Celebration (6 page)

“I said no such thing, Mrs. Kelly. Put yourself in my place. Your parents placed their trust in this bank and in my father, who, when he retired, placed that same trust in my hands. I have obeyed the letter of the banking laws we are forced to live by. How well do you know your husband?” he asked coolly.

“God in heaven! We've been married for twenty years! I know him as well as I know myself. I hope that satisfies you. I do not like your tone or what you're trying to imply. Now, I'd like five hundred dollars, please.”

“I'll call out to the head teller. I assume you want cash.”

“Cash will be just fine.”

“Mrs. Kelly, what will you do if the eight million dollars never arrives?”

She was starting to hate the sound of her own name. “I don't have one damn clue as to what I'll do. And from here on in you would be wise to keep your insinuations to yourself, or I'll be banking somewhere else.”

“Your father told my father he didn't like Logan Kelly. My father thought I should know that when he passed your account over to me.”

“That's a bald-faced lie if I ever heard one,” Kristine said, her voice rising dangerously. “Both my parents adored Logan. How dare you say something like that to me! How dare you!”

“It's not a lie. Here, read this. It's a letter your father gave to my father at the time the trust was set up twenty-five years ago. You can apologize to me later. I have a meeting, and I'm late. Good-bye, Mrs. Kelly. Have a nice holiday.”

Kristine recognized her father's handwriting. She also recognized both parents' signatures at the bottom of the letter. It was a photocopy, but readable. No doubt the original was locked up in the bank vault somewhere. She read the letter twice before she crumpled it into a ball to toss across the room. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she fled the office. It wasn't until she was in the car with the engine running that she remembered she hadn't gone to the teller for the five hundred dollars. She blew her nose lustily as she cursed under her breath. Ten minutes later she was back in the car. Until that moment she hadn't noticed how much snow was on the ground. Damn. Now what was she supposed to do? If she spent a few more hours in town shopping, would she be able to make it home without chains or should she make a stop at the first gas station she came to and buy new ones? She opted for new chains. She was back on the road in thirty minutes. Her second stop was at a shoe store, where she bought a pair of rubber boots. There was no way she was going to give any credence to what Aaron Dunwoodie said or implied. She was never, ever, going to think about the letter her parents wrote either. She had groceries and Christmas presents to buy, and that's what she was going to do. When she got home, she was going to make a big pot of stew and bake an angel food cake. One-pot meals were perfect for eating off trays in front of the television. The extra plus would be the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree. The kids would love it. Then again, maybe they wouldn't. Lately it seemed like she knew nothing about her three children.

“I hate your guts, Aaron Dunwoodie,” Kristine snarled as she parked the car outside the department store. “I will never forgive you for your ugly thoughts about my husband.”

Kristine continued to mutter to herself as she walked up and down the aisles of the department store until she saw people staring at her. She clamped her lips shut as she squared her shoulders. She was here to buy Christmas presents, and that was exactly what she was going to do.

Her arms loaded with packages, Kristine climbed from the station wagon and stepped into four inches of snow. Even with the chains on her car, she'd been scared out of her wits that she would have an accident on the slick, icy roads. She sighed her relief, stinging sleet spitting in her face, as she struggled with her bundles.
Thank God I'm home
. The lights twinkling from the upstairs windows meant the kids made it home safely, too.
Damn
,
how are we going to cut down a Christmas tree in this weather?

Don't think about anything
,
Kristine
.
Go
in
the house and check the Crock-Pot. Get dinner ready
.
Yon can worry about the Christmas tree Later. Don
'
t think about Aaron Dunwoodie. Don't even think about Logan
.
Do what you have to do
.
That
‘
s how you get through the days
.
That
'
s what the book says
.
Go by the book now
.
The book is all you have going for you right now
.

“Mom! We were worried,” the three Kelly children shouted in relief as Kristine entered the warm, fragrant kitchen.

“We cut down the tree when we got home from school,” Mike said.

“It's a monster,” Tyler volunteered.

“We even got it up in the stand. There are pine needles everywhere, but it smells great. It looks like we might have a white Christmas. We wanted to wait for you to decorate the tree. I set the table and made some eggnog. Any mail from Dad?” Cala asked.

She doesn't sound like she cares one way or the other, Kristine
thought.

“Where did you get the saw to cut down the tree?” Kristine asked.

“Buried under a ton of junk in the barn. It was rusty, but it did the job,” Mike said. “It's a great-looking tree, Mom. Your eye was good yesterday when you picked it out even though it was dark. Did you buy a saw?”

“Yes, but I can take it back. I'm just glad we got the tree. It looks like it might snow through the night. Right now it's sleeting. Thanks for pitching in. No mail from Dad. I made some calls yesterday. The consulate is checking on things. I'm starved. Can we eat?”
Don't think
.
You have all night to think when the kids are in bed. Forget about the ugly insinuations Aaron Dunwoodie made
.

“The house looks really great, Mom. It smelled so good when we came in from school. It's almost Christmas, and there's no more school until January,” Cala said, unpacking groceries. “Tyler, pour Mom some coffee and then the two of you help me put away these groceries. Dad is going to be so surprised when he walks in. I bet he waits till Christmas Eve!” she continued to babble.

Kris could hear the doubt in her daughter's voice.
Play the game; go by the book.

“Yeah, he'll show up Christmas Eve like nothing happened. His grand entrance,” Mike groused.

“Today was the last day of school before Christmas break, right? For some reason I thought tomorrow was the last day,” Kristine said as she sipped at the coffee Tyler handed her.

“Yep, we're off till January tenth. What are we going to do, Mom?”

“I don't know about you guys but I'm going to go through my parents' records and see what I have to do to get their old business up and running. I think this Crock-Pot was one of the best things I ever bought,” Kristine said, hoping to ward off any questions about Logan and the future.

“Dig in!” Mike said happily as he loaded his plate to the brim. Kristine smiled at the way his freckles danced across the bridge of his nose. He looked so much like Logan it was scary. Cala looked like her, and Tyler had both Logan's and her features. She looked away.

“Mom, we need to talk about Dad. You said you made some calls yesterday. I think you need to share information with us,” Cala said, an edge to her voice.

“I agree about the sharing part, but there's nothing to share. The airlines don't give out passenger information. I spoke to Captain Dellwood. He's new to the base, and he's the one who drove your father to the airport. I called Tom, and he knew nothing. I even called Sadie, who said I was neurotic and paranoid. After that, I called the American Consulate and asked them to check on your dad. I'm hoping the airline will tell them something. Nobody was the least bit interested.”

“He'll show up Christmas Eve, make a grand entrance, look at us all in wide-eyed wonder, and say something titillating like, ‘Now why would you worry about your old man?' He would be right, too. Why the hell are we worried? So he's late, so what. I for one do not miss him at all. I personally don't care if he ever shows up. Don't any of you notice how quiet and peaceful it is without him ragging on us twenty-four hours a day,” Mike said, bitterness ringing in his voice.

Kristine watched and listened in dismay as her son filled his plate a second time. She should say something, anything that would lighten the moment. Even if she could think of something to say, it wouldn't matter to Mike. Undercurrents of something she could never understand were always present when father and son were in the same room. As near as she could tell, Logan wanted his son to conform, and Mike wasn't about to follow any order given by his father. Cala had at times stood by her twin and at other times bowed to parental pressure. Tyler, on the other hand, was a dutiful son and the apple of his father's eye, and Logan made sure the twins knew he was his favorite. Sometimes Logan could be unnecessarily cruel. She felt disloyal at the thought.

“‘That's enough, Michael,” Kristine said, using her son's full name, a sign that enough was enough. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tyler smirk. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Tyler,” she said, getting up from the table.

“We'll clean up, Mom. You get the stuff ready in the living room.”

“All right. I'm going to change my clothes first. Do we have a ladder?”

“I brought it in earlier,” Mike said.

Tears welled in Kristine's eyes when her son hugged her. He whispered in her ear, “I probably didn't mean half of what I said. I hate what this is doing to you, Mom. He always does it, and you don't do anything. You just swallow it up and wait for the next time. He beats on you, and you don't seem to care. We're all doing fine, can't you see that?”

“Maybe you are, but I'm not. I don't want to talk about this, Mike.”

“You need to open your eyes, Mom. We don't care. Tyler pretends and Cala feels like I do. You're the only one who cares. I hope the three of us are around when you finally realize what a son of a bitch your husband really is. Don't say it, Mom, because
I
don't want to hear it.”

Tears blurred her vision as Kristine made her way to the second floor. She was losing control, if she ever had any control to lose. It was all getting away from her, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She sat down on the bed and cried.

 

 

“Mom, it's nine o'clock. If we don't eat now, everything is going to be dried out,” Cala said. She struggled for a light tone. “The table looks so ... festive, but the candles are at the halfway mark. I think we should eat now. I wish I knew why we're having lasagna for Christmas Eve. We always have turkey, ham, and plum pudding.”

“I ... I know. Your father requested lasagna and a chocolate cake. He said he wanted it to be waiting when he walked through the door. I thought ... you're right, we should eat. There's some extra sauce in case it dried out too much. Is the salad wilted?”

“It's okay, Mom. Who says grace?”

As Tyler said grace, Kristine stared at the four-layer chocolate cake she'd made from scratch. It looked like a giant evil eye sitting in the center of the table. She wished she had the guts to throw it at the kitchen wall. Where did one get guts like that?

Logan wasn't coming home. Not tonight, not tomorrow, or the day after. She knew that now. Hot tears pricked her lids as she glanced around at the pitying looks on her children's faces. “Listen. I was never overly fond of lasagna. I say we toss it and throw out that cake for the birds. We have some hot dogs in the freezer, and I can make up some french fries in a few minutes. I made a Jell-O mold yesterday we didn't eat. Everyone in favor say aye. ”

“Aye,” the three Kelly children said in unison.

“Then let's do it!”

If it wasn't the happiest Christmas Eve dinner ever, it was the next happiest. At least that's what her children said over and over.

Kristine was on her fourth glass of wine when they ushered her into the living room. “We'll clean up out here, Mom. I'll bring in the eggnog when we're done. We'll sing some carols and make our wish on the North Star. And then we'll open our presents. You guys are just gonna love what I got you.”

Kristine nodded as she reached for the half gallon wine bottle to take with her into the living room. She smiled. They'd tried so hard for her sake. They'd gotten dressed in their best. Cala had spent hours on her makeup and Mike and Tyler had moussed their unruly curls. It was their jackets and ties that made her realize how hard they were trying.

She herself had spent hours on her makeup, hoping to cover the circles under her eyes. Her hair was lusterless and looked dry and stiff. Frustrated with her looks, she'd pulled it back into a tight bun. Until this evening she really hadn't paid much attention to her weight loss. When she saw how her burgundy-velvet dress just hung on her lanky frame, she'd tied a sash around the A-line dress. Logan would not approve of her looks.

She knew they were standing in the doorway. She could hear them whispering.

“She looks tired,” Tyler said.

“Wrong word, little brother. She looks
haggard.
”

“I think we all know he isn't coming back now or ever,” Mike hissed. “Why in the hell are we pretending and tiptoeing around it?”

“To make it easier for her. He was her world. That world is falling down around her. Look at her, for God's sake,” Cala said. “Do you have any idea how much pleasure I got throwing out that damn chocolate cake into the snow? Well, do you?”

“About as much pleasure as I got tossing the lasagna,” Mike said.

“What should we do?” Tyler asked fretfully.

“I have no clue. What do other people do when their families fall apart?” Cala asked.

“I can hear you,” Kristine said. “Come in here and sit down. I want to tell you something, and for heaven's sake, take off those jackets and ties. Cala, pour the eggnog. Did you put
anything
in it?”

“I followed your recipe, Mom.”

“Good, we're all going to need something. I want you to know I do not approve of children drinking, but this is Christmas Eve and an exception. I might be just a little bit ...”

“Sloshed,” Mike said.

“Sloshed is a good word,” Kristine said, enunciating each word carefully. “I want to tell you what Mr. Dunwoodie at the bank told me. Among the four of us we might be able to figure it out.” She accepted the cup of eggnog Cala handed her.

“Spit it out, Mom,” Mike said gently.

Kristine told them about the money and the banker's implied words.

The children stared at her with stunned expressions. “You should have told us, Mom,” Tyler said.

“I didn't want you to worry. I knew you all had your own adjustments to make with this last move. None of you were exactly warm and friendly at the time. Besides, I was worrying enough for all of us. Now, tell me, do you remember when was the last time you saw those two brown, accordion-pleated envelopes we kept our bank records in? The one with your birth certificates, insurance policies, and stuff like that.”

“Years,” Cala said.

“Back in the summer. I saw Dad working in his office. He had piles of stuff everywhere,” Mike said. “Eight million dollars, and it's gone!”

“A long time ago, more than a year,” Tyler said. “That's a lot of money.”

“I don't know if it's gone or not. The only thing I really remember was how elated your father was when he locked the money into a certificate of deposit for five years that was paying twenty-four and a half percent interest. That's how the account became so robust. It didn't get here the way your father said it was supposed to. I need the three of you to go into the storage room and look through the boxes that were not unpacked. I did look through them, but I was far too jittery. It's possible I missed them.”

“Why would you ship personal stuff like that? I would have thought you would have packed it in your suitcases. Did Dad say anything about bringing it?”

“No; he said he was packing it with his office things. I thought he did. It's just records. He thought it was safe to send them. The boxes were sealed and stamped.”

“What you're saying is we're broke unless we can find the records. What good are the records if the money isn't there? Is that it?” Mike said, an angry, bitter look on his face.

“That's what I'm saying. I had to get an advance on next month's check. My own personal checking funds didn't get here either. I had a little over eight thousand dollars in that account.”

“What exactly does power of attorney mean?” Cala asked.

“It means Mom turned over her inheritance to Dad and let him handle it any damn way he saw fit. Eight million smackeroos, and it's gone just the way he's gone. Does anyone around here need a blueprint?” Mike demanded.