up Mr. P and tucks him under her arm. We leave Jaydyn to herself and walk over to the makeshift bar, where I pour us some fourteen-year-old Oban. “I just wanted to thank you so much,” she says, “for helping out with Mr. P like you do. He really does appreciate it.”
“You’re so welcome,” I say cheerily. Of course, Mrs. Sepp doesn’t know I’m secretly training Mr. Pugglesworth to be an attack dog.