Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  Pal had been a stray that adopted Mr. Al. The dog had showed up at his back door a few weeks after Al’s mother passed away.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure, honey.”

  “Well, this just isn’t fair,” Orli stated. “Mr. Al doesn’t bother anybody. He’s lived here all his life, and he’d be so lost without his dog.”

  I nodded and had to agree.

  “So,” my daughter said with emphasis as she stood up to begin clearing her breakfast plates from the table, “I’ll just have to figure out something we can do to stop this.”

  “Orli, sometimes things happen that we just don’t have any control over. This might be one of those times.”

  She turned around from the dishwasher to face me. “You’ve always told me nobody makes anything happen for us. We have to do it ourselves. You said it might not always be easy. Okay. So now I have to figure out a way that Mr. Al can keep his house and not go to a nursing home.”

  It became abundantly clear to me that not only had my daughter been listening to me over twelve years, but maybe she’d been listening a little too closely.

  At precisely twelve noon we pulled up in front of my parents’ house. The home where I’d grown up was situated on the west end of the island. The huge, two-story, brick house sat by itself on a point overlooking the water. Surrounded by a wrought iron fence with fenials and two acres of oak and cedar trees, the house and property were impressive any time of the year, but during the Christmas season, they became spectacular. Large, red velvet bows were spaced six inches apart around the perimeter of the fence. Life-size statues of Santa, his sleigh, and reindeer stood just inside on the right, along with an animated winter village scene, complete with an electric train chugging its way through the village blowing smoke and tooting a horn. On the left, a four-foot-high nativity scene displayed Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, and the wisemen, along with various realistic-looking donkeys, sheep, and camels.

  My mother had begun this tradition when I was in first grade and felt it was her special way of saying Merry Christmas to the island. But it didn’t take long, thanks to word of mouth, for families to start coming from the mainland to see what was spectacular during the day become magical at dark with a myriad of Christmas lights twinkling on the house and property.

  Leaning over, I pushed the intercom button to gain entrance.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Miss Delilah’s voice floated out to us.

  “It’s us,” I told my mother’s housekeeper.

  “Ah, very good, Miss Josie,” she said, as the tall, decorative, iron gate slid open.

  I maneuvered my golf cart along the path bordered by patches of bright red hibiscus, pink azaleas, and cassia trees in full bloom of yellow flowers leading to the circular driveway. Flanking the steps of the wide veranda were huge ceramic pots of blood red poinsettias.

  I recalled the year I spent in Boston at college and how when November arrived, my northern classmates looked at me with pity. One certainly couldn’t get the true feeling of Christmas, they thought, in a southern climate, where some years the temperature hovered at eighty. I quickly discovered that Floridians seemed to go above and beyond when it came to decorating, as if to prove that snow, ice, and cold weren’t what defined the season as festive.

  “All of it looks great again,” Orli said, as we got out of the golf cart and headed up the front steps.

  I nodded and realized we hadn’t been to my parents’ house since the decorations had been completed—no doubt I’d probably hear about that.

  “Girls,” my mother said, opening the door wide. “How nice to finally see you.”

  One point for me.

  “Hi, Grandma,” Orli told her, while being pulled into an embrace. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve been pretty busy with school stuff lately. I’ve missed you and Grandpa, and I’m really looking forward to spending a lot of time with you when we start vacation in a few weeks.”

  My daughter—ever the diplomat, attempting to keep peace between my mother and me.

  “That will be nice. Come see the tree and decorations,” she told us, leading the way from the foyer into the large family room with a view of the Gulf.

  “Oh, Mom, it’s gorgeous,” I said, stepping over the threshold and taking in the eight-foot-tall cedar tree whose top branch touched the ceiling and held a blinking star. I never failed to wonder how year after year my mother managed to find a tree with such perfection, a cedar tree grown right on the island. The branches fell in symmetry, displaying a thick gold garland, red and white beads, treasured glass ornaments, and Victorian ribbon and bows. Even in daylight my mother kept the white fairy lights turned on, creating a cozy atmosphere.

  “I think it gets prettier every year,” Orli told her, walking over to inspect various decorations.

  I had to give my mother credit. She could easily hire somebody to do all of the work, but she wouldn’t think of it. For as long as I could remember, she would finish her final manuscript for the year in mid-October, and come November first she considered herself on holiday from anything book-related until January 8. Her time was devoted to decorating, baking, cooking, shopping, and gift wrapping.

  “A winter wonderland,” I said, my gaze going to a table filled with the Dickens Collection Village. Another circular table near the window was covered with a gold tablecloth and held an assortment of decorative nutcrackers that my mother had purchased on trips to Europe. The mantel above the fireplace was draped with thick, green boughs of spruce, and red candles were placed strategically around the room. All of it done in exquisite taste and style. I did love Christmas—it had always been my favorite holiday and even more so the year I gave birth to my daughter.

  My warm mood was broken when I heard my mother say, “Lord, Josie, couldn’t you have dressed a little better on a Saturday?”

  I glanced down at my faded cropped pants, stained sweatshirt, and worn Reeboks that probably should have been tossed in the trash months ago. With no makeup on and my pixie-style short hair needing a shampoo, I knew I was the complete opposite of my mother who stood there perfectly made up, her auburn chin-length hair sporting a perky cut. She was wearing a pair of black Liz Clairborne slacks and a red cashmere pullover. I had to give my mother credit in this department too—she was one of those women who always looked good and certainly didn’t look a few years shy of sixty. But instead of complimenting her, I let my anger kick in. “Oh, well, excuse me! I was told to be sure my daughter was dressed appropriately. I didn’t think it was necessary to be clad in designer clothes to drive her over here. Besides, I have two cleaning jobs this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Josie, you’re working again today?” was my mother’s response.

  “Well, yeah, some of us have been hit pretty hard with this economy, and Christmas is just around the corner.”

  My mother adjusted an ornament on the tree. “I hate to say it again, but…”

  “Then don’t,” I retorted.

  “You were a journalism major in college just like I was,” she said, ignoring my request. “So much potential. You could have married Grant and had a much different life—probably could have returned to finish your degree after Orli was born, worked part-time as a reporter, and…”

  “Mom, please! Enough. We’ve been through this a million times. That was twelve years ago—let go of it. It was my choice and my life, not yours. And I’ve never regretted that choice for a second.”

  I saw the raised eyebrows on Orli’s face as she threw me a smile. She’d witnessed this conversation so many times, she probably knew it verbatim.

  Walking toward her, I pulled her into a tight embrace. “Have fun at lunch and shopping,” I told her.

  She nodded and kissed my cheek. “I love you, Mama.”

  “Love you too, sweetie.”

  “You’ll drive her home after shopping?” I directed at my mother.

  “Oh, Josie, honestly. No, I’m going to leave her stranded in Gainesville. Of course I’ll drive her home, but it might
not be till around seven.”

  “That’s fine. Bye,” I said and headed out to the golf cart.

  I gripped the steering wheel as I drove away. God, that woman could be frustrating. Just because she graduated college, worked as a reporter for two years at the St. Petersburg Times until she met my father when she interviewed a group of professors at USF, married him in a huge church ceremony with most of Cedar Key in attendance, produced a daughter a year later, and went on to become a bestselling author—it didn’t mean that I wasn’t entitled to my own life. Dammit. I was thirty-one years old, had a wonderful daughter, lived on a beautiful island, had lots of friends, and I was happy. Wasn’t I?

  Chapter 3

  The ringing telephone jolted me awake. I glanced at the clock on the mantel—6:30. God, I’d been sleeping for two hours.

  Reaching for the phone next to me I heard Mallory’s voice.

  “Josie, did I wake you up?”

  Mallory had been my best friend since before we were even born—well, that’s the story that our mothers told us. They had been best friends since childhood and ended up being pregnant at the same time and caused some amusing jokes on the island when they took it a step further and gave birth to daughters born five hours apart.

  “Nah,” I said, rubbing my eyes and stretching. “Well, actually, yes, I was sleeping, but I really needed to get up. I can’t believe it’s six-thirty.”

  “Sugar, with all those hours you’ve been working it’s a wonder you haven’t turned into Rip Van Winkle.”

  I smiled as I got up and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. During all the upheaval of my pregnancy, quitting college, not getting married, and deciding to raise Orli on my own, it was Mallory who had stood by me 110 percent. Without a doubt, she was the best girlfriend a woman could have, leading me sometimes to question if perhaps we had bonded in utero by osmosis.

  “Orli’s gone to Gainesville with my mother for the day, and I did a couple extra cleaning jobs this afternoon. I was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper—and the next thing I knew, the phone was ringing.”

  “Well, you needed that sleep. Hey, listen, the reason I’m calling—did you get your tree yet?”

  Christmas tree? I hated to admit that just the thought of decorating one this year brought on even more fatigue.

  “Ah, no…not yet. Why?”

  “Because Troy went to get ours and ended up bringing two of them home—said he couldn’t choose which one he liked best. I think he actually thought I was going to decorate both of them, but I quickly put that thought out of his mind. I swear, he’s worse than a kid when it comes to Christmas.”

  I laughed. Mallory had really hit the jackpot with Troy. He had moved to the island with his family when we were freshmen in high school. His parents ran one of the restaurants in Cedar Key where Troy was employed as a chef. Because of Mallory and Troy, I had to adjust my thinking on love at first sight. The August after we graduated high school I went off to college in Boston, and Mallory became Mrs. Troy Wilson. Five years later, after two miscarriages and a lot of disappointment, their son Carter was born.

  “So,” Mallory continued, “since you don’t have a tree yet, would it be okay to drop this one off at your house?”

  I smiled while pouring water into the coffee maker. Mallory thought she was pulling a fast one on me, but she should know better. I recalled the week before when I’d complained about the price of the Christmas trees in front of Wal-Mart. Typical of the island. This wasn’t a case of a husband who would like two trees, but rather a friend helping a friend.

  “Hmm, well, I hate to see you get stuck decorating another tree,” I told her. “So sure, you can bring it here, but I can’t guarantee when I’ll find the time to get it decorated.”

  “Oh, thanks, and I’d be more than happy to come by and help you and Orli get it decorated when you’re free.”

  Right, I thought, and just when might that be?

  But instead, I said, “Okay, I’ll let you know.”

  “Great, then I’ll have Troy swing by with it tomorrow morning.”

  We hung up and I poured myself a cup of coffee. It was then that I realized I’d neglected to put the chicken into the oven to have ready when Orli got home. Damn. It was going on 7:00 now, and she’d be here any minute. As I was scouring through the fridge I heard the front door open.

  “Mama,” she called. “We’re back.”

  Damn again. My mother had come in with her?

  I turned around as they both walked into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I said. “Have a good time?”

  “We did,” Orli told me, coming over to kiss my cheek. “The mall is decorated so beautifully for Christmas.”

  I saw my mother’s eyes dart around the kitchen as she placed some bags on the counter. I might have been a disappointment when it came to my education but she could never fault me for my domestic abilities. No matter how busy I was working outside of my home, I had always maintained a clean and spotless place for Orli and me to live.

  “Got you some bags of holiday coffee at Starbucks. Thought you might like that. I think one is spice and the other pumpkin or something like that.”

  I unfolded the top of a bag and inhaled the wonderful aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Thanks, Mom, and yeah, I’ll enjoy these.”

  My mother opened a Dillards bag and pulled out a shoe box. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “And for God’s sake, please throw those things on your feet away immediately.”

  I opened the box to see a pair of pure white Reebox staring up at me. Yes, I did need new sneakers, but Christ I felt like a ten-year-old depending on my mother to purchase them for me.

  When I neglected to remove them from the box, I heard the frosty edge to my mother’s voice.

  “Not the right size? Or you just don’t want them because I got them for you?”

  Biting my lower lip, I let out a sigh and forced a smile to my face while removing one of the sneakers. “Nope, perfect. Size 7. Thanks, Mom, that was really nice of you.”

  Brushing off imaginary lint from her slacks, she said, “Okay, well, I need to get going. Your father will be sending the Levy County Sheriff’s Department out looking for me pretty soon.” Her gaze went toward my stove. “Nothing for supper?”

  “Chicken in the oven, and I just have to cook up some rice and a veggie.”

  My mother nodded, heading to the front door, when she paused in the family room looking around. “No tree yet?”

  “Tomorrow. Troy picked one up for me, and he’s bringing it by tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, good,” my mother replied, and she was gone.

  Orli and I looked at each other and giggled.

  “Omelets and hotdogs?” I questioned.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” my daughter said.

  Monday morning at Cook’s Café is usually busy because of tourists enjoying a final breakfast on the island before heading home. I was covering the outside dining area and had every table filled. Running inside to pick up another order, I heard somebody yell, “Miss, hey, Miss, what do I have to do to get some service here?” Christ, an unhappy and impatient customer—not what I needed on a Monday morning.

  I turned in the direction of the male voice and was surprised to see an exceptionally good-looking guy with such a nasty attitude. With thick, curly dark hair and olive skin, he was dressed casually in polo shirt and khaki slacks. Good-looking, yes—but the frown on his face detracted from his good looks.

  I held up an index finger, hollered back “one minute,” and kept going to pick up my order. Grabbing silverware and napkins, I realized the customer looked a little familiar, and that’s when it hit me. No, I thought, Ben Sudbury? Mr. Al’s nephew? If it was him, I didn’t recall his ever looking that good when he used to vacation here as a teen.

  After I unloaded my tray for the party of four, I walked over to his table. He had his head bent reading the Wall Street Journal.

  “Can I help you?
” I asked, using my sweet waitress voice.

  “Well, since I’ve been sitting here for close to an hour, I guess you can. Finally.”

  Not only was he nasty, he was a liar. There’s no way he’d been sitting there any longer than twenty minutes.

  With my pad of paper in one hand and pencil poised in the air, I remained silent and glared at him. Damn. Up close he was even better looking. The years had most definitely been kind to Ben Sudbury.

  When he got the hint that I wasn’t about to verbally spar with him, he said, “Right. Ham and cheese omelet, home fries, and bacon. Oh, and do you think it would be possible to get a cup of coffee now? God only knows how long the food will take.”

  Two thoughts went through my head—he was a cardiac surgeon’s dream, and it seemed pretty apparent he had no clue who I was and didn’t remember me.

  “Well, now,” I replied with an edge to my tone. “You’re right. If those hens out back are being stingy this morning, yup, that omelet could be a long time coming.”

  I spun around to walk inside and get the coffeepot. Who the heck did that guy think he was? It seemed to me that he’d done the entire island a favor by never liking it here and staying away. Cedar Key was known for its friendly people, and he was far from friendly.

  Walking back to his table, I began pouring coffee into the mug. My silence matched his.

  When I went inside to pick up another order, Ida Mae signaled to me from the back of the restaurant.

  She grinned and leaned close. “Hey,” she said. “That’s sure a good-looking fellow you’re waiting on out there…and he’s alone.”

  Ida Mae was the owner of Cook’s, in her late sixties, and considered the matchmaker of the island. She adored romance and was one of my mother’s biggest readers.

  “Hmm, he can stay alone as far as I’m concerned. Do you know who he is?”

  Ida Mae adjusted her glasses and walked closer to the front window, then shook her head. “No. Who?”

  “Ben Sudbury. Mr. Al’s nephew.”

  That was all it took.