2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) (31 page)

Monday, December 25
^th

Fynn had gotten little sleep—back to the house to play
Santa after midnight, then back to the hospital to sleep in a chair that turned
into an uncomfortable bed, then up again before dawn to orchestrate the homecoming
process because Catherine insisted they leave the hospital no later than six.
Discharged and on the way home with their new little bundle of joy before Cara
could even get up and see what Santa had brought.

But there was no beating Cara to the punch. It turned
out she’d been up before five. Up before Elizabeth Hemmings. Chomping at the
bit and ready to dive into the gifts and festivities that awaited.

“Gramma Lizzy and Pop-Pop took me to church and I got
to see Garrett and Lyle in the nativity play and everything,” she chattered,
following Catherine like her shadow everywhere she went from the moment she
walked through the door.

“Go. Sit,” Elizabeth Hemmings commanded when she caught
Catherine in the kitchen trying to help. “You need to rest and relax and let
your body heal.”

“But I was just—”

“You were just on your way to the family room to put
your feet up,” she finished for her.

So off she went, deferring to her mother to keep the
Christmas peace, and because the couch sounded just about heavenly to her.

“… And I saw Sally Watts there too and she asked if I
got the Gingermelon I asked for because she got a pony for Christmas,” Cara said,
right behind her, continuing on like she hadn’t seen her in years.

“Shows what she knows. They don’t even have Gingermelon
ponies,” Catherine said snidely.

“A pony, Cat,” Cara said. “A real live pony she can
ride. Sally says that Bolt—that’s her pony’s name—is a show pony, and she is
the only one who’s allowed to ride him.”

“Well, isn’t that just a perfectly Watts-like thing to
say. This is why I don’t like to go to church,” she growled, her mother coming
through the room at just the right moment to shoot her a dark look for the
blasphemous statement.

“She said that she’s the only one who can feed him
too.”

Catherine humphed. “She sounds like a little b—”

“What a wonderful gift your friend got,” Gramma Lizzy
led, putting down mugs of coffee and turning to lift Evan out of his infant seat,
hugging him to her like he was the key to life itself. “Maybe you can meet Bolt
someday.”

Cara shrugged noncommittally, seeming nonplussed. “Is
it time for presents yet?” she begged, tossing herself on the couch dramatically,
Sally and her pony already forgotten.

“I was going to say
brat
by the way,” Catherine
whispered to her mother.

“I was hedging my bets.”

“I’ve been as patient as I can be,” Cara announced, so
serious that it made them all laugh. 

“Just as soon as Fynn finishes getting more firewood,”
Catherine assured her.

“I expect some coffee cake in hand before the first
gift is unwrapped,” William Hemmings grouched settling into the chair next to
the fireplace.

Catherine remembered this pronouncement from him every
Christmas morning growing up. As heartwarming as it was eye rolling. She was definitely
looking forward to her mother’s traditional Jewish coffee cake as well.

“I’ll get you your breakfast, old man,” Elizabeth snapped,
like it was a punishment. “But right now I’m holding your grandson, so you’ll
have to wait.”

 “Pop-Pop,” Cara groaned, “I just want to open
something
.
I’ve already had to wait
hours
.”

“Not until I have my coffee cake,” he said with an
undisguised chuckle.

Cara got up and ran over and draped herself across his
lap in a swoon of utter degradation at any further delay. “Please!”

“Oh, alright. One present,” he acquiesced, just as
Fynn burst back in the door bringing the cold and an armload of firewood with
him.

She scrambled onto the floor and crawled to the heap
of gifts, taking the shiniest package and pulling it into her lap, hugging it
to her before tearing into the precious packaging with glee.

Catherine closed her eyes, afraid to watch Cara open
it—the gift, the thing Cara wanted most—wishing she had picked anything else
under that tree. There were plenty of packages with pretty clothes and fun toys
and all kinds of wonderful things awaiting her, but this one… the wrapping was much
better than what was inside.

Cara lifted the top off the box, her eyes widening
with something akin to horror for sure, and Catherine’s excuse was at her lips,
ready to tell her that what she saw nestled in there was Gingermelon’s uglier,
inbred cousin—perhaps say that the little elephant was disfigured in a sewing
accident (the truth) and it was part of a program to adopt special needs
Gingermelons for Christmas. An honor, in fact, to get one.

But instead, Cara pulled out a perfect little cream
mohair elephant with pink polka dot insets on its belly and inside its ears and
on the bottoms of its feet that were also edged with delicate pink beading.
Cuter even than the picture on the pattern because it was personalized to Cara.

Catherine looked to Fynn but his eyes were as wide with
surprise.

She looked to her mother who was too busy gazing at
Evan to notice anything but him. This was either the devil’s work or Elizabeth
Hemmings’, and considering how her mother was with a needle and thread…. Which
meant Tara—the snitch—must have opened her gabbing gabfest mouth—

Thank God!

And of course she hadn’t known from the outside of the
package. That was the one thing she had actually learned to do well and
properly. Catherine Marie could wrap a gift. Perfection in measuring, cutting,
folding, tucking, taping, ribboning and bowing. She had learned from the master
and lived up to the master. Her technique and her mother’s were
indistinguishable, so the gift looked exactly as it had when she’d wrapped the
ugly little elephant she’d made. How her mother had made a new Gingermelon in
the time since Catherine had gone into labor was beyond her comprehension,
though. A Christmas miracle. A wonderful Christmas cabal that had made a deserving
little girl’s day.

“Gramma Lizzy, did you see?”

“What, sweetie?” she asked, looking up like she was
oblivious to everything around her.

“I got my Gingermelon! See! I
knew
it. Santa
is
real. This is the best Christmas ever!”

“So
that’s
a Gingermelon,” Gramma Lizzy said in
wonder. “I can see why you wanted one.” She got up, deciding it was time to get
the coffee cake and handing sleeping Evan off to Catherine.

There was the sound of plates and silverware and the
refrigerator door opening and closing, and in no time she was back with a full tray,
then back out again for the coffee cake itself. A well-orchestrated maneuver of
serving expertise, as she busied herself slicing pieces and doling out plates,
the first to her husband who had waited long enough.

“Now it’s time for someone else to open a present,
Cara announced, tucking her elephant in the crook of her arm and picking up a
small package from under the tree, the size of a jewelry box, and bringing it
to Catherine who held a sleeping Evan. He had hardly made a peep since they
left the hospital after having been up every hour on the hour all night like a
little old man with jetlag. 

“What’s this?” Catherine asked Fynn, forcing
excitement where exhaustion now lived.

He shrugged back.

“I guess I’ll have to open it. Do you want to hold
your brother, Cara?”

She nodded, climbing up on the couch and wedging
herself next to Catherine, who maneuvered Evan into Cara’s lap while Fynn, who’d
finished tending the fire, came around the couch to the other side to help her
support his head.

Catherine turned her attention to the present, hoping
Fynn hadn’t gone overboard. She tore off the paper and lifted the top of the
jewelry box to find a tiny plate inside filled with teeny tiny cookies. She
lifted it out of the box. Not just a plate, but a ring.

“Do you like it?” Cara asked excitedly.

She didn’t have words. Not an expensive piece of
jewelry that her husband should not have gotten for her but instead a priceless
little ring from Cara.

“They’re chocolate chip cookies. Like the ones you
made for the school party. Maybe not peanut-buttery ones, but we can pretend. They’re
hard too but they aren’t burnt,” she pointed out. “You told me that was the
first time you baked any cookies by yourself ever, and you did it for me, so I
did this for you to remember. Too bad there are only six on the plate. I wish
it was a whole helleck.”

“A helleck?” William Hemmings chuckled. “What’s that?”

“A whole bunch. Like a dozen of them. But even more,”
Cara explained.

Catherine touched her hand to her heart, tears coming
to her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful. Such an absolutely perfect gift.”

She glanced at Fynn and saw the flicker of flames from
the fire reflected in the unshed tears in his eyes. All for a thoughtful little
girl they were so tragically lucky to have in their lives.

The doorbell rang, jarring them out of the moment.
Catherine eyed the clock. It was hardly past seven. Drew and Klein and their
gang were out of town visiting his family, and Tara and Jason were supposed to
be coming over later. Much later. What if it was Uncle Walter? Showing up for
Christmas? All his extravagant gifts setting the stage for crashing the biggest
holiday of the year?

Fynn hopped up to answer the door before she could
grab him and tell everyone to pretend they weren’t here. Be quiet. Or better
yet, hide in case the guy started peering in windows.

The door opened sending in another burst of cold air
and a jolly, “Merry Christmas!”

“I know we were supposed to come for dinner, but we
couldn’t help ourselves. We have gifts to give and there’s no time like the
present
!”
Tara announced.

“Very punny,” Catherine called back, surprising
herself with the goodwill she felt at having her friend drop in like this.

“I can’t control her,” Jason said, hand up in
surrender.

“Get used to it,” Fynn said. “I have one of my own.”

“You two are lucky,” Catherine assured them.

Tara and Jason put down their bags and took off their
coats, handing them to Fynn to hang up, while Elizabeth Hemmings hurried to the
kitchen to get additional plates and glasses with the-more-the-merrier ease.
Catherine let all the bustle take place, happy to sit and bask like the new
mother she was.

“I think Even needs a diaper change,” Cara said
suddenly, holding her nose with two dainty fingers.

“It’s Evan, remember, sweetie?” Catherine corrected
gently.

Cara shook her head. “I can read.”

“Of course you can read.”

“And it says Even.”

“What says Even?”

“That stuff from the hospital.”

“What stuff?”

“The papers in his diaper bag. I was looking at them
because I thought they sent you home with homework,” Cara said, completely
serious.

Catherine vaguely recalled shoving all kinds of things
in the diaper bag when she was packing up to leave the hospital. “Hand me that.”
She snapped her fingers impatiently toward the bag sitting on the floor near
the front door, a few feet from where Tara stood.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Tara curtsied, pulling a sheaf
of papers out of one of the exterior pockets and reading them over. “The kid’s
spot on. It’s Even alright.”

She walked over to Catherine, who snatched them out of
her hands and rifled through, certain she was being punked. It would be just
like Tara. But no, there it was: “Even Henry Trager,” she whispered, reading
the forms. The same on each. Not Evan. Not “Baby Trager”. Not a name at all.
Even.

“You’re kidding,” Fynn said hopefully.

She shook her head, only the lump in her throat
preventing her from screaming.

“Thankfully I can read really good. My teacher says
I’m in the 99th percent, whatever that means. I could read it easy. Even Henry
Trager. I like it,” Cara said innocently.

“What the—” Fynn cut off the swear word they were both
thinking. “How did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Catherine whined. “One of those nurses
asked me his name to file for his birth certificate. She told me to spell it
out—first, middle, last—”

“And?” Fynn prodded.

“She always did have some trouble. Not the spelling
bee champ,” William Hemmings offered.

“Dad!”

He shrugged. “Remember
eighth?
”

“A lot of people get that wrong on the first try.”

“A lot of bad spellers do. I’ll give you that,” he
razzed with a good-natured smile.

She was frozen for a few seconds, but then lunged into
an attack. “Who asks someone who was just up for twenty-four hours straight
trying to pass a human being, to spell anything, let alone something with legal
ramifications?” she smarted. “You don’t give a field sobriety test to a new
mom. I was still hopped up on drugs.”

“Tylenol is hardly a drug,” Tara asserted.

“Hospital strength is. It’s not available over the
counter. It’s a controlled substance—i.e. drug. Besides, she could have read it
back to me. If a nurse can’t read the word ‘even’ and see that it isn’t an
actual name then I think we should be questioning the entire educational system
in this country.” Because diverting blame was her only option.

She saw her mother opening her mouth. “Don’t say it.
Not now, Mom.”

“Say what?”

“You know what. What you always say when things don’t
go swimmingly—which is all the time in my life.”

“Life is real, not ideal,” Cara offered helpfully.

“I was only going to say that you can always have it
changed,” her mother said. “It isn’t set in stone.”

“But it
will be
on his birth certificate,” Tara
noted.