Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (4 page)

“Nice to meet you, Grandma.”

“It’s good to know I’m not going senile,” she says, laughing uneasily, pulling her sleeves above her elbows, revealing thin wrists and a small gold watch, a white handkerchief tucked between. “Thought I had forgotten a granddaughter.”

“Olivia?” Mrs. Andrews calls. “Your mom isn’t missing you is she?”

“No, ma’am. I have until eight,” I explain.

“Okay, because I thought I heard your father was coming to town.”

The heat radiating from my cheeks floods the rest of my body. My spine stiffens at the words, the grip on my cup of tea tightening.

Of course she heard.

“He is. Should be here any time, I guess.”

“How is that working out?” she asks, concern written into the furrow of her brow, the narrowing of her eyes.

“Well, you know, Mom invited them,” I say.

Them
.

Dad and his girlfriend.

Something else for the locals to talk about over chicken tenders and hot dogs down at The Grille—why on earth Mom would open up her home to her ex-husband
and
the woman he left her for. I honestly can’t say I’m surprised. Ever since her treatments ended she has been on a rampage. Being “mindful” and present. Meditating. Minimizing. Adopting a vegetarian lifestyle. Streamlining our possessions, because who needs an attic full of half-forgotten things? Forgiving her husband for cheating on her and then inviting him and his girlfriend to crash Christmas dinner.

“Thought she might have still been on some medicines when someone told me that,” Mrs. Andrews admits, laughing nervously. My dad, according to town lore, is scum of the earth for leaving his wife and daughters. And right before her breast cancer diagnosis? Pathetic. His girlfriend? She’s referred to only as “the home wrecker.”

“No, ma’am,” I reply. “She’s thinking very clearly these days.”

Is there such a thing as thinking
too
clearly?

“Well, I am glad to hear it. You two go on and make yourselves a plate,” she insists. “Before they descend on this room like vultures and pick everything apart.”

We hurry through the line, limiting portions not only because the house is full, but because we’ll do this all over again in two hours. But I won’t get any honey-baked ham at home, so I take an extra-large slice of that, planning to savor every sweet and salty bite.

Jonathan and I leave the kitchen as others enter. I follow him through the main dining room, past the “big table.” A row of card tables is set up in the formal living room. We pass those, too. And in the great room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, is a towering Frasier fir tree covered in lights and glass, shades of blue and white and silver. A cache of presents beneath it. And even though I can’t see it, I know just beyond those massive windows is water, washed in nighttime, an inky black river stretched in front of us.

And I’m about to suggest we eat in here when Jonathan notices the stairs. Wooden stairs with white railing, strings of garland draped from top to bottom, every few balusters interrupted by a cranberry-colored stocking embroidered with a name.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

We sit down on the third step, side-by-side, shoulder to shoulder, our drinks positioned safely behind us.

I’ve barely taken my first bite of ham when a woman in black dress pants and a green sweater stops to stare.

“Jonathan? Why aren’t you at the table with us?” she asks.

“Mom, this is Olivia,” he says, ignoring the question.

“Olivia?” She trains her eyes on mine, scrutinizing.

I set my fork on my plate, sit up straighter, extend my hand. “Jonathan’s friend. It’s nice to meet you.”

She stares at me, open-mouthed, as if unsure of what to do, what happens next.

“Wow, Mom. Your manners are showing,” Jonathan says, amused, the words themselves one of those “mother” phrases—something he’s heard her say a thousand times, but never had the opportunity to use against her. 

She blinks a few times, finally reaches for my hand, shakes it. “I’m sorry. It’s nice to have you with us,” she says. “Friend from . . . school?”

“We just sort of ran into each other,” I confess. “But he was sweet enough to invite me to eat with y’all, so thank you for letting me hang out.”

Her eyes widen. “No. Thank you for coming,” she counters. “Um, okay. Well, enjoy dinner. Let us know if you need anything.”

I muster the brightest, most sincere smile I can manage. “Thank you. I
really
appreciate it.”

“Jesus,” Jonathan says as soon as we’re alone again. “Turn up the Southern charm, why don’t you?”

I laugh, scoop a bite of sweet potato casserole onto my spoon. “You know, your family seems awfully surprised to see me with you. I’m starting to think you have no friends at all, and that your ex-girlfriend is a lie.“

“They just can’t believe a guy like me could land someone as beautiful as you,” he replies easily.

The words send flutters through my stomach. My heartbeat fumbles, stumbling over itself. Another laugh—nervous, this time.

He thinks I’m beautiful?

“To be fair,” he continues. “I never introduced anyone to Bree. So as far as these people are concerned she’s a figment of my imagination. Except for Grandma. She made the raw cookie dough then helped me eat it.”

“All the best grandmas do,” I confirm. “So . . . Bree the biology major. Is she going to be your ‘one who got away’? The girl you always look back on, regretting the day you let her walk out?”

He considers this a moment. “I don’t know. For a while I thought so. But now. . . . I don’t know. ” He returns to his pile of green beans. 

“Because you could never be with
anyone
who makes lists,” I tease.

He laughs, amused. “Because
maybe
I was settling for something less than I deserve? I told you. My gut said she was all wrong for me.”

“Fair enough. The perfect girl in three words. Go.”

“Um. Smart. Funny. Fully capable of putting up with me and my array of shit.”

“That’s more than three words. And for someone whose Grandma swears is ‘easy-going,’ you kind of make yourself out to be a diva.”

“We tend to see ourselves in our own, worst light. Human nature.”

“Unless you’re a narcissist,” I say.

“And then you have bigger problems to worry about.”

I work on my piece of ham with the side of my fork, cutting it carefully into small bites. “Well, I think when you find the person you’re meant to be with, he or she comes fully equipped to handle whatever shit you throw at them. It’s already wired into their nature. That’s what makes them so . . .
right
.”

“And that’s exactly how it is with you and your boyfriend,” he says. “The two of you complement each other so perfectly it’s nauseating.”

It’s endearing, how he’s managed to twist this conversation back to me—to find out whether or not I might be taken. How he asks the great “boyfriend” question without even asking, so easily it’s almost natural.

“No boyfriend,” I confess. “I’ve had my hands full this year dealing with Mom. I barely made it through junior year. I missed
so
many days. Thankfully, the teachers were understanding. I finished a lot of work independent study, and took a class this summer to stay caught up. I scaled back my senior classes, just taking what’s necessary so I can leave by lunch every day. I always thought my senior year was going to be amazing—with the parties and prom. And . . . I don’t know. I’m just ready for it all to be over, I guess. I’m ready for my mom to be better, and for the next big thing.”

“What’s the next big thing?” he asks.

I admit to him that I have no clue. “College, maybe.”

“Hey, Johnny Baby. Heard you brought your girlfriend.” A guy stops in front of us, empty plate in hand, devious smirk on his face. It doesn’t help that he looks like he just stepped out of the Banana Republic winter catalog. I actually didn’t realize it was cool for guys under fifty to wear cardigans now. Or that it was cool for
any
guys to wear cardigans. Ever.

Except for Mr. Rogers, maybe.

I steal a quick glance at Jonathan, whose cheeks burn pink with embarrassment. “She’s not . . .”

“I’m not ever going to be able to keep all of you straight,” I quickly say, smiling at this too-polished, too-manicured guy already lording whatever initials he owns over us. “I’m Olivia.”

“Derrick,” he replies, leaning against the stair railing, settling in. “So . . . how long have you known my littlest cousin?”

“Feels like forever, sometimes.” I spear a bite of ham. “How long have
you
known him?”

He laughs. “I remember the day he was born. He was one of those surprise babies. I was what? Eleven or twelve?” he asks Jonathan. “And you were just about the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. All chubby and red-faced and crying. Oh, wait. That was
last
Christmas, wasn’t it?”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Jonathan mutters.

“Aww, man. I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to impress the girl. But seriously,” Derrick continues to me. “You should’ve seen him when we were younger. Kid could throw an epic tantrum. There was this one time . . .”

“I would
really
appreciate it if you would not bore Olivia with every embarrassing
Johnny Baby
story you keep in your arsenal,” Jonathan interrupts.

“I just want to tell her about the hot dogs at the fair,” Derrick insists. “It’s
hilarious
.”

Jonathan exhales frustration.

“What do you do, Derrick?” I ask, changing directions. Basing interaction on appearances, this guy could probably talk about himself all day.

“I’m in accounting.”

“Accounting,” I repeat. Derrick, C.P.A. “You like that okay?”

“Love it. I’ve been trying to convince Jonathan here to change majors for the last six months. Go for something more practical.”

“Because English isn’t a practical degree,” Jonathan says.

“No—the humanities are great,” Derrick replies. “They were a nice break from my
real
courses.”

Jonathan turns to me: “Because English and literature aren’t real courses.”

I swallow back a smile.

“Just saying, man. Change your major to accounting and I can hook you up with a sweet internship at the firm. Have you working by summer. Help you get your foot in the door.”

“I appreciate the offer, Derrick. If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

“And, if you don’t, I’m sure we’ll still run into each other from time to time. On my lunch break, maybe. Oh, don’t forget that I like my fries super-sized.” At this, Derrick laughs.

“Super-sized,” I repeat. “Is that because you’re compensating?”

His laughter dies. “I’m sorry?” he asks, not understanding.

“My mom majored in English,” I tell him.

Derrick straightens, no longer relying on the rail to hold him up. “Really? What does she do?”

“She’s a high school teacher. And she loves what she does. And it’s
funny,
because my dad is actually the business major, and, as great as that makes him, apparently,
he’s
the one who left
her
for another woman right before we found out she had cancer, so . . . English majors for the perpetual win.”

I extend my fist to Jonathan so he can bump it with his own, pushing aside the guilt felt at dragging my mom into this, using our family drama to my advantage. Derrick clears his throat, seeming unnerved by the course this conversation has taken. “Teaching is a great profession,” he says. “We need good teachers. I just think Jonathan is used to a certain lifestyle, and that’s not something he can have the way he’s going.”

“So . . . you major in business or accounting—something that will earn you a lot of money—and then work the next thirty or forty years accumulating a whole bunch of stuff that you can’t take with you when you die. Things that you’ll just leave for your kids and grandkids to fight over, sell, or eventually lose,” I point out.

“I fully believe in enjoying life while you live it.”

“And it’s not at all possible that Jonathan’s idea of enjoying life and yours are totally unrelated?”

He hesitates. “Sure. It’s possible, I guess. Are you in law school?” he asks, one eyebrow cocking.

“Worse. I’m in high school. So let me ask you a question, Derrick. Twenty years from now, what are you going to remember most about tonight? The tree? The decorations? The gifts? Or are you going to remember the people you shared it with? The ones who aren’t with you anymore?”

Derrick laughs, uncomfortable. “Well, I’m sure as hell not going to forget you,” he says. Then, to Jonathan. “Good job, man. I like her.”

Jonathan turns to me, eyes curious, passing me a lop-sided grin. “Thanks. I do, too.”