A Keeper's Truth (10 page)

It’s time
for Abby and me to head home.

“The girls
didn’t even make it to the best part of the movie,” says Thomas, walking back
into the kitchen. “They’ve crashed.” He raises a wine bottle and two glasses.
“Time for a toast. Come, let’s take advantage of the quiet.”

Oh no.

My mind
races, conflicting emotions crashing into one another. Something feels off,
like the vast territory ahead is best left untraveled. I’m not sure being alone
with Thomas is a good idea, even though Abby and Sofia are technically here.
Thomas ignores my dubious demeanor and wanders into the living room, waving me
to follow.

Oh hell,
one glass of wine shouldn’t hurt.

My
princess is asleep on the floor, in a pink tent, wrapped in a Dora the Explorer
sleeping bag. Beside her, Sofia dozes upright, huddled between a dozen pillows
from various pieces of furniture. I’m jealous. It’s been a while since I’ve
slept with such peace.

Thomas
turns the movie off and toys with the stereo. “Sit,” he says when he sees me
hovering.

I perch on
the end of the couch, a pillow held tight to my stomach. The couch is
chocolate-brown chenille, and so soft, so uniquely textured, I run my hand over
the surface, almost sated.

An
expansive window floods the room with moonlight. The fire pops. Thomas sits a
suitable distance from me but not at the other end of the couch. I smile
halfheartedly, digging my big toe into the area rug. It’s supple, lush, a deep
woodsy shade that reminds me of moss. And Meyer’s car. I push thoughts of Meyer
from my head and concentrate on the distinctive voice emitting from the sound
system.

“When I
was younger, this was my most played CD,” I say. “My mother loved The
Cranberries, and it’s been years since I’ve heard this song.” I take a deep
breath. “Years.”

I’m
nervous. I’m trying to act casual, to go with the flow. It’s not going well. I
don’t want to say or do something I might regret. Thomas is a good friend and
I’d like to keep it that way.

“A good
choice then,” says Thomas. He pours the wine, balancing the glasses on the
leather ottoman, then hands me one. He taps our glasses in cheer and the
crystal sings.

“Dinner
was awesome, Thomas. You’re an amazing cook. Did your parents teach you?”

Thomas
chuckles. “Not a chance. My mom and dad aren’t much in the kitchen. Louis, our
cook, taught me.” A memory distracts him. “Louis was constantly chastising me
for playing in the pantry or swiping food. As punishment he’d put my sticky
fingers to work. By the time I was ten, I’d hang out in the kitchen just to
watch him cook. He’d listen to classical music, whipping together culinary
masterpieces, rarely uttering a word, and as long as I was learning, and quiet,
I was allowed to stay in the kitchen.”

“Sounds
inspirational. My cooking skills—or lack thereof—contribute greatly
to my physique.” I laugh. “We eat a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables.”

Growing
up, my mother didn’t use appliances of any kind. If food had to be baked,
roasted, or fried, Celeste wasn’t buying it. My mother would sell a few of her
photos, and we’d eat fresh fruit and veggies till we puked. Then a dry spell
would hit and we’d spend months living on chips and soda, or whatever came out
of my mother’s magic purse. I drank a lot of tap water.

“My father
says I learned to cook by osmosis. Good thing too. I ate twice as much as
anyone else in the house.” Thomas looks away. “And I liked having a place my
brother wasn’t bound to be.”

“You and
your brother didn’t get along?”

“I guess
we did when we were kids. I have very few childhood memories that don’t include
him. Once we were older, though, things changed.”

“Changed
how?”

Thomas
thinks about this for a minute, gulping his wine. “Have you ever known someone
who is good at everything? Not just good but the best: top grades, awards, all
the praise, all the girls.” His eyes pierce mine. “That’s my brother, Mr.
Perfect.”

“He’s a
jerk?”

“Yeah, a
real piece of work . . .” He snickers. “Well, I don’t know, I
guess he’s a jerk sometimes. My brother is the one who was born to be. I was
the surprise, the mistake. My parents adored him.” He swigs his wine. “Still
do.”

I wasn’t
planned, and my mother never told me in so many words, but I think she loved me
from day one, even facing odds.

“Your
parents didn’t want a second child?” I ask.

Thomas
slams his empty glass to the ottoman. “They wanted a girl.”

“Seriously?
They told you that?”

“They
didn’t need to say it. It’s complicated.” His mouth says
complicated
but
his face says
not to be discussed further
.

I don’t
push.

“Where
does your family live now? You never mention them.”

“My
parents retired in the south of France. We don’t speak much.”

“And your
brother, does he live in France as well?”

Thomas
leans forward, nodding, spinning the empty glass between his hands. “Like I
said, we don’t talk much,” he says. He pours himself another wine.

I sip from
my glass, wondering why Thomas doesn’t communicate with his family. My
half-brother, Stephen, lives in Paris, and although we weren’t raised together,
we email each other weekly. Stephen was conceived on one of my mother’s bipolar
highs when I was six. She’d yanked me out of school to catch a flight to Spain,
determined to see the running of the bulls. We never made it to Pamplona. Our
overnight stay in Barcelona was extended when she met Gregory
Tindell
, a corporate lawyer for some investment firm, in
Barcelona on business. The whirlwind affair lasted four days and ended when he
returned to Paris, to his wife and kids. I got a black eye from the hotel’s
on-staff babysitter, and Mom got knocked-up. Fun had by all.

“My family
didn’t approve of my choices,” says Thomas.

“Choices . . .
they didn’t like your wife?”

“They
didn’t want me to marry her. They said I wasn’t ready, the timing was wrong,
she wasn’t the woman they’d choose for me,
etc
, etc.
They refused to acknowledge what I wanted, how I felt. And they were against us
having children.” He looks tortured, staring into his wine glass. “All I wanted
was a family.”

Now that’s
an emotion I can relate to. Stephen moved to Paris six weeks before my seventh
birthday. By then my mother had renounced medicine, allowing her illness to
bloom, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t raise a baby on my own. Stephen got a
new start with Gregory
Tindell
and his family. I was
never the same.

Thomas
plops his glass on the ottoman then falls back into the couch, hands tucked
behind his head, long legs stretched out. He stares at the ceiling, eyes
glossed over. “I wanted a son,” he says. “I wanted Sofia to have a brother and
maybe a sister. I wanted a wife that loved me and only me. I wanted to be
happy.”

He wanted
it all. Just like I did—like all of us do. We want the pretty picture, the
perfect life, the happy days, the endless nights, the kids, the good health,
and the money to enjoy it all. Nobody wants an ex-wife. Nowhere in this pretty
picture does the husband die.

Shit. Now
I need more wine. I fill both glasses to the brim.

Thomas
releases a gust of air, pulling his hands from under his head. In one fluid
motion, he grabs the glass and swallows the entire contents. He stretches, this
time turning onto his side, eyes fixed on mine. We’re close. Too close.

“I want a
family, a whole family. I want a wife that loves me as much as I love her. I
want . . .”

No, no,
no, please don’t say it.

The space
between us is paper-thin, and I can smell wine mingled with sweet ham on his
breath. Thomas reaches out and tucks strands that have fallen over my face
behind my ear, and I freeze. Part of me wants this: to be touched, to be
wanted. His fingers are gentle, lightly caressing my ear, my cheek, my chin.
I’m caught between desire and dread. I hold the pillow tighter to my chest,
fingers anxiously moving through the chenille trim. I can hear my heart
pounding.

“Your eyes
are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Blood
races to my head, making me dizzy. “Thomas, I—”

“We want
the same thing, Tess. I know you want a family, siblings for Abby. I’ve seen it
on your face, a longing I recognize.”

Thomas
stares at my hand, where my wedding ring sits heavy, suddenly hot.

“This
isn’t right, Thomas, I don’t think—”

“We could
be great together, you and I, we could—”

“Abby and
I should head home.” I jump from the couch, clutching the pillow to my chest.
“I’m tired and Abby should be sleeping in her bed.”

Thomas
rises, stepping close. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping for
air then sighs.

“I’ll
carry Abby to the car,” he finally says, tenderly loosening my grip on the
pillow tassel and turning me toward the door.

I’m stone
cold sober as I walk to the car in a daze, wondering what the hell just
happened. When I look up, the sight of Thomas cradling my baby girl steals my
breath, the emotion too strong to explore, and I have to look away.

Thomas is
everything Abby needs and exactly what I want.

Yet only
one thing is for certain: sleep won’t be coming any easier tonight.

L
ast night
I was burned alive on a pyre of sticks and tar. Fitting, I suppose, considering
the nature of my thoughts regarding Bryce and my date with Thomas. I’m supposed
to be a grieving widow.

I was
paraded around town, naked, men, women, and children sneering. The bishop’s
sermon, spoken with utter disdain, reeked of blasphemous retribution, and
through a small opening in the swollen and bloody folds of one eye, I could see
him flail about. The town folk clung to his every word while hurling potatoes
and stones at my body locked in the pillory. The stench of urine wafted from
below. Cuts and bruises were nothing compared to the overwhelming ache of
emptiness, of starvation.

Three men
and a boy no more than ten dragged me to the pyre. A woman stepped close and
spit. I raised my chin. The sheriff lit the fire and I didn’t even flinch. But
when the mass of tar and sticks erupted into a black inferno, cooking me from
the outside in, I screamed bloody murder.

It wasn’t
the kind of nightmare you shake. It was the kind that has you sitting at your
computer at two a.m., desperate to find something, anything, to erase the
horrific images from your mind. It was the reason I spent three hours scouring
websites about Atlantis’s demise. Even then, the hissing of burning skin kept
haunting me, forcing me to reiterate my findings out loud as a distraction from
the torturous cries that erupted from my imaginary charred body.

“It is
estimated that Earth has been brought to the brink of extinction at least five
times in the past five-hundred million years. One of these close calls was
Comet
Encke
, a killer comet that passed by Earth
unleashing a bombardment of meteoric material that set off a cosmic chain of
events that culminated in major global catastrophe.”

It was a
burn beyond anything comprehensible, heat devouring the tar smeared on my feet,
arms, and legs.

“Every
living creature scrambled to avoid sudden death at the hand of massive volcanic
explosions, a firestorm of collapsing sky, and tsunamis that swallowed entire
continents whole. Those who survived the onslaught were caught between Earth’s
fractures, stranded by the sudden and dramatic shift in tectonic plates.”

Begging
for the pain to end, willing my body to surrender, to die.

“What was
left of obliterated Atlantis dropped beneath the sea in a day and a night.”

And I thought
I had a morning from hell.

The day
gets better over brunch, thank goodness. Though I’m exhausted, my plan to chat
with Abby about the impending holidays and how she feels about celebrating
fatherless goes better than predicted, proving Grams right, yet again. Grams
thinks Meyer’s death was awful but well timed for Abby. She’s old enough to
have made some great memories of her father, yet young enough to rebound from
devastation quickly.

I wish I
could say the same for myself. Between my frazzled nerves and analyzing Abby’s
reactions to my questions, I don’t get much food down. Still, I’m pleased with
the choice of locale. The bistro is at full capacity, not an empty chair in
sight, and the surrounding bustle keeps me strangely focused. While I talk, Abby
fills her belly with child-sized portions of pancakes, fruit, bacon, eggs,
toast, and a bottomless glass of orange juice. She allows me to poke and probe,
showing a maturity beyond her years. She doesn’t shed a single tear. Her
bravery, along with an audience and my will to stay strong for my daughter,
keep my tears at bay as well.

Abby and I
shake on our deal to make our first Christmas without Meyer a happy holiday.
It’s not going to be easy. But I have a plan.

On the way
through the bistro door, we pass the kitchen and the incessant sizzling of the
chef’s frying pan combined with the restless chatter of people standing in line
brings visions of last night’s nightmare back to the forefront of my
consciousness.

Flames
snapping from my tar-tattered hands, the putrid smell of burning flesh. The
horde, hatred and fear in their eyes.

I
forcefully ignore the nightmare in my head and commit to focusing on the day
with my daughter. We’re getting our Christmas tree today, a tradition I think
is important to keep, but is bound to carry memories of Meyer. I need to stay
focused. I need to give Abby my full attention. And tonight is the final
pageant rehearsal, so I have to make this day special, uphold the pact with my
angel.

Death and
Christmas cannot coincide.

We ease
into
the parking lot of the tree farm then grab a
shopping basket at the entrance. Abby, familiar with this shop, makes a run for
the large wicker baskets surrounding the bases of heavily decorated Christmas
trees. The overwhelming quantity of twinkling lights gleaming off reflective
surfaces is breathtaking, almost dizzying, and I realize I am looking forward
to the holiday despite knowing this season will be difficult with Meyer gone. I
love Christmas. I love the wreaths, the trees, the lights, and the endless
streams of decorations. I love how Santa brings a smile to every kid’s face. I
love fresh-baked shortbread cookies, oven roasted turkey, and large glasses of
eggnog. I love how families gather from across the globe, putting aside busy
careers and differences to be together, and that our world becomes a happier
place. People smile brighter, greet with more cheer, and give. It reminds me
that there is more to this life than the tiny world I’ve built.

I follow
Abby from tree to tree, absorbing the grand sparkle. My foot taps to the
festive music coming from the store’s sound system, and I catch myself singing
out loud. What a great holiday, one that allows you to sing something as
ridiculously jubilant as “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in public and not
look like a total wacko.

Abby
squeals from the other side of the Disney themed tree.

“What’ve
you found?” I say, picking through Mickey Mouse ornaments.

“She found
us.”

I look up
and it’s Thomas, his forearms smothering the handle of a shopping cart. He
smiles big.

“What are
you doing here?” I’m equally pleased to see him, a reaction I find surprising
after my tense exit from our dinner date last week.

“Sofia has
never had a Christmas tree. I’ve never celebrated Christmas. We thought this
would be a good year to start a new tradition.”

“Tree
virgins.” I laugh and Thomas chuckles. “How is it coming along?" I look
down. “Your cart is empty.”

“We
haven’t been here long, but I have to admit I have no clue where to start. I
don’t even know what we need exactly. I was about to ask for the store manager
when Sofia spied Abby.”

The girls
are on the other side of the tree, giggling.

“Well, I’m
no expert, but I’m confident I can help with the basics. First things first,
you need a base to hold the tree.” I call attention to the Christmas tree
beside us, demonstrating its upright pose.

Thomas
smirks. “I don’t just lean it into a corner?”

“Call for
the manager,” I say, pretending to walk away.

Thomas
grabs me. “Kidding. Help. Please.”

How can I
refuse that face? “I saw tree bases over there,” I say, pointing to the
entrance. “Pick one that holds water, then meet us at the Harry Potter display.
Today is your lucky day. I’m giving free lessons in tree decorating 101.”

Thomas
snaps to attention before following instructions, and I round the tree, curious
to know what warrants such giggles. I’m relieved Abby has Sofia to distract her
from the memories this place evokes. We’ve come here every year since Abby was
born.

Me, I
choose to ignore the knot in my gut and concentrate on my pet project.

My guided
tour has the four of us ambling through the store, fiddling with every shiny
object that catches our attention. The possibilities are endless and narrowing
down select ornaments proves to be a daunting task. At one point Abby stops
dead, enthralled with miniature white lights that flicker to the beat of
“Jingle Bells.” As the music accelerates, so do the flashing lights.

“I
gotta
get me some of those!” bellows Thomas, knocking an
entire shelf of boxed lights into his cart. We all laugh and Thomas declares
the spree a success, requesting my assistance with a verbal checklist.

“Tree
base,” I say, an invisible check sheet and pen in hand.

“Yep,”
says Thomas.

“Lights.”

“Oh yeah,”
he laughs. He’s got enough lights to blow the area’s power grid.

“Tree
topper?”

Thomas
holds up a funky metal star. “Check.”

“Garland?”

“Ah, these
things?” He’s got several strings of bright-red beads. I think they’re painted
cork. I give Thomas a high-five. My protégé’s done me proud. Reaching into his
cart, I examine ornaments, making sure there is a good assortment. Thomas eyes
me digging. “What are you looking for?” he says.

“Did you
choose ones with meaning or are they just random?”

“I picked
ones I like,” he says, eyebrows high, challenging me.

“You are
supposed to choose ones that speak to you.”

“You do
things your way, and I do things my way. Besides, I picked some that speak to
me.” He shoves an arm into the loaded cart, seemingly in search of something
specific. “See,” he says, handing me a box. “It reminds me of you.” It’s a
ceramic Minnie Mouse. She’s wearing a painting smock, a paintbrush dripping red
paint in one hand. Little red dots cover the Christmas tree on her canvas. It’s
adorable and I’m speechless. Thomas thrusts another box at me. “And this one
speaks to me.”

I turn the
box as it repeats, “This one speaks to me, this one speaks to me, this one
speaks to me . . .” over and over in Thomas’s voice, only
monotone.

Thomas
covers his mouth to contain a gut-wrenching laugh. “See, I can be taught,” he
says.

The box
repeats, “I can be taught, I can be taught, I can be
taught . . .” and the two of us double over laughing.

A curious
stranger stops to ogle us. “What’s the fuss?” he says, and the ornament belts a
repeat of his inquiry, but in monotone it sounds like “What the fuck?” so
Thomas and I crack-up even more, until we’re swiping tears.

Laughter,
what a drug.

I tighten
Abby’s coat belt and steer my students toward the back door.

“Come,
tree virgins. Nothing says Christmas like the smell of fresh pine.”

Thick
ringlets fly every which way while Sofia attempts to persuade Thomas to give
our tree-cutting tradition a try. It’s not an easy sell.

Thomas
groans, holding tight to the door handle. “A real tree? I was thinking a
plastic one would work, maybe one with fake snow on the branches.”

I roll my
eyes.

“Seriously,
Mr. Outdoors? No way, I can’t let you do it.” I pry Thomas’s fingers from the
door.

Every year
Meyer stood in this exact spot, cataloging the downsides to cutting our own
tree, listing the virtues of a fake. It’s a good memory, one that makes me
smile. Of course, Meyer never won the tree debate. And Thomas doesn’t stand a
chance either.

“A cut
tree smells great, looks natural, and is biodegradable. Don’t contribute to
landfill problems.” You
gotta
love the power of
environmental guilt. “Grab a saw!” I slip on a customary Santa hat and toss
Thomas the mouthy ornament.

The
ornament says, “Grab a saw, grab a saw, grab a saw . . .”

Thomas
searches for the off switch, laughing. Then he slides on a Santa hat and
follows me outside, grabbing a saw from the bin.

My, my, he
can be taught.

By evening
I’m
pooped. Both Thomas and I receive calls to say the
girls aren’t required at tonight’s rehearsal, but I still spend an hour
dispensing costumes at the church while Mrs. Maples supervises Abby and Sofia’s
sleepover at my place, giving Thomas a kid-free night to himself. It’s the
least I could do, since the guy has not only been there for me, but he
delivered and set up our ten-foot Douglas fir, getting sap and pine needles all
over his truck.

I’m about
head home, to grab my coat and purse from their usual hidey-hole behind the
stage curtain, when I run into Karen scanning the auditorium.

“Looks
good, doesn’t it?” she says.

“The set
looks awesome, the props are in place, and the star decorations Lou Ann hung
from the rafters look really cool. I see the old piano is being tuned, so that
should pretty well cover it. You’ve done a great job, Karen. If only everything
ran so smoothly.” I chuckle. “
Wanna
use your magic to
finish my holiday shopping?”

Karen
snorts. “Only the crazy enter a mall this close to Christmas. And you hate
shopping.”

“I’m
desperate. I don’t know what to get for Stephen. And if I don’t courier his
gift by tomorrow, it won’t arrive in time for Christmas. Got any ideas?”