After Christmas

by Anna Catherine Field

  “Definitely have a plan, it’s the only way to tackle something like this.” She gives me a tight smile. “It’s not easy, cleaning a house like this. You’re not the first client we’ve had that has struggled with letting go.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath, fighting the constriction in my chest. “Start with the garbage. I can do that. “

  Together, we start walking back toward our street.

  “Since I fired you and you don’t have to work, what are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a deadline for a project that I’m already way behind on.”

  A memory flickers in my mind. “Do you still have the little studio up in the crow’s nest?"

  “You remember that?”

  I chuckle. “I remember the sign on the door that said, ‘No Boys Allowed,’ which made it incredibly enticing.”

  “I haven’t been very productive lately. Hopefully having less obligations will free up my creative juices.”

  “Sounds like we both have some work to tackle before Christmas.”

  We stop on the street between our houses. Tillman’s truck, which had been backed up to the house, is gone. I don’t see my sister’s car either. Maybe they all took off. I take a deep breath and say, “Thanks for the insight.”

  “You can get through this, Julian. When you’re finished, you can head back up north with a clean slate.”

  There’s a bite to her comment, and when I look over to question it, she’s already walking up the stone steps that lead to her house. I face my own porch, bracing myself for the job ahead. It’s not going to be easy.

  5

  Collins

  “Walking in a winter wonderland…”

  It could be the music queued up on my playlist or just the bombardment of the season, but the only thing popping up in my imagination is a cozy winter scene. The image keeps coming up fully formed, a tree with antique ornaments, a warm, inviting fireplace. A train running underneath. I’ve sketched it ten times.

  Maybe if I change the playlist…

  “Don’t forget Skating with Santa tomorrow night at the outdoor rink!” the announcer says with jingle bells chiming in the background. The rest of the commercial is cut off by the sound of breaking glass outside my window—loud enough that it carried up here to the third floor. I pull open the trap door and look down the stairwell.

  “Tillman! Watch where you’re going!”

  “You said you had it!”

  “I said I didn’t have it! You’re deaf, Van. Get your hearing checked.”

  “My hearing isn’t the problem! You’re a klutz!”

  At the very instant my mother appears on the scene, trying her best to get everyone to calm down, my phone buzzes with a text. I close the door and sit back at my worktable.

  Miller: SOS

  Collins: What do you want?

  Miller: I need your help. No. WE need your help.

  Collins: I retired remember?

  Miller: Please. Julian is about to flip out.

  Collins: Why me?

  Miller: He listens to you. He always has.

  Collins: LOL. That’s ridiculous.

  Miller: Sis, we’re desperate.

  I sigh. I knew separating from the business would be tough. I’d expected for us to have December off. The Edge house is a problem. I can’t escape.

  Collins: Fine. But you owe me.

  Miller: Anything.

  I don’t tell him what he owes me. I’ll need to think on that first.

  I put away my sketch book and supplies, then climb down the ladder from the crow’s nest. Tillman and Van are in the yard, picking up shards of glass. It’s trash from a long-abandoned project Mrs. Edge had for a greenhouse.

  “Watch your step,” Van says, as my shoe crunches the glass. I roll my eyes at them and keep going. They’re always rushing—usually looking to meet up with one girl or the other.

  I find Miller on the steps.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the back bedroom.”

  I head into the house and see that Molly and my mother have made some progress. By progress, I mean the place looks like a bomb has gone off—it’s in that unfortunate place where things look way worse before they get better. I step over boxes and trash bags, easing my way around a large armoire that’s covered in dust and cobwebs to get to the back hall. At the back bedroom, I peek in the doorway and see Julian surrounded by objects. Not just objects. I realize this room has become the room for all the Christmas stuff.

  “Hey buddy, what’s going on?”

  He turns slowly, pretty blue eyes narrowed. “Did you just call me buddy?”

  “Is that a problem?” I ask innocently, knowing good and well, I’m stirring the pot. “Buddy” is what Julian and Miller called girls they weren’t interested in. It was an instant code. Avery and I thought it was hilarious and starting using it ourselves—but mostly just to harass the boys and knock them down a notch.

  “No.” But for some reason, I think it does.

  I glance around the room, a little overwhelmed myself, which says something. My eyes land on the Christmas china, and I pick up a dish.

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “I was working in my studio today, and I couldn’t stop drawing the same kind of hokey design over and over.” I hold up the plate. “It was this.”

  Julian takes the plate and while he stares at it, I take a long look at him. He still has those long eyelashes that drove the girls crazy in high school, but right now dark rings under his eyes are more prevalent. His golden-brown hair is a little shaggier than the last time he came home. For years he and Miller were typical beach bums, with sun-bleached, shaggy hair, and golden tans. Miller still has the glow, when Julian left, he seemed to leave all that behind, preferring more conservative hair and clothing. The last few weeks, with the funeral and everything else, has taken a toll on him.

  “Mom loved to change out her china—one for each season. I always thought it was ridiculous. Why would you need more than one set of china? I also hated dragging it in and out of the big cabinet downstairs. It just seemed like too much work.” He drags his hand through his hair. “Which now, in hindsight, isn’t true.”

  “How about we start sorting this room. Figure out what to trash, keep, or sell?”

  He takes a deep breath and nods, not fighting me like I expected. I shut the door so he can’t hear what’s going on in the other parts of the house, and to keep him focused on our task. It’s not easy—or fast. We have to go through every piece and sort them into different sections. His mother had antiques, handmade pieces, collections, and an alarming amount of new items still in the box.

  It takes a while, but we get into a rhythm. Broken or damaged pieces get tossed immediately, whereas, when Julian’s eyes light up when he sees something from his childhood—either antique or handmade—I place those in the keep pile.

  “You mom had a thing for penguins,” I comment, holding up a figurine. It’s cute, but new.

  “I guess? I mean, I don’t remember that. I think she just couldn’t pass up a deal.”

  That much was obvious from the discounted price tags on most of the items.

  “Keep or sell?” I ask, holding up the penguin.

  He waves his hand. “Sell. I don’t think I have room for penguins in my apartment.”

  I laugh. “I’d like to see that.”

  “What? A penguin in my apartment or my place in general?”

  I’d meant the penguin, but I shrug and say, “Either, I guess.”

  “This is the first year I’m not living with a bunch of guys. It was just too loud, and I wasn’t able to focus.”

  I snort. “Trust me, I understand the curse of living with too many guys. Why do you think I hide out in the crow’s nest all the time?”

  “Because you’re a recluse?” His lips curve at the corners. “Anyway, it’s above a diner, so it’s not much quieter, but the access to coffee is nice.”

  “D
o they have amazing bacon and egg biscuits?”

  “No one has a better breakfast than the Sugar Bowl.”

  “Ah, so there is something you miss about the island.”

  He inspects a retro, tin Santa box. Inside are matches. It’s missing the white ball that hangs from the end of his hat but has a perfect jolly expression.

  “Toss that for me?”

  I take it from him and feel a strange spark of joy looking at it.

  “Can I have this?”

  “Sure,” he says absently.

  I push the box into my back pocket.

  A few minutes later, he looks around as if coming out of a fog. “Are we finished?”

  I shove a broken box of glass balls in the trash bag. “I think we may be.” I smile. “Good job. You got through your first room. How do you feel?”

  He exhales. “Tired, but not as panicked as before. Thank you for walking me through this. It’s hard, but not as bad as I expected.”

  “It’s a lot of work, Julian. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m happy to help.”

  He grimaces. “Even though you’re retired?”

  “Consider this my Christmas gift to you.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “We’re exchanging gifts this year?”

  “I guess we are now.”

  I walk toward the door open it, realizing that it’s dark outside, and the others are long gone. I check the time, it’s dinner time. “Wow, we worked pretty late.”

  “It was a lot of stuff.”

  “So much.”

  He walks me to the door, and I step out on the porch. Across the way, I can see my mother and Tillman in the kitchen window.

  “By the way,” he says as I start down the steps. I pause. “There are definitely things I miss on the island.”

  His eyes hold mine and a feel a slow, strange heat rising off my neck. For a brief flicker of a moment I feel that old current, the one I’d always hoped was something more, run through us. Until he adds with a wink, “Night, Buddy.”

  I roll my eyes, mostly at myself and walk away home, reminding myself that Julian Edge hasn’t changed one bit.

  The knock on the trap door startles me. I’ve been staring at the retro Santa for an hour, trying to suss out exactly what captivates me.

  I put down the box and bend over, lifting the door. To my surprise, it’s my mother.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “Just wanted to see what you’re working on.”

  She looks around the small room. It’s probably been years since she’s come up here. In a house full of boys, mom gave me this room after I came home one day and found my art project destroyed during an epic wrestling match. I’d been as crushed as my artwork. That night she brought me up the tall ladder and told me that it had always been her special hiding spot. It was now mine, and I could use the space as a little reprieve from the noise and constant destruction of my brothers.

  She takes in the drawings and sketches tacked to the walls, a few trinkets I’ve collected over the years from various estate sales, and my art supplies, carefully arranged. I gesture to the small floral armchair tucked in the corner and she sits down.

  “Seriously, why did you come up here?”

  She sighs. “I understand why you aren’t working for the business anymore. I understand your need to focus on your schooling, but if we’re going to get this sale together by next week, we really need your help.”

  “To what? Babysit Julian?”

  “We got more done today with you keeping him distracted than we have since he’s been home.”

  “Mom, you know Julian and I have never been friends.”

  “You were kids then. You both liked to drive each other crazy. You’re older now, I think you can handle a few weeks of working together.”

  “What about Miller? They’re best friends. Why can’t he do it?”

  “Who would rather be surfing or down at the Dive with his best friend. If I take my eyes off of them for too long, they vanish.”

  I frown. That sounds right.

  “I need your brother focused on his own work, but that’s not the only reason I’m asking. You’re really good at keeping him focused and calm. Molly noticed it too. For some reason, he finds you less threatening.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s because he still thinks I’m twelve.”

  The way he called me “buddy” earlier lingers in my ears.

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” she says, a small smile on her lips. “I promise, Collins, this will be your last job. Just help us get through this. Not just for me but for Molly and Julian. They need this, and we’re running out of time. It has to be done by deadline.”

  My mother’s expression is hopeful. Pleading. It’s not a move she often pulls. I sigh dramatically, for good effect. “Fine, but when this is over, I’m really finished, okay?”

  I glance at my blank work table, and her eyes follow mine. She nods in understanding, knowing that my art and this project are important. I just hope that I can actually come up with an idea.

  6

  Collins

  In order to limit my time working with Julian, I agreed to meet with him in the mornings. Nine to twelve. We have five days to get the job done, but I refuse to let it take over my life. It is Christmas, and besides my art project, I need to do the regular things like buy gifts and prepare for the family events we have coming up.

  I get up early and pull on jeans and a hoodie, then, on my way out the door, grab the cat food in the pantry. The morning air is cool, amplified by wind rolling off the ocean. I pull the hood over my head and quickly run down to the cat shelter.

  At the end of the path I stop short, surprised to see someone already with the cats. My surprise turns into astonishment when I realize it’s Julian.

  The strong scent of tuna fish hits me halfway down the path.

  “Morning,” he says, looking more refreshed than the day before. The smudges under his eyes are less noticeable.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The cats swarm around his legs, lured over by the smell of fish. “I found a stack of cans in the pantry. Like, a preparing-for-the-apocalypse amount of cans. Mom probably got them on sale and forgot about them.”

  He bends and pops off another lid and the cats pounce.

  “They’re going to get spoiled,” I say, watching my favorite, One-Eye, lick juice off his fingers.

  He grins. “Afraid they’ll like me more than you?”

  “As if. You’ll be gone in a few weeks, and they’ll be stuck with me and my dry food again.”

  We spend a few minutes petting the cats. Part of the reason for feeding them like this is to get them used to being around people. That way I can trap them and take them to the vet for a checkup and then tagged to go back in the wild. Sometimes they’re socialized enough to find a home.

  “Well,” I say, standing up, “I need to run a few errands before meeting you back at the house.”

  He pets One-Eye and then stands, brushing off his hands. “What kind of errands?”

  “The Sugar Bowl for coffee. Some new storage bins for your house. If you’re keeping some stuff, you need to be able to store it and carry it back home.”

  We walk down the path, and he holds back the vine of ivy that’s hanging from the fence. I duck under.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “To run errands?”

  “My kitchen is a mess right now. I need breakfast anyway.”

  His kitchen is a mess. I shrug. “Sure, meet me at the truck in five minutes.”

  I store the cat food and wash my hands in the kitchen. Through the window, I see Julian walk down his front porch to the beat-up truck I’d inherited from Miller, who inherited it from Van, who inherited it from Tillman. It was already about fifteen years old when he bought it from Mr. Johnson, the owner of the fruit stand by the highway.

  Tillman enters the kitchen scratching his stomach. “Where are you going so early?”

>   “To run errands.”

  He reaches for a banana from the fruit bowl and glances out the window.

  “With Julian?”

  I dry my hands on a towel. “He was at the cat shelter this morning, and when I told him I was running errands, he asked to tag along.”

  A line creases his forehead. “You and Julian getting along. Never thought I’d see that.”

  “We’re not getting along. Mom and Miller are forcing me to help him accept the house clean-up. I’m just doing my job. If we both have caffeine and breakfast in our bellies, hopefully it will go easier.”

  Also, I think, if he’s involved in the process of buying supplies, he can’t act so shocked.

  At least, I hope.

  I leave my brother in the kitchen and head back outside. Julian’s waiting at the truck.

  “It’s open,” I tell him.

  “Oh right. I forgot you don’t lock the truck.” We long stopped securing the doors, in hopes that someone may just steal the truck, and we can collect the insurance and start over. No such luck.

  Inside the cab, I crank the engine and flip the heat to blast, hoping it’ll warm quicker. Julian fusses with the vents, drawing my attention to his slim fingers.

  “It smells the same,” he says as I drive down the block.

  “What?”

  “The truck. It smells exactly the same as when Miller drove it.” He runs his hands down the dash. “I spent a lot of time in this truck.”

  “And what kind of smell is that, exactly?”

  He inhales. “Salt, sunscreen, a little sweat, and…”

  “And what?” I glance over, and he has a strange, serene expression on his face.

  “Good times, I guess.”

  I laugh. “That’s not a smell.”

  He nods. “It is. Trust me.”

  I drive through the neighborhood headed toward the Sugar Bowl. I sneak a breath, an inhalation, trying to catch the scent Julian is talking about. It’s faint. The salt and sunscreen, most of it ground into the fabric of the seats, but the truth is that all I really smell is the clean, soapy scent rolling off of Julian. It’s intoxicating.

  “Do you smell it?” he asks, leaning his arm on the window sill.