Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (7 page)

We reach the intersection of Main and Craven, the bed and breakfast sitting on the corner. The driveway is empty—no one booked for the holidays—but the Kendrick’s Federal-style home is like a beacon. Wreaths on every window, garland draping the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. Two topiaries on either side of the doors, wrapped in lights. And in the front room a Christmas tree sparkles, overflowing with silver and gold decorations. 

My mom’s favorite house in town.

She must drive by it a hundred times during the holidays.

Jonathan can’t take his eyes off it, either.

“I hated her for not fighting harder,” I confess, spying Mr. Kendrick as he crosses the living room from the chair to the fireplace, from one window to the next. “But then I realized Dad didn’t
want
to be fought for, if that makes any sense at all. So then I hated
him
for a while. And Amanda, obviously. I still kind of hate her, because she knew my dad was married. Anyway, Mom didn’t fight because it turns out she had a bigger battle coming.” My shoulders lift at this. The story told. My parents’ divorce. Mom’s cancer. This night—my favorite of the year—I have dreaded for weeks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s as easy to fall out of love with someone as it is to fall
in
love with them,” I continue. “It just . . . happens. One day you wake up and . . .
bam
. Nothing. And you realize it’s been a long time coming, and you feel ridiculous for not realizing it sooner.”

Still—falling out of love aside—it would’ve been nice to have Dad around while Mom was going through chemo and radiation. And not that he wasn’t there for us—he did what he could . . . from afar. Made sure we had everything we needed, that Mom was still on his insurance. Maybe I just don’t understand how it’s possible to be married to someone for twenty years and feel nothing as you’re walking out the door.

“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I’m unloading all of this on you,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he admits. “It kind of makes my writing confession seem dull in comparison.”

I love that he smiles at this moment. That he makes me laugh. That I can tell him these things and know he’s listening. That he’s not judging. That he’s not waiting to dispense whatever advice he can because he has the answers. That he doesn’t pretend to understand what I’m going through when he doesn’t.

Time flows disjointedly, folding into itself, nothing but the sound of footsteps against pavement until we reach a row of shops. All four of them closed. Quiet. Streetlights reflecting off darkened windows.

The blinking red light—the only light in town—flashes ahead, just over the middle of the intersection. I look both ways, but there is no need, because the roads stretch empty. I step into the street, make my way to the other side, but when I turn around Jonathan isn’t behind me. He’s stopped. Frozen in the middle of the road. Caution light pulsing above him, changing the color of his skin at every interval.

“What are you doing?” I call.

“For the record, I understand where your mom is coming from,” he answers, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Love
is
worth fighting for—but it goes both ways. There has to be someone fighting for you. If it’s one-sided, then you’re not getting what you deserve. I’m not knocking your dad or anything, but your mom deserves better. At least more than he was willing to give.”

And maybe it’s because he knows this from experience—because of whatever happened between him and his ex-girlfriend that led him to draw this conclusion. Maybe these are the words his grandmother spoke to him as they shared bowls of raw cookie dough, words taken to heart and filed away only to be drawn from later, months down the road. Funny how the universe has this way of dropping people into your life—people who will tell you exactly what you need to hear the exact moment you need to hear it.

“When I was a kid,” I begin, “my dad would drive us around the county on Christmas Eve to look at lights and decorations. There’s this one house about twenty minutes away that goes all out. I mean, lights and inflatables and music. They let you drive around the yard and everything. And on the way home my sister and I would plant our faces against the windows of the backseat of his car, stare at the sky, swearing to God we could see Rudolph’s red nose glowing—showing Santa the way to our house. Even when I was too old I still looked. Every Christmas Eve.” My throat constricts, tightening at the memory. “I think that’s what I miss most.”

Jonathan has yet to move from the middle of the road, has yet to remove his hands from his coat pockets, but he tips his head back anyway, looks to the sky. “Too bright,” he determines of the flashing red light above. But then he looks to his left, and I follow his gaze, and up the street we both see the entrance to the river bridge, half swallowed in darkness. And he looks back at me and I at him, and, having the same thought at the same time, we run, racing as best we can—me in my boots and Jonathan balancing boxes—cheesecake and ornaments. Footsteps pound the pavement as we pass the restaurant—pizza and sandwiches, the only place for the over twenty-one crowd to get a beer—and its pebble-filled parking lot. And by the time we reach the edge of the bridge we’re laughing, out of shape and out of breath, lungs burning, eyes tearing with cold, noses running. But now, when we lift our eyes, we can see sky. And stars.

We step onto the ledge in tandem, press our backs against the concrete railing. There is no horizon, no point where water meets sky or forest; everything is shrouded in a cloak of darkness. But stars swim overhead, punching holes in the night sky, and the longer I stare the more that appear, as if by magic, until I find Orion’s belt—one of the few constellations I can locate.

Water splashes against the pilings below. And as juvenile as it is, I look for that pinpoint of red. A crimson glow. Signs that Santa and his reindeer are passing overhead. A Christmas Eve like every year before it, yet
not
—in both the best and worst ways imaginable. Because yes, my family is ripped apart, but there is beauty in the impossible. And right now, impossible has appeared in the form of Jonathan, a stranger to spend this evening with, as if sent by someone to help me make it through this night. A ghost of Christmas present.

And he thought I was doing
him
the favor.

“It’s too early,” I conclude.

He shushes me, still searching.

“There’s no way,” I whisper.

“Then what is that?” he asks.

I follow the line of his finger, squinting, focusing until I just can make out a tiny pulsing light traveling across the sky.

“An airplane?”

“Seriously, Olivia? Where is the
magic
?” he admonishes.

“I’m just saying it’s poor planning on Santa’s part if he’s already reached the East Coast,” I tell him. “No kid I know is in bed at this hour.”

“Such logical points being made on what should be a night of miracles,” he mutters.

“You really believe in miracles?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Anything else you want to know about me?”

I consider this, because yes, actually. There’s a lot I want to know about him. Everything—if such a thing is even possible.

“Well . . . keeping the spirit of the season, what’s your favorite Christmas album?”

“Kenny and Dolly.
Once Upon a Christmas
,” he replies, not hesitating.

“Who?”

“Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. The country singers? Tell me you’ve heard of them,” he says, feigning outrage.

“I guess I’ve
heard
of them. . . .”

“My grandparents had the album on record and my mom listened to it with them when she was younger, apparently, and then she got it on CD, so growing up that’s what we listened to when we were decorating the tree, so . . . yeah. Kenny and Dolly. Family tradition.”

I laugh. “I won’t judge.”

“What’s yours?” he asks.

“Michael Bublé. The CD is in my car as we speak. Favorite Christmas song?”

“The Eagles. ‘Please Come Home for Christmas.’ It’s so beautiful and sad all at the same time. Yours?”

“‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ For the exact same reasons.” I step off the ledge and into the road, heading back toward that blinking light.

“I’ve never met anyone who shared my affinity for depressing Christmas music before,” he says.

“Not depressing. Just . . . thoughtful. Life isn’t always ‘playing in the snow’ or ‘toys in every store.’ There have to be songs for the rest of us.”

“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” he says.

“Exactly,” I agree. “That one hasn’t applied for many, many years. Least favorite Christmas song?” I ask.

“‘Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time.’ I swear, the stations in Hamilton play it a thousand times a day. By mid-December I’m beginning to seriously consider poking a hole in my eardrums in an effort to save myself. Yours?”

“‘Baby It’s Cold Outside,’ because there is some creepy, date-rape thing going on with that song,” I reply. “I mean, let the girl go home already. She doesn’t want whatever it is you’re giving her to drink. She doesn’t want to stay with you. Let her go.”

“I’ve
never
thought of that,” he admits.

“Listen to the lyrics. Girl is like, ‘I’ve really gotta get home,’ and the dude is saying whatever he can to convince her to stay. It’s freaky, like ‘I’m going to lace your hot chocolate and tie you up and keep you in my closet until I need you’ freaky.”

Jonathan laughs out loud. “I can’t believe I’ve never noticed this before!”

We reach the intersection, the flashing light, take a left. “I just destroyed that song for you, didn’t I,” I say.

“Yes, you did. I’m going to listen to it as soon as I get back to my aunt’s. I’m not kidding.”

“All right, so we’ve covered the songs. . . .” I trail off, thinking. “Favorite Christmas movie?”

“
It’s a Wonderful Life
,” he replies.

“That’s kind of cliché, isn’t it?”

“They’re Christmas movies. They’re
all
kind of cliché.”

“Okay. Well, I can’t do just one. So I’d say my top three are
White Christmas
,
Home Alone
, and
The Muppet Christmas Carol
.”

“Aww, man! The muppets are the
best
!” he says, throwing his head back.

“I know, right? ‘Light the lamp, not the rat!’” I quote.

He bursts out laughing at this, remembering, and at that moment I decide there is no more beautiful sound in the world than a genuine laugh from a place of contentment, and no better feeling than the triumph and accomplishment that comes from being the source.

“God. You are so cool,” he says, exhaling smoke.

A surge of pleasure sears my cheeks, though my nose remains frozen. “Frosty or Rudolph?”

“Frosty,” he says.

“Frosty,” I agree.

“Colored lights or white lights?”

“White,” I answer.

“Colored.”

“I
knew
you were going to say that! Um . . . I already know you like real Christmas trees. Tree toppers? Angel or star?”

“No preference,” he replies.

“Yeah, me either. Christmas decorating. Before or after Thanksgiving?” I ask.

“After.”

“Definitely. But, like the Friday after. As soon after Thanksgiving as possible.”

“Of course,” he says. “Finish the meal, clear the plates, decorate the tree.”

My house appears on the right. It’s not historic—only about forty years old. Craftsman style, built to look like the rest of the neighborhood, though the sizes and colors vary. It’s not as big as the Andrews’ and not as beautifully decorated as the Kendrick’s, but Mom thinks it’s “quaint,” and there is a wreath on the front door and candles glowing in the windows, the silhouette of the Christmas tree glowing through the living room curtains.

The house isn’t on the water, but in the winter—after the leaves fade and fall and branches are bare—parts of the river can be seen from my second-floor bedroom.

Jonathan follows me up the driveway, down the front walk. “This is me,” I say, climbing porch steps, bending beneath a low, leafless branch. “Looks like everyone made it.” Dad’s car is parked at the curb, and Mom and Sam’s cars are beneath the carport. The lights are on but the door is closed. I remove keys from my coat pocket, fingers numb with cold, exhale an anxious breath.

“You okay?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah . . . I just. . . . I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“It’s okay to be nervous. It’s a big deal, everyone being here.”

“Yeah.”

And yet I can’t make myself open the storm door, turn that lock, step inside the warm house where another dinner is waiting for us. “You don’t have to do this,” I remind him, words tumbling, tripping over themselves. “I mean, I understand completely if you have something better to do. Or if you want to go back to your family. Or if you want to call the whole deal off. . . .”