The Eggnog Chronicles (21 page)

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Authors: Carly Alexander

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles
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“So I guess this is a bad time to ask about Christmas,” Jane said, interrupting my thoughts.
Right now, everything involving Nate seemed like bad news. Although he had agreed to go to New York, somehow that seemed shaky right now. “He said he would go with me,” I told her. “But now I'm not so sure.”
“But honey, you've
got
to come,” Jane went on.
“I'll be there, definitely. And maybe Nate will come along, too.”
“Make sure he brings a warm jacket, the way he complains about the cold. That nonsense about feeling the cold now that he's lived down south. You'd think the man grew up in a rainforest.”
“I think he'll survive.”
“Oh, I'm not worried about him, I just like to complain. Really, honey, don't let this mongrel ruin the holidays for you.”
I thought of Joey's family wrapped in warm coats and mittens. I let myself imagine Lila's smile on Christmas morning when she opened a package to find a gift she wanted. “Don't worry about Christmas,” I said. “No one can ruin that for me.” This year, Christmas wouldn't revolve around buying Nate's favorite aftershave or ice-skating at Rockefeller Center or slicing into the turkey Emma roasted.
And as I tucked the teal wreath into a box and checked my list for the next order, I felt the shop swirl around me with new meaning. The trees glowed with fiery spirit. My friends' voices warmed the hearth with the same old jokes and stories. The Christmas cuckoos chimed and chirped a new song as Sally Painter, one of the women from Georgia's quilting bee, hung a new Christmas quilt in the frame near the window, another detailed journey encoded with snowy scenes of country churches, ice-skaters, and carolers, and stained-glass windows.
“Are you okay?” Jane asked.
“I'm fine,” I said, and for the first time in years, it was true.
23
C
larity of vision.
As customers came in that afternoon, windows opened all around me and I began to see my shop, my friends, and my own designs in a new light. My work wasn't a negative thing; there was no shame in trying to capture and share the mirth and beauty of the Christmas season. I was elbow-deep in garland, wiry wisps of hot glue strands clinging to my clothes, glitter in my hair, but I was immersed in a labor of love along with a crew of friends whose support made the hours whiz by like pages flying off a calendar.
When I got the call on Thursday, I clung to that clarity of vision, determined not to buckle under the usual pressure. I would forge ahead with Nate, but some things would change around here—starting with my usual blind forgiveness.
“I'm on my way home,” he said. “Should be there in time for dinner tonight.”
“Oh, really?” I turned away from some customers and lowered my voice. “I'm not sure if I'll be available tonight. This is my busy season, and wait a second, who are you again? Is this the boyfriend who lammed out of here on Friday and hasn't called to check in? Not even once?”
“Babe . . . it was so hectic at home.”
“Uh-huh.” I untangled a strand of lights. “I know hectic. Been there, done that.” And what did he mean by calling Rhode Island home after we'd been living in the Outer Banks for almost three years?
“You're mad, right?”
“Not really.” I didn't want my moral indignation reduced to a childish snit. “Let's just say I'm concerned about your lack of accountability, and a little alarmed at the total disconnection. I mean, not one call.”
“Well, my cell wasn't ringing off the hook. You didn't call once,” he whined. I pressed my eyes closed, sure he was going to launch into a big “Nanny-nanny-foo-foo!”
“You felt compelled to run away, and I wasn't going to chase you down,” I told him, wondering at the truth in those words. Wasn't this really about more than Nate seeking a divorce? It was about the tug-of-war between us, the struggle to bring our relationship to a place that was comfortable and rewarding for both of us.
“You're developing a thick skin,” Nate said, “and I'm not sure I like it. I guess I have those shiftless friends of yours to thank, right?”
I shot a look over at Ben and Lola, who were helping customers. Ben had climbed on the step stool to reach a snow globe for someone, and Lola was explaining the history of one of the Christmas-carol-chiming clocks for a woman from Hatteras. “Is that a joke?” I asked. “Or have you lost your mind?”
He laughed . . . a cold, brittle sound. I felt an unsettling distance between us, and I wished he would somehow just hang up and appear in the doorway so we could really work things out, face to face.
“You take things so personally,” he said. “Look, I'm getting back on the road, but I should be pulling up to the cottage around six or so. We'll talk over dinner, okay?”
“Okay.” Hanging up, I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief as Lola carried a clock to my worktable. “Mrs. Landy would like to have this shipped,” she said.
“No problem,” I told Mrs. Landy and started unrolling bubble wrap. I leaned close to Lola and said, “That was Nate. The cold snap is over.”
She nodded. “Sounds like progress. Maybe you've reached your crossroad.”
I smiled, thinking that would be a good thing, though there was so much going on around me that I wasn't able to absorb the implications. I just knew that Nate was on his way, which meant I needed to see if Adena could cover the shop for the evening hours while I ran home and tidied up. And I would need to get some groceries. And while I was at it, I might as well put together a nice meal, since it's so nice to have real food after you've been living on diet soda and rest-stop burgers for a few hundred miles.
 
 
Dinner was a labor of love, and the work was shared by my Nag's Head family, who seemed more jubilant than I felt when they learned that Nate was returning. Lola brought me some clam chowder that her husband made, Cracker donated some breadsticks from the Crusty Captain, one of Nate's favorites, and Ben gave me some fresh flounder that one of his fisherman buddies had caught. And just before I left the store, Cracker had rushed out of the bar with a list of ingredients—his secret recipe for eggnog. “It's all in the vanilla pudding mix and ice cream, but don't tell Nate that. Oh, and you'll need this,” he said, handing me a bottle of brandy. “You can get Nate good and drunk and take advantage of him.”
That had made me laugh. “Nate will probably want the brandy straight up, but thanks,” I said. “Divulging your secret recipe. Wow. I must rate as a friend.”
“Oh, don't get yourself all carried away,” he'd teased, hurrying back inside from the cold.
Now, as I dipped the fish in egg and coated it in flour, I felt a rush of gratitude. My friends had been so supportive, so helpful during this difficult week . . . which, actually, hadn't been that difficult at all once I stopped worrying about Nate. Okay, I'd had some fun . . . but it was after six, and I needed to prepare the salad greens and saute the fish and get the chowder heated before Nate pulled up.
I worked briskly, knowing I was running late. Fortunately, Nate was behind schedule, too, so I had time to pop the fish in the oven, fix my lipstick and open a bottle of wine before he plodded in. I flaked on the couch and relaxed for a moment, taking in the coats that still hung over the French doors. I had straightened up around them, and now it occurred to me that I had better get those things boxed and wrapped before Nate saw them. He wouldn't understand my desire to help someone I didn't know. He would think that I was being nosy, overstepping the boundaries between strangers. I took down Lila's jacket, then paused as my hand touched the velvet trim. Why was I worried about Nate's perception of this act of goodwill? Had I dwindled into a mouse?
I plunked the coat back up onto the door and called Nate's cell. Pacing the cottage as it rang, I padded over the thick turquoise and navy rugs that covered the pale wood floor to warm my feet by the fire. I paused at the shelf of blue glass objects I'd collected and carefully arranged, the wall of glass brick that cast interesting prisms across the room on a summer morning, the gold wreath over the fireplace, the small ceramic tree I'd brought home to take the place of a fresh tree this year. This cottage had been decorated with so much love, but now it seemed trite, like an adolescent's dream room, overdecorated and well equipped, yet still waiting for its use to be fully discovered.
And why wasn't Nate answering, damn him?
I checked the fish and the clock. Seven-fifteen and the fish was still tender. Seven-thirty, fish drying fast. Seven-forty-five, fish on verge of flopping.
At eight I served myself fish and salad, imagining that Nate could eat while I brought him up to date on the Christmas rush at the store. The flounder was sweet and meaty, reminding me of the first time I'd had fresh fish as a kid, one evening after my grandad had a good catch on Lake Michigan. The perch he boned and fried up had been so unlike the planks of swordfish I'd watched my mother bake for herself and Dad, so alien to the tubular fish sticks Jane and I dined on with macaroni and cheese on the side. There was nothing like a fresh catch.
I pushed the salad away and called Nate again. Had he turned his cell phone off? Or . . . possibly an accident. Sucking in my breath, I imagined the cell phone ringing in his pants pocket as emergency room doctors worked on him. One of the nurses would remove the phone and turn it off so that it didn't disrupt the equipment, and how long would it take them to notify me? Was there any documentation to indicate that I was his unofficial next of kin?
“Stop it,” I said aloud. This wasn't the first time Nate had left me in the lurch, not the first time I wandered through the desperate ER scenario. And really, what was the big deal if Nate ate the dinner I made? So what if he missed it? He'd probably make some crack about how he had fish already this week.
The teal candles on the table had burned down dangerously low, beads of hot wax creeping down over the brass ridge. I blew them out, turned off the oven, yanked the fish from the oven. Oh, well, nobody likes leftover fish. Still, my eyes teared at the way I'd artistically splayed lemon wedges around the platter. Vivid yellow, juicy lemon wedges, now warped and puckered. As I scraped the fish into the trash, I saw my feelings for Nate tumble along. Another delicately breaded fish fillet—whomp! The little cup of capers on the side—ping, ping, pong.
I tossed in the salad greens for good measure, then kicked the can closed, sank down at the kitchen table, and sobbed.
How did I let this happen? My hopes and dreams, now in the can.
And with my inevitably bad timing, that was when the lights of a car illuminated the glass brick. Still, I couldn't stop sobbing into my hands as Nate banged on the door, then keyed his way in.
“Ricki?” He tromped in, dropped his duffel bag in the hallway, looked around curiously then frowned when he caught me crying. “What's your deal? What, is it that time of the month?”
I pressed my face into my hands, reminding myself not to kill him because he'd stepped into the middle of my meltdown. He had some catching up to do. “You're late,” I said, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “I cooked dinner, but now it's too late.”
“Really? You cooked?” He tossed his coat on the back of the couch and opened the fridge behind me. “I hit the worst traffic on 64. I mean, no reason. Just wall-to-wall cars. I was steamed.”
“I called you,” I said tightly.
“What are you so upset about? I'm the one who was sitting in murderous traffic. My cell phone was low on juice, and I had the charger in the trunk. Didn't want to stop and get it.”
“You couldn't hop out and grab it while you were waiting in all that
murderous
traffic?”
“Ricki, really, listen to yourself,” he said. “Is this any way to welcome me home?”
That hurt—that he would criticize the grand welcome I'd planned, my big effort that had failed dreadfully.
Or had it? I'd had everything in place—a lovely dinner, a warm cottage—I'd done my part, but Nate hadn't arrived on cue.
I lifted my head, tears blurring my vision. My blue glass collection, the wreath shimmering over the mantel, Nate's duffel bag—all were just blurs of blue and gold and black. I swiped at my eyes, desperate to see the true details, longing for the clarity of vision I'd achieved earlier in the day.
Nate cracked open a can of soda, then held out the plastic pitcher. “What the hell is this?”
“Eggnog,” I said. “Cracker's secret recipe.”
He held it to his nose and winced. “You won't catch me drinking it.” Nate hung on the fridge door, facing away from me.
“Well,” I began, “was your trip successful?”
“It was great,” he said. “Great to see the kids, nice to spend some time with them. I'm really tempted to go back, maybe after the divorce is final. Pack up and just go. We could stay in a hotel till we find a place. And you know who I ran into? Ted McGreavy. Can you believe it? He said he'd be willing to bring me back into the agency if I'm ever interested.”
“What? Whoa.” I held my hands up, fingers splayed like a traffic cop. “Did you just drop two little bombs there? That your divorce still isn't final . . . and that you want to move back to Providence?”
“What's the big deal? Would you put your hands down? When did you become so reactionary?”
“When you started charting a course without me,” I said. “Keep making decisions without talking them over with me, and I have no choice but to react. What happened with the divorce?”
“It's ongoing. These things take time.”
“Three years, Nate? Four? Five?”
He slammed the soda down on the counter. “Excuse me, but am I under attack?”
“Maybe it's time for you to answer some questions, Nate. Are you serious about moving to Providence?”
“Sure. You know I miss the girls, and I've always felt bad about dragging you down here.”
“You didn't drag me, Nate. It was something we were doing together. A joint effort.” Or at least, that was how I'd once envisioned it.
“Anyway, don't you want to go back?” He started routing around in a cupboard. “Get away from this deserted wasteland. I can't tell you how good it felt to be back in civilization for a while. I really miss it. The sports events. Concerts and museums. Four-star restaurants.”
“The traffic,” I said, “and the crime. Remember how our Honda kept getting stolen? How we'd have to circle for hours to get a parking space? Remember parking tickets, Nate? And your Visa bill. Some of those four-star restaurants put you over your credit limit, or did you forget about that?”

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