Together for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  Her ribald humor went right past her longtime friend.

  “I’m not talking about getting naked,” Gareth said. “I’m talking about being yourself with no barriers. Just being you.”

  “If you’re telling me I should get all defenseless with the next guy I date . . .” Kristen shuddered. “No thanks. Not me.”

  “Not the ‘next guy.’ Just Casey.” Gareth gave her one of his most easygoing smiles. “It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it. Because if Casey’s the one, he’ll do the same for you.” Gareth nodded. “You can’t get real closeness any other way.”

  But Kristen already knew better. “I asked Casey to tell me he loved me!” she said. “He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.”

  “Did you tell him you loved him?”

  Uncomfortably, Kristen squirmed. “Only when showering,” she mumbled. “Only when Casey couldn’t hear me.”

  “What’s that?” Gareth cupped his ear. “You did what?”

  “I was the injured party!” Kristen informed him defensively. “Casey inveigled that deal with Heather and Torrance Chocolates. He went behind my back! He used me to get to my celebrity sister. It was enough that I was giving him a chance to say it at all.” She raised her chin. “On top of all that, I shouldn’t have had to go first.”

  “Somebody has to go first. If you had, that would have been the kind of courage I’m talking about.” Gareth tweaked her Santa hat, then saluted. “Just sayin’. See you out front.”

  Alone in her office after Gareth had left, Kristen glanced at the RESERVED sign on her desk. She frowned at it.

  Then she whacked it.

  It flew through the air, bounced against her office wall, and landed on the floor with a satisfyingly loud clatter.

  That’s what she thought about “going first” with the I-love-yous. That’s what she thought about Casey and romance and the possibility of having a happy Christmas ever again.

  That’s what she thought about being vulnerable and stupid.

  Because she’d already shown herself to Casey, Kristen assured herself, just as she was. Exactly the way Gareth had suggested, she’d been open and trusting and honest . . .

  . . . and full of all her usual defenses about not being Heather, her conscience prodded unnervingly.

  Well, there was that.

  But she couldn’t just undo all those defenses overnight, could she? What if she couldn’t get by without them?

  Spooked by the very thought, Kristen frowned. Nope, she was the beleaguered one here, she reminded herself. She was the one who’d been hurt. She didn’t plan to waste any more time second-guessing herself. So she gathered her courage, slapped on a smile, and went to finish preparing for her Yuletide party.

  Because ever since Heather had been forced to own up to her part in Casey’s sneaky “deal,” her sister had been going out of her way to make sure Kristen’s Christmas was stellar. Heather had even footed the bill for tonight’s Drunk Yahtzee party.

  Everyone was going to be there—sans paparazzi—including their parents. All the usual traditions were going to be observed, just a little bit belatedly. At long last, Kristen was going to have the Christmas she’d dreamed of this year.

  Too bad she’d never wanted all those traditional trimmings less . . . and wanted a certain troubleshooting Scrooge more.

  But that was in the past. Kristen was done with it.

  Because sure, it was possible she hadn’t given Casey a fair chance to explain himself, because of the hurt she’d felt. It was possible she’d made a demand he couldn’t fulfill, based on who he was and what was happening and the fact that she’d been ready to blow steam from her ears and/or bawl uncontrollably.

  It was also possible that her Christmas tree might morph into the Jolly Green Giant and ho-ho-ho all the way to the North Pole. Right? But that didn’t mean she intended to hold her breath waiting for it to happen.

  Feeling more certain now, Kristen opened her office door.

  Then, at the last minute, she paused. She glanced at the dejected-looking RESERVED sign, still lying there atop her industrial flooring. She scurried over to it. She scowled at it. She waited to feel vindicated, or at least proud of herself.

  It didn’t happen. So she picked up the sign, brushed it off, and put it back in its place of honor on her desk.

  On her way out, Kristen rubbed the back of her neck. “It sure would be nice if someone would reserve that table again,” she mused to no one in particular. Then she caught herself, gave a halfhearted, hopeless-feeling smile, and went to make merry.

  Casey wasn’t sure when his Los Angeles neighborhood had installed municipal Christmas decorations. He’d have sworn on his life that those swags of plastic evergreens, enormous red “velvet” bows, bright fake holly berries, and lights strung over practically every intersection had never been there before.

  Frowning at a particularly egregious red-and-green example while waiting at a stoplight, Casey gunned his convertible’s engine. If he’d still been in Kismet, he wouldn’t have been driving a kick-ass convertible, that was for sure. He was lucky.

  He was lucky to have escaped the madness of Christmastown. He was lucky to be back in the sunshine where he belonged.

  Except for those damn Christmas decorations, of course.

  Casey had half a mind to lodge a complaint with the city. Didn’t they know that not every Los Angelino celebrated Christmas? Surely at least some of the people who came upon those seasonal decorations—people like him—felt excluded. What about Jewish people? Scientologists? Buddhists? Nonbelievers?

  What about people who were allergic to tinsel and mandatory jolliness? What about them? Didn’t anyone care about them? Didn’t holiday-time Christian kindness extend to them?

  Feeling indignant, Casey waited for the traffic light to change. Then he flipped his middle finger at the fake jingle bells dangling overhead and sped off toward his destination.

  He’d be damned if he’d be forced into liking Christmas or feeling goodwill toward his fellow human beings. Screw that.

  That’s why he blasted non-Christmassy metal music from his car’s stereo, to drown out the incessant, syrupy Christmas carols wafting from other vehicles. That’s why he churlishly stalked to his luxury apartment building’s elevator every day, ignoring any stray “Merry Christmases” that came his way by staring at his cell phone in apparent engrossment. That’s why he was heading, right now, to his favorite frozen yogurt place.

  Because fro-yo was not a holiday food.

  You couldn’t get fro-yo in Kismet in December. To do so would have been madness. Plus, all the seasonal fro-yo shops were meant for summer tourists and were sensibly closed in the winter. But here in California, where it was a balmy seventy-two degrees in December and flip-flops were year-round footwear?

  Hell, yeah, you could get fro-yo. As a bonus, there was zero chance that fro-yo would remind him of Kristen.

  Unlike every other damn thing Casey encountered.

  Because somehow, Kristen had gotten under his skin . . . and so had Christmas. Holiday lights reminded him of Kristen’s bedroom, where they’d made love in that sparkly lighted glow. Iced sugar cookies reminded him of the Galaxy Diner, where Kristen tended to everyone with sprinkles and pies-ina-jar and abundant TLC. Christmas carols reminded him of Kristen singing—tunelessly but enthusiastically—along with them; wrapping paper and ribbons reminded him of an especially saucy erotic move she’d shown him.

  No matter where Casey looked, he couldn’t escape.

  He needed Kristen the same way he now needed Christmas, unstoppably and unexpectedly, but if he couldn’t have one, Casey was determined, he would be damned if he’d have the other. So he whipped his convertible into the shopping center’s parking lot, stomped over to the fro-yo shop, and went inside.

  The first thing that assaulted him was the holiday music. Next came the jingle bells that jangled as the door shut behind him. Then the Christmassy décor and the helpful-looking employee behi
nd the counter, wearing a smile, a red-and-white striped stocking cap, and a HAPPY HOLIDAYS! badge pinned to her uniform.

  “Hi! Welcome to Fro-Yo! Fro-Yo! What would you like?”

  “Less Christmas,” Casey muttered, scanning the favors.

  “I’m sorry?” A wider smile. “What flavor do you like?”

  He couldn’t believe the holidays had even invaded here, at his favorite fro-yo shop. Was nothing sacred anymore?

  “A chocolate-vanilla swirl, please.” Casey pointed.

  The teenage employee looked confused. “Which flavor?”

  “Chocolate-vanilla swirl.” He pointed again. Emphatically.

  “Um, that’s our special limited-edition holiday flavor combination. Candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza.”

  Casey frowned. “I asked for chocolate-vanilla swirl.”

  “Yes. But you pointed at candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza.”

  “No, I didn’t. I always get chocolate-vanilla swirl.”

  The employee caught his disgruntled look. With a paper fro-yo cup in hand, she leaned nearer. Confidingly, she asked, “Is it just that you don’t want to say it aloud? Is that why you’re pointing to it instead? Some of our customers feel silly saying candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza, but I promise it’s delicious.”

  Befuddled, Casey stared at his pointing finger. To his surprise, he was, indeed, pointing at the only Christmas-themed flavor in the entire fro-yo shop. What the hell?

  “Chocolate-vanilla swirl,” he repeated, pointing again.

  The employee rolled her eyes. “Sir, you just pointed to candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza again. But you said chocolate-vanilla swirl. If you’re just messing with me—”

  “I’m sorry.” This was ridiculous. Casey girded himself for another try. “I want chocolate-vanilla swirl, please.”

  As he pointed again, the employee shook her head. “Maybe you need a little more time to decide what you want.”

  Casey clenched his jaw. “I know exactly what I want.” He pointed with increasing certainty. “Chocolate-vanilla swirl.”

  He watched in disbelief as his finger swerved straight to the Christmassy candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza flavor.

  “I need a manager over here!” The employee flung up her hands in exasperation. She rang a bell. “Code purple!”

  By the time the mild-mannered manager emerged from the back, Casey felt doubly determined to be served his usual order.

  “Hi. I’m not sure what the confusion is,” he told the manager, “but I’m asking for chocolate-vanilla swirl.”

  “You’re pointing at candy-cane eggnog swirlaganza.”

  Argh. He was! Casey couldn’t seem to do anything else.

  “I always get chocolate-vanilla swirl,” he explained. “It’s what I like. It’s my favorite flavor. It’s who I am.”

  The manager shrugged. “Maybe your tastes have changed.” He signaled the stocking-cap-wearing employee. “Get him one of each flavor, on the house.” He looked at Casey. “Merry Christmas.”

  And that’s how, improbably, Casey found himself holding two cups of fro-yo and being forced to confront the impossible.

  Maybe he had changed somehow. Maybe Kristen had had some undeniable effect on him. But even if she had . . . what came next?

  Given everything that had happened between her and Kristen this Christmas, Heather knew she probably should just lay low and try not to cause any more trouble at her sister’s annual Yuletide Drunk Yahtzee party. But the inescapable fact was, Heather still had a few things to wrap up in Kismet, and Kristen’s holiday party at the Galaxy Diner was the perfect place to do that. All the important players were going to be there, including their parents and the crew of Heather’s holiday TV special, whom Kristen had generously invited to come along this year before they all headed back home to L.A. Kristen would be there, of course. Also, Talia and Walden, Heather’s impersonator/doppelganger and her boyfriend.

  Heather loved Talia and Walden. Shortly after the news of their impostor “scandal” had broken, Heather had gone to meet them. Frankly, they’d inspired her with their love and their loyalty and—most of all—their oddball authenticity. Along with Casey and Shane Maresca, Talia and Walden had inspired Heather’s newfound fresh attitude and her determination to turn over a new leaf.

  Parking her car outside the diner, Heather nervously reviewed her outfit—a plain flannel shirt, cable-knit sweater, jeans, and boots under a toasty-warm puffer coat. She pulled out her newly created to-do list. She read over all the items. Then, nervously, Heather stepped out of her car into the snow.

  Doing so felt weird. Because ordinarily, she had “people” to usher her in and out of places—not to mention drive her to them. Ordinarily, she had a red carpet to protect her toes from the muck and a wall of camera-wielding press to protect her from being forgotten. Today, though, all Heather had was herself. She hoped, as she clutched her list, that that would be enough.

  Partway across the parking lot, she glimpsed a man hunched furtively near the diner’s window. He appeared to be trying to peer inside. Under other circumstances, Heather would have given him a wide berth or maybe called 911. But because he didn’t appear dangerous—and because, even if he was dangerous, there was a diner full of partygoers just feet away ready to rescue her—she didn’t even slow her steps as she approached him.

  “Hi! Merry Christmas!” she said.

  The man startled. He blinked at her through his eyeglasses. The usual expression of amazement struck him. “Hey! Aren’t you . . .”

  Magnanimously, Heather waited for him to identify her. This happened a lot. Thanks to her music videos, her appearances on TV and the Internet, her cosmetics endorsement deals and awards-show wins and new-perfume-launch activities, she’d cast a pretty wide net, media-wise. Sometimes it took people a while to pin down exactly where they’d seen her world-famous face.

  “You’re Kristen’s sister!” the man said. “Helga Miller.”

  Now it was Heather’s turn to be startled. This was the first time anyone had identified Heather as Kristen’s sister!

  He couldn’t be serious.

  An instant reply rose to her lips—something along the lines of: Have you been stranded on Mars? How can you not recognize me?—but then Heather realized that this must be a test of her turning-over-a-new-leaf commitment. So she only smiled.

  “That’s me! Helga.” She looked at the fat manila envelope in the man’s hand. “You’re not a process server, are you?”

  “Me? No.” The man smiled back at her. “I’m a banker.”

  “Oh. Well. Good for you!” Heather glanced at her to-do list. Chat up bankers was not on it. “Well, have a nice night.”

  She began flouncing away, then belatedly realized that flouncing places was no longer her M.O. She turned back to him.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asked kindly.

  “Actually, Helga,” he said. “I think you can.”

  Chapter 24

  Kismet, Michigan

  4½ smooching, hugging, memory-making, love-filled days

  until Christmas

  Even though Walden would have liked to have spent the holidays with his family, he had to admit—as he lifted a beer to his lips and looked around the festively decorated Galaxy Diner—that Yuletide Drunk Yahtzee night was turning out to be pretty memorable. Already, he’d seen Avery perform karaoke Christmas carols, Gareth perform a dance routine to go along with Avery’s karaoke Christmas carols, and Talia cheering them on with a suspiciously expert routine that turned out to have been the result of her hidden past as a high-school cheerleader.

  Looking at her elfin-punk demeanor, piercings, and lavender hair, Walden had been disbelieving. Talia had way too much indie street cred to have taken part in something as traditional as cheerleading. Then she gave him a pert smile and executed a perfect Herkie jump, and Walden became a believer.

  “I’m totally bangin’ a hot cheerleader!” he exclaimed.

  “Wait.” Talia squinted at him.
“You recognize that move?”

  “Former band geek.” Jauntily, he pointed at himself. “I saw a lot of the sideline cheerleaders during football season.”

  “Ah.” Smiling, Talia kissed him. “I love you, band geek!”

  “I love you, too, hot cheerleader!” Walden said. Sobering, he added, “Then you’re not disappointed in my dorktastic past?”

  “Are you kidding? I love it. Being musical is cool,” Talia assured him. “Are you disappointed in my ultratraditional past?”

  Walden shook his head. “It’s part of you. So I love it.”

  They kissed again. Someone nearby groaned theatrically.

  “Come on! At least find some mistletoe first, willya?”

  As Walden turned to see who’d spoken, he saw a tall, lanky, very ordinary-looking dude wearing glasses and swilling beer. Tipsily, the man weaved toward him and Talia.

  “You two,” he said, using his beer to point at them, “are ruining it for all the rest of us with your overt happiness.”

  Talia frowned at him. “What’s wrong with happiness?”

  “What’s right with happiness is more like it,” the man complained. “Love doesn’t work out. I faked chicken pox to get close to the girl I loved, and she still didn’t want me!”

  Chicken pox. Walden exchanged a glance with Talia. They knew two people who’d had chicken pox lately. Only one of them had been a man. The other, of course, had been Heather.

  “You must be Alex Taylor,” Walden said. “Heather’s guy.”

  “You were faking?” Talia asked him at the same time.

  A nod. “For all the good it did me,” Alex said. “Heather started spying on me. She thought I was up to something.”

  Walden and Talia traded another glance.

  “Dude,” Walden said, “you were up to something.”

  “You were faking chicken pox,” Talia added, reasonably. “Maybe Heather detected an undercurrent of subterfuge?”

  Alex scowled at them both. “So? I loved her!”