Kristmas Collins (3 page)

I reached the maximum two minutes I could spend in Alexander’s presence without blood shooting out of my eyes. And since I thought that might scare the girls, I decided to move on. But just as I was about to slither away, my former mother-in-law cornered me. Alexander looked as annoyed by this turn of events as I was.

Beatrice was a Lennox, the other wealthy Connecticut family that had its name on the stationery. The Wainwright and Lennox families were constantly marrying each other—I could count six marriages off the top of my head—which was either creepy, or a well-organized plan to maintain the species, and eventually take over the world.

The not-yet-corrupted Franny and Zooey greeted their grandmother by running to her. They hugged each of her legs, which were covered by her designer gown. I hoped that this might dislodge her robot limbs, and the Stepford Wife scheme would be publicly exposed, but no such luck. And Franny and Zooey couldn’t catch a break either, as Beatrice made them aware that their affectionate act was not acceptable etiquette for young ladies, especially since they almost spilled Grandma’s drink. She threatened to lock them in the coal cellar if they didn’t drastically alter their behavior.

This was not an idle threat. The manor house did contain an actual working coal cellar, which Alexander liked to brag about. It was dormant when I’d lived here, but it was revived after W&L made a large financial investment into clean coal technology this past year.

Once Beatrice was done scaring the dickens out of my kids, she turned her contempt on me. She admonished the “rude behavior” I exhibited upon my entrance, and informed me that I was lucky she didn’t revoke my parole, which apparently she had the authority to do. Having seen the Wainwrights in action, I would never bet against their power and how far it reached.

Out of habit, I put my finger on my nose, which had always been the distress signal between Libby and me when one of us was trapped at these parties. But when I caught a glimpse of her across the room, engrossed in a conversation with her current boyfriend, Ned Blaine, I remembered that I was living in a whole new world these days. One that I would have to survive all on my own.

As I made my way to the door, Libby busted me from across the room, effectively ending my attempt to slip out unnoticed.

I’ve adored Libby from the moment I laid eyes on her, and after having a couple years in a small cell to reflect on it, I had even more respect for her. So technically, I wasn’t avoiding her. But my work was done here and I had a train to catch, and honestly, nobody really wants to see their boss on the weekend.

While I was enjoying the normal undergrad life at Iona College, my best friend since childhood, Zee Thomas, had rocketed to stardom with the New York Yankees. The teenage, phenom pitcher had captured the hearts and imagination of the city, but still struggled in social situations, as had been the case since we were kids. So he dragged me along one night to a party that his marketing agency had thrown for him in the city, to play the role of security blanket. Libby Wainwright, a sophomore at NYU, and an intern at the agency that represented Zee, also attended the party. The rest was history. And the historical record read: Twenty-two years, fifteen years of marriage, four children, a messy affair, one divorce, and a prison sentence.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what attracted me to Libby. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. Okay, she was never very funny—laughing had always been frowned upon in the Wainwright house … literally. But what really drew me to her, besides the beauty and brains combo, was that just being around her made it seem that anything and everything was possible. Maybe that was why I didn’t realize how over my head I was dating the daughter of Alexander Wainwright.

What she saw in me was still a great mystery to me—as I’m sure it remains for Alexander and Beatrice. Perhaps marrying a suburban middle-class kid appealed to the rebellious side that her father always referred to—although, a rebellious streak for a Wainwright was much differently defined than one for normal people. She would never be confused with James Dean.

Or maybe it was that I was the first guy who could ever make her laugh, and every girl remembers her first.

But I think the real reason that Libby chose Kris Collins was because she’d always been an idealist, in the sense that she would create an idyllic vision of the world in her mind, and she would then move heaven and earth to make it reality. And for reasons only known to her, a life with me fit into her ideal vision.

But she’d proved that she’ll alter the vision when circumstances intervene. When she was a child she believed that there was good in all souls, and everyone could be saved. This thinking was the main reason the Amigos ended up in the Lake House instead of the Big House. But when she was attacked while jogging in the park during her freshman year at NYU, she conceded that there were inherently bad people in the world. That’s when she decided to become a prosecutor—to put away these bad people who threatened her ideal world. And she took no less mercy on me when I shattered the vision she had for us.

As I got closer, I could hear Ned Blaine talking up Wainwright Manor to a couple of party guests—the “exquisite” French wallpaper of the ballroom, the “spectacular” thousand bottle wine cellar, and how it resonated a hominess, even though it was over eighteen-thousand square feet and had eight bedrooms and eleven-and-a-half baths. I wasn’t so sure about the hominess part—that half a bath was ten times bigger than any room we had in my house growing up in Tarrytown.

When Ned spotted me he raised the charm to an even higher level—a skill that had helped make him one of the top realtors of upscale properties in Manhattan. If I was the lawyer to the stars, then he’s the one who sold them the best places to live. In fact, he sold Libby and me our first apartment on the Upper East Side, which we bought after fleeing for our lives from her parents’ place. At least I felt that way; I think Libby was actually sad to leave.

Ned almost tripped over himself to greet me with a friendly handshake, trying too hard as usual. I should probably despise the man who moved in on my ex-wife like she was a luxury condo overlooking Central Park, before the ink was even dry on our divorce agreement. But Ned had always been generally harmless—he reminded me of one of those polished politicians with the perfectly coiffed hair and sparkly white teeth, who would intently look you in the eye when they speak to you and overuse your first name like they’d learned it in a seminar. And the fact remained, when Libby gets remarried, and she will some day, probably in this very room, it likely won’t be to Ned Blaine. But he does have a better shot than Kris Collins. That ship had sailed, and all the Christmas magic in the world couldn’t turn it around.

Ned and I had also been collaborating on a secret project that he calls “Operation Farmer on the Roof.” He covertly let me know that things were going as planned with it, and we had a meeting with our contact set for Christmas Eve in the city. I nodded, hoping I’d be alive to attend.

Ned then strategically stepped away, so that Libby and I could talk about whatever Libby needed to talk to me about. Ned understood the dynamics of closing a deal, and he knew he wasn’t going to close one with Libby unless she was comfortable with his relationship with her children. And unfortunately for Ned, her children came furnished with a father that she was determined to keep relevant in their lives.

After exchanging the cold cheek-kiss of divorced parents, she said, “So you were going to skip out of here without saying hello?”

“I wasn’t skipping out on anything,” I replied a little too defensively. “The only reason I came was to see the Amigos one last time before they were thrown out on the street. I was going to leave straight from the Lake House, but Taylor dragged me inside to surprise the twins.”

She looked at me with skepticism. “They were hardly thrown out on the street … and you also came because you knew it would irritate my parents.”

“I must say, one of the hardest things during my time away was not getting to piss them off every year,” I replied with a smile.

“Now that sounds like the old Kris Collins. And in that suit, you are starting to look like him again.”

“By old, are you referring to the gray beard?”

“I meant, as in the past. You would wear a suit to the beach if we had let you,” Libby replied, and once again reminded me that she was the most literal person I’d ever met.

“My daughter said I used to be ‘all Don Draper.’”

Libby never watched TV, so the remark would’ve had the same effect if I’d referenced Homer Simpson. But she wasn’t listening to me, anyway. Her mind was where it always was these days when it came to me—focused on my relationship with our children.

She gazed across the room at Taylor. “I can’t believe how grown up our daughter has become.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun … or even when you’re not.”

“Tell me about it. It’s hard to believe that she’s not much younger than we were when we met.”

I nodded, enjoying the impromptu trip down memory lane, and let her continue.

“On the subject of college, will you be joining us for her visits this spring?”

“If my boss will give me some time off—she’s a real slave driver.”

A smile escaped her lips—it was nice to know I still had the touch. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Taylor told me that she’s leaning toward Clemson.”

She sighed. “Last week it was Virginia, next week it will be UCLA.”

A brief quiet came over us—the thought of our little girl living in California was overwhelming. But from a safety factor, I’d still prefer her near the San Andreas Fault than Alexander’s winter residence in Hilton Head.

“Have you completed your Christmas shopping?” Libby asked.

“Well, I know I’m sending Taylor to lacrosse camp in Florida. Rumor has it that
she also
knows this.”

“I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped. The camp called to confirm and she answered. It was an honest mistake—I guess I’m not very good at keeping secrets.”

For what it’s worth, she’d always been much better than me at it, but that would be stating the obvious. She moved on, “What about the others?”

“I still have a couple of days … I do my best work under deadline pressure.”

“You only work under deadline pressure. So you have no basis to say for sure if it’s your most effective way to work.”

“I was thinking about wrapping up Zee with a bow for Alex.”

“That’s not really funny,” Libby said, looking slightly queasy. “I love Zee like family, but I’m hoping that Alex discovers a new male role model over the next couple of years.”

By the uncomfortable stare she sent in my direction, I got the feeling that she was referring to me.

All first born male Wainwrights are named Alexander, so there were a lot of Cousin Zander and Uncle Als running around at this party. Unlike his older sister, Alex never came to see me once during my time away, and we’ve rarely spoken since my release. But being sort of an Alex expert, in that she’s one of the few in the human species that he actually communicates with, Taylor assured me that his silence has nothing to do with my time in prison, or “the thing with Mom,” as she calls it. So we are on good terms, and Taylor has promised to keep me informed if the status of our relationship changes.

This was nothing new, or related to the public embarrassment his father had caused. It went back to when he first began talking … or not talking. We’ve had him tested for everything from autism to social anxiety disorder over the years, but the diagnosis always came back that he was a well-adjusted, smart kid, who just didn’t really care to communicate with people. Sometimes I can’t blame him.

One person he did communicate with was Zee, who has been like a father figure to him. I never took no offense to this, but I sometimes worried about Alex following a similar path. Especially since Alex reminded me so much of Zee, beyond their shared social awkwardness. I’ve had a recurring dream for years about being ambushed on one of those daytime talk shows where the true paternity of the child is revealed. Although, it would better explain things.

The mention of Zee reminded me of our meeting tonight, and I attempted to hurry things along, “So what am I getting Alex for Christmas?”

“I’m glad you asked. You and your son will be doing a tour of spring training baseball in Florida this February. You know what a baseball fanatic he is. And I’m hoping that you can use some of your connections with professional athletes so that Alex could meet some of the Yankees players, which is his favorite team.”

She pulled the itinerary from her purse and handed it to me. The trip had been meticulously mapped out to the hour. “I’m guessing that it’s not a coincidence that Taylor will be in Florida at the same time for her camp.”

“The three of you will drive home together. I think it will be a good chance for you to bond with them.”

I remained impressed by her effort to make me important in our kids’ lives. That was her gift to me, even if she would never think of it as a gift.

Two down, two to go. “So what will Franny and Zooey be receiving from Daddy?”

“They will be getting ponies. I think it will be a good chance for them to learn about responsibility, and I think there’s no better way to do that than taking care of another living creature.”