Shaking the Sleigh: Seasons in Singletree

by Stewart, Delancey

  "Okay," I said. I was here to solve problems. I might have no idea how to solve the issue with Callan and Uncle Rob, but this? I could handle this. "So, is this a … never mind," I said quickly.

  But it was too late.

  "It's our sex swing," Mr. Wentworth said, without a lick of shame in his voice. "The exposed beams in here make it the perfect place to hang it. Plus we like to look at the tree."

  Oh for the love of Santa! I tried to keep my face neutral as my heart rate sped up. "Sean," I turned to the cameraman who was bright red with the effort of holding his breath so he didn't laugh. "Can you get that ladder so we might get up there and see if maybe one of you guys can loosen that stuck bolt?"

  Sean cleared his throat loudly, tried to speak, and released a garbled sound before nodding and heading for the front door.

  As I turned back to the sex swing, hanging merrily in the center of the living room, something on the tree caught my attention. And then something else. Oh god, how distracted had I been when I was here before? This was not happening … I had enough problems. As my eyes traveled over the Christmas tree, I realized I should have inspected the actual tree decorations much more closely when I’d been here before. I lifted a hand to one of the hanging decorations and stepped closer. "Are these …?"

  "Nipple clamps," Mrs. Wentworth said, coming to my side. "Aren't they pretty?"

  I could only nod. No, they were not pretty. They were creepy, and why were they on the tree? What exactly was happening here? I turned to look at the demure Mrs. Wentworth, who was quickly morphing from sweet little matronly lady into some kind of sexual diva in my mind. "Oh," I managed. "And this is …"

  "A cock ring," Mr. Wentworth said. "The missus spent hours spray painting those with glitter." He grinned at me as the second cameraman, James, sputtered in the corner of the room while I struggled not to laugh, or cry, or pass out.

  "And here is," my hand moved toward another item hanging on the tree as my eyes widened and my breath caught.

  "That's an anal plug, dear," Mrs. Wentworth said. "Surely you knew that," she laughed as if she'd just corrected me on the names of the reindeer, not on the fact that the gaudy red plastic plug hanging from the Christmas tree was meant to go up someone's actual butt.

  "So your tree is themed," I said, feeling somewhat comatose suddenly. My thoughts scattered as I gazed around at the cozy cottage that had suddenly become some kind of octogenarian pleasure palace. It wouldn't matter if Callan did the show or not. I was going to get fired for not realizing the Wentworths were sex fiends.

  "Yes," Mr. Wentworth said. "We thought it would be a good representation of who we are." He and his wife were holding hands, and their fingers were stroking one another somewhat eagerly. I took a step away, feeling oddly touched and repulsed all at once.

  Just then, Sean returned with the ladder. "Let's see if we can get the sex swing out of the shot, shall we?" He asked merrily, evidently having regained control of himself outside.

  "We might need to just … adjust the décor on the tree," I said, hesitant to actually touch half the items dangling from the pine branches before me.

  "Oh, do we have to?" Mrs. Wentworth pouted.

  I turned to her, telling myself Mrs. Wentworth was just the nice old lady I’d met before, even if she did have a far more active sex life than … well, than anyone. "We do, I'm afraid," I said. "The show is PG, and we try to avoid too much suggestion of … well … sex."

  "It's not like we're going to actually have sex on camera," Mr. Wentworth said loudly. Then he looked over at the camera James was setting up and his face smoothed as an idea clearly popped into his head. "Unless—"

  "No, of course not," I cut him off. "Do you have any other decorations for the tree? Maybe something a little more traditional?"

  Mrs. Wentworth sighed. "In the back shed. There's a box out there. I think it's labeled 'boring holiday décor.'" I sincerely hoped that meant glass bubbles and reindeer. Boring sounded pretty good at that moment.

  I nodded at James to go investigate as I began reluctantly plucking sex toys from the tree and making a small pile at my feet as the Wentworths murmured their disappointment.

  Relief claimed me when the couple didn't put up a fight about changing their décor, and I began to feel a little bit more confident about my ability to do my job. Now I just needed to decide how to handle Callan's house. Would I do what my uncle expected? Or was there maybe a way I could give him something so spectacular he wouldn't care whether Callan was on camera or not? And what would happen when my uncle realized my level of involvement with Callan Whitewood? Could I keep it a secret at this point, even though I knew very well I was in love with him?

  A full hour later than planned, the filming was finally underway, the Wentworths watching hand-in-hand as the crew progressed through their desexified house slowly.

  By the time they'd finished for the day and I’d had a final pre-filming meeting with the crew back at the inn, I had decided what to do.

  I composed an email to my uncle, hit 'send,' and closed my laptop, feeling like I had done the best I could in a difficult situation. But this was my job. I’d handled it like a professional. Everyone would just have to accept that this was work—it wasn't personal.

  I was just preparing to text Callan, to let him know I was heading over and to ask if I should pick up some food, when Annabelle approached me in the lobby, a wary look on her pretty round face.

  "Hi April," she said, her voice a couple notes too high. Her Mrs. Santa costume must have been too tight, I figured, knowing Annabelle would certainly sacrifice her own comfort in the name of holiday cheer.

  "Annabelle! How are you?"

  Annabelle held a box in her arms, and it looked heavy, but she hugged it tightly to her and dropped her eyes to it for a moment.

  "Hey," I said when my friend remained silent. Annabelle seemed upset. Something was wrong. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

  A strangled sound erupted from Annabelle's mouth and she shook her head. "I'm so sorry," she said.

  "What? Why are you sorry?" I had no idea what was happening, but a surge of concern welled up in me for my friend. Annabelle and I might not have known each other long, but I genuinely cared about her—and about all the other people I’d met in this strange little town.

  "Mr. Whitewood, erm … Callan, asked me to give this to you." She pressed the box gently toward me as my heart began to sink inside me.

  The box was full of my belongings—the things I’d taken to Callan's and left there. Most of my clothes had been at Callan's house. Until they were put into this box and dropped off here. What had happened? Confusion and hurt made it hard to think. Why would he stuff my things into a box and drop them off without even seeing me? I quickly checked my phone, looking for an explanation, but there was nothing from him at all.

  "What? What did he say?" I asked Annabelle.

  "He was angry, April." Annabelle was crying softly, tears running down her cheeks. "He said he'd spoken to his lawyer."

  "What?" My head spinning, I tried to make sense of this. "His lawyer?"

  Annabelle was just nodding now, her eyes wide as if in anticipation of me falling to pieces suddenly. I thought she just might, once I figured out exactly what was happening.

  His lawyer.

  "Oh god," I said, realization dawning. "The new contract." My uncle had said that legal had already forwarded the new contract. Callan must've seen it already—seen the network's changed intention to feature him on the show along with his house. "Oh no." I dropped the box on a nearby table, knocking askew a tree made from peppermint candies, and rushed to the side of the lobby to get some privacy, my phone in my hand.

  I dialed Callan's number, but he didn't pick up. When his voicemail played, I struggled to find the right words. "Callan, it's me. I was about to come over … Annabelle gave me the box … but, the contract, Callan, it's not what you think, it's—" I trailed off, unsure how to explain, and the long beep sounded, endin
g the recording.

  I texted him:

  April: Can we talk? There's been a misunderstanding. Don't worry about the contract.

  I waited for a reply. As I began to worry it simply wasn't going to come, three dots danced at the side of my screen. After what felt like an eternity, a reply came:

  Callan: I understand. You should have asked me. My house will not be on the show and neither will I. We are done here.

  Pain shot through my chest. Done?

  April: Can't I explain?

  Callan's silence was the only answer, and though I waited another ten minutes, nothing more appeared on my screen. Finally, I pushed my phone into my pocket and walked back over to where Annabelle stood, wringing her hands.

  "Did you speak to him?" Annabelle asked.

  "He doesn't want to talk to me," I said, shock fading and turning to something much darker, much more painful. The silver lights twinkling all around us in the lobby, coupled with the oversized candy canes and army of nutcrackers had begun to feel as if they were closing in on me, leering at me, laughing at me. Even Annabelle seemed like she might actually be wearing that ridiculous costume just as a means of making fun of me.

  Suddenly, the holiday felt exactly as it always had—worse. Red and green and all things merry would always remind me of heartbreak and devastation, and now I knew it would be that way for the rest of my life.

  "I'm going to go upstairs, Annabelle," I said, picking up my box. "I'll talk to you tomorrow." Without waiting for an answer, I went to the elevator, shielding my eyes against the glow of faux candles lining the mantlepiece on the lobby wall and trying in vain to block out the sound of carols playing over the sound system throughout the inn.

  20

  Smashing the Snow Globe

  Callan

  I should have known it was all too good to be true.

  April.

  Singletree.

  This house.

  My life.

  My lawyer had called around noon to tell me to check my email, and then proceeded to walk me through a new contract from April's network, requiring direct participation in filming. The new contract stipulated that I be on camera no less than ten minutes in the edited and final footage, which meant participating in the entire tour of the house.

  "Fuck them," I told my lawyer, my voice sounding low and foreign to me. It was a voice I hadn't used in a while, one that had grown from disappointment in the previous year when everyone I’d trusted had turned out to be in it for something other than me. Hell, my lawyer was probably among those I could include, but I paid him, so at least he was upfront about it.

  But April …

  The only thing I could understand was that she had spent the time to get close to me, so that she could push this revised contract at me, figuring I’d been softened up enough not to argue.

  Cormac and the girls came over for dinner—mostly because I forgot they were coming—and found me in front of the fire with a bottle of Half Cat bourbon on my lap. I’d given up on a glass several hours before.

  "This again?" Cormac said, finding me there. The little girls had scampered over to greet me and had promptly turned tail and fled, heading for merrier parts of the house. Even they could see I was in no state for company. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing."

  "Where's April?"

  "Who cares?"

  Cormac sat down heavily, a sigh whooshing from his lips as he did so. "Better hand me that bottle." I did, and he drank greedily, grimacing as he finished and set the bottle aside.

  I glanced at it, but my head was already pounding and I wasn't sure I could walk. I’d find out soon enough though, I’d have to piss eventually.

  "Tell me what happened."

  It was my turn to sigh. "Standard shit," I said, running a hand over my jaw. "She was using me. For the stupid show."

  "The Christmas show," Cormac said, as if he needed to state the obvious to get his brain centered on this conversation.

  "Yeah."

  "Explain."

  I glared at him, but regretted it immediately. Cormac's face was drawn and gaunt—had he lost weight? He looked worse than I felt, and I knew he had his own burdens to carry. The high-pitched shrieks and laughter from the back of the house reminded me that my brother’s problems might be slightly more significant than my own. "It's nothing. Just feeling sorry for myself, man." I tried to get up, but my ankle, and Cormac's hand on my wrist, stopped me.

  "Don't walk away from me." His voice was steel, and I met my brother's eyes, surprised at the anger simmering there. "You'd finished with this, and I'd finally gotten to close the lid on this particular box of shit. I didn't have to worry about my little brother any more and could go on just worrying about everything else. And now, here we are again, right back where we started. So you're going to tell me what the hell wrecked the best thing to happen to you in a long time."

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  "April," Cormac clarified.

  I knew what he'd meant, I just wasn't ready to agree that she'd been something good. From where I sat, she was maybe the worst thing that had ever happened to me. "I trusted her, man."

  "Right."

  "And the whole time, she was just trying to get close so she could advance her own career. Her network pushed over this new contract today—one day before the cameras are supposed to come in here and film all the Christmas shit I spent a fortune to put up."

  Cormac’s face softened slightly. "What was the new contract about?"

  "They want me on camera." I stared into the fire, thinking about putting myself in front of the media again, imagining the ridiculous articles with my name in them, the way they'd spin my reclusive move to the middle of nowhere, call this show a desperate grab for the glory and fame I’d lost. Or worse, make me out to be the piteous has been they’d painted me as after Becky had done her tell-all interview, calling me a pathetic shell of myself. "They want me to give a tour of my home for the show."

  "I see. And what did April say about it?"

  "Nothing."

  Cormac raised a brow at me and I turned away. "She didn't tell me they were going to send the new contract at all. I guess she just figured I'd sign it and everything would be fine."

  "Did she know about it?" Cormac asked.

  I thought back to the message she'd left. The one I’d deleted without hearing. But her texts had made it clear she knew about the contract. "Yeah, she knew."

  "So what did she say?"

  I stared at him. "I haven't spoken to her."

  Cormac laughed, and the sound made my blood boil. "This is funny?" I shot to my feet and turned on my brother, nearly toppling back to the couch as the Bourbon swished around in my bloodstream and my ankle screamed. Damn that Half Cat. I steadied myself with a hand on the round head of the snowman standing at the end of the couch. "This is exactly why I left the West Coast. Everyone close to me has an agenda, something they're trying to gain by knowing me, getting near."

  Cormac continued chuckling, much to my irritation, and then took another long swig of the bourbon. "You're so fucking full of yourself," he said, wiping his mouth. "How far from the spotlight do you have to get to see that the world doesn't revolve around you?" He shook his head and stood up, looking toward the back rooms where the girls had gone suspiciously quiet. "We're gonna head out. I suggest you pull your head out of your ass and figure out a way to get back the first person you've met that actually didn't care who you were and might even have loved your sorry ass."

  The anger burning in my blood had cooled, as my drunkenness and Cormac's words settled in.

  "Girls!" Cormac called, and soon they were all scuttling back out the front door, leaving me alone again.

  Just like I’d always been.

  I found my phone an hour or two later, when I’d sobered up a bit and managed to force myself to eat something. There were no more messages from April, and I felt both satisfied to see that she'd taken my point seriously, and somewhat disappointed
to find that she'd stepped away so easily. But maybe that just proved the point—she hadn't been in it for anything to do with me, with us. She was in it to advance her failing career, to save her own butt. And everything else? Had been an act.

  * * *

  The sound of buzzing woke me. At first I thought it was just a particularly poignant hangover symptom, but after a while, I realized it was the buzzer on the front gate. I stumbled to the front door to answer it, and April's voice came through the speaker.

  "Holiday Homes here for filming, Mr. Whitewood." She sounded determined and confident, and my heart sank in response. I didn't want her to be confident about Holiday Homes. I wanted her to be confident about me, about what we’d been to each other. But then I remembered that there was no us. That had been a dream.

  "Yeah, that's not happening," I said back.

  "You signed a contract."

  "Fuck the contract. And I didn't sign it. I'm not appearing on camera." Anger flared in my chest, making it easier to act like a self-important asshole. My brother's words echoed in my mind and I pushed them away.

  "Callan, don't worry about appearing. But you did sign the previous contract, remember?" Her voice had softened, and I heard an edge of pleading there now.

  I sighed. Despite my determination to be angry, I also wanted to see her, to hear her tell me she'd been using me to my face. "Fine." I punched the button to open the gate, and went back upstairs to run a comb through my hair and brush my teeth. The doorbell rang as I was pulling jeans on, and I took my time getting back down to open the door, my ankle and my heart protesting the whole way down the stairs.

  After a deep steadying breath, I pulled open the door. April stood there, her gorgeous face pale, dark smudges beneath her eyes. The camera crew waited just behind her, and while I wanted to see them all as greedy vultures, ready to pounce and fight, all I saw was the woman I had fallen in love with, looking tired and upset, next to the guys she worked with.