The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman (13 page)

Did she mean with Christmas presents or with Richard as her date for New Year’s or both?

“Santa Claus must have struck it rich.” My head had been on the sofa pillow, but now I sat up.

“Oh,
she
always says she doesn’t have money, but she does.” Ashley referred to her mother. She squeezed herself down onto the sofa in the space where my head had been, where she could get a clear view of Richard in the dining room. “What happened to your glasses?” And, without waiting for an answer, lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did
he
give you anything?”

“Which question would you like me to answer first?”

“Oh, sorry.” She giggled. “The glasses.” She pretended that our relationship was the same. Had it changed only for me? I knew I would never again ride to school with her, or share homework, or entertain her when some boy was not available. I would not be her sidekick.

“I broke them skating,” I said.

“Yesterday? I didn’t know you—”

“This morning,” I said. “Richard and I went skating this morning.” I looked her straight in the eyes. If I had not known her so well, I would not have seen the almost imperceptible change behind her eyes when I said “Richard” instead of “Rich.” Richard and I. It was so small, that alteration, it could not be called a change of expression—just a tiny light of recognition, of suspicion maybe.

“Did you do it on purpose? You look terrific.” Her voice was low, conspiratorial.

Too ridiculous to answer.

“Bummer,” she said. “Did he give you anything?”

I held up the book. “Dylan Thomas,” I said.

“Oh, a book.” I could tell that this was not something she would have wanted from him, and that she was delighted that I had received it. She didn’t open it. Was I disappointed?

“Did you give him anything?”

“A book on the Boundary Waters.”

She feigned disappointment in me. “You should have let me go with you to shop.”

Suddenly, bad marriages came into clearer focus. I had had a bad marriage with Ashley, I realized, in a metaphorical sort of way. And now I wanted to throw a blender at her sexy little head.

“Oh, here’s your present.” She took a carefully wrapped package out of her canvas bag. “Merry Christmas,” she said, leaning her cheek briefly against mine.

“Thanks,” I said. “Yours is the green one under the tree.”

I unwrapped a pair of black leather gloves, which I needed badly. “Thanks,” I said. I didn’t want them from her.

“They’re for your dressy coat. Oh, it’s just what I wanted,” she shrieked, grasping the bright-colored Swatch I had given her.

“I know. You told me.” I wished I’d bought something cheaper and then felt guilty. Where was my Christmas spirit?

She stood up to show it to Richard and Dad. “Isn’t it great?” She stood behind Richard. “Look.” She held it in front of his eyes, her head hovering near his, their cheeks almost touching. Why was I looking? I put my glasses in my lap.

“Oh, I brought you something,” Ashley said.

It caught Richard off guard. “For me?”

“It’s not very much,” she cooed.

“Well, geez, uh—” His stammering made me smile.

“It’s Obsession,” she said. “If the fragrance fits—” He couldn’t have finished unwrapping it yet. “It draws women like flies.”

“Sounds like a burden,” Dad muttered.

“Here, let me put some on you,” Ashley said. I was glad I was blind.

“Uh, thanks, but I don’t want to mix fragrances, as they say. Geez, that’s really nice, Ash. Thanks.”
The Romance Writer’s Phrase Book
would say that Richard’s voice was full of “disquiet.”

“You can wear it on New Year’s Eve—you’re still planning to go, aren’t you?”

More of that disquiet stuff: “Uh, yeah, sure. Looking forward to it.”

Better get a tetanus shot.

The phone had rung and Mother had picked it up in the kitchen. “Your grandparents have arrived, Ashley. Your mother wants you to come home for dinner now.”

“Okay, well—Merry Christmas, you guys.”

I got up off the couch, my glasses in front of my face. “Thanks, Ash. Merry Christmas. Say hi to your mom.” I walked her to the door.

“You’re not wearing lip gloss, are you?” she said from the porch.

“No.”

“You really should.”

“Bye.”

From the front hall, I looked at Richard through my pince-nez. “Don’t like mixing fragrances, huh?” I laughed all the way back to the sofa.

“She was going to maul me to death. You saw her, Nels; she was going to maul me, wasn’t she?” Richard pressed my dad.

“So what’s your point?” Dad looked over his reading glasses at him.

Fleur and Mother came in from the kitchen. Seeing the wrappings on the table, Mother asked, “Who got the present?”

Richard held up the bottle of Obsession. “She wants me to wear it New Year’s Eve.”

“Sounds like the fattening before the kill,” Fleur said.

Mother opened the bottle and sniffed. “Nels, why don’t you get some of this—it’s heavenly.”

Richard grinned. “Like flies, Nels, like flies.”

Dad patted his own cheek. “Maul me a little with that stuff, will you?” he said to Mother.

Fleur watched the two of them as if they were something special.

When Trish and Bjorn came back, we ate dinner: clam chowder and the leftovers from the night before. Then long-distance phone calls were made to my grandparents in Florida and my grandmother Bjorkman in Phoenix. Trish called her parents in Seattle, and Richard
called his parents in Palo Alto. When he was finished, Mother talked to his mother, Caroline, for about forty-five minutes with the kitchen door closed. It was a combination of low whispers and loud shrieks of laughter. Heaven only knows what middle-aged women find interesting.

Fleur didn’t call anyone.

By late afternoon, a quiet yearning was building in me: I wanted to be alone with Richard. It wasn’t enough to share looks with him across the table when we all played Trivial Pursuit, girls against guys. (The girls won because Trish knew every single entertainment question, which was the biggest weakness with the rest of us.) Nor was it enough to play Scrabble with him in the window seat, our knees occasionally bumping at the side of the board. (I won by putting down all seven letters with “zymurgy.” He took about half an hour taking his next turn, trying to match the points, while I repeated, “I’ve won, Bradshaw; give it up!”) It wasn’t enough to sit in front of the sofa on the floor with him, connected at the hip, so to speak, gazing into the fire. Dad dozed in his chair, occasionally making snarking noises that made us laugh. Trish, Fleur, and Mother worked on one of those puzzles with fifty million pieces. Bjorn, sprawled on the carpet in front of our feet, wanted to know where in the world Richard would live if money were no object.

“Here,” Richard said.

“St. Paul?”

“Sure, why not?”

“St. Paul over Paris? Over Rome? Over London?”

“St. Paul is home,” Richard said. “Besides, if you had
that much money, you could go anywhere you wanted anytime you wanted, so what does it matter where you live?”

“Yeah, but St. Paul—it’s so provincial.”

“It’s home. Besides, I don’t think it’s so provincial. Provincial compared to what?”

Go to bed, I wanted to say. It’s over. Christmas day is over. Now the day is over. How did that hymn go? Anyway, it is over. A fait accompli. Nighty-night. Goodnight Moon. The end. God bless us every one. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Fini
.

I yawned. Like magic, my dad awoke and said, “Let’s call it a day, Becca. That puzzle won’t get done in one night.”

“I like the way Dad wakes up so he can go to bed,” Bjorn said, standing up. He leaned over Trish at the table. “Honey?”

She patted his hand, which was on her shoulder, and fit one last piece onto the outer edge of the puzzle. “There, the border is almost done.” She stood up. “Good night and thanks for a wonderful day.” She kissed Mother’s cheek.

It was like a choreographed dance. I had yawned and they had all gone into motion, except Richard, who stayed by my side in front of the sofa.

“I didn’t realize it was so late already.” Fleur looked at her watch. “It was a wonderful day. Merry Christmas.”

They shuffled in clusters into the front hall. Mother looked back at me briefly, her mouth open as if she wanted to say something, give advice maybe, but happily she thought better of it. “Good night, Kate, Rich.
Merry Christmas.” She gave us one of those funny looks of hers that I wouldn’t want to analyze.

And then they were gone. All of them.

Richard pulled my arm through his and held on to my hand. “I thought they’d never leave,” he said. “I thought I would grow old in this room with all of them watching.”

I leaned my head against him. “A conspiracy,” I said.

He smiled, kissing my hair, my mouth. “This may be the best Christmas day yet,” he murmured.

“Sure beats Ruffy’s doo-doo.”

He laughed. We were changing positions to something I liked better. I was solidly in his arms now, pressed against him.
The Romance Writer’s Phrase Book
has lots of hot descriptions for that “pressing against” position, but it just doesn’t sound like me—like something I’d say.

We kissed. He smelled of soap. We kissed. The clock in the front hall ticked. We kissed. We kissed paragraphs’ worth. I’m so dizzy remembering it, I can hardly concentrate on writing it down.

Once when we came up for air, he said, “I don’t want to go to that party with Ashley. Can’t you and I arrange—”

I shook my head. “I asked Helmut weeks ago. I think he’s even bought a suit.”

“Are you and he—you know?”

“We’re debate partners!”

He smiled. “That’s it?”

“You want there to be more?”

“I mean—”

“He’s an exchange student from Berlin. I wanted to practice my German. That’s how we got to be friends. Last year I didn’t take a date and my aunt has been threatening all year to fix me up with someone. I asked Helmut in self-defense.”

Richard’s mouth moved along my throat. “I hate the guy already.”

“No, he’s nice. He’ll probably want to ask you about Stanford.”

“I’m cutting in on all the slow dances—every damned one.”

“Mmm. Ashley won’t like that.”

“A whole night with her—the longest night of the year.” He groaned. “She’s so nuts.”

I couldn’t disagree with that. “We can dance in the kitchen after it’s over.”

Pages of kissing. Literally pages. You’d be bored. I had moved up the hierarchy of those who are happy at Christmas. I had moved into the top slot. I was in love and I was pretty sure that Richard was in love with me, although he hadn’t said as much yet. But actions speak louder than words, unless the guy is out of one of those summer beach movies filled with oversexed sociopaths. I knew Richard was better than that. I trusted him completely.

 Revision Notes

My parents sound too perfect. All that good humor, all that affection, not to mention the good cooking, will make readers want to puke, or will make them think their own parents are horrific duds. My parents are okay, but I’ve made them depressingly good-natured. Somehow I need to work in their weaknesses. Here’s a list of ten items each:

My Father’s Weaknesses and Imperfections:

A couple of alcoholic rages might improve this list, but I’d be lying. Oh, he does go into a rage if anyone removes the
stapler or paper punch from his study and doesn’t return it. That could be number 8.

My Mother’s Weaknesses and Imperfections: