The Eggnog Chronicles (19 page)

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Authors: Carly Alexander

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles
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“Don't be. Pain can be very liberating, and I'm in a better place now. Hell, I've found a slice of heaven here. Sometimes I wake up and hear the gulls outside, the ocean pounding the beach, and it's as if I've been reincarnated into a beautiful new life. I got a shot at the ultimate do-over. But that probably sounds really hokey.”
“No, no, it doesn't.” Up ahead, the lights of my cottage glowed beyond the dunes on the beach. “I can see that the power is back on.” I wanted to hear more about Ben's rebirth, but already he'd revealed more than I'd ever expected, and sometimes you just need to let things unravel naturally. We said goodnight and he waited while I tromped through the sand and closed the cottage door behind me. As I clicked on the gas fireplace and stood at the bay window to catch Ben's shadow moving down the beach, I was haunted by his challenge.
Why not happiness? That was a good question.
21
A
fter the emotional roller coaster of the past week, I welcomed a weekend jam-packed with activity that would keep me too busy to contemplate my life. Forget what those philosophers say: the unexamined life is a wonderful thing when the pond is too murky for you to see your toenail polish.
And the Shopfest on Saturday was chock-full.
Maybe it was because the weather held, or perhaps it was the fact that we were giving away free eggless eggnog, thanks to Cracker, but by eleven o'clock Saturday morning there was a line of people from the door of our gingerbread shop stretching straight out to the Croatan Highway. By noon, Sheriff Fuller was on the scene, a little bewildered (or so I heard); I never made it out of the store during that interlude, but Cracker told me that the sheriff handled the scene with charm and grace, setting up traffic cones to slow the traffic and eventually closing our parking lot to everything but pedestrian traffic. Ordinarily that would have annoyed Miller, but since the crowds spilled over into his store to purchase sandwiches and drinks, he didn't complain.
Adena had recruited some of her friends to help fulfill e-mail orders, and they worked quietly and efficiently in the backroom. Wearing a Santa cap and singing Christmas carols a tad off-key, Georgia manned the register.
Out in the parking lot, Cracker passed out his eggnog, extolling the virtues of his secret recipe containing vanilla ice cream, pudding mix, and nutmeg. “I've made a few changes to the recipe,” he told me on the side. “Tried a few touches from my training in New Orleans. I call it ‘Voodoo Eggnog,' bound to be a potion of love.”
“I hope you're not giving
that
to the children,” I said.
“Only the G-rated version,” he quipped.
Sitting in his usual place by the fire, Ben remained attentive as children shared their Christmas lists or simply smiled and posed for a photo with Santa.
Some people came to browse, some customers drove across the state to pick up customized wreaths or quilts, and others made the trip because they said The Elf helped them conjure Christmas spirit. “Can't you just feel it?” one woman told me as I restocked ornaments on the trees in the Winter Wonderland section. “Christmas is in the air!”
After my experience with rebellious tinsel during the windstorm, I wondered about the source of Christmas spirit. Was it as simple as the smells of cinnamon and pine, a mixture of visual symbols and Christmas carols, or was it something more? Something deep inside, something in the soul that reminded us of our short stay on this planet and the fundamental need to share a part of ourselves with the rest of mankind?
That day I became the supreme juggler, restocking bins, ringing up purchases, waiting on customers, checking packages before they shipped, and working on customized orders at my craft table. Around one o'clock, Lola appeared with a generous order of pulled pork sandwiches from Pigman's Bar-B-Q, and we took turns eating in the back room amid giant rolls of bubble wrap, sheets of cardboard cartons, and rolls of red ribbon. Adena's friends worked steadily, some of them tuned into portable CD players as they packed.
Sometime near dusk, Georgia mentioned that a bunch of carolers were outside, and it turned out to be the choir from her church, who lined up on the plank board porch of the Crusty Captain and launched into hymns in three-part harmony.
“O come, o come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel . . .” The sweet blend of voices gave me goose bumps as their music filtered into the shop.
“They sound fabulous,” I said as I wrapped a delicate snow globe in bubble-wrap. “Wow, they remind me of the choir on a Christmas album my dad used to have.”
“They do make a joyful noise,” Georgia said as she climbed a ladder to reach into a high bin.
The choir ended up staying until we closed at seven o'clock. After I locked the door, Georgia dragged me into the Crusty Captain, where most of the singers sat at tables, feasting on soup or burgers. Georgia's boyfriend, Daniel, was there, playing Ronnie Spector Christmas songs on the jukebox, and we all ordered food and laughed over the events of the day.
“I didn't think I'd make it,” I admitted. “When Nate bailed on me, I thought today was going to be a nightmare, but it wasn't at all. I had a blast, thanks to you guys. And I really mean that—thanks. You saved my sorry butt.”
Ben grinned as Cracker slid a bottle of Pete's Christmas Ale his way. “We wouldn't let you down, Sug,” Cracker told me.
Georgia grabbed my shoulders and gave a squeeze. “Of course not. Your friends never let you down.” As she waved to someone at the door and headed over to chat, it hit me. Friends didn't run out on you at the last minute. Well, perhaps my new friends were superheroes, but that didn't excuse Nate.
As I nibbled on a buffalo wing, I decided to let Nate go for now. He didn't deserve to have me mooning over him, and he certainly didn't deserve my pity anymore. With a feeling of relief, I chased him from the corners of my mind and joined in Ben and Cracker's conversation. I wasn't going to think of Nate until he returned. In fact, I promised not even to speak his name. Bye-bye, Mr. Unmentionable. Good-bye and good riddance.
 
 
On Sunday mornings, Mr. Unmentionable and I normally enjoyed sleeping in. Usually we stayed in our pajamas till noon, sipping coffee and picking at coffee cake. I did the crosswords while Mr. Unmentionable browsed the real estate section of the Sunday
Tribune,
joking about how we might spring for a lavish mansion on the Connecticut shore with helicopter pad and tennis courts, or a prewar condo on Park Avenue on sale for a mere eight million.
But that morning, it didn't really feel like a Sunday as I awoke sprawled diagonally across the bed and stretched lazily. The heat pump was churning and tendrils of frost laced the edge of the window. Must be cold, I thought. I glanced at the clock and blinked. Seven-thirty
A.M.
? Way too early.
I tried to go back to sleep, but to no avail. As I lay there staring at the ceiling, I wondered what other people did on Sunday mornings. When the answer occurred to me, I felt really stupid. So stupid that I got out of bed, showered, dressed, and got on the road without coffee. Outside, I could see my breath in the air for the first time that season. I stopped at Miller's for a cup to go, and in less than ten minutes I was pulling into the lot of a white clapboard church, its doors thrown open as people headed up the stairs. Taking one last sip, I had a flash of wardrobe anxiety and buttoned my jacket over my Donna Karan top, worried that the vee-neck might be too low for church.
Although I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting, I'm happy to report that lightning didn't strike me down as I entered Georgia's church. In fact, the pianist kept on playing as a smiling man greeted me at the door, handed me a bulletin and pointed to a half-empty pew.
Well, that was easy.
As the pianist played “What Child Is This?” Georgia and Daniel scooted into my row.
“Good morning,” Daniel said with a lazy smile. “Cold morning.”
Georgia shivered. “I can't believe you're up this early,” she told me, nudging me to move down the pew. “After last night, I figured you'd sleep for a week.”
“For some reason, I was up, sort of energized,” I said.
“That's from us,” Georgia said. “Too much fun yesterday. We've got you all wired up.”
“It's a good thing, since I have to open up again at noon, and I'll probably go in early since there are new orders to fill.”
Georgia nodded, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her pink ear. “We're going to brunch at Daniel's parents,” she said, “but I'll stop by this afternoon to see if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I said as the pianist hit a new note and the opening hymn began, the choir streaming in up the aisles, filling the church with vibrant sound. At the front of the church, musicians played a cello, a violin, a trumpet and a flute, their music completing the colorful spirit. I closed my eyes, savoring the sweet blend of voices and instruments, wondering if it sounded so good because I was culture starved down here in the Outer Banks or simply because it was heartfelt and inspired.
“They sound so good,” I whispered. The choir had done a fine performance yesterday outside the store, but somehow, backed by the ensemble, everything came together.
Georgia gave me a strange look, as if I shouldn't be surprised. “Well, sure.”
Oh, God, was I a snob? I'd worked hard to shed the reputation of Yankee snoot when I'd first arrived here, but some vestiges still clung to me.
As the congregation sat and the minister led the group in prayer, asking for God's blessing, I bowed my head and wondered what had drawn me here today.
Remember me, God? I'm back. Probably don't deserve to be, but here I am.
I hadn't been in a church since last year, last Christmas when I'd sneaked into St. Patrick's Cathedral to light a candle and say a prayer for my sister. I don't completely subscribe to the notion that God is only present in churches, but when your heel scrapes along the stone floor of a cathedral, the air thick with incense and watery light sifted through stained glass, it's clear that God is there. At the time my sister had been diagnosed with cancer—a curable kind—but the very word had struck terror in our hearts, especially since we'd lost our mother so quickly to cancer. So I'd knelt down and prayed to the God who is bigger than any cathedral to spare my sister. And, to my relief, He did. She'd made it through the surgery and treatment in a matter of months, with barely a chink in her sardonic armor. How's that for a miracle?
When Georgia had first invited me to her church, she seemed startled by my resistance. “Don't you believe in God?” she'd asked me in a sad voice.
“Well, sure I do,” I'd told her, not sure how to explain my reticence. Sometimes I feel dwarfed by conventional religion, frightened by the dogmatic Bible thumpers who insist that doctrine and faith must be one way and one way only.
I imagined the Lord—a fantastic, huge and yet infinitely compact being—watching with awe and amusement as we earthlings grapple with religion, churches and customs. Truly, such a magnificent spirit would have no limitation or delineation, and yet that's exactly what we sought to give Him/Her. A face. A definition. A profile we could wrap our puny minds around.
Yes, I believed in God, but maybe not the same God as Georgia and Daniel's. Maybe my God was funkier than the Lord imagined by the family across the aisle, more colorful than the God in the minds of the mom and two children sitting in the front pew, but hadn't our Creator given each of us our unique capacities to envision God? And certainly, that common belief was what had brought us all here today.
As we sang “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful,” I noticed a familiar face in one of the pews behind me. Turning, I caught the bright smile of Joey, who waved at me by dangling the tassel of his new scarf. I had to crane my neck some more to see his sister, Lila, and a woman with short blond hair, her eyes intent on the hymnal. I smiled at the kids and turned back around in my seat before I got all of us in trouble with the ushers.
The minister, Forest Herman, invited the congregation to sit, then stepped out from behind the pulpit and started his sermon by pointing out the bright lights and sparkling tinsel around town. “The ribbons and bows, Santa caps on the checkers at the Food Lion,” Forest said as he walked among the congregation, gently making eye contact. “The special pies and cookies at Bitsy's Bakery. Christmas trees glimmering in the picture windows of homes we pass. All the trimmings of the holiday season. It's Christmastime, but is this what it's really about? Gift wrap and strings of lights? What does this all mean?”
The meaning of Christmas . . .
With a deep breath, I looked up toward the cathedral ceiling of the church.
Okay, God, now I know why I'm here today.
The Reverend's sermon couldn't have been more tailored to me if I'd ordered it on Amazon.com.
Here was God's message for my indulgence in pine cones and Styrofoam balls when I should be focused on his Son's birthday. I expected now to hear the story of the birth of Jesus—another account of the Nativity Scene—and a reminder that this holiday is to be focused on the birth of the Savior and that the surrounding hoopla distracts from the Christmas message.
“This being the first Sunday in December, I'd like for us to take a moment to visualize ourselves on Christmas Day. Where will you be?” Forest asked. “Who will you be celebrating with?”
Although I'd sluiced Mr. Unmentionable from my mind, I followed the minister's instructions and allowed myself a tiny glimmer of the two of us ensconced in that suite at the Waldorf-Astoria. Maybe brunch with Jane at Tavern on the Green. A carriage ride through snow-covered Central Park . . . then a luxurious soak in our big Jacuzzi tub back at the hotel. . . .
Perhaps not the most pristine thoughts to be having in church, but hey, God created Jacuzzis, didn't he?

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