The Eggnog Chronicles Page 18

  I bit my lower lip, realizing that he wasn’t talking about my love for Nate. This was about more than romance. Forest was referring to the support in this community, the cheerful bond among neighbors and friends, the energy that had kept my shop alive and kicking amid yesterday’s crunch of deadlines and demanding customers.

  “Share God’s love with others during this season. Open your home to people who have nowhere to go for Christmas dinner. When the demands of the season press upon you, simplify your shopping and focus on being generous to those in need. Be a ‘Secret Santa.’ And while you celebrate the customs of the season, remember that these symbols lead us back here.” He pressed a fist to his chest. “To hearts brimming with God’s love. In two years, Aunt Norma isn’t going to remember what you gave her for Christmas, but she will remember that you made her feel loved. That’s the gift we all want to give this Christmas.”

  To feel loved.

  It made perfect sense, and I realized, lucky girl that I am, I had all that. I felt shored up by the love of my friends; yesterday had been a supreme demonstration of their support. Lola and Ben, Georgia and Cracker . . . they were there for me when I needed them.

  But oddly, one name was missing from that list . . . a name I had promised myself not to utter. Damn him, Mr. Unmentionable.

  22

  Once again, I pushed Mr. Unmentionable to the edge of my thoughts as the service ended and the people of the congregation filed out, shaking hands with Forest.

  Outside, just below the steps, someone touched my shoulder and I turned to see Joey’s mother zipping her fleece jacket, shuddering against the cold. “I’m Amy Salem,” she said, extending a hand. “I wanted to thank you for the scarf. Joey’s so proud of it.”

  “My pleasure,” I said, shaking her hand as I looked down at Joey, dancing from foot to foot in the cold. He was wearing that thin sweat jacket again. “I just wish he—” I cut myself off before I could say that the kid should wear a real winter coat. What an idiot I was! The kid lived in a deserted trailer; he probably didn’t own a winter coat. “I wish he would come by the shop some weekend,” I said, trying to recover. “We’ve been giving out eggnog. My friend’s secret recipe, and it’s delicious.”

  “The Christmas Elf?” Amy squinted at me. “That’s a cute place. I pass it on my way to work, but I usually pull the weekend shift.”

  “You work in Nag’s Head?” I asked.

  “At the hospital.”

  Joey tugged on her sleeve, anxious to get out of the cold. “C’mon, Mom.”

  “I’ll let you go,” I said. “Nice meeting you, Amy.”

  Watching them head across the parking lot, I thought of the times Joey’s day care class had visited my shop, of the crafts they’d made. Decorative door handles? Tissue-box covers? Felt Santa bookmarks? Somehow, those crafts seemed useless to a family who couldn’t afford coats and scarves.

  “Coming to brunch with us?” Georgia asked. “You’re surely welcome. Daniel’s mom is always happy to have another mouth to feed.”

  Checking my watch, I saw that I had nearly two hours before I had to open the shop. “No,” I said, “no, thanks. I have a few errands to do.”

  “Have a holly jolly Christmas,” Burl sang through the store. I swayed merrily as I checked the lining of a coat—a blue, hooded jacket with white and gray stripes. Would it be warm enough? Gortex shell, water resistant. And when the weather warmed up, he could unzip and remove the lining, and wear it in the spring rain. Sliding one arm into the sleeve, I imagined Joey wearing the jacket to school, flipping up the hood, zipping it against the cold. The prospect made me giddy with joy.

  Looking over my basketful of goodies, I laughed. Who knew Big K-Mart could be so much fun? I hadn’t been in here since my hair dryer broke, but when I’d thought of playing Secret Santa to Joey’s family, I knew this was the perfect place. It’s probably the biggest merchandiser here in Nag’s Head, and they were open on Sunday, even in the off-season.

  Yes, it would be perfect for Joey, but what size? I held up a five, wondering if the sleeves would be too long. “What do you think of this for a five-year-old?” I asked one of the nearby clerks.

  She nodded. “If he’s a normal size. But we’ll give you a gift receipt in case he wants to exchange it.”

  I thanked her, then sidled over to the mittens and hats to find a good match for the jacket. Already I’d found a white quilted jacket with a fake fur collar for Amy. For Lila, a red down coat with a sharp velvet trim that reminded me of the soldiers in the Nutcracker.

  As I sorted through fleece scarves and knitted caps, I thought of the useless hats and gloves I’d bought for Mr. Unmentionable over the years. Coach gloves in buttery leather. Monogrammed caps from designer catalogues. Fine quality merchandise that had been tossed into the trunk of his car or the back of the closet because Mr. Unmentionable didn’t accessorize. Shame on me for wasting my money.

  But not this year. This year, I was buying coats and hats and gloves that would be worn and appreciated. As I lined my goodies up on the counter, a tall stack of remote-control trucks caught my eye.

  Toys. Could I buy the kids toys, too?

  Ooh . . .

  Better wait and see how the coats were received. I planned to wrap them this week and drop them off with Reverend Herman; let him pass them on anonymously.

  “Good morning,” the checkout clerk said, adjusting her Santa cap. Her name tag read: Doris. “And how are you today?”

  “I’m great, Doris. Fantastic. Better than I’ve been in a long, long time,” I said, running my hand over the velvet trim of Lila’s coat.

  “Well, I am glad to hear that,” Doris said as she began to scan my purchases. “Looks like you’re planning to keep a few people warm this winter.” She held up Amy’s coat and folded it gently.

  “I hope so,” I said. “I really hope so.”

  After the spike of weekend traffic in The Christmas Elf, Monday and Tuesday were the lull after the storm, quiet mornings of Ben and Cracker rocking by the fire while I assembled custom-ordered wreaths and restocked shelves for the afternoon shoppers. With the shipping deadline approaching, I spent most of my days and nights in the shop, which was fine by me since Mr. Unmentionable hadn’t returned on schedule or even called to explain why.

  Hmph. I was annoyed but not worried, knowing his level of self-absorption had been high lately. And honestly, I was too immersed in my work and my friends to miss him much.

  I was frosting fake berries with white glitter when Cracker jumped up from the rocker and turned off the CD player.

  “Excuse me, but it’s that time of the day. Dr. Phil’s on, and I need to find out all the things I’m doing wrong in my life.”

  I stepped back as he reached under the counter for the portable TV and propped it on the shelf. “Dr. Phil.” I rolled my eyes. “My sister loves him, too. Probably because he’s the only man in the world with the guts to stand up to her and tell her to get real.”

  Cracker clapped his hands together when the announcer revealed that today’s show would cover “Life Strategies for Choosing a Mate.”

  Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “Sounds serious.”

  “Jimminy Cricket!” Cracker exclaimed. “This will be advice all three of us can use.”

  “Right,” I said, all the while thinking what I really needed was some tips on how to restrain one’s self from killing one’s mate after he’s been gone for five days without a phone call. As I frosted the berries, Dr. Phil talked about having high expectations for a mate. He wasn’t into the chick magazine “checklist” of requirements in a male. However, he did agree that we all have certain requirements, which Dr. Phil considered “deal breakers.”

  As I set the wreath aside to dry, I wondered what my deal breakers were. I flopped down on my stool and started straightening out sections of garland, unable to think of a single requirement. Was I that easy? A total pushover?

  “All I want is to get married,” claimed a young woman
in the studio. “Really. It’s my only deal breaker, but he won’t give me that. I thought he was waiting until my birthday to propose, but it came and went without a ring. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Dr. Phil.”

  “What’s wrong?” Dr. Phil’s arms shot out in horror. “He smells your desperation!”

  Just then the phone rang. “The Christmas Elf,” I answered.

  “Have I got a loser for you.” My sister Jane was not big on formality over the phone. Introductions like, “Hi, how are you?” were a waste of time for Jane. “You gotta see this buffalo on Dr. Phil. Serious failure to commit. Made me think of you and Nate.”

  “So nice of you to call,” I teased.

  “Really, turn on the TV. You’ve got to see this big lug.”

  “Already got it on,” I admitted, “though I’m not too impressed with the girlfriend. Don’t you find her a little whiny and desperate?”

  “And who’s calling the kettle black?”

  I felt stung. “I am not whiny,” I whined, turning away from Cracker and Ben.

  “Are too, are too. A million times, are too,” Jane said, bringing me back to days when the kid who said it most won.

  “If I whine, it’s because I’m a pushover. I’m way too easy,” I admitted.

  “Little Ricki, when you’re waiting on a guy like Nate, you don’t have a lot of choice. I’ve always told you, Nate has commitment issues.”

  “He’s committed, all right, just to the wrong woman at the moment. Ouch!” A wire from the garland stuck me under one thumbnail. “But all that’s changing, and fast. He might be divorced by Christmas.”

  “Ach! That’s worse than getting coal in your stocking. Worse than Christmas in the tropics. Worse than having to eat fruitcake and—”

  “Okay, okay, I get the point.”

  “Listen to Dr. Phil, Little Ricki. That man is never going to give you what you want . . . what you need. It’s time for you to move on. Poop or—”

  “I hate that expression,” I interrupted her. “And Dr. Phil never said that.” I shot a look at the TV screen. “At least, not today.”

  “I’m using tough love, honey. I’m worried about you wasting your life while Nate strings you along.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” I said as I looped the end of the garland wire around the wreath ring. “How are you feeling? What’s the latest on your thyroid?”

  “Or my lack, thereof,” Jane said irreverently. I was glad she was able to joke about the disease that had rocked her life just a year ago. “Nothing new. My thyrogen levels are excellent. My last radioactive scan was squeaky clean. I’m totally cured, which gives me tons of time to obsess over you, bubby. Exactly when are you coming to town? Not that I don’t love you dearly, but since I’ve got my own beau this year my social calendar is filling up rapidly. Emma’s, too. In fact, her new guy is ditching his family in Oregon to spend Christmas here in New York.”

  “Sounds serious,” I said. “And how is Marty? Have you moved into his apartment?”

  “Well, not really moved. We do spend most nights together, but right now I think we’re both happy with the status quo.”

  “I was just wondering. Whenever I call you’re not home.”

  “Have you been trying to reach me?” Her big sister instinct kicked in. “I knew it. Did you and Nate break up? Are you okay?”

  “Nate took off for Rhode Island on Friday and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Jane grunted. “So he ran back to her? After all this time? What a bastard.”

  “Actually, he went back to finalize the divorce, sign some papers. And see his kids.”

  “And no phone calls? What’s that about?”

  I shot a look at Ben and Cracker, who were commenting on one of Dr. Phil’s guests. “He’s mad at me because I didn’t go along, but I couldn’t drop everything here.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. You shouldn’t!”

  “This is my busy season.”

  “Oh, please, does he need you to dry his tears and guide his signature on the page? Really, he’s asking too much,” Jane said.

  Although I had blocked Mr. Unmentionable from most of my thoughts, I felt a new sense of empowerment as I soaked up Jane’s righteous indignation. Really! It was one thing to support the man, quite another to escort him to divorce court.

  “Are you okay?” Jane went on. “Christ! That is so like Nate. Hit and run. He wounds you, then runs from the scene of the crime.”

  Wounded? With the phone pressed to my shoulder I snipped the loose end of wire from the wreath and held it back for assessment. The teal and emerald leaves curled around the frosted white berries in a cool combination—cool colors, soothing textures. It reflected my mood today: cool and content. Hardly wounded.

  “I’m really okay about this,” I told Jane. “Better than you’d think.”

  “I can barely believe that. I mean, you sound okay, but if I were you I’d be next in line for a personal consult with Dr. Phil.”

  “No, I can handle this,” I said, not completely sure of the outcome, but confident that things between Mr. Unmentionable and me would turn out fine. “I’ve come to see it’s just one small part of the big picture, and there’s so much to do here.”

  “I know you must be crazed with the Christmas rush.”

  “It’s been busy,” I admitted. “But not too hectic to prioritize.” I’d found time to call Forest Herman and tell him about my shopping trip for Joey’s family. He seemed pleased by my Secret Santa plan, and I asked him if he knew about the family’s housing circumstances. He told me that he’d recently been apprised of the situation and was looking into a way for the church community to assist, but in the meantime, my Secret Santa idea was a good one, and he promised to approach Joey’s mom.

  At the moment, the coats were hung on doors around the house, polar soldiers that greeted me each night, but I promised to wrap and deliver them by Sunday. I had spoken to Georgia about the family’s trailer home, and she had learned through Daniel that their cottage had been destroyed in the last hurricane. The property was still there, but Daniel wasn’t sure about the prospect of rebuilding, didn’t know if they’d had insurance. This had brought the regulars in the shop to a discussion of hurricane damage—which in the Outer Banks is always good for hours worth of amazing tales.

  “So I guess this is a bad time to ask about Christmas,” Jane said, interrupting my thoughts.

  Right now, everything involving Nate seemed like bad news. Although he had agreed to go to New York, somehow that seemed shaky right now. “He said he would go with me,” I told her. “But now I’m not so sure.”

  “But honey, you’ve got to come,” Jane went on.

  “I’ll be there, definitely. And maybe Nate will come along, too.”

  “Make sure he brings a warm jacket, the way he complains about the cold. That nonsense about feeling the cold now that he’s lived down south. You’d think the man grew up in a rainforest.”

  “I think he’ll survive.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about him, I just like to complain. Really, honey, don’t let this mongrel ruin the holidays for you.”

  I thought of Joey’s family wrapped in warm coats and mittens. I let myself imagine Lila’s smile on Christmas morning when she opened a package to find a gift she wanted. “Don’t worry about Christmas,” I said. “No one can ruin that for me.” This year, Christmas wouldn’t revolve around buying Nate’s favorite aftershave or ice-skating at Rockefeller Center or slicing into the turkey Emma roasted.

  And as I tucked the teal wreath into a box and checked my list for the next order, I felt the shop swirl around me with new meaning. The trees glowed with fiery spirit. My friends’ voices warmed the hearth with the same old jokes and stories. The Christmas cuckoos chimed and chirped a new song as Sally Painter, one of the women from Georgia’s quilting bee, hung a new Christmas quilt in the frame near the window, another detailed journey encoded with snowy scenes of country churches, ice-skate
rs, and carolers, and stained-glass windows.

  “Are you okay?” Jane asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, and for the first time in years, it was true.

  23

  Clarity of vision.

  As customers came in that afternoon, windows opened all around me and I began to see my shop, my friends, and my own designs in a new light. My work wasn’t a negative thing; there was no shame in trying to capture and share the mirth and beauty of the Christmas season. I was elbow-deep in garland, wiry wisps of hot glue strands clinging to my clothes, glitter in my hair, but I was immersed in a labor of love along with a crew of friends whose support made the hours whiz by like pages flying off a calendar.

  When I got the call on Thursday, I clung to that clarity of vision, determined not to buckle under the usual pressure. I would forge ahead with Nate, but some things would change around here—starting with my usual blind forgiveness.

  “I’m on my way home,” he said. “Should be there in time for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, really?” I turned away from some customers and lowered my voice. “I’m not sure if I’ll be available tonight. This is my busy season, and wait a second, who are you again? Is this the boyfriend who lammed out of here on Friday and hasn’t called to check in? Not even once?”