by L. E. Rico
It reminds me of my wilder days. The days before Hennessy, when my assistant, Helen, would have to peel me off the office couch every morning.
“In…” I hear him say. “And out… Good, good! Again…”
But not now. Now, I’m happy. I’m in love. I don’t have to worry about my reputation, or my business, or the fact that my father was—
“Bryan! Come on, now, breathe!” The priest’s voice is harsher, louder and closer than it was a moment ago.
And then he slaps me—not hard, just enough to jar me into taking a huge breath. My lungs inflate to their full capacity, and I’m able to focus on the very concerned man in front of me.
“I—I’m okay,” I rasp. “I’m fine…just a little dizzy there for a second.”
I put a hand onto the frozen ground beside me and attempt to push up onto my feet, but I can’t quite get enough power behind the motion.
“Just stay put there for a minute, Bryan.”
I do. For a couple of minutes, actually, until the whoosh in my ears has subsided and the tunnel vision is gone and my breath is coming in regular, normal increments. Only then do I stand, with the help of a steadying hand from Father Buddy. When I’m upright again, I wipe my slick forehead with the back of my sleeve and offer a wan smile.
“Thanks, Father. I don’t know what happened to me…”
“How many times?” he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“How many times what?”
“Don’t play games with me, son. How many times has this happened to you?”
“Oh, I—uhh…” I consider lying to the priest, but suddenly the idea of God smiting me seems like a very real possibility. “This is the second time,” I admit. “The first was about a week ago.”
“And where were you?”
“I was driving…”
“And the children? Where were they?” he demands.
“What children?”
“The children you saw just before you started to feel like this.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I stop short when the image of two boys holding the ladder while their father hangs the Christmas lights outside flashes into my mind. It comes with so much force that I gasp. Father Buddy nods, as if it’s what he suspected all along.
“Yes, I thought so. Bryan, you’re having panic attacks.”
“What? Oh, no. I don’t think so—”
One sternly raised eyebrow is enough to stop me mid-denial.
“And I think they have to do with children. Specifically, about you and Hennessy having children.”
I’m about to say something when a wave of nausea rises up from the pit of my stomach faster than I can bolt for the bathroom. Instead, I pivot around and make use of the brush next to the tree I’m clinging to.
Oh my god. Could Nutty Buddy be right? Is it possible I’m afraid of kids?
No…Not possible! I’d have noticed before now—before this. But what if the batty old guy is right? What then? I mean, how do I have that conversation with Henny?
“Trust me on this,” he’s saying. “You’re not the first groom—or bride, for that matter—this has happened to.”
I try hard to focus on what he’s saying—because if I’m not the first, then surely there’s a protocol here. Some sort of “panic attack S.O.P.”
“Okay, so…what? I say a few Hail Mary’s and an Our Father and I’ll be good to go?” I ask hopefully.
When Father Buddy chuckles, the warmth of his breath vaporizes into the cold night air—much like the cigarette smoke of just a few minutes ago.
“What? Oh, no. Were it only that easy! No, son, what you need to do is exorcise the ghosts.”
I blink hard and try to process what he’s just said—because it can’t be what I think he said.
“I’m sorry—did you say I should exercise…with goats?”
This time it’s not a chuckle so much as an eruption of laughter that resonates across the wood wonderland around us.
“Ghosts, Bryan. Not goats!”
“You think I should exercise with ghosts?”
Now he looks less amused than concerned.
“Son, did you hit your head and I didn’t notice?”
Seriously? This guy’s talking about working out with the dearly departed and he thinks I’m the one with a head injury?
“Ex-or-cise,” he continues. “There are ghosts that live somewhere deep in your mind and in your heart—they’re insidious little buggers that can take down the strongest of relationships. Get rid of them, Bryan. Exorcise them. Slay them. Kill them.”
“Kill them?” I echo. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Clearly you’re being haunted by some past event or trauma—perhaps from your own childhood. Until you identify it—and exorcise it—it’s going to haunt you. It could destroy everything you’ve worked so hard to build, Bryan. Believe me when I tell you—this will get worse before it gets better.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I don’t. Not that Father Buddy seems to expect me to respond. Instead, he pockets my flask “for safe keeping” and walks me back to my cabin.
Somehow, my bed is still warm when I crawl back under the covers, and I fall into a shallow, restless sleep. It’s filled with dreams of ghosts, and exorcisms…and goats in running shoes.
Chapter Seven
Hennessy
Santa’s cat is wearing a tiny red and white sweater—an equally small stockinged cap somehow affixed to its head. Against all reason, the feline doesn’t seem to be the least bit uncomfortable in its holiday-themed garb. He—or is it a she?—is curled comfortably on a blanket in what appears to be a tiny sleigh.
“Hey there, Mr. Christensen!” I greet our longtime bell-ringing Santa. Claude Christensen has been standing on the corner of Main and Glenwood collecting change for the Mayhem Mission for as long as I can remember.
“Why, Hennessy O’Halloran! Have you been a good girl this year?” he asks in his trademark Santa voice.
“You tell me! Aren’t you the one with the list?” I tease and am treated to his hearty laugh. “At any rate, the present is for you today…”
I hand him a large to-go cup.
“My, my, my—what have we here?” he asks, somehow maneuvering the lid off with his chunky black gloves. He brings the cup to his face and takes a long, deep breath of the vapor coming off the hot drink as it hits the frigid air. “Is that…?”
I nod and smile. “Walker made it for you special. Coffee…with a little something extra to ‘warm the cockles.’”
He takes a sip, his eyes closing blissfully as he tastes the Irish Cream that he loves so much. “Well, now that is a Christmas miracle!” he proclaims.
“Miracle? Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“Hennessy, dear, the older you get—the more life experience you gain—you’ll come to recognize the everyday miracles all around you. It’s not always hand-of-God stuff, you know—like curing lepers and parting seas. Sometimes it’s a neighbor sending you a warm cup of cheer on a cold Saturday afternoon.”
I smile at him just as the mini-him stretches its long, lean hindlegs and meows up at us—as if to complain that we’re disturbing his beauty sleep.
“Who’s your sidekick?” I ask, leaning over to scratch behind one silky black ear.
“Oh! That’s Coal.”
“Coal as in…”
“Yup. As in ‘coal in your stocking.’ I adopted the little guy from the shelter this summer and had the Santa suit made special for him by the Knitty Kitty.”
I glance down the block where there’s a line out the door of the Knitty Kitty showroom. Apparently, custom cat apparel is at the top of several Christmas gift lists.
“I warn the little ones that if they’re naughty, they’ll get this coal in their stockings!” As if on cue, the black cat gives a low, menacing growl.
“Yeah…that’d be enough to keep me off the naughty list,” I mutter, taking a step back from the sleigh.
&n
bsp; “Not to worry, Hennessy. It’s all for show. Now, tell me, how are those wedding plans coming along? Word on the corner here is that Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift will be singing a duet version of ‘Sweet Child of Mine.’”
I feel my jaw unhinge, and I’m sure it’s hanging at a very unflattering angle…but I can’t help it. Where on earth do these crazy rumors get started? I shake my head slowly.
“Uhhh…no, sir. No plans for Miley or Taylor, and certainly no plans for Guns N’ Roses…”
“Well that’s a shame,” Santa Claude says. “I do love a good Axl Rose cover.”
I’m starting to wonder just how much Bailey’s Irish Cream my sister put into that to-go cup.
“All righty then…” I begin, my voice just a hair too high. “I’d better get going. I need to find a Christmas/wedding gift for Bryan. I’ve managed to get everyone else on my list done, but he’s really stumping me.”
“Oh? Maybe I can help,” Santa says, handing me his drink to hold while he rummages through the fuzzy pockets of his red and white suit.
After a few moments, he pulls out a small notebook—the kind with the top-bound cover that reporters and detectives carry with them in the movies. He flips through the pages clumsily until he comes upon one that seems to please him. He nods and holds it up for me to see. I lean forward and try to process what I’m seeing. There, on the tattered page in a ballpoint ink that’s faded with time, is Bryan’s name…and what he wants for Christmas. Or, rather, what he wanted for Christmas some years ago—supposedly—if this notebook is to be believed. I don’t believe it. Clearly, I’m not the only elf who’s been topping up Santa Claude’s cup of Bailey’s “liquid cheer.”
“Oh, Mr. Christensen! You’re such a tease! I don’t know how you did that, but it’s a good trick,” I say, straightening back up and giving the white-bearded man a playful swat with my scarf.
His left eyebrow goes up over round, wire-framed glasses, and a half-smile makes his mouth twitch.
“You don’t believe me?”
I just keep smiling and give him my best “seriously?” look.
“All right then…” He starts flipping back toward the earlier pages in the notebook, stopping once again and holding it up. His index finger is tapping on one line in particular.
Hennessy O. Age 7. NICE. EasyBake Oven.
I gasp at the small, neat handwriting. I remember that Christmas. And the EasyBake oven. It was a test. Someone at school told me Santa wasn’t real. So I never told my parents—or anyone—how much I wanted that oven. And, when it was there, under the tree on Christmas morning, I knew that Santa had heard my request.
Suddenly, I get a strange kind of tunnel vision where my immediate surroundings fade away but everything around me comes into sharp focus. People are bustling up and down Main Street, slipping in and out of storefronts with their bags. Down the block, the Mayhem High School brass band is playing on the steps of the post office, spilling “The Carol of the Bells” out onto the sidewalk as passersby pause to listen. Atop each of the Dickensian-style street lamps—just below the globe—is a green pine wreath topped with a huge red bow. And, in the center of the park, the town workers have just put the finishing touches on the twenty-foot spruce that serves as the Mayhem Christmas tree every year. Tonight, when evening snatches away the last bit of daylight, people will stand around it, singing Christmas carols as the mayor flips the switch that brings the thousands of lights and giant star atop the tree to life.
And in the crisp air around me, I smell the snow that’s coming.
Chapter Eight
Bryan
When the door of the little convertible swings open, the first thing to appear is a long, black leather boot with a ridiculously high heel. No sooner does it hit the salt-stained pavement than its mate appears. The boots are followed by long, black-stockinged legs and the shortest little skirt I’ve ever seen—also in black. I avert my eyes, pretending to examine the car as Jacintha Rowling appears to unfold herself from the driver’s seat in slow motion. It wouldn’t do to have anyone thinking I’m checking her out. Especially not in a town this size. If I’m not careful, the local gossipmongers will be reporting by lunchtime that Jacintha’s carrying my love child…or maybe not. I should hope by now everyone knows that I only have eyes for tall, blond, blue-eyed attorney-turned-entrepreneur types.
“Jacintha,” I say with a smile once she’s totally upright, her skirt tucked safely beneath a pink, faux-fur-hooded parka.
“Ah! There’s my lost little boy!” she exclaims in her posh British accent. “And look how well-preserved you are in this climate.” We meet on the sidewalk and share a warm embrace.
When I had first moved to the west coast, I got my start by finding beautiful, expensive, vacant properties and selling the owners and their realtors on using the property for per diem wedding rentals. Then I pitched the properties to wedding planners all over town. Jacintha was my very first partner in the venture, and we’ve remained friends ever since. I’m thrilled that she made herself available to plan our wedding and, after this visit, I’m hoping Hennessy will understand what a valuable asset Jacintha can be.
“Well, I’m very grateful that you were willing to venture to the frozen tundra,” I say with a grin as we pull apart. “I’ve got you a room at the Inn here in town…”
“Oh, no need, love. I’ve got a suite at the W close to the airport.”
“That’s quite a hike. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something local?”
She looks around for a moment, squares her gaze back on mine, and shakes her head. “No worries. I like my creature comforts, you know. And I don’t care to stay in anyone else’s home. Unless, of course, you’d like to offer me a room in yours…”
My eyebrows go up in surprise, and I’m relieved when she starts to laugh, giving my arm a playful swat.
“Really,” she says, “I’m fine. But I am on a bit of a time crunch, so where to first?”
“Ah, well, I want to show you a local legend, The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop. I thought we’d have a cup of coffee, maybe a little pie…”
Jacintha’s face squishes in distaste. “Oh, no, love. I don’t do pie. The carbs and the sugar. But I’m happy to come for the coffee.”
“Jacintha, I hope you’ll reconsider. The pie at this place is a-maz-ing.”
She smiles at me noncommittally, and we walk down the street, catching up on mutual friends I’ve left behind in L.A. When we arrive at the restaurant, I help her with the parka and hang it on a peg next to mine. We take a seat by a sunny window table just as Janet Lahti, pie proprietress and sometime mystic, blows through the room, stopping short at our table, as if she’s hit a brick wall.
“Janet? Are you all right?” I ask with concern.
She seems to regroup and smiles—though something’s a little bit off with her today.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, fine. Thank you, Bryan,” she replies.
“Janet, this is my friend, Jacintha, from L.A. She’s planning our wedding.”
I swear I see something akin to alarm cross the older woman’s face, but it’s gone so fast I can’t be certain.
“Nice to meet you,” Janet says curtly, turning her attention to me. “What can I get for you today?”
“Oh,” I say, hearing the disappointment in my own tone. “I was hoping you might have a special recommendation…”
Janet has a knack for baking pies. And telling fortunes. And using pies to tell people their fortunes. She’s also been known to convey messages from The Great Beyond and other far-flung spots across the universe.
She considers me for a long moment. “Yes, actually. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” She shuffles off so quickly that she creates a breeze, which knocks my napkin to the floor.
“Well, now, she’s quite a character.” Jacintha smirks.
“That she is,” I agree, then lean forward so no one else will overhear. “But she’s got this thing…this gift, really. She can tell your future by which
pie you choose.”
“Really,” she says flatly. “Then why did you ask her to pick the pie for you?”
I hold up a finger and smile. “That’s the flip side of her gift,” I inform Jacintha. “Sometimes she feels compelled to make a special especially for you… It often has something to do with a message from the universe.” I make my voice sound all spooky and wiggle my eyebrows until she laughs.
“I’ve missed you, Bryan,” Jacintha says suddenly, impulsively. “Things haven’t been the same since you left town.”
I shift a little uncomfortably in my seat, unused to this particular tone from my old colleague.
“Well, that’s nice of you to say, Jacintha. Hey, how’s it going with that guy of yours…the pro football player. What’s his name? Harry Hubert?”
She wrinkles her nose distastefully and shakes her head.
“Oh, no. That’s quite over now. No, I’m free as a bird. Totally unattached,” she adds with a cryptic smile. At least, it’s cryptic to me.
Is…is she flirting with me? All at once, an image of Holly Homewrecker pops into my mind.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure there are guys beating down your door…”
She shrugs, the smile fading, giving me a rare look at the real face behind the one that she paints on every day. It’s not a sad expression, so much as a wistful one.
“No need to be,” she’s quick to say. “It just wasn’t meant to be. Besides, you know how it can be out there—so hard to find a genuine person to share your life with.”
“Believe me, I realized that the first time I laid eyes on Hennessy,” I jump in, anxious to insert my fiancée’s name into the conversation. “I didn’t know how lonely I was—even when I was dating all the time. I mean, I know plenty of great women back on the coast, but none of them got me the way that Hennessy gets me.”
Jacintha reaches a hand across the table and pats mine gently. “Oh, I don’t know, I think I ‘get’ you, Bryan,” she says. “Enough to wonder if you could ever truly be happy in such a small town. In the middle of nowhere.”
I’m about to correct her on this point when Janet returns, balancing two plates on her left arm and carrying a carafe of coffee in her right hand. She scowls pointedly at our touching hands on the table, and I quickly pull mine away.