Lost in NashVegas (33 page)

“Perfect.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.

He guffaws. “There's more tape than ring.” Then he slams on the brakes again. “What in the world?”

I look where he's pointing. “It's the candy-cane field.”

In the open lot between the drugstore and the library, giant red-and-white candy canes dance in the breeze above a layer of fake snow.

“This is incredible. Where do you buy this stuff?”

“Phil Beautner knows someone who knows someone. Fake snow is actually a line item in the county budget.”

A minute later, Lee almost wrecks when we pass Santa's Toy Shop. “This I gotta see.”

Outside, he tromps through plastic flakes to see the craftsmanship of the Toy Shop. “Unbelievable.” He turns a circle. “All of Main Street is the North Pole.”

“Yep.” I tip my head and squint in the sunlight. “I told you Christmas ain't Christmas until you've been to Freedom, Alabama.”

“What about the Nativity? Don't you tell me Freedom's gone PC.”

“Has hell froze over? It's on the other side of the town.”

Lee opens his door for me. “You should drive. I might wreck otherwise.”

On the back side of the town square, between the new Wal-Mart and Libby Dankin's bookstore, The Book Worm and Café (yeah, Mayor Bedford warned her people not to associate worms with lattés, but Libby already had the sign hung), is the Living Nativity.

“Real people?” Lee asks, stepping out of the truck.

I join him, slipping my arm around his waist. “Yep, real people.”

“If it weren't for the Wal-Mart, I'd swear I was in old Bethlehem.”

The baby Jesus starts to cry, so Mary picks him up and thumps him on the back. Then she sniffs the little guy's rear. Her nose wrinkles.

Before we can say “O Holy Night,” she rips off his Hug-gies, wipes him with a wet wipe, rediapers, reswaddles, and just like that, baby Jesus is happy and back in character.

Lee laughs. “Just like Mary did two thousand years ago.”

I elbow him in the ribs, “shhh, the actors are doing their best to portray one of the greatest days in human history.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “This
is
amazing.”

“Every night at dusk, the Shepherds come, then at midnight, the Wise Men come.”

Lee shakes his head. “People come from all over the state to see this?”

I pat him on the back. “Honey child, they come from all over the world.”

He kisses the top of my head and softly whispers, “I wish I could've been there for the real thing.”

I lean against him. “Me too. Me too.”

Momma kills the fatted calf and half of the family getting
ready for Christmas. She has Lee toting firewood and polishing silver while Dawnie, Eliza, and I wrap presents for the needy families in the community. Steve's presents were shipped weeks ago, and we're talking to him tomorrow at noon.

“So, Momma told me,” Eliza says, sticking a big bow on a small package.

“About Jim Chastain?” It still feels sort of surreal.

“I couldn't believe it,” Dawnie says. “I haven't even told Steve yet.”

“I still can't get my mind around it. God's peace does surpass all understanding.”

I cut a square of wrapping paper from a large roll. The scissors are dull, so the end rips a little.

“You'll always be my sister,” Eliza says. “I can't imagine Daddy not being your daddy.”

“What do you mean I'll always be your sister?” I toss aside the wrapping paper roll. “Daddy is my daddy. And you are my sister. There's no statue of limitations.”

Dawnie snickers.

“I just mean nothing has changed for me.”

I tear off a large strip of clear tape. “Nothing's changed for me either, Eliza, except I have this new man in my life who is responsible for my red hair and green eyes.”

She laughs with a shake of her dark head. “Sure explains Momma all those years, doesn't it. No wonder she looked like she sucked on a lemon for lunch.”

“She smiles a lot more now.” Dawnie reaches for the tape.

“I've noticed,” Eliza says, reaching over and yanking the bow off my package.

“What gives?”

“The bow doesn't match the paper.” She searches in the bow bag for another bow. “Here.”

I shake my head, laughing. “How can you ever doubt being my sister. You've been doing this to me for twenty-two years.” I press the bow on to the box. “Really, Eliza, do you actually think some little boy is going to care if his box had a purple bow on blue paper?”

“Yes.”

“You're a pain, you know that?”

“But you love me.”

A wave of sentiment crashes over me, and I croak, “Yeah, I do.”

In the midst of the Christmas frenzy, Momma corners me in
the kitchen.

“You know, your daddy's never heard me play or sing in public. So, I want to sign up for the Spring Sing.”

I notice the dishes piling up, so I plug the sink and squirt soap under a stream of hot water. “Good for you.”

She grabs me by the shoulders. “I want you to sing with me.”

“Me? Why?”

“It's been awhile, Robin. Besides, it'll be fun. Can you just see your granddaddy and daddy? They'll be bustin' all their buttons.”

I've never seen Bit McAfee so energized. “I guess we could, Momma.” But a duet adds a new level of complication to my anxieties. Will we get the timing right? Hit the right harmony?

“I've been working on a song. You can learn it easy enough.”

I gaze into her excited blue eyes and realize I cannot deny this woman. She's breaking my heart. At forty-three, Momma still has a dream.

“Okay, Momma, I'll do it.”

“Oh, good.” She claps her hands and does a little jig. “I asked Winnie Engledow to sew us some costumes.”

“Say you didn't.” I laugh.

She winces. “Sorry, but I did.”

I shake my head. “All right. For Winnie's sake.”

Winnie Engledow is the town seamstress. She's sewn school and church costumes, bride and bridesmaids' dresses since Jefferson Davis ruled the South. She's probably the sweetest southern lady ever born.

“Thank you, Robbie.” Momma kisses my cheek and skips— yes, I said skips—out of the kitchen. “By the way,” she says from the hallway, “check the refrigerator door. Then come on up to the attic. There's some stuff in the old trunk I want to show you.”

I twist around to check the fridge door. “I'd love to go through the—” I frown and shake the soap from my hands. The waterlogged, faded
Lose 25 lbs
note is gone. In its place is a new note.
Lose 18 lbs.

My eyes well up. Good for you, Momma. Good for you.

On the drive home the day after Christmas, Lee is quiet.
“What's on your mind, big guy?”

He reaches for my hand. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“If you're ever gonna say it.”

“I'm gonna say it,” I whisper.

He looks over at me for a split second, then back to the road. “I suppose I have to believe you, but, babe, it's been almost three months since I told you. Things are becoming a little lopsided.”

I twist his duct-taped ring around my finger. Why is this so hard for me? In late November I knew I was falling in love with him. I remember the first time I felt it. The night before Thanksgiving. He was out back helping Walt smoke a turkey. I played guitar on the stoop, watching, listening to the even, sure sounds of Lee's voice. When he looked over at me, brushing aside his bangs, it made me weakkneed, and I flubbed the next chord.

The family
loooves
him. Daddy almost cornered Lee about his “plans.” I saw it coming and threw a wrench in the works with a quick, “Who wants cake?”

Okay, it's time for a ride to Honest Town. “I'm afraid, Lee. Afraid of being consumed and smothered. And losing the joy of my life, losing sight of songwriting.”

“Consumed and smothered? By me?”

“Well, by marriage in general.”

“You can't be serious.” He shifts in his seat and grips the wheel so his knuckles bulge.

“I am.” I gaze out the window. “Lee, what if I want to sing at a songwriter's night or go out to hear other songwriters? Will you get mad? Will you expect dinner on the table at six? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a dinner-on-the-table-at-six kind of girl.”

“I'm not a dinner-on-the-table-at-six kind of guy, either. More like seven.”

“You're making fun of me.”

“Look, Robin, marriage is about two people merging their lives, adjusting to each one's gifts and callings. I would do everything in my power to help your dream of being a songwriter.”

Well, just melt my heart and pour a little warm caramel over it. “Lee, one more thing. I've never really been—”

I'm cut short when my cell phone rings. “Hey, Sky— What? . . . No way. Please say you're kidding . . . Right . . . Absolutely. Eight o'clock.”

I flip my phone closed. “Blaire and Ezra broke up. Skyler's called an intervention at their place tonight.”

When we arrive home, Lee carries up my presents. “Put them
there.” I point to the tiny dining table and toss my suitcase behind the bedroom divider.

We have some time before I have to meet Blaire and Skyler, so I walk over and give him a soft kiss, expecting him to swoop me up in his big arms for a cuddle on the couch. But he barely kisses me back. A cold chill runs over me.

Lee sighs. I don't like the echo of sadness. “Do you want me?”

I swallow. So, we're back to this? “Y-yes.”

“Then I need to hear you say you love me. This is getting ridiculous.”

I square off with him. “I will, when I'm ready.”

He walks to the door. “I'm pretty sure you love me, Robin, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why you won't tell me.”

“You can't force me to say something I don't . . . am not ready to say.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I see. Maybe I'm wrong. You don't love me.” He turns the knob.

“Where are you going?” I'm trapped in my own paradox.

He pauses, facing away from me. Six foot two, confident, kind, successful, lover of Jesus, Lee whispers, “This is starting to hurt too much.”

“Lee, please, I'm just not ready for marriage.” Say it, Robin, you egghead. Tell him. “I'm only asking for a little more time.”

“You got it.” The door clicks closed, and his footsteps resound on the stairs.

I bite back a blue word and kick the wall. Merry end of Christmas.

31

Skyler and Blaire share a swanky refurbished condo in Green
Hills, not far from Lee's place. He's on my mind as I drive down Hillsboro Road.

I'm sad he's sad. I hurt because he hurts, and I am really wondering why I can't force those three little words out of my mouth: “I love you.”

No, that's not true. I know why. I've never been in love before. Infatuated, intrigued, in like, but not in love. Not even with Ricky.

My reasons for holding back are unfounded. Lee embodies my courage. He shows up at the Bluebird without being asked and tells me I ruined the audience for all the other songwriters. He supports my career.

Can't I trust him with my heart?

By the time I swing into a parking space in front of Blaire and Skyler's, my mental debate comes to an end. I love him, and I'm gonna tell him. Soon. Really soon.

A melody forms in my head, and I scramble in my purse for my black notebook. Gum wrappers, pens, wallet, hair tie, pocketknife—shoot fire, everything but the kitchen sink is in here. Where's my notebook?

I check my hip pocket. Ah, there it is. Finding a pen, I jot down a few lyrics.

For the first time, I feel it,

Like a warm breeze after a winter rain.

For the first time, I know it,

Like the haunting call of a distant train.

I'm in love with you,

I'm in love, it's true

For the first time in my life

And it's with you.

Skyler swings the door open and jerks me inside. “Praise God,
you're here. I'm running low on sympathy.”

“I told you to keep a reserve supply.” I dump my new suede Christmas jacket on her head.

“I can't do comfort. I can't do hand holding.” She tugs the jacket off and drops it on the couch. Her hair stands up with static electricity. She looks like Young Frankenstein's bride.

“Where is she?”

“In her room.”

I take the stairs two at a time, rap twice on her door, then barge in. Blaire's room is pitch black. When I flip on the light, she screams and slithers under a mountain of blankets.

“Come on, Blaire, let's go. Up and at 'em.” I strip back the first layer of covers.

“No. Go away. I want to hibernate until 2010.” Her muffled voice is buried in the pillow.

I peel back another layer. “Starting to smell like an onion in there.”

Blaire pops out like a jack-in-the-box. Her dark hair is tangled and wild, and her eyes are ringed and red. “Smell like an onion? Girl . . .” She plants both feet on the floor, wraps the top blanket around her neck, and struts toward the bathroom, tugging the covers to the ground. “I'm heartbroken, not insane. I showered this morning.”

“When did you eat last?” Skyler asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

“Yesterday,” Blaire responds with no conviction whatsoever. “I think.”

I start bossing in my big-sister voice, “Blaire, get dressed, comb your hair, put on deodorant—”

“I told you I showered,” Blaire hollers as she and all her bedding disappear behind the bathroom door. “And I'm not going out.”