The Christmas Wedding

by James Patterson

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” said Seth. “Near fatal. Not a problem.” Then they both laughed, nervously, but there was laughter.

  Seth eased the car very cautiously back onto the Mass. Pike.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Andie said.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Let’s turn off the iPod and sing Christmas carols, like ‘Jingle Bells’ or ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.’”

  “Good idea,” Seth said. “I just wish I knew which Santa Claus my mommy is going to be kissing.”

  And so Seth and Andie sang Christmas songs.

  And then they did something even more unexpected but definitely in the spirit of the season.

  Now they had a very cool surprise of their own.

  Chapter 34

  CLAIRE AND HANK

  TWO NIGHTS EARLIER, Claire had done the hardest, most awful thing she’d ever had to do: She told Hank to get out of the house. She shook as she said it, but she said it. And Hank got out. He saw the tears in Claire’s eyes, but he also saw the anger and the resolve, and maybe even the hurt he’d caused.

  “She’ll get over it, Dad. She always does,” Gus said as he helped Hank put a duffel bag and a six-pack of Heineken in the car.

  “Yeah,” Hank said. “I’ll sweet-talk my way back before Christmas. You stand strong, now. You’re the man while I’m gone.”

  “I know that, Dad. I’m the man.”

  Then Hank made a foolish error: He went back inside the house to try to kiss Claire. She turned away and walked quickly out of the kitchen.

  But she did hear him shout, “Just remember, you’re the bitch who threw me out of here. You’re the bitch who ruined our family’s Christmas.”

  The twins, Toby and Gabrielle, were frightened by Hank’s leaving. Gus seemed amused. And Claire hadn’t yet told anyone else—not even Gaby—about it.

  That night, when she lay alone and upset in bed, she wondered if she were the bitch who had ruined Christmas. Couldn’t she have waited until the new year? Or given Hank another chance? Should she have found some sort of marriage counselor? And where would Hank go? She almost didn’t want to think about that one.

  But she didn’t have to wait long to find out. The next evening, as she and the children were quietly eating baked macaroni, Hank walked in.

  “Look, it’s Daddy,” Toby yelled, and he and Gabrielle rushed to embrace their father.

  “Man, you wasted no time,” Gus said, and Hank tousled the boy’s hair.

  Angry as she was, Claire had to admit that Hank was looking good for a change. Good as in “good and handsome,” good as in “good and sexy.”

  His blond hair was washed and combed into perfect place. He had shaved, and he smelled of a cologne that was his favorite, though not actually hers. White shirt, blue blazer, khaki slacks. The hayseed preppy, she used to call him, and that’s exactly what he looked like now.

  “May I pull up a chair?” he asked.

  He didn’t wait for Claire to reply. He simply sat in his usual place and scooped out a portion of baked macaroni—with his hand. But only enough so that it wasn’t too gross. Just the kind of slapstick that worked every time with the kids.

  Hank was all charm, but Claire was not about to fall for it, not the way she had so many times before. She knew the routine by heart. Hank cleaned himself up, transformed himself into the perfect gentleman, looked as young as one of the surfers over at the Grand Strand Beach.

  “Get a plate, Daddy,” said Gabrielle, laughing at Hank’s sloppiness.

  Then Claire finally spoke: “You’re going to have to leave, Hank.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Claire. It’s Christmas,” he said.

  Then Hank managed to transport the entire portion of baked macaroni from his hand to his mouth.

  “No, Hank. This is it.”

  He swallowed the huge mouthful before he spoke again. The pause was effective, and excruciating for her.

  “Claire. I got the message. I got the news. I’ve been a total jerk, but it’s going to be different from now on. Okay? I got it.”

  She knew this conversation should not be taking place in front of the children, but she also knew she could not back down now.

  “No, it’s not okay,” she said.

  “Mom, give the dude a break,” Gus said.

  “Yeah, Claire. Give this dude a friggin’ break,” Hank said.

  “Get out, Hank. Get out now. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

  Hank stood up and wiped his hand on Toby’s napkin. For a moment Claire thought that he might come at her with a fist or a fork or a knife. Instead he walked to the door.

  “Good night, guys,” he said. “Merry Christmas to one and all.”

  All three children said “Merry Christmas” in voices soft and nervous. And all Claire could think was I hope I have the brains to give myself a great Christmas gift. I hope I have the strength not to let him back. But as she looked at Toby’s and Gabrielle’s gloomy faces, as she watched the quiver of their lips as they held back tears, Claire wasn’t sure she would have the guts to see this through to the end.

  But she had to—she had to have the guts.

  Chapter 35

  “TELL YOUR BROTHER I want him down here in ten seconds or less,” Claire said to Toby.

  It was eight o’clock on a damp Carolina morning, the day after Hank’s dinnertime visit. Claire, Toby, and Gabrielle were packing the truck for the long drive to Massachusetts. Claire would be at the wheel, Gus would be riding shotgun, and the twins would be stuck in the jump seats.

  “Tell your brother we’re ready to leave,” Claire repeated.

  Toby screamed at the top of his lungs: “Gussssss! Mom said get down here! We’re ready to go!”

  “I meant go upstairs and tell him to come down,” Claire said. “Go on, now. Scoot. I’m waiting on you both.”

  Then she did what any mother would do—she took out her cell phone and telephoned Gus.

  “Gus, I told you that I want to make central Jersey before it gets dark, and we’re not going to do it unless we leave right now.”

  There was a pause. She clicked the phone shut, mumbled the phrase “Son of a bitch,” and ran inside, passing Toby along the way.

  “We’re leaving,” she shouted outside Gus’s room. “Right now, young man. Toby—get in the truck!”

  “Go ahead without me,” she heard Gus say.

  “Get out here now.”

  “I’m not going,” he shouted back. “I’ll go stay with Dad.”

  “I swear…I’ll break this door down.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Claire took a deep breath, rubbed her face, and went downstairs and outside. Toby and Gabrielle, rapt, watched her unhook the side compartment of the truck where the spare tire was kept. The twins were wide-eyed as she walked back inside the house.

  She was carrying a tire iron.

  At Gus’s bedroom door, she said, “Last warning.”

  Gus replied, “Get the fuck away.”

  And that did it. She held the tire iron high and smashed it against the door.

  The wood began to splinter. Claire landed blow after blow after blow with the tire iron. There was now a hole in the door that was larger than her head. Through that hole she saw a very frightened-looking Gus.

  “Are you ready now?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “We’ll be in the truck.”

  She walked down the stairs. By the time she reached the kitchen she realized that her hands were shaking and that her eyes were tearing up. I’m a mess, she thought. I’m an absolute mess. But I do have guts.

  “What’s up with Gus?” Gabrielle asked as Claire climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “He’ll be down in a minute. I finally talked some sense into your brother.”

  GABY’S SIXTH VIDEO—A WALK WITH TOM

  Yesterday, I was headed over to the barn to get breakfast started when my cell phone started ringing.

&nbs
p; A phone call at five-thirty in the morning is usually bad news. But not this one. It was Tom, telling me he couldn’t make our breakfast group, but asking if I would have lunch with him. I said yes before he even finished the question. And then, of course, I started wondering if there was a problem and what it was that he wanted to talk about.

  Tom picked me up around noon. A half hour later we were parked at the entrance to a state park. He pulled out a big cloth shopping bag from the backseat and said, “You up for a picnic in the woods?”

  I was. I loved picnics, and I also loved spending time with Tom. We’d been doing stuff like this since we were kids.

  What an unbelievably beautiful day for late December. Brilliant blue skies, lots of sun, temp in the low fifties.

  Tom has eyes like an eagle. During our walk he pointed out an otter’s den on the side of a frozen brook and a fat gray wren starting to build a nest on a high branch in a bare tree. When the weather turns suddenly warm, the birds who stay up north get confused and think it’s spring.

  The melting snow made the ground soggy in most places, but we found a nice flat boulder that was warmed by the sun. We spread out a blanket, and Tom unpacked a bottle of white Burgundy, some salami, and brie and apples and French bread.

  The wine loosened my tongue, and I found myself asking Tom something I’d always wanted to ask: why he never talked about the days he played pro hockey.

  He avoided the question again and said something like “If you skated for the Flyers in the seventies you don’t go bragging about it.”

  I asked him why. And he said, “Do you know what the Flyers’ nickname was back then? The Broad Street Bullies.” Tom went on, “We were a bunch of demented animals. We were told that fighting was more important than skating. I started hating the game. So I quit. I broke my share of noses, and my stick was up in the air more than it was down on the ice. But I just couldn’t keep doing it.”

  Tom asked if I felt like walking some more. I would have done just about anything to make the day last longer.

  In a few minutes we were in a crab apple orchard. The trees were big and thick and gnarly.

  “Come on up with me,” he said, and we climbed to the lowest big branch of a tree. He held out his hand for me, and I tried to act like I climbed trees for a living. Then we scrambled up to the next branch and snuggled into a cozy crook.

  Now it was late afternoon. The air was getting cold and crisp again. We had a perfect view of the Berkshires in the distance.

  Together, Tom and I watched the pale winter sun start to go down. There was no better place to be, and Tom was the right person to be there with.

  I think I’ve said enough for now.

  It’s almost Christmas.

  Yay.

  BOOK TWO

  The Days Before Christmas

  Chapter 36

  ’TWAS THE SEASON to be exhausted. And since we were planning Christmas and a wedding, well…’twas the season to be ridiculously exhausted.

  “Listen, guys, I need the string of lights to be more…I dunno…careless-looking. As if an angel just sort of tossed them up there over the barn doors,” I shouted to Tom, who was perched at the top of a very old and shaky wooden ladder.

  “Gaby, the reason he’s not responding is because his lips have frozen shut,” said Jacob, who was holding the ladder, a bit too casually, I thought. Considering thinning out the competition, maybe? No, Jacob and Tom were best friends. They still were best friends, right?

  It was seven o’clock in the evening without a cloud in the black sky. The New England air was refreshingly clear and painfully cold. A slightly nervous bride-to-be, an ex–hockey jock, and a wisecracking rabbi were finishing the outdoor decorations.

  Stacey Lee and I had already taken care of the inside of the house— a majestic ten-foot-tall Christmas tree in the front hall, evergreen and holly branches stacked high on the fireplace mantels. The time-worn stockings I had knitted for the family years earlier hung by the chimney without as much care as usual, because I’d gotten a little sentimental as I put up Peter’s stocking.

  Stacey Lee had the sweet common sense not to say anything. She just hugged me. Drama was definitely in the air, wasn’t it?

  “How’s that look?” Tom called down. He had on another of his hockey sweatshirts, or maybe the same one, and he still looked like he could skate up a storm at the drop of a puck.

  “Perfect,” I shouted back. “Close enough.”

  “Pull the whole thing a few inches to the right,” yelled Jacob. As Tom followed his orders, Jacob looked at me, shrugged, and said, “What? Because I’m Jewish I can’t have an opinion about Christmas lights?”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Hold the ladder still!” Tom yelled down. “And no smooching until Christmas.”

  “Some holiday spirit,” Jacob grumped. Then he added, “Here comes a car!”

  Bright headlights flooded the long driveway leading to the house. The passengers didn’t seem to notice the three of us, but we all saw this wasn’t a car—it was a red pickup truck.

  “That’s Claire! It’s Claire!” I yelled. As I ran toward them, I looked back at Jacob and Tom. “It’s Claire and Hank and the kids! Hold the ladder tight till Tom gets down. We might need him for the wedding.”

  I ran as fast as my klutzy Uggs would let me. There they were—Claire and Gus and my precious namesake, Gabrielle, and Toby and…Hank was missing.

  Then we were huddled together in a noisy group hug—everyone, that is, except Gus, who had that perpetually pissed-off teenage frown on his face.

  “Hi, everybody. Claire, what happened to Hank?” I asked as I forced a great big hug on Gus. “Glad to see you, bub,” I whispered against his ear.

  “Hank couldn’t make it. He’s so disappointed,” Claire said.

  I knew that there must be a story attached, but it wasn’t the time to ask about it. If Claire wanted to share, she would. For now I was just happy that my “Southern belle” daughter and my grandchildren were here. And I was, I had to admit, a little happy that Hank wasn’t with them.

  Chapter 37

  THE FAMILY WAS starting to come together—the great southern contingent had arrived, anyway. And of course, Jacob, Tom, and Marty were here.

  “Oh, no, take it away! Take it away from my face!” Toby screamed. With a great dramatic gesture he pushed his dinner plate away. Then he yelled, “No Crazy Tuna Hash for me!”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m not the world’s greatest cook, but you don’t have to hurt somebody’s feelings.” Toby gave me a hug.

  “If we knew you were cooking up the Crazy Tuna thing, Gaby, we would have driven a lot slower,” said Gus. They were the first words he’d spoken since he arrived. I gave him a playful smack on the back of his head, and he chuckled.

  “Bunch of comedians,” I said, but I was so happy to have them near me. Then I added, “This gourmet delight you baptized Crazy Tuna Hash happens to be the specialty of the house. And since I was all out of canned tuna, I substituted canned salmon.”

  “Oh, now, that’s a big improvement,” said Tom, who was pouring red jug wine.

  “Listen. Stacey Lee is busy with the food for the wedding, so you’re stuck with my cooking tonight. I thought everybody liked this dish.”

  A silence filled the room. Then everyone burst out laughing.

  “Well, the salad is good. And there’s nice French bread from Stacey Lee’s store,” I said. “Now, can I help anybody with more hash?”

  “Gaby-Gaby, what exactly goes into Crazy Tuna Hash?” asked Toby, perfectly innocently, I thought.

  “Well, of course, there’s tuna…or occasionally salmon, if you’re very lucky…and there’s rice, and it involves some cream of mushroom soup, and some Velveeta, and a quarter cup of sherry, and almonds—which I was out of, so I used peanuts—two packages of frozen corn niblets, a can of water chestnuts…”

  “We’ve heard enough. Let’s stop for a moment,” said Jacob. �
��I think this meal deserves an extra-special grace. Gentlemen?”

  Tom stood and said, “Thank you for this meal we are about to receive. It will bring us joy and love and, clearly, it will bring us laughter.”

  Marty: “We ask for health, for all of us, but especially for Mike, who couldn’t be here tonight, but who’s coming tomorrow.”

  And then Jacob: “Finally, we pray for our mother and grandmother and great friend, Gaby. May she find the love and peace she so richly deserves…hopefully with me.”

  As we all laughed and said “Amen,” I watched Claire looking at Tom looking at me. Then Claire smiled at me. I didn’t know if she was smiling because she thought the prayer was a good one or because she thought she had identified Tom as the groom.

  I did know that the kitchen suddenly filled with a blast of cold air. We all looked over at the door.

  And what to my amazed eyes should appear? Emily and Bart, of all people.

  I rushed over to them. I couldn’t believe they’d gotten here two days early. I’d have been grateful if they’d been on time for “Here Comes the Bride.”

  Dr. Bart—a foot taller than me—looked over my head toward the kitchen table. “Em, this is going to be the best Christmas ever,” he said.

  “Why’s that? The wedding?” Emily asked as she entered the room to hugs.

  “No,” said Bart. “Because it looks like they’re all out of Crazy Tuna Hash.”

  Chapter 38

  IT WAS ALMOST one in the morning, and we were still going strong. I had lit a big fire in the living room fireplace and we’d covered ourselves with quilts and blankets. Even Toby and Gabrielle were wide awake. And Stacey Lee had come by with a pound of her absolutely perfect maple-walnut fudge.

  “This fudge is our reward for getting that Crazy Tuna Hash down our throats,” said Claire. Everyone laughed and, probably because of the Grand Marnier I was sipping, I laughed too. Actually, I’d served the hash because it was a family joke.