by S. E. Hall
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Author
© 2017 S. E. Hall
Cover: Designs by Dana
Editing: Ultra Editing and All About the Indies Editing
Formatter: Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright
Thank you all!
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Trust me, I get it.
I sooooooooo get it.
Christmas is awesome, and groovy, and “all about the true meaning,” and blah blah blah.
It is.
For sure.
It’s also draining.
Expensive.
Cold.
Dreary.
And guaranteed to make you think of, and miss until you ache with a pain for which there is no cure, any and every single member of your Crew no longer there to celebrate with you.
That’s the part I want you to know I “get” the most.
Which is why I whipped out this novella.
To make you laugh.
To cheer you up, if only for however long it takes you to read it.
To cheer myself up.
I hope it worked for you!
Merry Christmas.
XO,
S.E. Hall
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Author
Life and family… both will carry on without us once we’re gone, but for us, like anything truly whole, have a beginning, middle, and end.
The beginning shapes us.
The middle hones us.
The ending defines us.
And in the end, one’s comfort will come from memories of the formers.
So enjoy them.
Especially the middle.
Dane Kendrick
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Beckett’s same tired play on words echoes down the hallway, announcing his arrival.
Every. Damn. Year.
Pretty sure we’re already well past due and should go ahead and officially declare it “a tradition.” But he better not have pointed at my wife this time — warned his ass about that shit last December.
And the December before that.
“I know you did not just point at me, Sawyer Beckett! I’ll snap that fat, stubby finger of yours clean off at the knuckle!”
Got my answer— he pointed at my wife.
Sounds like she’s got it handled though. That’s my girl.
“Um, hello? Whitley and I got the “ho point” too; we just don’t care. Same way we don’t ever care… every damn year,” Bennett gives voice to my earlier thought. “Honestly, my real concern’s for Sawyer’s mental well-being. It’s obviously slippin’. I mean, more than usual, and far too rapidly for his age. He’s got twelve months to think up something new, twelve, and nothin’. Early-onset dementia. Gotta be it. Sad, really.”
And… match. Bennett for the win.
“Shorty, you just gonna stand there and let ‘em talk about me like that? Threaten to snap my not-at-all stubby, if judgin’ by the way they make you moan, fingers?”
Emmett’s soft giggle floats on the air. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. Don’t throw stones if you can’t catch them when they come flying back at you. Plus, don’t share anything, with anyone, at any time, about my, uh, moans if you ever want to hear them again. And, last but not least, please tell me you’ve gotten all that sparkling wit of yours out of your system, and don’t plan on calling our daughter, and/or nieces, a ‘ho’ when they get here.”
“They’d think it was funny. ‘Cause it is. They’re not a bunch of-”
“Sawyer, quit talking and bring your dumb ass back here,” I yell from my office, stopping him a couple poorly-chosen words short of death.
“Always a joy, arguing with you women, but, as you heard, Daney needs me. You boys coming?”
“Nah, think I’ll stay with the ladies,” Zach answers him, Evan following up with a dead-panned, “Same.”
“Kiss-asses,” Sawyer grumbles, while on the move, sounding closer to my sanctuary… where the much-needed Scotch is served neat.
“You’re damn right,” Zach hollers back. “And later tonight, when you’re on the couch, alone, I’ll be kissing her-”
“Zachary,” Bennett hisses. “Much like Emmett’s moans, we do not share with the class either. Especially not with the “Sawyer Section” of the class. You know it only encourages him. Have you learned nothing in all these years, or you looking to get cut off too?”
Yep, much-needed Scotch; of which I pour myself another dose. This is where we’re at… and we haven’t even eaten yet.
And yet, I wouldn’t trade this, my family, for any other in the world.
“Why the hell do you get to hide out?” Sawyer busts in my office, and I do a double take, making sure I’m seeing correctly and didn’t miscount how many drinks I’ve had, then turn my head, trying not to choke on my indeed correctly-counted mouthful of aged-whiskey.
“What’s so funny, Dick?”
When I’m as composed as I’m gonna get, I turn to him, and have to laugh again… like I haven’t in too long to remember. “What the hell are you wearing?” I sort of say, more so wheeze.
“My ugly sweater. Better question, why aren’t you wearing one? Not that the shirt you have on isn’t ugly as fuck; you always dress like a preppy lil’ fuck-boy, but did you not read the agenda?”
I shake my head, not yet able to totally shake my laughter. “I didn’t.”
“Whitley! Gidget! All the other Ghosts of Christmas is Pissin’ Me Off, get in here!” he roars... only amusing me further.
Laney comes rushing in, her beautiful brown eyes wide with expectation of something horrible, the others hot on her heels. “What? What happened?” she pants, eyes scanning for blood spatter.
Sawyer whirls his big, angry self around, shifting the air in the room, and glares them all down. “Why isn’t Daney wearing an ‘I like fucking my wife so I’m gonna wear this ugly-ass sweater’ sweater? And while we’re on the subject, who thought putting Whitley in charge of shit was even close to a good idea?”
Wouldn’t trade any of them. Or a single second of the melodramatic circus that is us.
“I did,” Evan declares, joining the somewhat cramped mayhem. “She worked damn hard on everything too, so shut it, Titbag. Laney, where’s Dane’s sweater? I’m having a damn heatstroke, about to itch my own damn skin off in this thing; he’s putting one on too.”
“I don’t have one to put on.”
Sawyer hoists both arms in the air. “I know what you’re all thinking, but save your breath; I already told him the shirt he’s wearing sucks plenty. And, not the point.”
“Hello? Parentals? Anybody here?” JT calls out, appearing in the doorway seconds later. “Oh, hey. Why’s everybody packed in back here? Did something happen?”
“Nothing bad,” Laney assures him in her motherly tone.
“Okaaay, then… oh, geez, please tell me this isn’t some ‘Secret, Almost-Dead, Parental Society’? Or one of those freaky mid-life crisis swap meet things you read about on the Internet, like a fishbowl drawing? Oh…” He perks up and snaps, “Is it finally an intervention? And if so, whose?”
“Nice sweater, so
n,” I seethe. “Now, say again? The part about swapping, and fishbowls, in reference to your mother. Think I must’ve heard you wrong.”
His face blanches, eyes quickly finding the floor. “You did, my bad. Clearly not the time for a joke, especially if this is an intervention.”
“It’s not, and yes, it was your bad. So fix it. While being man enough to look them in the eyes. Your shoes aren’t that damn interesting.”
His head snaps up. “Sorry, Mom, aunts. Really. Out of line.”
“Not a big deal, except to your father, but I appreciate it.”
Mama’s boy.
“So…” This time, he claps. “What is up?”
“Your dad-”
“Nope,” Zach cuts Sawyer off, “can’t listen to it again. Dane, put on a damn sweater, uglier than what you’ve got on. Everybody else, back in the living room. If we aren’t eating in the next twenty minutes, I’m ordering pizza! Let’s go. You heard me; move it!”
He herds the masses down the hall, but Laney stays behind, sauntering over to me with motive in every step. “Caveman,” she purrs, “can you do me a small favor?”
“You have it hanging in my closet?”
She nods.
“You gonna help me put it on?”
“We have a house full of people,” she gasps, “including one of our children.”
I slide a hand along her leg, hitching it up and around my hip. “All I asked for was a little help with my sweater, baby. What are you suggesting?”
“Stop. I have to go play hostess. But later…”
“Later was always a given. Now, with the favor added in… you can’t get this house empty soon enough for me. Midnight. Wrap. It. Up. Agreed?” I growl, rubbing against her.
She answers with a heated kiss, hands tangled in my hair, trying her best to climb me. Tongue saying ‘yes,’ tiny moans saying ‘hell yes.’
I pull away first, all-too-aware of my threshold… and how there’ll be no stopping me if she crosses it. “That’s my girl. Stay just like this, hot and wet for me, and move things along. Midnight,” I remind her, swat that fine ass…
And go put on the sweater.
“You know… I could take over the gravy, give everyone else a task… no one would notice if you slipped away for a few minutes,” I knowingly whisper to Laney, said knowledge stemming from our very similar husbands.
She gives me a secret side glance and smile. “Yes, they would. I’d be gone a while.”
“True,” I snicker. “What was I thinking?”
“Merry Christmas, party people! I’m here; let the celebrating begin!” Presley’s voice pierces the air… and sound barrier.
“Well, thank God, the season can officially commence, now that my child’s made her subtle entrance,” I sigh.
Laney just laughs. “Em, you’ve got to stop worrying about her every word or every move. We all know and love Presley, like she’s our own. Actually, she is our own, and we accept her, adore her, exactly as she is. Family doesn’t judge or scrutinize. Family embraces and enjoys each member, as is… for what only they can add. In our eyes, Presley is perfect. You just let me know if anyone says different.”
“Really?” I worry my bottom lip. “You don’t think she’s been getting worse? Way-over-the-top?”
“No. I think she was born over-the-top, and raised by a mother who taught her morals, ethics, the good stuff, and a heathen, who taught her the rest. I love Presley, so knock it off or you’re gonna make me mad.” She playfully nudges my shoulder.
And the second I exhale, feeling a bit better, in she bursts.
“What’s cookin’, good lookins’? Oh, except for your, um, sweaters. Not sure what’s goin’ on there.” She motions a pointy, sarcastic finger up and down the length of us. “Whatever it is, you should make it stop.”
Her father’s daughter— crazy head to outspoken toe.
“Hi, honey. You look beautiful tonight.” I ignore her sass and hold out my arms for a hug.
“That’s because I didn’t let a blind person, or Aunt Whitley—just a guess—dress me.” Ever-ready with a comeback as she hugs me, then does the same to Laney. “Not to traumatize you further, but warning shots fired. I spotted her separating notecards into color-coded stacks when I came in. That can’t be good. Who put her in charge?”
And now she’s quoting her father — verbatim.
“We’ll survive; with smiles on our faces, young lady.” Laney emphasizes her directive with the gravy-covered spoon pointed right at Presley. “Once we get through this, there’s nothing else for her to plan until July Fourth… so, use that as your… happy, cheerful, ‘I am loving these activities’ fuel.”
“Yeah, good plan. So, we skippin’ Easter this year then?”
“Shit,” Laney groans, abruptly flinging the spoon back in the gravy. “Forgot about Easter.”
“And Uncle Dane’s birthday?” Presley… presses.
“I get it. Stop talking.”
“Always here to help!” Pres pops an olive in her mouth and breezes out with every bit as much flair with which she entered.
“I swear, I didn’t do any drugs, or drink, when I was pregnant with her.”
“Em, seriously, you gotta loosen up. Life’s too short not to laugh every single chance you get.”
Once Sky and Judd arrive and Brynn gets home, from where, I didn’t catch, we finally gather at the table to eat. My helpful husband offers to say the prayer… and is immediately met with a resounding chorus of protests, so… for the first time ever, I speak up.
“Please join hands and bow your heads. Judd-”
“Yes, ma’am,” he beats me to it, removing his hat.
“Now then.” I clear my throat, dip my head… and offer thanks. For each unique soul that makes our family whole, in body or spirit. For every memory, and moment, to come. And for blessing me with a spot at this, of any in the world, table.
“Damn, Mom, you spanked grace! Where’d that come from?” Presley asks when I’m finished.
“I have a lot to be thankful for, besides your language. We all do, and I thought I’d better jump on the chance to get a word in edgewise.”
“Atta girl, Em. It was beautiful,” Zach praises.
“Very. P’s right; you totally spanked it.” Bennett nods. As though “spanking” a prayer is normal conversation, everyone falls into a comfortable rhythm of passing dishes, filling their plates, and other small talk… until Whitley reaches her limit… about to pop.
She raises her hand, because she always does, beaming ear to ear. “Did the adults, uh, I mean, the, the elders, remember to choose their quotes?”
“The elders?” Presley doesn’t whisper to JT. “Is that supposed to be condescension, or did Aunt Whit just win the race to facing reality?”
“No way I’m answering that, because they’re all listening. Inside voice much?” he doesn’t whisper back, his absolutely wonderful girlfriend Bellamy burying her face in his sleeve to, I assume, laugh.
“Baby, no idea on this quote plot twist either. You got me covered?” Dane speaks over them to ask Laney.
She rolls her eyes, digs in her pocket, then hands Skylar a piece of paper. “Pass that down to your father.”
“Great!” Whitley’s excited now. “I’ll start.” In all that is “Whitley,” she sits up straight, wets her lips, and pauses… letting the moment build. “‘Call it a Clan, call it a Network, call it a Tribe, call it a Family: whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.’ Jane Howard.” Another pause. “I, we, call it a Crew. Our children call it a Squad. I chose this quote because I thought it was perfect for us, and she didn’t use our words. She must’ve known they’d be taken.”
Whitley Allen has the purest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.
Tears build in my eyes, Bennett’s too… why, I don’t know… as if serious emotion would be tolerated here.
“Whitley, none of our quotes could possibly compare to that.” Dane shakes his head, faking amazement prett
y well. “So, I say we leave it on that note. No sense in the rest of us even trying.” He manages to seem solemn too. Not bad.
“Uh huh. You’re full of more shit than the turkey, Dane Kendrick. Your turn.” Laney’s raised brows and tone call him out even louder than her words.
“Two.” He holds up as many fingers. “Two favors.”
“Daddy!” Skylar whines. “Ewww. Always, always, ewww. You’re not speaking in code, we’re not deaf, or five anymore, and just… no. Must I keep saying this?”
“Seriously, Daney, it’s Jesus’ birthday, for Chrissake. Have some class.” Again, my helperson husband trips over his own tongue, and I, again, dip my head… might need to throw in another prayer too.
“It’s Jesus’ birthday, for Chrissake? Really? I’d say ‘good God,’ but at this point, I’m already headed straight to Hell by association. So, my turn,” Evan huffs. “‘Families are the compass that guides us. They are the inspiration to reach great heights, and our own comfort when we occasionally falter.’ Brad Henry. Your go, Zach. Hurry up, before anyone gets a wild hair up their ass and talks off-script.”
Don’t need to tell Zach twice; he’s here for the food. “‘A happy family is but an earlier Heaven.’ George Bernard Shaw. Good one, sweetness.” He leans over and kisses Bennett. “Don’t even, Whit.” Lips still on Ben, he catches, and stops, Whitley’s wind-up. “Evan didn’t pick his own either. Compass? Like his tattoo, that you chose? Sell it somewhere else, sister.”
Oh, God… now Presley’s about to talk again. Please, please let it be something eloquent, sentimental, spiritual… I’ll settle for sans cuss words.
“Elders? Excuse me, Elders? As much as it pains me to put more doom and gloom on your whole ‘Jesus’ birthday, for Chrissake’ anthem you’ve got rockin’, I don’t think you’re playing your own games right.”
“Amen,” Brynny grumbles.
“They’re not. They’re so not,” Whitley adds, frumping.
“Whitley, I think it’s a very sweet, meaningful idea. I’m anxious to read mine. That I put time and thought into choosing, and everyone will love.” Laney stands, whips out another piece of paper from her pocket and slowly, seriously, gives everyone the eye. “‘The informality of family life is a blessed condition that allows us all to become our best while looking our worst.’ Marge Kennedy. It’s like she knows us, right? And I, somehow, knew… this exact quote would be fitting.”