Henry didn’t answer. Eyes wide open, hand still clutching his heart, Henry lurched forward. Before Tara could catch him, he went down like a sawed tree.
In his lifetime, Henry Roulston had opened the door 14,600,000 times, give or take. He’d fathered three daughters with three different wives. He knew every secret of every person who lived within a ten-block radius. He was a diehard Yankees fan. Every morning without fail he bought his coffee at the deli on the corner. Light and sweet, that was how he took it. That was how he lived too. He was loved by all, and would be missed by many. And the last words he would ever hear were Tara Lane shouting, “Can you believe how much my life sucks?”
Henry’s funeral was lovely. He had so many people who loved him. The place was packed. Tara wore a little black dress and clutched the handkerchief Henry had given her. She let herself have a good cry. All the people in attendance were so kind. They kept shaking Tara’s hand and saying how much they felt for her loss. They understood! They understood how much a person could touch your soul—
Henry’s daughters, all three of them, were marching toward Tara. The look on their faces immediately halted her tears.
“Who are you?” the closest one said.
“I’m Tara,” she answered, holding out her hand. None of them went to shake it.
“Were you sleeping with him?” one hissed.
“What?” Tara said. “No.”
“Because you won’t get a dime.”
“I don’t want a dime.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re crying ‘why me’ so loudly nobody could hear the service!”
“I’m so sorry,” Tara said. “I lived in his building. I was the last person to talk to him.” This seemed to soften the women a bit. Their shoulders relaxed. The smallest one reached over and touched Tara with cold hands.
“What was he talking about?” she asked. “Was he poking fun at the Mets?” Tara tipped her head to the side.
“No,” she confessed. “He was listening to me complain about my life.” The guilt had been weighing her down. It felt good to confess. Henry would have forgiven her, but now she needed forgiveness from his daughters. She clutched the smallest one’s hand. “I’m so ashamed,” she said. “The last words your father heard was me yelling ‘My life sucks!’” Tara started crying all over again. The daughter yanked her hand back.
“Please go,” she said.
“But I thought I’d come back to the house with you,” Tara said. “And sauté something for Henry.” The three women stared at her.
“I see,” Tara said. She blew her nose into her handkerchief.
“Is that Dad’s handkerchief?” one of the daughters asked.
It was all innocent and cheery looking on the outside. A padded yellow envelope with a decorative holly border and Santa stamps. Tara held it by the corner as if it were a dead mouse and dangled it over her trash can, daring herself to let go. The trash can, operated by foot pedal, shouted at her like a ravenous, open-mouthed metallic monster. Feed me! Feed me your sister’s letter. I’ll gobble it up for you!
“Dearest Friends and Family,” Tara said to the dark, inner depths of the can. For that’s how Nadine started all her annual “spread the joy” letters. Dearest Friends and Family. Note how “friends” came first. “I wish I could write you all individually,” Tara continued. “Wouldn’t I love to have that kind of time.” Listening to herself make fun of her sister, to a garbage can, brought a slight measure of guilt to Tara, and she retracted her foot. The lid slammed shut with a reproachful bang.
Tara turned to the cabinet behind her, and took out the bottle of Baileys left over from last year, and took a swig straight out of the bottle. Slightly fortified, Tara brought the letter over to the window and opened it.
Dearest Friends and Family,
I’m so sorry I cannot write to each of you individually. Wouldn’t I love to have that kind of time! Those of you with toddlers will understand what I mean!
Those of you without have no inkling whatsoever what it’s like to be pressed for time—
Here at our ranch under the wide-open sky, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Tiara, our little angel, literally, turned two on Halloween. If you missed the pictures of her in her angel costume, please follow the family album link at the bottom of this letter. We also have posted photos on Facebook, MySpace, Bebo, and our personal family Web site, Theluckiestfamilyintheworld.com. Now we’re making snow angels in our front yard, and eagerly awaiting Santa….
Tara started skimming the letter.
—Phil’s blood pressure—
—Pilates—
—Volunteering at the shelter—
—Our little miracle on—
Tara was about to skip the second page when she spotted something that stopped her dead.
We are pregnant! Although it is very early yet, we just had to share the news. Phil and I are thrilled to be expecting another baby. We don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as it is healthy and as happy as the rest of us. Phil is also predicting our little bundle will grow up to be a politician since we believe he or she was conceived during a particularly heated Wolf Blitzer episode on CNN—
Tara started skimming again.
—My mother and father will be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary next Spring—
Our mother and father. She acts like she’s an only child.
—My sister Tara is still living in the Big Apple—
Oh no—
—And has been promoted to Top Chef at La Fleur, the little French restaurant where she’s been chopping away for the past nine years—
Head chef—six years—
—and even though she’s all Sex in the City about her life, we are still wishing she’d meet her ideal match—
No. No, no, no, no, no.
—So if you know any handsome, single—
She is not—
—eligible men who want a fiercely independent New York woman who can cook up a storm—
Oh, but she is.
—E-mail us their pictures and profiles, and we will send you the link to a new section of our Web site—“A Man for My Sister”—
“No!” Tara said out loud.
—Please note that my sister is very, very picky. Bald men, sailors, and animal lovers need not apply.
A personal letter followed.
Dear Tara,
Instructions for your contribution to Christmas dinner are included. We drew names and dishes, so bear in mind the dish you are making has nothing to do with your wonderful culinary skills. You won—the salad! Hurrah! Go crazy. Just not too crazy. Remember the mashed potato incident last year? You really should have remembered Uncle Ted’s proclivity to gassiness. Also, since you missed the summer auditions, we have assigned you the role of Innkeeper/ Cleaning Lady in this year’s production of “We Will Find You a Room.” We thought it was appropriate in the recession that the workers at the inn all do double duty this year, ha ha! And lastly, if you are bringing a date (fingers and toes crossed!), please provide us with a copy of the background check ASAP.
DO NOT mix the dressing in with the salad.
Onions, if you must add them, should be on the side.
Please respect our low-carb guests and put the croutons on the side as well.
It is my belief that Uncle Ted is lactose intolerant. Please put the cheese on the side unless it is goat’s cheese, in which case you can mix it in, just don’t tell anyone what it is, as some people may be slightly anti-goat.
Nuts are an obvious no-no.
Personally, I’m a mixed greens fan, or “spring mix.” Iceberg is too boring, and pure arugula too elitist. Please aim for the mainstream.
Remember how Aunt Janie julienned the carrots into little snowflakes last year? Feel free to steal that, it was a big hit!!!!!!!!!
This time Tara dropped the letter in the trash without a second thought and grabb
ed her purse. She had to get out of the apartment. It was either that or kill herself.
Chapter 4
Central Park was her savior. She loved everything about it. Every season offered its own goodies, and winter was no exception. You could walk around and take in the beauty of a recent snowfall. You could ice skate at Wolman Rink. Stop and listen to carolers or the crazies, both with voices raised in equal fervor. You could take in the wares being sold just outside the park, nibble on roasted peanuts and make the squirrels go nuts with jealousy, watch the horse-drawn carriages go by. That’s exactly what Tara was doing, watching the horse-drawn carriages and taking deep, calming breaths, when she was approached by a slim boy with a clipboard.
“Sign a petition! Put an end to horse-drawn carriages in Central Park! Switch to fuel efficient car tours instead!” he said in one breath. Tara stared at him. “The horses are mistreated,” he added, as if she were personally mistreating them.
“They are?” Tara asked. “How?”
“They’re kept in cramped stables with no pasture in which to run.” Tara knew the argument of course, but she also knew a few of the carriage drivers. They were good people who cared about horses. And horses had been in Central Park for over a hundred years. Everybody liked to feel useful, even horses. Especially horses, probably. Until they learned how to send text messages, what else were they going to do with their days? Could these clipboard people guarantee the horses would go somewhere and have a better life if they weren’t working at the park? Were they going to personally follow up with each horse and make sure it was living a good life? What if the horses got bored and depressed and felt as if no one wanted or needed them for anything anymore? What if they liked taking tourists for a ride? What if it made them feel special? She for one knew exactly how it felt to be out of a job, unwanted, unloved, hardly missed. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. That was the problem with do-gooders. Sometimes, they just weren’t doing anybody any good. Give them better benefits, clipboard boy, but let them keep their jobs! What would the park be without the horses? She just couldn’t imagine it without them.
“I’m all for trying to get a pasture for them,” Tara said. “But not ‘putting them out to pasture.’” The kid shook his head. “They’re beautiful,” Tara said. “And magical. And they make me happy.”
“It’s animal cruelty,” the boy said. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”
“Come back to me with a pasture petition, and we’ll be all set,” Tara said. “Until then, let me enjoy my day, okay?” He slunk away with a shake of his head. What happened to the fight in her, she wondered. Because she’d been him once. Young, idealistic, full of hope and clipboards. “May I?” Tara asked a carriage driver as she walked up to his horse.
“Aye,” the driver said with a nod of his head. It was a magnificent white horse, with a red halter. He was eating from a bucket of grain and looked up as she approached. She touched the sides of his long, soft face, and kissed his nose. He smelled clean, and happy. He snorted, and grain blew out of both sides of his mouth. Tara laughed.
“I hope you get a pasture for Christmas,” she whispered. “In the meantime, thanks for making me happy.”
“If you like these beauties, you should check out the reindeer,” the driver said. For a moment, Tara thought he was messing with her.
“Huh?” she said.
“Brought ’em from a farm in Wisconsin,” the driver said, pointing. “Twelve reindeer and Santa. Although I don’t know if Santa is from Wisconsin,” he added with a laugh and a wink. “If so we should be giving him milk and cheese!” Tara laughed along with him. Twelve reindeer from Wisconsin. This she had to see for herself.
The line to see the reindeer was a mile long. Tara didn’t care. She had nothing but time. And she absolutely loved reindeer. As a child she used to lie awake and worry about them on Christmas Eve the way some people worried about Santa getting stuck in the chimney. Are they tired from flying? Are they cold? Are they lost? Is Rudolph lighting the way? Did that elf ever become a dentist? (Sometimes random, non-related-to-reindeer thoughts crept in.) Where do they go to the bathroom? She never heard her dad complaining about cleaning reindeer poo off the roof, and he complained about everything.
In front of her stood a little boy and his mother. She was loaded down with shopping bags; he was bundled into a snowsuit that looked two sizes too small for him. But despite his restricted movement, he was bouncing like Tigger.
“Does Santa’s sleigh have a jeeps?” he asked his mother. She didn’t answer, so he asked her four more times.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Carl,” his mother said. “A sleigh is a sleigh and a jeep is a jeep. Santa doesn’t drive, he flies.”
“No,” Carl said. “A jeeps. So he doesn’t get lost.” His mother looked lost. Tara leaned forward.
“I think he means a GPS,” she offered. The boy and his mother both looked at her as if they wanted her to get lost. Tara tried to smile, that should lighten things up a bit. The boy’s mother spun him around, stuck her hand in her coat pocket, and pulled out a half-eaten soft pretzel. When he opened his mouth to ask another question, she stuffed the pretzel into it. So much for being friendly, Tara thought. At least she was almost there.
She glanced at the poster announcing the reindeer.
WINTER-ESCAPE TRAVELS. TROPICAL GETAWAYS! Tara hoped they never switched to using the acronym, WET, as it wouldn’t exactly inspire one to fly anywhere with them. Underneath the company logo was a picture of Santa’s sleigh flying toward paradise. Tara wondered if you’d have to pay an extra twenty dollars for your luggage on Santa’s sleigh. She suddenly wished she were going somewhere else, anywhere else.
Just as it was her turn to see the reindeer, a light snow began to fall. Gingerly, she stepped up to the small fenced-in area where the deer stood, chewing and staring. They didn’t seem at all stressed about their upcoming world tour. They were magnificent looking animals with proud, tall antlers. Tara could hardly believe they were real. She banked to the left, where the tallest stood brazenly close to the fence. Obviously, the extrovert of the group. She imagined him with a lampshade on his head. Did you see how close I got to those humans? He’d brag later. Like I could totally smell them! Tara stepped up softly, so as not to scare him. He stared at her with big brown eyes. She loved him.
“You’re my reindeer boyfriend,” Tara said.
“It’s okay,” a woman in overalls said. “You can pet him.” Tara reached out to touch his soft face, just as she had with the horse. Suddenly, the little boy with the pretzel was back. He cut in front of her, took the last bite of the pretzel out of his mouth, and shoved it at the reindeer.
“I don’t think salt is good for—” Tara started to say. She reached forward to prevent the reindeer from eating the pretzel. The boy’s mother yanked him out of the way. Then, Tara felt a sharp pain in her wrist. Her first thought was that the kid had been hiding a Swiss Army knife in his pretzel and had stabbed her. What kind of a sentence would they give a five-year-old? You have been sentenced to five years of hard Lego work my man. Even after she saw what was really happening, Tara didn’t believe it. The reindeer’s mouth was clenched around her wrist; his sharp teeth were sunk deep into her skin. No matter what, she wasn’t signing any petitions for this guy; he was definitely getting adequate dental care. “That is not a pretzel!” Tara cried.
“Oh my God,” the little boy screamed. “He’s eating her.” It surprised her, how worried the little boy sounded for her, and she suddenly felt a rush of love for the kid. “Why doesn’t he like my pretzel? Why is he eating her?” the boy whined. He kicked the fence with his tiny snow boot and pointed a gloved hand at her. “My pretzel tastes way better than you!” he screamed. And like that, the love was gone.
“Help,” Tara said. The reindeer’s mouth remained stubbornly clenched around her wrist. Tara was terrified that any quick move would cause further damage. Where was the woman in the overalls?
Tara wildly looked around. Several people were staring in horror, but like her, seemed frozen with fear. “Bad reindeer,” Tara said. “Bad, bad, reindeer.” His teeth pushed in a little bit further. Tara began to scream.
After six hours in the ER, Tara’s wrist was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. She was also given a shot, and assured the reindeer was up to date on all of his. The woman in overalls had been absolutely hysterical that if word of the attack got out, the publicity would bring great harm to Alfred. Alfred. Dumbest name for a reindeer Tara had ever heard. Blitzen was his stage name. Tara agreed not to make a fuss as long as the woman agreed to retire Blitzen/Alfred from contact with the public. A representative of the travel agency had nervously followed Tara to the hospital and was sitting in the emergency waiting room. Tara was about to tell him to go home when the doctor started asking her strange questions.
Was she depressed? Had she suffered any big losses recently? Were the holidays getting her down? Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes, she said. How nice to have a doctor care about her. How did he know? Was it that obvious? He threw another nervous glance at her wrist.
Holiday Magic Page 23