Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (2 page)

Beneath the leather coat, his tan sweater seems to swallow him. I’m not sure where these “extra pounds” are, or where he would even put them.

“So . . .  she broke up with you by text message?” I ask, moving toward the table in the center of the room. I’m not sure why I care, why I’m so interested, why I feel it’s any of my business, but I ask just the same.

“She was a biology major. Cold and formal. That was my next clue.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t listen to your gut,” I say, adjusting a wooden manger scene, making sure Mary and Joseph hover lovingly over the Holy Child, and that the cows and sheep aren’t too close.

“You’re getting the importance, right? So the thing is, when I see something? I just
know
.”

“And you’re not seeing it here,” I clarify.

“Oh, it’s here,” he says. “
Somewhere
.”

“It
has
to be here. This is the only store in town still open on Christmas Eve.”

At this, I remember the candlesticks. Mrs. Kimble ordered them from a catalog at the beginning of the holiday season. They were huge with tourists. Glass—a variety of red, blue, green, and purple jewel tones—with silver accents. But they’re not where I remember stocking them.

“How about you? Any big Christmas Eve plans?” he asks.

“Nothing special,” I reply, searching nearby shelves.

“Define this for me.”

I open one of the cabinets at the bottom of the unit, where we keep some of our surplus stock, shift a few small boxes aside. “Dinner’s at eight, and then we get to open one present—which, tradition states, will be pajamas.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“My mom and sister. And my dad, I guess.”

And his girlfriend
, I silently add.

“A quiet evening with close family. That actually sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, not really.” I don’t know what Mom was thinking, inviting Amanda. I don’t know what Dad was thinking, agreeing to it.

Still no sign of the candlesticks, and I wonder if we sold out of them entirely.

“My family is loud and obnoxious,” he confesses.

“A welcome distraction. My parents are divorced. Forced politeness is the order of the evening. Tonight is going to be one massive awkward silence.”

“So we’ll trade. I’ll do Christmas with your family, and you can do Christmas with mine.” Just the idea brings a smile to my face. Switching Christmases. Trading families, even for a few hours. “I can work on my people skills,” he continues, “and you can disappear amid the chaos. I have to warn you, though—”

It’s this thought that’s interrupted, punctuated with a shout of: “Oh my God! That’s
it
!”

My eyes follow his gaze to the top of the highest shelf in the room, moving directly to a teapot. A whimsical, woodlands Santa teapot. A burgundy suit holding the tea, pouring from the jolly man’s long arm—his brown porcelain glove.

“The teapot?” It seems so unlike anything he would buy I nearly ask if he’s sure.

“Yes! It’s perfect.”

“Your gut has spoken,” I confirm, not quite allowing myself to feel relief, yet.

“I have to have it.”

Neither of us is tall enough to reach for it without assistance, so I head to the foyer, open the hall closet, and remove a stepladder. The guy stands beside me, holding it steady as I climb to the third rung, reaching. I hold the lid—Santa’s hat—flip the entire vessel over.

“It’s thirty-two dollars,” I say, locating the price sticker attached to the bottom.

“I don’t care.”

“But your limit was twenty.”

“When your gut speaks, you don’t question. You go for it. This is it. This is the one.”

“All right.”

His fingers barely graze my elbow—holding me, just in case—as I step carefully back to the floor, teapot in hand. 

“I can check you out in the other room.” I groan inwardly at the poor choice of phrasing, hope he doesn’t notice. But he’s still examining the teapot, looking it over from every angle, smiling. “I
knew
there was a good reason for procrastinating on this,” he says.

The guy follows me to the other room, sets the teapot on the counter, noses around as I fill out a sales ticket.

“Is this everything?” I ask.

He studies magnets on the white metal rack, eyes passing over one that demands “Hope for Kathleen,” a little pink cancer ribbon tucked in the corner.

“Last gift of the year,” he says, turning the display in a slow circle. “The burden has lifted.”

“It’s a pressure.”

“
Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street
. Nice,” he says, eyes lighting, recognizing the direct quote.

I locate an appropriately-sized box, grab a cloth from beneath the counter, remove layers of dust from however long that teapot has been sitting on the shelf, tape the lid shut, wrap it in tissue paper. A single roll of shiny red paper is located—everything else is wedding or baby shower or birthday-related—and the following minutes are spent wrapping the box, tying everything together with a white tulle bow.

“You are, without a doubt, the best gift wrapper I have ever witnessed.”

I take the compliment, thanking him, hand him the package as he hands me the cash to pay for it. I place the sale, stick the cash in the register, write him a receipt. “Here you go. All set.”

“Thanks,” he replies. At this, our exchange is over. He’s free to leave and I can go home. But no effort is made to move. He hesitates, instead, the uncertainty unnerving—the not knowing what comes next. People always hesitate around us, are always searching for the right words when everyone knows there are none. I am used to these awkward lengths of silence, and just as I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay—he doesn’t have to say anything, as if he somehow knows—he says: “About tonight. . . .”

But even this thought isn’t immediately finished, so that I remain standing behind the counter while a chorus of “O Come All Ye Faithful” carries from one corner of the room to the other.

“It’s just that—and I realize this may sound crazy—but,
theoretically
, what if I said I was serious earlier? About trading Christmases.”

“You mean I hit up your family dinner while you go to mine? That’s not strange at all,” I say.

“Okay. Sarcasm. Wow. What I mean is, and this is
not
theoretical, would you like to join me and my family for dinner and gift-stealing?”

I stare at this strange boy standing in this store—this store that should’ve closed twenty minutes ago—who is staring back at me. This strange boy who is buying strange gifts and inviting me to strange parties, his eyes and smile making me feel strange things. I clear my throat. “Um, I don’t think so?” I hate how this seems to come out a question.

“Look, when my cousins are in the same room, it’s like all hell breaks loose. The girls are all gossips and shopaholics and the guys have strings of initials behind their names. M.B.A., C.P.A., Ph.D. I will be the youngest and the biggest disappointment in that house, I assure you. I’m just saying, it would be nice to have the company.”

“So you want me to go and act as a buffer,” I confirm. “Theoretically.”

“I don’t know. You might make things worse, but my gut is telling me that tonight won’t be so bad if you’re with me. Only reason I asked.”

“Your gut talks a lot,” I point out.

“We both do. Tragic flaw. So . . . what do you say? And it goes both ways,” he quickly adds. “I can have you back at your house by eight. And if, for some reason, you don’t want to deal with your family alone, I’d be happy to reciprocate the company.”

There is something to be said for facing difficult situations knowing someone has your back. Case in point: I don’t know what I would’ve done without my sister this past year. And, as much as I hate to admit it, the challenge of tonight’s Christmas dinner with my dad and his girlfriend doesn’t seem quite so daunting with the prospect of bringing my own date. As if bringing a guy somehow trivializes my father’s relationship with Amanda—discredits it, makes it hardly seem serious at all. About as serious as I am about the person standing before me—a guy I’ve only known a few minutes.

“Who is your aunt and uncle?” I ask.

“Will and Stacey Andrews.”

I consider this for a moment before reminding him: “I don’t have a gift for your Santa-stealing thing.”

“I’ll buy you one. Is that a yes?” His eyes focus on mine, expectant, feeling that I might be wavering, teetering on edge, or, at the very least, considering the possibility.

“I don’t even know you.”

“Easily remedied. My name is Jonathan Talbot. I’m twenty years old. A sophomore at NSU. I drove two and a half hours from Hamilton to get here—in the rain, mostly. Sucks, because I’m a pretty bad driver on a good day. I’m single. An English major. I enjoy reading and writing. I don’t do lists. I have an unhealthy obsession with that white sauce you get at Japanese restaurants. I’m not a fan of cats. And I
love
Christmas. Just not Christmas dinners with extended family,” he says, offering his hand.

I reach out to take it, forever extinguishing “stranger” status in announcing: “Olivia Hall. Eighteen. High school senior. I prefer dogs. Never had one, though. Older sister’s allergic. And I love Christmas, too. Just not Christmas with my dad and his girlfriend.”

He keeps my hand grasped tightly in his, holding it seconds longer than necessary.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Olivia.”

My cheeks warm at his sly smile, as a pleasant tingle skitters up my spine. “Likewise.”

“So now that we’re practically best friends, I’ll buy you something for the exchange, we’ll have dinner, steal some gifts, and get you home in time to unwrap a box of pajamas, pretending to be surprised.”

I can’t help but laugh at this—can’t help but think the evening doesn’t sound so horrible when he puts it this way. How it sounds tolerable, even.

“Okay,” I agree. “I mean, what’s a couple of hours, right?”

“Exactly. And you would be doing me a
massive
favor—you have no idea.”

What I don’t say is that he would actually be doing
me
the massive favor.

I follow Jonathan—relieved to finally know his name—back to the Christmas room. I’m already more than familiar with everything in the store, and technically, since the gift can be for anyone, it shouldn’t matter what I choose. Still, I take my time, eyeing porcelain angels and plastic snow-people. Garland. Gingerbread houses. My gaze finally settles on an ornament I have loved since the moment it arrived. Genuine blown-glass, amethyst-colored, with specks of blue. It even comes with its own stand, so that it can be hung on a Christmas tree or displayed year-round. In a window, maybe, where it can glow and sparkle for more than just a season.

“Sixteen dollars, okay?” I ask, removing it from the shelf.

“That was fast. You’re sure it’s the one?”

“I’m not going to say my gut is telling me to get it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I like it.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s pretty.”

“Be more specific,” he insists.

I exhale a breath, studying the ornament hanging by a loop of ribbon pinched between my fingers. “I like circles. Their symmetry. Purple is my favorite color. The purples and blues go well together.”

“So it’s perfect?” he asks.

“I don’t believe in perfect.”

I turn, heading back across the foyer and to the other room—to write up a new ticket, seek out a new box, use the last of the red wrapping paper—before he has a chance to respond. In minutes, I am locking up. Covering the register. Shutting off lights.

Everything in the Christmas room is connected by extension cord to a single surge protector. I push the red button and the entire room goes dark all at once. Trees and wreaths and statues materializing as shadows.

“Kind of loses its magic when that happens,” Jonathan says, eyeing the last bit of light in the room—two battery-operated candles “flickering” on the window sills.

I want to tell him he’s right, that this is the worst part of closing—how it all ends. But I turn on the one light at the very back of the foyer, instead, pull the front door shut behind us, and lock the deadbolt with the key on my chain. Jonathan stands on the porch, waiting patiently, red and white packages in hand.

The last hint of dusk seems to vanish before our eyes, night encroaching, a cold wind sweeping briny air off the river. I take a deep breath, shoving hands inside my coat pockets, descending the steps in front of Jonathan, following the path leading to the street.

“Did you walk?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m staying just up the road,” he says. “You?”

“My car,” I say, touching the side mirror of my gray Jetta parked at the curb. “But if you’re not far there’s no point driving. Just remind me to come back for it later.”

“Do you live far from here?” he asks as we pass under the first of the streetlamps, swinging wide around another parked car.