Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  “Have you seen Ben since he got here?”

  “Oh, yeah, he stopped by to talk to me. Talk? He didn’t wanna talk—all he wanted to do was tell me what he thought should be done. Said I should put the house up for sale. Said I’d be much more comfortable in one a them old people places. Hell—excuse my language—I’m not old!”

  “No, you’re not,” I said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. A hand that was still large and strong, with dots of brown spots. A hand that had hauled untold amounts of fish into his boat over so many years.

  Mr. Al sniffed and brought his handkerchief to his eyes.

  “Well, now,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t come here to complain to you. I came to ask a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  He nodded. “Yup. You and your mama both—you’ve always been real nice to me. And now, that little girl of yours—you sure raised her right. She’s got a kind heart, she does, and I admire that. Oh, I remember when you came back to the island from college. All the talk and gossip. But don’t you ever pay attention to any of that. Because that daughter of yours—she’s proof that you did the right thing.”

  I now felt moisture in my own eyes. I’d had no idea Mr. Al felt this way.

  “So that’s why I figured I could ask you my favor and you’d understand.”

  “What is it that you need?”

  “Well, the one thing that really bothers me if I have to go live someplace else is that Pal won’t be able to come with me. He’s a great dog, but that won’t matter, because those places—they don’t allow dogs. And he’s my best friend. Best friends look out for each other and that’s what I aim to do. So I was wonderin’…if I have to go to one a those places…do you think maybe…you could take Pal for me and let him live here with you?”

  I guess his request was probably about the last thing I expected, and, when I remained silent, he said, “He wouldn’t be no trouble. Really he wouldn’t. He’s a good dog. Doesn’t wander off, comes when he’s called, sleeps on the floor beside my bed every night. He sure does love chicken though.” Mr. Al chuckled. “So when you’re cookin’ a chicken, you’ll see that Pal will hang around the kitchen. And maybe—you could give him a couple pieces when you’re done eating. He sure would love that.”

  God, I didn’t know what to say. I certainly never expected a request like this from Mr. Al. And a dog? What on earth would Clovelly think about that?

  But in a heartbeat, I said, “Yes, yes, of course we would take Pal for you,” as I squeezed his hand. “You wouldn’t have to worry about that. Orli and I would give him a good home.”

  “I know you would. That’s why I wanted to ask you.”

  “But Mr. Al, you’re not going anywhere. We’re all behind you on this. Really!”

  He got up from the table, took the last sip of his coffee, and placed the mug in the sink. When he turned around to look at me, he had the look of a defeated man. A man who’s lost all of his loved ones and all that had ever been important to him. His white beard matched the halo of bushy white hair surrounding his head. Medium height, Mr. Al carried an extra ten pounds but that had always made him look jolly. Today I noticed his normally tan skin was paler, and, now that I looked closer, I could swear those ten pounds were no longer there.

  “Well,” he said, heading toward the front door. “I do thank ya for that, but I’m not sure anybody can do anything.”

  I patted him on the back. “Now I don’t want you worrying, understand? We’ll get this all straightened out.”

  “Oh,” he said, reaching for the screen door and stepping onto the porch. “That nephew of mine—guess he didn’t come just to talk to me. He sure had a lot of questions about you.”

  “Me?” I said, dumbfounded.

  “Yeah. If I didn’t know better—I’d say he was sweet on you. You have a good day, Miss Josie, and thanks for everything.”

  Mr. Al headed down the street leaving me standing in my doorway feeling more confused than I had in ages.

  “Sweet on you? That was all he said?” Mallory questioned.

  I continued folding towels at the kitchen table and nodded. “Yup. That was it, and I was so flabbergasted, I didn’t say anything.”

  “From the exchange you had with Ben Sudbury at Cook’s last week, I find it difficult to think he might be interested in you—in a romantic way.”

  “He’s a jerk, so he’d better not be interested in me in any way. Be right back,” I said, heading out of the kitchen to place the towels in the linen closet.

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and joined Mallory at the table. “There’s poor Mr. Al about to be sent out to sea on an iceberg—and that selfish nephew of his is doing nothing to stop that from happening.”

  “I know. I spoke to Troy about it. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “Except for going to the City Commission meeting next month and attesting to the fact that Mr. Al is definitely safe living alone and not confused? I just don’t know what the heck we could do.”

  “Well…I did have one thought.” Mallory paused. “Now don’t go biting my head off, but…I was wondering…maybe you could get with Ben. See if you could talk some reason into him. Make him understand that forcing Mr. Al to go to a nursing home is the worst thing he could do.”

  “Me? Are you crazy? I can’t stand that guy. He’s arrogant, mean-spirited, and has a holier-than-thou attitude. No thanks. I’ll pass on that.”

  “Just a thought,” Mallory mumbled as I got up to answer the phone.

  “Josie, sweetie,” I heard my mother say.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Well, honey, you’ll never guess who I bumped into downtown today.” Without waiting for me to answer, she said, “Ben Sudbury. Gosh, I haven’t seen him in years. He certainly did turn out to be quite the good-looking guy. And so…I invited him here for dinner Saturday evening, and I wanted to be sure that you and Orli were free so you could join us.”

  “You what?” I said in a volume that caused Mallory to look at me with raised eyebrows.

  “I said, I bumped into Ben…”

  “I heard what you said, Mom. But why on earth would you invite him to dinner? You don’t even know each other.”

  “Well, now that’s not entirely true. I knew Ben as a kid when he’d come here for the summers. And Ben’s in the book industry—you knew that. We know a lot of the same people, so I thought it might be nice to have him over. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Mom, do you know why he’s here? He’s here to put poor Mr. Al in a nursing home, sell the family house, and then he’ll be on his merry way back to the Big Apple. I don’t want anything to do with a self-centered jerk like him. Sorry. So no, we’re not coming.”

  I could tell by the way my mother said “Oh?” that she wasn’t aware of any of this, so I proceeded to bring her up to speed.

  “Hmm,” she said. “I did know about the complaints related to Mr. Al’s property, but I didn’t think Ben was involved. I thought he was just here to visit his uncle.”

  “Far from it.”

  “Well, I’m not canceling the dinner. It wouldn’t be right. Besides, maybe I’ll discuss the subject with him.”

  “Whatever,” was my only reply.

  “So you’re going to dinner at your mom’s house with Ben Sudbury there?” Mallory questioned when I hung up the phone.

  “Not on your life.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hasty declining. Remember, you get a lot more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

  “Well, I’ve never been overly attracted to honey—it wreaks havoc with my blood sugars. Not to mention all the calories.”

  Chapter 6

  Once again I found myself racing around the house looking for a misplaced item. Unfortunately, Orli was spending the night at Carla’s and not able to help search.

  Rushing into the kitchen I glanced at the clock above the fridge. Damn—7:10. I was already ten minutes late for my mother’s dinne
r. Mallory had ended up convincing me I should go—that maybe I could persuade Ben to drop the idea of selling Mr. Al’s house and sticking him in a nursing home. I seriously doubted that I had the ability to do this, but figured it was worth a shot.

  There was the small shopping bag I’d been searching for. Hidden from view on the chair behind the table. Scooping up the bag, I ran into the living room, grabbed keys for the golf cart, a jacket, my handbag, and I was on my way.

  Lights were blazing inside and out as I pulled into my parents’ circular driveway. Before I even had a chance to get out of the golf cart, my mother had swung open the front door and stepped out onto the porch.

  “Good Lord, Josie!” she hissed. “Can’t you ever be on time for anything?”

  I mumbled an apology and handed her the small shopping bag. “The yarn you wanted me to pick up for you at Monica’s shop.”

  Mention yarn, and my mother gets all warm and fuzzy—just like any addicted knitter.

  “Oh, thank you,” she gushed. “I needed these extra skeins to finish off the afghan I’m making for the charity bazaar. Well, come on, come on. Ben’s already here having a drink with your dad.”

  My mother ushered me into the family room where I heard my father laughing at something Ben had apparently said. It was then that I realized I’d committed another fashion faux pas and would most likely hear about it later from my mother.

  Both my dad and Ben had on sport jackets. No tie, but open-collar dress shirts. My mother looked elegant and festive wearing an ankle-length skirt and silk blouse, both in a shade of green that closely resembled holiday pine trees. No, I wasn’t wearing my usual jeans and sweatshirt, but perhaps a dress would have been more appropriate than the simple black slacks and pullover sweater that I’d chosen.

  “Josie,” my father said, getting up to give me a hug. “A glass of white wine? And you know Ben, so no need for an introduction. He’s just been telling me some humorous anecdotes from the summers he spent here as a kid.”

  Ben had never struck me as the humorous type, but I only nodded and smiled.

  We made small talk over the wine, then Delilah announced that dinner was ready, and we trooped into the dining room. The table was beautifully set with a vase of blood red roses in the center, flanked by green pillar Christmas candles.

  “Josie,” my mother directed. “If you’ll sit here and Ben, right across from her will be fine.”

  My father took the seat beside me, and I wished that she had placed Ben there instead. I wasn’t very keen on having him stare across the table at me through an entire dinner.

  Delilah brought out the first course, pumpkin soup, which the four of us raved about. Without a doubt, most women on the island were the best cooks I knew. Recipes were handed down and fiercely guarded from one generation to the next. Delilah shared a lot of those great recipes in my mother’s kitchen, much to our culinary delight.

  Over the main course of lamb, roasted potatoes, and squash casserole the conversation flowed mostly between my mother and Ben who were discussing the publishing business, recent trends in the industry, and people they knew.

  By the time Delilah brought out her scrumptious blueberry cobbler, I thought perhaps I’d been a bit harsh in my initial assessment of Ben. Two things struck me. One, he was quite personable conversing with my mother—not at all like the demanding and irritating customer I’d waited on at Cook’s. And two, he was even better looking than I had thought he was. A third thing had struck me as well. I noticed that he kept throwing glances my way throughout dinner, but I was unwilling to make eye contact with him. Instead I focused on my food or directed my eyes toward my parents.

  “And so,” I heard my mother say. “What on earth is this nonsense I’m hearing about you wanting to sell Mr. Al’s house and put him in a nursing home?”

  Her statement succeeded in forcing my attention to Ben, and I stared across the table, waiting for his answer.

  “Well,” he said, directing his glance away from me. Actually, he looked uncomfortable as he shifted in his chair, fingered his napkin, and cleared his throat. “I got a call from an old buddy of mine here on the island. He explained that my uncle’s house was an eyesore and…”

  “An eyesore?” I interjected. I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Since when did having property that could be judged an eyesore become cause to force somebody out of his home and into a nursing home?”

  Deep mahogany eyes glared at me. “Hey, look, I don’t want to fight with you about this. Although Uncle Al’s property is a mess, of course that’s not the only reason I feel it’s time for him to be in a facility. I’m told he’s been acting odd since my grandmother died. Hardly ever goes out, doesn’t mingle with his old friends anymore…He’s become unsafe living there alone.”

  “And you know this how?” I questioned. According to Mr. Al, Ben had only visited him once since arriving on the island to force the idea of a nursing home.

  Ben remained silent, keeping his gaze on the half-eaten dessert on his plate.

  “Yeah, right! You have no answer because you didn’t even take the time to try to get to know Mr. Al. Your uncle is depressed—plain and simple. You would be too if the two people you loved most in the world were gone, along with some friends you’d known since childhood. Mr. Al is lost and depressed, not to mention lonely.”

  I noticed my parents made no attempt to get into the conversation. Both sat quietly listening to Ben and me spar back and forth.

  Before Ben could toss a retort at me, I said, “And another thing—you can’t just force somebody out of his own home. So what’s your plan? Going to go to court to try to get your uncle declared incompetent? Well, you can bet that half the town will be there in Mr. Al’s defense. I can guarantee that!”

  Ben’s head shot up as a defiant expression crossed his face. “You’re making me out to be an ogre and I don’t think…”

  My anger notched up a level. “That’s exactly what you are,” I said, interrupting him. “You might have spent summers here, but you’re not one of us. Always acting like we were beneath you, you couldn’t wait till you were no longer forced to come here. And once you left for good, you never looked back. So now—here you are, arriving in all your glory to put things right. Except you’re wrong about your uncle.” I stood up and flung my napkin onto the table. “You’re nothing but an egotistical, arrogant jerk, and I’m sure poor Miss Annie is turning over in her grave knowing what a rotten person her son turned out to be.”

  I leaned over to kiss my father’s cheek. “Sorry, Daddy, but I can’t stay here a minute longer.”

  Walking into the foyer to get my jacket, I heard my mother holler, “Josephine Shelby Sullivan, get back here right now and apologize. Where are your manners?”

  If I hadn’t been ticked off enough, leave it to my mother to compound the situation by using my full name—a name I detested and changed to Josie at age six, the day I began first grade. After three months of my refusing to answer to Josephine, my mother finally acquiesced and it was Josie forevermore.

  “My manners? Probably where the sun don’t shine,” I yelled back, before slamming the door on my exit.

  The following day I was cleaning Orli’s room, trying to release the anger I still felt toward Ben Sudbury from the night before. We’d have snow in Florida in July before I ever gave him an apology. My mother—different story. I knew before the day was over that I’d have to call and make amends for walking out on her dinner party.

  “Damn,” I yelled out loud as I pushed the vacuum around Orli’s carpet. My anger had increased my strength, and I’d managed to shove her basketball under the bed.

  Reluctantly I got down on all fours to pull it out and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Lifting the dust ruffle higher to get a better look, I said, “What the hell?”

  Flat down on my stomach, I inched my way further under the bed to discover five one-gallon cans of paint. What the heck was Orli doing hiding paint under her bed? She certainly w
asn’t planning to give me this for Christmas, was she?

  Staring at the paint, totally confused, I recalled a few weeks ago she had mentioned something about wanting her room repainted. But typical for me lately, with never enough time for my daughter, I’d forgotten to resume the subject with her.

  Crawling out, I sat there leaning back against the side of the bed. Sometimes I felt like such a failure as a mother, and, yup, this was one of those times. That wasn’t much for a kid to ask for—to get her bedroom repainted. And yet, I’d let her request slide right out of my mind, too busy with work and all the other demands of being a single mom.

  Guilt now began to rear its ugly head—if Orli had her dad living in the same house, chances were that he would have gotten the paint job done in a weekend.

  Before I even realized it, I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks. I was tired, I was worn out, and for the first time in twelve years, I was willing to admit that maybe I’d made some mistakes. Raising Orli on my own, however, was not one of them. My most damaging error had been not completing my college degree. Education was everything. I knew that, and yet I allowed it to slip through my fingers. Too stubborn and independent to accept help from my mother that would have enabled me to return to college after my daughter was born. Education was the key that opened untold doors, and I’d foolishly tossed it away.

  I stood up and swiped at my eyes. Reaching for a tissue from the box on the bedside table, I blew my nose and headed into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. Not one to stay maudlin for long, I scooped coffee into the filter as a plan began forming in my mind.

  Maybe, just maybe, if I accepted some help from my mother I’d be able to start attending classes at the university in Gainesville. Watching the water pour into the carafe, it suddenly occurred to me that I had no earthly idea what I might want to major in.