Cole in My Stocking (13 page)

By the time I finished hanging the wreaths, it was eight o’ clock. Dad’s neck of the woods was dark and quiet, a world away from bustling Plaistow. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I spent a good hour organizing Dad’s clutter into piles in the living room. The “keep” pile had enough stuff in it to fill a hat box. The dump pile had taken over the couch and two feet of floor space in front of it. A full beast-load, with seats folded down.

Hands on hips, I surveyed the eating nook and the peek-through bookshelves dividing the living room and kitchen. Every wooden surface shone with a fresh coat of Old English. The eating nook sparkled. Placing the poinsettia I’d bought in the center, I actually looked forward to eating breakfast there tomorrow.

Christmas breakfast.

I refused to dwell on being alone on Christmas. I would crank Dad’s stereo system and dance to the holiday favorites. I’d celebrate with morning talk show personalities. I’d call Heather again. Check email. Update my social networks. I wouldn’t be alone. It would be fun.

Maybe I’d even give Aunt Leslie a call. Mom’s sister lived down in Massachusetts. She’d taken care of me some after mom died, but she’d never really gotten along with Dad, so we’d lost touch. I’d found her on Facebook and sent her a message to let her know Dad had died. She’d said she was sorry. That was it. No asking when the funeral was. No telling me to look her up while I was in New Hampshire. I wasn’t going to twist her arm. But what if it hadn’t occurred to her I might want to get together? I hadn’t said as much in my short message. Seeing family on Christmas might be worth sticking my neck out a little. Maybe.

Somehow I’d ended up sitting at the eating nook with the Oakley box in my hands. My thumbnail played along the seam of the wrapping paper. I’d chosen silver paper with white snowflakes. The paper was smooth and cool in my hands. Shiny. Pretty.

What the heck had I been thinking?

A gift like this said more than I should have wanted to say. A bag of peanut butter cups said thank you. This said, let’s elope and start having children immediately. It was too much, considering I planned to return to Philly as soon as this trailer was cleaned out and Dad’s debts paid.

I blew out a breath and put the box on the shelf. Most likely, I’d end up returning it. Or maybe I’d keep the Oakleys for myself. A tangible memory of Cole when I’d left him behind to return to the life in Philly that fit me so much better than life here ever had.

It was after nine. Too early to go to bed.
Too late to call anyone and expect an answer on Christmas Eve. The thought of watching a movie held some appeal. Dad had all the premium cable networks. But I didn’t want to end up in a heap of tears watching a sappy flick on the Hallmark Channel.

I craved quiet, but not the dusty quiet inside this junk-filled, plastic-sided box of memories. Sometimes in Philly, I would climb the stairwell of my apartment building and go sit on the roof. It wasn’t a finished space, like the roof decks of some of the nicer apartment buildings. But between the various mechanical boxes and fans, someone had stuck a couple of camp chairs with cup holders in the arms. They looked out over Philly’s north end.

I liked to go up there once in a while with a bottle of water or a hot cocoa and watch my city bed down for the night. The peace one could find on rooftops seemed somehow deeper and more lasting than the peace one found in one’s own head…or a stuffy trailer.

Dad kept a ladder lying down in the grass behind the house. He used it to go up and shovel the roof when more than a couple inches of snow piled up on the flat, tarred expanse. I had a sudden urge to go up there. Over the living room, the roof pitched to a shallow peak. Could I see the dump from there? What would Dad’s wooded three acres look like at night from up there?

The thermometer said it was thirty-four degrees out. I didn’t care. Now that I’d had the idea, it seemed so right that nothing else would do. I needed to go up on the roof. And even though I almost never drank, I found myself grabbing a couple of Dad’s PBRs out of the fridge.

I wouldn’t be alone up on the roof. I was going to spend Christmas Eve remembering my dad.

* * * *

I didn’t mind cold weather. Maybe because I’d grown up here in the land of long, harsh winters, playing outside no matter the temperature, hiking half a mile to the bus stop every day for school come rain, sleet, or snow—the mailman had nothing on me.

I stuffed myself into my down jacket and instantly, I was impervious to cold. It could be anywhere between forty above and ten below, and a down jacket would keep a girl toasty-roasty inside. Didn’t matter if you had on five layers underneath or nothing but a T-shirt. Down was “the shit,” as Dad would have said. But you had to pay attention to the access points. Scarf at the neck. Mittens or gloves snug over the cuffs. A hat was a must. I grabbed one of Dad’s with fur-lined earflaps. It smelled like his shampoo, a cheap drugstore brand I hadn’t smelled in six years but remembered like I’d used it in a pinch just recently. Surrounded by that old, familiar scent, I was even more certain this was right thing to do tonight.

My Sorel snow boots were where I’d left them when I’d moved to Philly, at the bottom of the coat closet. I jammed my feet into them, grabbed Grandma’s afghan and a cushion from one of the chairs in the kitchen, and went in search of reflection and quiet.

Climbing up a ladder with an afghan and a cushion made for quite the challenge, but once I made it onto the roof, the view was worth it. Just a faint crescent, the moon didn’t provide much light, but the stars punched through the cold night like little fists of brilliance. The roof was tarred with some hard, rough substance that was light-gray in daylight and made a godawful racket when Dad took a shovel to it. It looked silver in the starlight and reminded me of the present I’d gotten for Cole.

Idiot.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how incredibly stupid it would be to give him the gift. My credit card balance would thank me when I returned it. But enough about Cole.

I cracked open a beer and turned my thoughts to Dad, flipping through every good memory, no matter how brief or infrequent. There was the time he’d taken me for a ride on his dirt bike when I’d been ten. We’d sped along the dirt road around the dump, leaning into the turns, wind whipping the hair sticking out the neck of my too-big helmet.

We’d wiped out on a sharp bend. I’d been wearing shorts and had lost a good couple layers of skin all up and down my left thigh. The road rash had hurt like the dickens, but the memory was a good one because it was the one time I could remember Dad being tender with me. He’d been bleeding too, all along his left arm, and the exhaust pipe had burned him through his jeans, but he’d taken care of me first, scrubbing the dirt out of my wound and wrapping it with care. He’d never made me feel like a baby for crying. In fact, he’d encouraged me to let it all out.

“Tears wash the pain away,” he’d told me. “Let them flow, honey, let them flow.”

There was the time he’d taught me how to shoot a pistol. He’d put a 9mm with a black grip in my twelve-year-old hands. “Keep those arms strong. Line up the sight. Keep your eye on the target. Squeeze the trigger when you’re ready, nice and steady.”

The target had been the beer can he’d just drained and crinkled in his fist. He took a few running steps and hurled it into the air. I captured it between the uprights of the sight and kept it locked there until it started the downward half of its arc. I squeezed the trigger, nice and gentle like Dad told me.

Smack!

The recoil sent the pistol flying toward my face. The hammer slammed into my forehead. I stumbled back and fell flat on my butt.

I didn’t know about the can, but I’d dented myself. I had the stars to prove it.

“You okay, kiddo?”

I nodded. I wouldn’t feel the pain for another few seconds.

“Atta girl.” Dad had helped me to my feet and left in search of the can.

I had to have missed it. It had been moving so fast. And then I’d lost control of the gun. Dad would never take me shooting again. I stood there, weaving with what I now knew had to be a concussion, waiting for him to tell me how disappointed he was in me.

He found the can and held it in front of my nose.

There was a hole in it. Small where the bullet entered, large where it exited.

His smile said it all. I’d made him proud.

I never did complain about the bruised knot I’d sported in the center of my forehead for the next two weeks. The pain was nothing compared to the sunshine of Dad’s smile.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel brought me back to the present.

I was sitting on the dump-side of the low peak, the kitchen cushion protecting me from the cold roof. Turning and lowering myself to my stomach, I peered over the peak, nervous. I half expected it to be Tooley, come to insist on searching for the will again. I should have brought my phone up here with me. Cole would be angry if he knew I’d left it inside.

A pair of headlights shone so bright in the dark, I couldn’t make out the vehicle until it triggered the security light and angled to park in front of the garage. Cole’s white truck.

Hyperactive butterflies zinged around inside my stomach, hopped up on relief and excitement.

Don’t get your hopes up. He’s probably just stopping by between engagements to make sure you set the alarm for the night. Don’t tell him about forgetting the phone.

I put my beer down and side-stepped down the driveway side of the peak to greet him, wondering if he might possibly be here to talk about that “later” he’d mentioned. Maybe this would be my chance to ask about why he’d punched Tooley.

From the edge of the roof, I had a good view of him getting out of the truck. In his down parka, he looked as tall and wide as a grizzly bear. In the bright white security light, his face and hands looked pale as snow. His head was exposed to the cold. No sunglasses. Good to know his coolness had bounds. No shades at night.

He sauntered toward the house, eyes scanning the beast, the garage, the house. Ever my protector.

Pitter-pat
went my heart.

Stop it, heart.

“Up here,” I said when he was ten feet from the porch.

He started and looked up. I didn’t miss how his hand slid inside his partially-zipped jacket. He was carrying concealed. When he saw me, he withdrew his hand.

“Don’t shoot,” I said, a smile in my voice.

“Mandy?”

“Hi.” I gave him a finger wave, my fleece mittens looking extra blue in the security lighting.

“What are you doing on the roof?”

“Reflecting.”

“No shit?” he said, as if considering the merits of reflecting on a roof and deciding it was a worthy pastime. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Good.”

“Uh, are you going to come down?”

I thought about it. “No.” The roof seemed like a good place for confessions, if that’s what Cole had in mind. “You can come up, though. If you want.”

He stared at me. Shrugged. “Okay. How?”

“Ladder around back.” I pointed.

He set off into the shadows between the trailer and the garage. A minute later, the ladder rattled under his weight. When he reached the top, I gave him a hand stepping off the ladder.

His fingers were strong around mine. I had an urge to take off my gloves, link my fingers with his and claim his protection for my very own. For all time.

Shoot. I was falling for Cole.

Bad, bad idea, Mandy.

For so many reasons. Too bad I’d given myself permission to feel whatever I needed to feel today. What kind of person would I be if I went back on a promise to myself? I didn’t relax my grip on his hand.

He wasn’t letting go either. “You do know it’s freezing out, like literally.”

“Wuss,” I teased as I led him over the peak to my little nest of cushion and crocheted yarn.

“Didn’t say I couldn’t take it, honey. Just making sure you can.”

He called me honey again. That made three times now. Not that I was counting.

“I can take it.”

“Yeah. You’ve always been tougher than you look.”

I frowned at the change in him. All pretense of flirtation evaporated into the night. He sounded sober, resigned, like he was working up the courage to dive into a conversation he didn’t want to have.

He cleared his throat and let go of my hand to jam both hands in his pockets. “You’re dressed for it, anyway. That’s a good coat. You wear it down in Philly?”

He was backing off from the ledge. Warming up to the conversation by making lighter chit-chat. Fine with me.

“Sometimes.” It got just as cold in Philly as it did here, but when I went out, it was usually to go to school or work or to hang out with friends. There were so few dress-down occasions that mostly, the puffy down coat lived in my closet.

We sat down. I tossed a length of afghan over Cole’s long legs.

“Roof’s like a block of ice.” I heard the shiver in his voice and entertained a fantasy of him in swim trunks, diving for a volleyball, forearms and chest plowing through hot sand.
Mmm,
beach and Cole. Heaven.

“Sit on the blanket,” I suggested.

He shifted to tuck it under his butt, leaning into me. “Cozy,” he said, lips near my ear.

My turn to shiver.

He didn’t move away once his legs were cocooned, but stayed close enough his scent wafted around me. He smelled like ocean breeze body wash and gun oil. He must have cleaned his piece today for that familiar scent to be so fresh. That meant he’d used it for target practice recently. Had he blown off steam at the range after the confrontation with Tooley?

“This for me?” He nodded at the unopened beer near my knee.

“I was saving it for Dad. But I don’t think he’d mind if you had it.”

A smile transformed his hard mouth into an oasis of acceptance. I was tempted to nuzzle into the patch of pale, muscular neck between the collar of his parka and his five-o-clock shadow, but managed to resist.

He picked up the beer in his bare hand. Must have been cold. “Thinking about him, huh?”
Pop, hiss.
He put the can to his lips and took a long sip. I was jealous of the can. It had his hand. It had his mouth.