The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “So there was a money/time squeeze.”

  “True, but that’s a lame excuse. I think if I’d really wanted it, if I’d really been driven to do it, we would have found a way to get it done. I don’t think I did.”

  “So what does a married science nerd with a wife and two babies do for a living?”

  “Sounds like a Jeopardy question. And the answer is: write articles for scientific journals!”

  “Not a bad way to make a living.”

  “It was awful.” Mike gives a hoarse laugh and shakes his head. “Nobody read them. The salary was pitiful. And the job was a total dead-end. I would add that my boss hated my writing style and red-lined everything I turned in, but that sounds way too self-pitying. Even if it’s true. God, those were ghastly years. Career-wise, I mean.”

  The waitress drops off our salads. I skip the oil, add a touch of vinegar.

  “How’d you turn things around?” I ask.

  “Dumb luck. I bumped into a friend of mine from college at an environmental conference in Vegas. By then he had made a fairly decent name for himself as a journalist. He was covering the conference by default—the paper’s science writer had retired. Somehow or another, I started writing pieces for him on the side. You know, freelancing here and there. Ten weeks later, he offers me a job writing for the Washington Record. So my wife and I pack up the kids and move to D.C.”

  I will not ask him why their marriage ended. It’s a hugely personal question and one best reserved for three or four months into dating, if a couple makes it that far. Only someone completely lacking in any sort of class or discretion would ask it on the first date.

  “Why’d your marriage end?” I ask.

  I can’t help myself. I really can’t.

  “Well, Kami and I wanted different—”

  “Wait a minute. Kami? Fitness instructor Kami?”

  Kami of the ceaseless perkiness, tiny waist, pert breasts, and the ‘O’ shopping experience? Redheaded Kami, mother of Mike’s strawberry blond X-men? (I’m just now putting it together.) That Kami?

  “Well, yes, she leads some fitness classes. But that’s just a side thing. She works full-time as a hospital nutritionist.”

  My thoughts are spinning. Kami and I are polar opposites. What does that say about what he finds attractive? He married a woman who was petite, tight, and toned. A spunky ballerina. Someone who could waltz right into Beyond Beauty and buy anything she wanted. Slay that snarling wolf. While I, on the other hand… my sole triumph there was being snarky to the manager.

  Our waitress removes our salad plates and serves our entrees. I stare in dismay at the heaping pile of noodles drenched in Alfredo sauce sitting in front of me.

  Damn. I should have ordered the fish.

  Mike smiles. “Looks great, doesn’t it?”

  He’s right. It does. I make a mental note to get back on that horse tomorrow (I mean it this time!) and dig in. Between bites we discuss our marriages, our families, places we’ve been and places we’d like to visit, the joys and challenges of raising teenage sons.

  “And the kids’ books?” I say, circling back to our earlier conversation. “How’d that happen?”

  “More dumb luck. I couldn’t believe Ethan and Dylan didn’t love science the way I did. But when I looked at their textbooks, I began to understand. It was all so dry and boring. So I started writing little lessons just for them. You know, the same basic principles that were in the book, but with an injection of humor. Science made fun, I guess. Long story short, their friends borrowed them, then their teacher, until finally a rep for one of those school book fairs found them in the library and sent them on to his publisher.”

  He shrugs. “The rest, as they say, is middle-school history.”

  We’re both on our second glass of wine. I take a slow sip. I’m liking everything about this. The meal, the wine, the company.

  Mike says, “I’m seriously impressed, by the way. Maybe even a little jealous. You’re doing exactly what I wanted to do back in college.”

  “Me? What am I doing?”

  “Leading change. Making a difference.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Is that what I’m doing? Feels more like a rousing game of Whack-a-Mole, trying to keep a grip on this challenge while steering Eaton onto the right tracks.”

  “What tracks would those be?”

  “The same things every small town wants. Growth and prosperity, good health care, parks and open space, strong educational system, decent infrastructure, a sense of community cohesiveness. The people here deserve that and more.”

  “I like that.”

  “What?”

  “The way you talk about Eaton. Like this town’s a member of your family or a good friend you care about.”

  The waitress brings Mike the check. We’ve been here two hours. Eating, talking, dawdling over coffee. It’s clear neither of us is ready for the evening to end.

  “You in a hurry to get home?” he asks.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Good. Let’s take a drive. Show me someplace special to you in Eaton.”

  “Huh,” Mike says. “So this is it.”

  We’re standing in the middle of an empty factory. Soon I hope it will be filled with storage tanks, canning and packaging machines, extruders and fat distributors, enormous vats for producing steam, die cutters for shaping, industrial ovens, and die-cutters. All the equipment Canine Cuisine needs to start production.

  But we’re not there yet. Right now it’s freezing cold and eerily silent. Dim lighting throws ominous-looking shadows against towering cement walls. An echo of diesel fumes hangs in the air. At least this time I’m wearing boots with my skirt, rather than open-toe pumps, so I don’t have to worry about stepping in slush puddles.

  He says, “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “You asked me to show you someplace special to me.”

  “I know, but… This is it?”

  “Yup. This is it. You could have asked me what I wanted for Christmas and the answer would have been the same.”

  He glances around the empty space, then back at me, bewildered.

  I say, “You’re looking at Eaton’s future. It’s right here. Right where we’re standing. What’s happening downtown is lovely, but it’s not sustainable. Not unless we have jobs and income to support ourselves. Filling this space is my number one goal. Not winning the challenge, not getting elected. Both would be great, but neither one matters the way this does. And the clock is ticking. I’ve got to make it happen now.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because before Granger’s challenge, nobody had ever heard of Eaton. We’ve never been the focus of so much attention. This is the time to use that exposure to attract new businesses. Once the spotlight swings away, we’ll be forgotten again.”

  “So you don’t mind what’s happening right now? The whole media tailspin?”

  “Not if I can use it.”

  “Use it how?”

  I pause for a second, carefully choosing my words.

  “There’s this image in Hollywood that we all subscribe to—that you have to be rich and thin to be happy. That the only places in America that matter sit along the east coast and the west coast. The fact that we love our small town, choose to live here, raise our kids here, makes us target of ridicule. People assume we’re stuck here because we’re too stupid or ignorant to know any better. We’re not. This is the time to prove that. To show who we are, maybe even make Eaton stronger in the process.”

  Mike says nothing, but I can sense him thinking.

  I give him a sideways glance. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give a speech.”

  We’re walking through the empty space. Heading no place in particular but it’s freezing so it feels better to move.

  He asks, “You always want to be in politics?”

  “Never crossed my mind. I sort of stumbled into it. Volunteer work, committees, PTA, school board. One thing led to another and…” I pause, shake
my head. “Look, I’m not a politician. I have no desire to head off to Washington, D.C. and go on to bigger and better things. I just want to make my community better and have an impact on Eaton’s future.”

  “Well, you have my vote.”

  “Thanks, but you can’t vote. You don’t live here.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going back to D.C. after the holidays.”

  He frowns. “Who told you that?”

  “Well, I thought…” I pause, running our earlier conversations through my mind.

  Mike shakes his head. “I got tired of the constant back and forth between D.C. and here. Only seeing the boys on extended weekends, holidays, and summer vacation. I’ve missed too much already. And now that I’m writing books full-time, rather than working for the paper, I can live wherever I want.”

  “Oh.”

  I take a moment to emotionally recalibrate. I accepted this date in part because it couldn’t possibly go anywhere. This was supposed to be a trial run. Mike was leaving town. We just made a U-turn in a direction I didn’t expect. Suddenly tonight takes on a totally new dimension. I feel as though I’ve accidentally bumped into one of those Rube Goldberg jigamathings, where the shoe kicks the bucket that spills the marbles that spins the lever that turns the fan that drops the hammer… I have no idea what will happen next.

  Mike says, “You know, when I was asking you to show me someplace special in Eaton…”

  “You didn’t have a deserted factory in mind?”

  “Not exactly. I was kind of hoping you’d take me out to Lookout Point, or wherever high schoolers around here go to make out these days.”

  “And risk running into one of our kids?”

  He gives a horrified laugh. “I didn’t think of that.”

  The glass in one of the windows has been knocked out. I know this because an icy gust of wind blasts us, bringing us to a stop. He hesitates, then steps closer. Places one arm on the wall behind me, blocking the draft. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. I’m about to suggest we head back to the car when I see something building in his eyes.

  He says, “I’d like to kiss you.”

  It’s been a while. I’m out of practice. I think my pasta had garlic. I couldn’t possibly.

  I say, “I’d like that, too.”

  I close my eyes, lift myself up on my toes and lean forward. And just like that, he brings his mouth down on mine.

  There’s a rule about first impressions and it goes like this: within seven seconds of meeting someone new, people will form a solid impression of who you are and what they think of you. There must be a similar rule about kissing. Because within seven seconds of our lips locking, I know this is good. Mike is happy and so am I. We kiss without the awkward hesitation of new lovers coming together for the first time. We don’t need to. We just dive right in, our responses crystal clear. I like the scent of his skin and the strength of his arms. He likes the taste of my mouth and the swell of my hips and the crush of my breasts against his chest.

  It’s December. We’re freezing our butts off in the middle of a deserted factory. All's right with the world. Merry Christmas to me.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Want some hot chocolate, Rachel?” Susan’s husband asks me.

  “Nah. Thanks, Drew, but I’m good.”

  It’s Saturday, a little before noon. Eaton’s first annual winter carnival is about to kick off. We’ve gathered at the hill near the high school, waiting for the sledding to begin. There are about eighty of us here, a nice mixture of adults and kids. All bundled in puffy coats and pants, colorful hats and scarves. Sleds, toboggans, and saucers at the ready.

  Susan’s boys, Trey and Jacob, are here, though Susan couldn’t make it. Drew tells me she’s been working around the clock trying to keep pace with her Beyond Beauty assignments. Apparently Pat Kilburn, the company’s CEO, is coming through town in a couple of weeks to visit their new retail location. Susan’s hoping to meet with Kilburn in person and maybe secure a full-time position, rather than rely on her freelance gig. She figures the thicker her portfolio, the better her chances.

  I make a noncommittal murmur. Not a Beyond Beauty fan, obviously. But I’ll keep that to myself. No sense putting Drew on the spot. I chat with Trey and Jacob for a bit and then move on.

  Turns out Esme couldn’t make it, either. Saturday’s one of her busiest days at Queen of Tarts so she sent Nelson to keep an eye on Lorna and Liandra. The twins, however, aren’t having it. They’re intent on maintaining an exaggerated distance from their father, shuffling away with their friends the moment he moves closer. It’s like one giant game of keep-away.

  “What’s that about?” I ask.

  “Apparently I have become a huge source of embarrassment to my daughters.”

  “Any special reason, or just because they’re twelve?”

  “My language.”

  I raise a brow in silent question.

  “I chaperoned the middle school dance last night. I was talking to a group of kids there and accidentally dropped the ‘S’ bomb.”

  “Oh.”

  “No. Not that. The other one.” He pauses and leans forward. “Santa.”

  Ah. Very touchy word. Little kids adore it. High schoolers get a kick out of it. But middle-schoolers are still too close to their ‘sprinkling carrots in the yard for the reindeer’ years to like it when someone asks what Santa’s bringing them for Christmas.

  “They’ll get over it,” I say.

  “Maybe. But now Esme’s not happy with me, either.”

  “Because of the Santa thing?”

  “Nah. Before that. Dinner last night. I knew we had to rush out the door for the dance, and Esme’s been working like crazy, so I thought I’d be a nice guy and bring home pizza. You know, something quick and easy so we could all sit down together and relax a bit. No cooking or rushing around.” He shakes his head. “You should have heard the screaming when I walked in the door carrying a meat lover’s special. And not just Esme, either. All three of them. Over a pizza.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, the yelling. It’s not like I suggested we cook the cat, for God’s sake.”

  I sympathize. I really do. But it was a thoughtless move on Nelson’s part. What part of d-i-e-t is so difficult to understand? Like me, Esme’s probably been white-knuckling her willpower these past couple days. Or maybe she slid and she’s trying to do right again, demonstrate to her daughters how easy it is to eat healthy. And in waltzes Nelson carrying a piping hot slab of crusty dough mounted with tomato sauce, cheese, and spicy pork products. What kind of support is that?

  Nelson says, “I told her this stupid challenge was giving her a raging case of kitchen PMS.”

  Good move. Solid radar on his part. Way to size up a situation.

  “Uh-huh. How’d that go over?”

  “Not too well, actually. All the women in my life seem to hate me right now.”

  “They’ll get over it,” I repeat.

  He rocks back and forth on his heels, staring at a snow-laden cedar branch as though imbedded there is the answer to the mystery of why his entire family turned on him. As I see it, the bottom line is this: his daughters are growing up and his wife is trying to reach a personal goal that both effects and excludes him. A person more cynical than me would say he was trying to subvert them all. But I like Nelson. I think he’s a good guy. So here’s my opinion. He committed a couple of insensitive and clueless (albeit well-meaning) errors. Ultimately forgivable with a sincere apology, hug, and a bouquet of flowers. But I’ll wait for him to figure that out all by himself.

  “Listen,” I say, “how about Guy French?”

  “Guy French?”

  “Canine Cuisine.”

  “I know who he is, Rachel. What about him?”

  “Any word?”

  Now he looks at me like I’m the idiot. I can’t blame him. If French had contacted him about the lease we sent over, I would have heard about it by now. I guess we all have our
blindspots.

  Speaking of. Mike’s not here. He told me last night he wouldn’t be able to make it. Apparently his X-men don’t just play football and lacrosse. They’re also starters on the varsity basketball team. They’ve got an away game at Schrodersburg and Mike is tagging along to watch his star athletes shine. I say this not to sound catty, though I know I do, but because Matthew woke up this morning a total grouch. Turns out the X-men held a little impromptu get together last night. Bunch of the kids who were hanging around Church Street for the tree lighting went down to the lake together afterward, including Hannah.

  But not Matthew. He wasn’t invited. Last night Mike and I discussed the joys and challenges of raising teenage sons. But now, in the face of this latest twist, that all seems theoretical. I’ve got no idea what to do. The boys are too old to force them to be friends. Even if I tried to make that happen, I’m not sure how I’d carry it out. Something along the lines of Hey, your dad and I kissed in a deserted factory, so now the three of you have to be nice to each other.

  That’d go over well. I can just imagine Matthew’s response.

  I decide to think about it later.

  As I mingle through the crowd saying hello, I realize I’ve come to know most of the reporters by name. By and large, they’re friendly people who take their jobs seriously, despite having been saddled with a silly assignment like covering the SlymJym Weight Loss challenge. Even the guy who tried to take that unflattering footage of my rear end isn’t so bad, once I got to know him. They’re all here because they’ve got a job to do, and they’re doing it the best they can. Sort of like me.

  After a few minutes, Jym calls the crowd to attention. This is a fitness activity, so I’ve handed over the reins to him. Basically the gist is this: participants sled down, then trudge all the way back up the hill carrying their sleds. Great exercise that doesn’t involve sweating in a gym. They’ll be prizes for speed, prizes for tricks, prizes for the best-decorated sled.