Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  Yes, twelve years ago I’d been a journalism major, but that didn’t appeal to me at all now. Besides, I needed something practical—a career that would provide enough financially for Orli and me. And a career that wouldn’t require my working an additional job.

  But what could that be? What did I want to be when I grew up?

  “Well, Josie Sullivan,” I said out loud, “you’re thirty-one years old; it’s about damn time you figured that question out.”

  Chapter 7

  I made Orli’s favorite for supper, tuna casserole, and planned to discuss the paint situation with her when we were finished. Again this evening, she’d been quiet while we ate.

  “I spoke to Grandma this afternoon,” I told her, as I filled the dishpan with hot water and Palmolive Liquid. “She’s planning to make her annual Christmas gingerbread men on Saturday and thought you might like to go over and help.”

  “Yeah, that would be fun. I’ll go. Oh, this Saturday? I’m not sure I can.”

  I couldn’t recall seeing any event for Orli on the calendar that hung in our kitchen. That calendar was our Bible—Orli had inherited her sense of organization from me, which had been passed down from my mother. Any event going on, any doctor appointment or meeting was faithfully jotted down by one of us.

  “Really? Why not? I didn’t see anything on the calendar for this Saturday.”

  “No…ah…um…I forgot to write it down.”

  When she volunteered no further information, I said, “Well, what kind of plans do you have?”

  “Um…it’s like a surprise. Something I’m doing with Carla. We’re doing it together. Saturday afternoon.”

  “Oh,” was all I said as I continued to wash dishes. It was that time of year, after all. Homes were filled with Christmas surprises, so I dropped the subject. “After we finish up here, I’d like to talk to you about something. Homework all done?”

  “Yup, I finished it before supper.”

  “Good. I’ll make some hot chocolate, and we can have some of those yummy pumpkin cookies I picked up at Grace’s coffee shop this afternoon.”

  Major discussions in our house almost always took place at the kitchen table. It had been that way when I was growing up, and I continued to follow the same pattern.

  Orli dipped her spoon into the hot chocolate and proceeded to lick off the whipped cream. “So what’s up?” she asked.

  “Well…I was cleaning your room this morning and…”

  “Oh, I know, I promised not to clutter my desk so much, but that’s the project Carla and I are working on for school.”

  “No, no, the desk is fine. I happened to knock your basketball under the bed with the vacuum and…”

  Orli’s eyes widened. “Oh, ah…I was going to tell you about that, Mom. Really I was.”

  “The cans of paint?”

  She nodded, looking down at the uneaten cookies on her plate.

  “Well, I feel it’s really my fault.”

  “Your fault? For what?” she asked, looking puzzled.

  “You’ve been trying to talk to me for weeks about all sorts of things. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’ve been so darn busy working extra hours, but you know what…finding that paint could have been the best thing to happen. I’ve decided it’s time to make some changes in my life, and, as soon as I figure out exactly what I’m doing, you’ll be the first one I share it with. Now—about repainting your room.”

  Orli raised her eyebrows and began giggling. “Mom, what on earth are you talking about? I do think you’ve been working too much—you need a vacation.”

  Now I was confused. “I found the gallons of paint under your bed. You mentioned to me weeks ago that you’d like to have your bedroom repainted.” When she remained silent, I said, “Isn’t that why the paint is there?”

  She shook her head slowly back and forth. “No, it’s not for my bedroom.”

  God, this was becoming worse than pulling teeth. My kid was normally so forthcoming; I couldn’t figure out why she was clamming up.

  “Okay, what’s going on? What’s this all about?”

  She hesitated for a second and then said, “It’s for Mr. Al.”

  “Mr. Al?” I repeated, still not catching on.

  Orli nodded. “Yeah…well, see…I figured the main reason he might be sent to that nursing home was because of the way his house and property looked. And so…I recruited a bunch of kids at school to help me.”

  “To help you what?”

  “To help me paint Mr. Al’s house and clean up all the junk on his property. Then that way, nobody could use that as an excuse to make him sell and leave the island. He doesn’t wanna leave, Mom. Me and Carla…we’ve been going there every day to talk to him, and he’s so sad. But he just didn’t know what he could do, so I told him not to worry. That I’d figure something out…and I did.”

  “And a little child shall lead them.” The verse from scripture floated into my head. This is what the cans of paint were all about? Orli had been secretly meeting with Mr. Al, determined to find a solution to his problem? And I had been so busy, so uninvolved that I’d had no clue my daughter had gone to such lengths.

  “Where’d ya get the paint? How did you get the paint?” My mind was swirling with a million questions.

  “Well, we got it downtown, at the Marina Hardware. Mr. Bob didn’t have a lot of choices—actually he only had pink and white left. Mr. Al said he’d love to have a pink house, but thought it might be better if we chose white.”

  I shook my head and smiled.

  “And the money to pay for it…well…Remember the money you gave me to buy Christmas gifts at school? I didn’t think you’d mind my not buying you a gift this year, but I’m making you something in knitting class. Miss Monica said I’m doing a really good job with it too. So I used that money and then I had saved money from my birthday. Carla also chipped in, and, once we got the other kids on board, they all donated whatever they could.”

  I let out a deep sigh. Here were children doing something that not one adult had thought, or taken the time, to do. But instantly I knew what I was going to do.

  I jumped up and headed for the phone.

  Orli’s face wrinkled up like she was on the verge of tears. “Are you mad, Mom? Are you mad because I did this?”

  I pulled my daughter into a tight embrace as I clicked the automatic dial for Mallory.

  “Mad? Gosh, no! I’ve always been proud of you, but I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as I am right this moment.”

  She smiled up at me as I heard Mallory say hello.

  “Mallory, my BFF, you and I have some work to do.”

  “We do? And when I hear that best friends forever phrase you use, I’m not sure I’m gonna like this.”

  I laughed as I stroked the top of Orli’s head leaning against my chest. “You know poor Mr. Al’s dilemma? I think we have it solved. All due to the ingenuity of my daughter and her friends.”

  I proceeded to explain everything to Mallory.

  “That’s amazing,” she said. “To think the kids would be the ones who might prevent Al Casey from going to a nursing home.”

  “That’s right. Now…you know the phone tree that we use for emergencies on the island? We’re utilizing it now. I’m calling the troops together. You call everybody from A to K, and I’ll do the rest. Tell them we’re having a meeting tomorrow evening, seven sharp, upstairs in the library. And tell them it’s not voluntary—I wanna see this whole town turn out. So they’d better all be there.”

  And they were. I was surprised to arrive at the library to see it was standing-room-only. Chatter filled the air with an energy that was palpable. Mallory came rushing over.

  “Isn’t this great?”

  “It certainly is,” I said, catching her excitement. “Okay, let me get this meeting started.”

  To signal for quiet, I began clapping my hands loudly. Within a few seconds a hush came over the room, and everyone was staring at me.

  I
cleared my throat. “Okay, people. First of all, thank you so much for coming, but then, I knew you would. People on Cedar Key have taken care of their own for generations—and we’re not about to stop now.”

  A multitude of heads nodded in agreement, and I continued. “As Mallory and I explained on the phone, we’re here to do something about preventing Mr. Al from going to a nursing home. All of us know he’s in his right mind, he’s not unsafe to live alone, and the major reason any of this got started is the condition of his house and property. It’s been like this for a few years. I’m not saying that’s right, but I think those of us here have just gotten used to seeing it that way. As we know, a few residents have banded together with complaints, and they want something done.”

  “Used to be, a man’s home was his castle,” Mr. James hollered from the back of the room.

  The thought of Mr. Al’s dilapidated house and property being referred to as a castle made me smile. “Yes, well.” I went on. “That may be true, however, we have to admit all of it could use a sprucing up, and it took some of the children in this town to see the problem and attempt to find a solution.” I went on to explain what the children had done, pooling their money to purchase paint and coming up with a plan.

  One of the mothers seated in the front row said, “So that’s why my Jeremy wanted extra allowance money the past few weeks. I just bet he’s been giving all of it toward the paint.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I told her. “And obviously the kids can’t do a job like this alone, but if all the adults in this room pitch in to help in some way—I think that together we can accomplish what we need to. If Mr. Al’s place is looking good, there’d be no reason for the complainers to go to the City Commission next month.”

  Miss Dora stood from her seat in the middle of the room. “And I have to say, shame on all of us for not seeing such a simple solution. It took the kids to lead us in the right direction. Well, count me in. I’m very good with gardening, and I’d be more than happy to cut back those azalea bushes of his and have them lookin’ nice again.” Miss Dora scanned her gaze around the room. “Okay, we have lots of Garden Club members here. Who else is willing to help me tackle his yard?”

  A number of hands shot up in the air.

  “Great,” I said. “Thank you, Miss Dora, for organizing cleanup for the garden. Mallory, why don’t you start writing down names for who’s doing what. Okay, now we’ll need volunteers to paint the house. And then we have all that trash and junk to deal with…”

  “I have a large dump truck,” Bob Riley from the hardware store said. “I’d be more than happy to make as many trips as necessary to the Levy County dump after we get it filled.”

  “And I’d like to chip in toward the cost of paint and whatever else we might be needing,” somebody else said. “I’ll also drive to Lowe’s in Gainesville to pick up all the supplies.”

  “When are we planning to do this?” Grace questioned.

  “Well, we have two weeks before Christmas,” I told her. “It sure would be great if we could have it all finished by then. So I think we need to get started as soon as possible. I was hoping maybe this Saturday morning we could begin. Between all the people here in the room and the kids, I bet we could have it all done over the weekend. I need everybody to sign up for the days and times that would be good for you to help out.”

  “I’ll provide coffee and muffins in the morning for everybody,” Grace said. “But I can’t close the shop to come and deliver it.”

  “I’ll come by and pick it up,” somebody offered.

  “And I’ll provide all the lunches for everybody,” I heard my mother say from the back of the room. She must have slipped in late because I hadn’t seen her arrive. “I’ll have Tony’s deliver some nice clam chowder and sandwiches. That’ll be my donation.”

  “Thanks, Mom. That’s really generous of you.”

  “Well, this is a very important cause, and I’m very proud of my granddaughter for coming up with an idea to help Mr. Al. So we all have to pitch in and make this happen.”

  “Hey,” Officer Fred said. “Does Mr. Al know anything about this? Do you think he’ll be agreeable?”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” I told the group. “But I’m planning to go by his place in the morning and explain it all to him. It might take a bit of coaxing on my part, but in the end I have no doubt he’ll be very happy if it means not selling his house and leaving the island. Okay, any other questions?” Heads shook in unison as people lined up to give Mallory their time slots for the weekend. “Good. If you have questions, just give me or Mallory a call. Otherwise, I’ll see you Saturday morning at eight sharp in front of Mr. Al’s house. And thank you all for coming.”

  Chapter 8

  “Why do you think Mr. Al might not want everyone to help?” Orli asked over breakfast.

  “Well, some people consider it charity, and their sense of pride prevents them from taking what’s offered.”

  “Oh, like you do with Grandma?”

  This kid was getting too observant.

  “I don’t do that,” I argued.

  “Yeah, you do. Like when she bought you the sneakers a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh…well…you need to get going or you’ll be late for school.”

  “But you’re going to talk to Mr. Al this morning, right?”

  “Yup,” I told her. “And stop worrying. You worry too much for an eleven-year-old.”

  Orli came to plant a kiss on my cheek before grabbing her backpack. “See you after school. Love you,” she said.

  “Love you too.”

  I began cleaning up the kitchen and gave some thought as to what she’d said. She was right, of course. For eleven years I had made a vain attempt to be independent when it came to accepting help or money from my parents. But if I decided to go through with my plan, that would have to change. I’d require not only financial assistance, but it might be necessary to depend on my mother to look after Orli while I was taking classes.

  I’d given a lot of thought to this over the past few days and had come up with a career that not only surprised me, but one that I thought I’d enjoy and would provide a decent salary.

  Without pausing to change my mind, I whipped out the Gainesville phone book and instead of looking for the number for the University of Florida, I searched for Sante Fe Community College.

  When I reached the correct department and heard a woman say, “Good morning, Division of Nursing, how may I help you?” I almost lost my nerve.

  But instead I took a deep breath. “Ah, yes, hello. I was wondering…I was wondering how I might go about applying for your registered nurse program. That’s a two-year program, right?”

  “Yes, it is. Our students receive an associate’s degree in nursing. And it does consist of four semesters. I’d be more than happy to send you our brochure with all of the information. We do still have a few openings for the class beginning next fall, but you’d have to have your application in by mid-January.”

  Wow. I guess I hadn’t expected things to move along quite this quickly. “That would be good,” I told her. I felt a surge of confidence and said, “Yes, actually, that would be great,” and I went on to give her my mailing address and information.

  Hanging up the phone I realized my palms were sweaty. But I also realized that for the first time in a long time I felt good about myself. Maybe there was something to that old saying, success breeds success. Well, I had taken the first step, and I was about to find out.

  “Well, hey, Miss Josie,” Al Casey said, opening his back door to my knock. “What a surprise. I never get no visitors.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this. I would have called, but since you don’t have a phone…”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Come on in,” he said, opening the door wider. “Nah, never did like those contraptions. Besides I really got no need for one. Who would call me?”

  I laughed and stepped inside his kitchen. Based on the outsi
de of his house, I was prepared for the worst. Therefore, I was shocked to see a kitchen that would have made Martha Stewart proud. Clean and tidy, with a vase of fresh daisies that matched the yellow hue of his nicely pressed cotton tablecloth. Coffee cup and one plate sat drying in the dish drainer. Three green tomatoes added color on the windowsill, and was that spice I smelled in the air?

  As if confirming my olfactory nerve correct, he said, “I’m just ready to take spice bread out of the oven. How ’bout a piece with coffee?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Then have a seat, and it’ll just be a minute. Just made a fresh pot before you got here.”

  I pulled out the kitchen chair and jumped back when a loud whine filled the room. Peeking under the table, I saw a curly dark mass of canine.

  Mr. Al laughed. “Hey, Pal, believe it or not we’ve got company. Come on out and say hello.”

  The dog inched his way to the middle of the kitchen floor, bowed in a stretch, gave a noisy yawn, and then seemed to notice me. With tail wagging at breakneck speed he came to stand beside me.

  “Hey, there, Pal.” I patted the top of his dome-shaped head. “You sure are a cute dog.”

  “Yup, he’s my best friend, he is. That’s why I named him Pal. Well, that and because I thought it sounded pretty cool when I met people to be able to say ‘hi, I’m Al and this is my dog, Pal.’”

  I laughed as it occurred to me that I’d never realized Mr. Al had a sense of humor.

  He placed a mug of coffee and slice of spice bread in front of me. Next came a beautiful crystal sugar bowl and creamer set.

  I took a sip of coffee and found it to be a definite ten on my coffee scale. Yeah, I was a coffee snob and quite picky. Rich, dark, and strong—that’s the way coffee is supposed to be. My mother never quite got this, and I always wondered why she didn’t just resort to tea, since her coffee was always so weak. A bite of the spice bread and I was convinced there was a lot about Mr. Al that I didn’t know.