Our First Christmas (25 page)

My mother and aunt were raving feminists, which I was proud of, but they also wrote inflammatory commentary for the newspaper on various women-centered topics that had some people cheering and others in a tizzy.

Josh and I started with a smile, then notes passed between us, and within a few weeks we were dating. He was funny and fun. He explained my math homework to me, helped my mother and aunt around the house with fixing things, and called to talk every night when he was home from practice or work.

He did not seem to be embarrassed at all that I was part of the semi-notorious Kelly clan, all stricken with a Wild Bone. In fact, he hugged me in the middle of the hall, held my hand, and kissed me in plain sight. He would come over and I would cook him dinner. He frequently brought me flowers he picked and little gifts. I brought him homemade cookies every day.

We talked about our futures. He wanted to own a business. Since we fished together, he would call the business Salmon Fly, as I had suggested one afternoon on the river. I wanted to be a nurse. We both wanted to travel the world and we spent tons of time looking at
National Geographic
and making a list of the countries we wanted to visit together.

Josh also climbed up quick to my bedroom via the tree outside my window. We used birth control, brought by him. We were very bad. We enjoyed being bad. We were totally, completely in love. The first time he told me he loved me, our junior year, we were in a canoe on the lake fishing. I told him I loved him, too. We both teared up.

He told me that his grief over his mother's death and his drunken father gave him the fierce aggression he needed for sports. “I take my anger out on the court or on the field, Laurel.” His bullying father, who was a contractor when he was sober, whom Josh worked for until he left home the previous summer, never even came to any of his games.

I, however, went to all of Josh's games, as he went to my soccer, basketball, and softball games where my competitive streak came roaring out, too, partly stemming from my anger and hurt with my own father.

Josh received a full-ride scholarship to our state university for basketball. I was accepted there, too, and off we went. He had nailed the SAT and had won rifle shooting and rodeo competitions. He was my stud.

As in love as I was, as passionate as we were together, it never occurred to me that we would be together for life. My father had left me. He had left his first wife and his second wife, my mother. I refused to talk to him most of the time, and he seemed way too busy with his new wife, Chantrea, the restaurant, and his boys. I had huge abandonment and trust issues, and I assumed that Josh would leave me, it was only a matter of when.

I also believed that Josh would find someone better than me. Prettier, smarter, more like him. My self-esteem issues were a direct result of my father not being around enough to tell me, and show me, that he thought I was “enough.”

I made a decision to be with Josh as long as I could, to grab life and ride it, as my mother always told me to do, and deal with the despair later.

Who knew it would be me who would make the decision for both of us after a skid, a roll, and a plunge?

 

Ace sent a Christmas bouquet the size of an elf and a note. He begged, he pleaded, he said he couldn't go on. I consoled and reassured. He hardly heard me.

 

The e-mails about Christmas Eve dinner kept rolling in....

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was up late sewing Christmas aprons. We had a whole shipment due out tomorrow. I was using pink fabric with pink, red, and white Christmas trees and would attach three Christmas wreath buttons down the bib. A wide ruffle at the hem of the skirt would add the frill that all our aprons had.

As I sewed I sucked on a candy cane and thought about Josh. I was still mad. And hurt. He knew I loved my house. I was also mad at myself for being in a befuddled mess about him.

We had grown and changed the last twelve years. We were not the same people. And yet . . . all that passion was still there. It came roaring on up until I couldn't think. Maybe it was simply because of memories. Time spent together when we were young, he was my first, nostalgia, blah blah. That was it. That was all it was.

I took the candy cane out of my mouth and ate a Christmas cookie. The cookie was in the shape of a Halloween pumpkin, decorated with green and red sprinkles.

I sniffled. I couldn't believe the house wasn't ours. I loved it, loved the land. I knew where the deer hid. I knew where the elk congregated.

I knew where my great-granddad and grandma's initials were carved in the cement on the foundation. They had walked up the same stairs I walk up every day and admired the same views of the majestic Swan Mountains.

I ate a second pumpkin Christmas cookie.

I had learned to bake apple and pumpkin pies with flaky crusts on the kitchen table he built and how to sew stockings in front of his hearth. My grandma had shown me how to make Irish truffles on the island in the kitchen. She had also taught me how to shoot a rifle. My granddad had taught me how to rope cows, ride horses, and drive a tractor right outside our front door. In my room hung my grandma's mirror and my granddad's old holster.

It was our home. This was where we decorated Christmas trees with high heels, feminist sayings, leprechauns, and Valentines.

I had to get it back.

And as soon as I stopped thinking about Josh's kiss, how I fit right back into his arms, and how warm and strong and yummy he was, then I would devise another plan.

Yes, indeedy, I would.

I would call it Plan H and L, as in Laurel, get your house and land back!

But that kiss . . .

I put the candy cane back in my mouth.

Wow.

Josh owned the whole building? Obviously, he did. It was called the Reed Building, and it was in the middle of downtown Kalulell. It was brick with green canopies, old and traditional, with white trim and dental work, but clearly restored. There were busy ground floor businesses, a restaurant, a café, an art gallery, and two stories above that with offices.

The lobby had been remodeled and the floors gleamed. Christmas trees, decorated with shiny red ornaments, graced either side of the doors to the elevator.

I tried to settle down as I stared at my reflection in the silver doors of the elevator. I'd brushed my reddish/pink-tipped hair down, but the wind had swept it around. I was wearing black cowboy boots, woolen black tights, a black skirt with a lace ruffle to my knees, a flowing red and pink silk tunic, a striped red and orange scarf, and two pairs of gold hoops. I was also wearing a thick red coat.

I looked pale. I looked worried. I looked ill.

Don't kiss him again,
I told my reflection.
Restrain yourself.

The elevator swooshed up two floors and I stepped out into the office. The old, traditional feel to the building was there, with the open wood arches to the ceiling, the white trim, and crown molding, but it was modern, light, welcoming, and bustling.

I stopped at the receptionist's desk and stared. “Mrs. Alling?”

“Yes. Oh, it's lovely to see you, Laurel!” She stood up and gave me a hug. She had been my and Josh's favorite English teacher in high school. We caught up, I heard about her four children and eight grandchildren. We talked about Hellfire, she liked their music, Ace was a true musician, wasn't he? How tall was he? Was he married? His voice, to her, sounded smoldering. Was Ace always smoldering? It took us a while.

“Here, dear. Come with me.” I followed her back to Josh's office. She knocked, then opened the double wood doors to Josh's office and announced me. I walked in and stopped. Josh's office was so Montana-y.

His windows offered a view of the ski slopes up the mountain and the Main Street of town. His desk was huge, with an exquisite leaping salmon carved into the front of it. I had flashes of all the fish we'd caught and released . . . and ate with butter and dill. There was a leather couch and two chairs in one corner and a long table by the windows.

“Hi, Laurel.” He stood up, smiled at Mrs. Alling, who then left and shut the door.

“Thanks for seeing me, Josh.”
Don't kiss me again and don't make me think of kissing you.

“Anytime.”

His voice was so . . . deep. Always had been. It was like he had gone from being a kid to a man overnight.

“Have a seat.” He indicated the couch and chairs, and I chose the couch and sat in the middle of it. He, too, chose the couch. I shifted over and saw him try to cover a smile.

I studied him for a second. He seemed tired, a bit strained. “I wanted to know if you had reconsidered selling my mother's and aunt's land and house back to me.” I knew he hadn't.

“I have not.”

“Would you consider a new offer?”

“Probably not, but what is it?”

“How about if I buy from you the house and five acres?”

“No.”

Shoot. I could tell he was not budging on that one. I went to Plan D, as in D for Desperate.

“What about the house and one acre?”

“No.”

I felt like I'd been kicked. I told him what I would pay him. It was more than generous.

“No.”

“You're kidding. Why not? You'll have the other nineteen acres.” I felt cold, inexplicably lost. “Why would you want that house when you already have one?”

“It's not the house, Laurel, it's the land the house is on. That acre has a stream on it and access to the road. I told you, I'm going to use it, then donate it.”

“I'll donate my part of it. I'll sign any contract. It'll go to whichever organization you want after my death.”

“Don't talk about your death. And no again.” I saw his face tighten, then he leaned forward and stared at his clasped hands.

I blinked hard. I would buck up and not cry like a wimpy wuss. “Please, Josh. It's my family's land.”

He stood up and walked toward the windows and stared out, his hands on his hips.

I wiped a few frustrated tears that snuck out, glad he had not seen them, then dug in my purse for a tissue and wiped up my wet face. I took a deep breath, and waited.

“Ten dates.”

“What?”

He turned around. “Ten dates. You go out on ten dates with me. You let me take you to dinner, or skiing or a movie, ten times, and I'll sell the house and five acres of land back to you.”

Ten dates? With him? Alone with him? I pictured him naked.

I wondered how his chest had changed over the years under that blue shirt.

He was so tall, built like an ox with a flat stomach.

I pictured making love to him, his cowboy boots hitting the floor.

“You want to go out with me? Ten times?”

He walked over and I stood up. When we were younger, I would have grabbed those muscled-up shoulders, his arms would have gone around my waist, and we would have talked like that.

“Yes.”

“But . . . why?”

He didn't say anything for long seconds, those sharp green eyes analyzing me. “Because, Laurel, I want to know who you are now.”

Who I am now? Who was I? I'd quit my job. I didn't have another one. I was tired. I was tired of being tired. I was tired of feeling like I didn't have a meaningful life. I was tired of feeling guilty about that snowy night. I didn't know where I was going to live, what I was going to do.

I didn't even know me anymore. How could I let him see what I didn't know?

“I want to know why you broke up with me. I'm not mad at all. I know we were kids, but I would like for you to tell me what was going through your head at that time.”

I couldn't tell him that.

“I want to know . . .” He closed his mouth.

What else did he want to know? Did he want to know if I thought of him when we were apart?

Yes, I did.

Did he want to know if I regretted breaking up with him?

Yes, I did. But I wouldn't have changed it, either.

Did he want to know if I was still that naïve, sweet, angry, sometimes trouble-oriented, not-too-bright girl?

I was not. She was long gone. She left on that icy curve in the road.

“You want to know what?” I asked.

“I want to know . . .” He shook his head and I knew he'd changed his mind about what he was going to say. “I want ten dates.”

Could I do it? Could I be around him? On a date? Ten times? Could I resist? Did I want to? Would I get hurt all over again? Smashed to smithereens?

“Yes or no, Laurel,” he said.

“Once you go out with me, I highly doubt you'll want to go out another nine times.” No, I am a pretty damaged woman.

“I will.”

He was totally serious, his eyes never leaving mine. Intimidating, smart, formidable Josh.

I thought of our creaky, light green farmhouse. My great-grandma's white kitchen hutch. My grandma's parlor with the red toile wallpaper and her blue apothecary chest. My mother's and aunt's sewing room.

I could do it. I might need a little Christmas magic, but I could do it. Right? I could control myself. I wasn't a teenager going for a ride in a clunky car and parking by the lake anymore. “Yes.”

I saw his eyes widen, and he smiled at me. “I'm going to hold you to it, Laurel.”

“I'm going to hold you to it, too, Josh. You'll sell the house and five acres back to me after the tenth date.”

“I will.”

I knew we didn't need a contract. Josh Reed was as good as his word.

“I'm already looking forward to it,” he drawled.

And I am scared to death. Don't make me fall in love with you again, Josh. That would not be fair. And leave my clothes on.

As if he sensed what I was feeling, he said, his voice gentle, “Don't worry, Laurel. It'll be fun.”

It won't be if I get my heart all mangled up again. “Thank you, Josh.”

He nodded at me. “You're quite welcome.”

I turned to leave.

“Oh, and Laurel. One more thing. I want you to bake me cookies. Please.”

“Cookies?”

“Yes. Christmas cookies.” He grinned. It made him seem less intimidating. “You make the best Christmas cookies I've ever tasted.”

I tried not to smile, but my Christmas cookies were pretty darn good. I used to make yummy peppermint bars, fudge, gingerbread, lemon meringues, stained-glass windows, and butterscotch crunches.

“And Laurel?”

I turned around again.

“Your Irish truffles that your grandma taught you to make.”

“Okay, Josh.” Now I was feeling a smidgen too pleased with myself.

“Thank you. And beer cheese soup. I'm begging you. I loved it.”

“And beer cheese soup. My momma's recipe.”

He rocked back on the heels of his cowboy boots for a second. He looked happy.

Ten dates. With a man who was still pulling my heart as if it were attached to his by the reins of Santa's sleigh.

But what would my hurt heart do at the end of the ten dates?

 

When I sewed an angel with white wings on the bib of a red apron that night, I thought about Josh.

I would be with him ten times.

It would take all I had to resist whipping off my Christmas apron and leaping, naked, into his arms. That would be Plan L. No leaping.

Maybe I would sew a Christmas apron with a chastity belt attached. I'd wear it around Josh and make sure I threw away the key.

That would be Plan C. For chastity.

I groaned.

 

My father, Ian Kelly, had insisted that I come to dinner at his new home when I was on Christmas break during my sophomore year of college. “I have not seen you in weeks, sweet Laurel. Please. I miss you.”

“Fine,” I agreed, but with much more sulk than enthusiasm. My relationship with my father had hit the skids when he left my mother and me when I was six. He had not had an affair, he simply wasn't happy with my mother, and she wasn't happy with him. That doesn't matter at all to a child. All I knew was that my father was gone, my world shattered, my family broken. I cried for months.

He was thrilled when he fell in love with Chantrea in Cambodia on one of his expeditions and brought her home. I was not thrilled. I was devastated to have a wicked stepmother. Three sons in quick succession made me feel abandoned three times over.

He picked me up that snowy night for dinner in his pink painted hearse, cheerful, patently glad to see me. He had tried to be in my life, but in the last few years I often lashed out and refused to see him. I was busy with school, sports, and Josh, my father busy with his kids, Wife Number Three, and the restaurant. Too busy for me, at least that's what my temperamental teenage mind believed.

We drove to his place, about five miles from ours. I was sullen, quiet, bracing myself.

Chantrea, the wicked stepmother, hugged me. My brothers, Aspen, Oakie, and Redwood, hugged me. Their home was warm and cozy, and messy, the fire blazing, Chantrea's Cambodian touch in the décor. Everyone was happy. My father had made me my favorite dish: pasta primavera.

Chantrea had made me my favorite Cambodian dish: Cambodian French bread with beef.

The kids had made me my favorite dessert: chocolate mint ice cream pie.

It was not enough.

Their home was a
family
home. Kids, dogs, a cat, a mom and dad. There was a towering Christmas tree and red stockings decorated with glitter. There was even a stocking with my name on it and the names of Camellia and Violet.

But I was an outsider, at least that was how I felt. I was not a member of
this
family. My father had left our family and now it was only my mom, aunt, and me. This house, the stockings, the Christmas tree, this should have been us. The three of us. My anger seethed, the anger born from searing hurt, rejection, and loneliness that only my father could have fixed.

It was that hurt, that rejection, that loneliness, and my immature sulkiness and raging temper that caused what happened next.

 

“I love making Christmas cows and chickens,” my mother said.

“I love making Christmas grizzly bears,” my aunt said.

“And I love eating the cows, chickens, and bears,” I said.

My mother was using six-inch cookie cutters in the shapes of farm animals. They would later be iced in red and green and decorated with Red Hots and sprinkles.

My aunt was using grizzly bear cookie cutters. She would ice the bears in purple, red, and green, then make Christmas wreaths around their necks.

I was making traditional sugar cookies—Christmas trees and ornaments—because I am a dull traditionalist and someone in our family had to be normal. Plus, they were for Josh.

“I was thinking about your aprons,” I said. “And how you said you wanted to sell more.”

“Yes,” my mother said. “Then we'll take the apron money and run off to Greece.”

“I want to see Greece before my arthritis takes over my femininity,” my aunt said.