Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (5 page)

“Who do we like?” A woman asks, easing next to Derrick.

“Jonathan’s girlfriend,” he replies. “Olivia, my wife, Tessa.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “I
love
your boots, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m so serious. I need a pair of those.”

“I’m pretty sure you already own a pair just like them,” Derrick says.

“In brown, maybe. But I really like the black.”

“Thanks,” I repeat.

“Your mom wants us to move the Santa gifts to the table in the middle of the room,” Tessa tells Derrick. “Everyone’s almost done eating.”

“No problem. Jonathan? Olivia? It was a pleasure.”

Part of me imagines he is erring on the side of sarcasm, that he’s thankful for this interruption. But I hear the words and know the tone, I see the smile, and I just can’t make myself believe he is being anything but sincere.

“They think you’re my girlfriend now,” Jonathan points out when they leave.

“Sorry about that.”

“No. Don’t apologize,” he says quickly. “Maybe now they’ll stop calling me Johnny Baby.” His eyes roll for effect.

“You have to admit, it’s kind of cute.”

“When you’re a toddler. Jesus, I’m in
college
. Though, if we’re being totally honest, I wouldn’t complain as much if someone like
you
called me that.”

I smile. “So tell them it bothers you. Problem solved.”

“No way. That’s the whole dynamic of this family. It’s like their way of being friendly—they pick on me because they love me. That sort of thing.”

“That’s . . . kind of delusional.”

“Exactly. But if you act offended, you’re too sensitive. Can’t take a joke. It’s better to go with it.”

“So they’re a bunch of bullies?”

Another laugh. “And yet, I don’t even think they realize it.”

“Look, Jonathan. Life is too short to spend with people who make you feel miserable about yourself. And, if it can’t be helped—like in the case of family, then it’s too short to be spent worrying about what they think and letting the things they say get to you. Be who you are. To hell with everyone else.”

He sets his empty plate behind us, shifts his body to face mine, leans casually against the balusters, confident once again. “Does your mom really teach?” he asks.

“Yeah, at my high school. Not since last year, though. She’s taking time off.”

“No fault in that. Is she supportive? Of your plans and dreams, I mean?”

“I have no plans,” I remind him. “I’m just trying to make it through January. But yes. I’m pretty confident I could go to her and say that I want to make Navajo woven rugs and she would find a way to make it happen.”

“She sounds amazing,” he says.

I turn to him at this, insides lifting at the words. His gaze latches mine. And what I see there isn’t pity or sympathy or sorrow. It’s something warmer. More thoughtful and assuring. Like . . . admiration, maybe. My heartbeat slows to almost nothing, emotions tangling, until I force myself to look away. “She is.”     

“I’d like to meet her.”

A smile bubbles inside my chest, springs to the surface. “You will,” I promise.

After the remaining bites of my meal are devoured, Jonathan takes my plate, stacking it on his own. He stands, skips a step to the floor, turns, stretches out his hand. I take it in mine, squeeze it, let him guide me to ground level, deflating a little when he lets me go.

What is happening to me?

We toss our trash into the bag in the kitchen where Mrs. Andrews bustles back and forth covering dishes, dumping silverware into the sink, pouring out drinks.

“How was everything?” she asks.

“It was delicious, Aunt Stacey. You outdid yourself.” She leans into Jonathan for a side hug.

“My favorite nephew,” she says, rubbing his back with her free hand. “Did you and Olivia get dessert?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m trying to save room. Thank you, though.”

“Well, I have an extra cheesecake thawing in the fridge. I want you to take it when you leave. For you and your mom and sister.”

It’s just like the women in this town—feeding you until you can’t stand another bite, then sending you home with more. 

“How is Sam?” Trent Andrews asks, dumping his plate, heading toward the drinks for a refill. Trent—Stacey’s youngest—and my older sister went to high school together, graduated two years apart.

“Good. She’s still taking classes at the community college when she can. I think she’d like to transfer next year, depending on how things go.” The “with my mom’s diagnosis” hovers in the air, unsaid, between us. “How is Lawrence?”

“LSU is great. I love it there.”

“How much longer do you have?”

“One more year. I’m on the five-year plan. Economics and Finance.”

I smile and nod, know without even looking that Jonathan is grinning next to me. He’s right about one thing: in a family full of “numbers” people, he is a black stain.

The best kind of stain.

“I’ll let Sam know you asked about her,” I tell Trent just after Grandma interrupts us, announces that dishes and dessert can wait. It’s time to play Dirty Santa.

We gather in the Andrews’ great room, Jonathan and I finding a seat together on the hearth of the stone fireplace, just beside a basket of logs and pinecones wrapped in silver ribbon—decoration, of course, since the fireplace is no longer wood-burning.

“You know the best part about Christmas?” I ask, studying the exquisitely decorated tree standing tall across the room, taking in the crystal icicles and glittering snowflakes, every shade of blue—like something out of a catalog. “The lights. Everything is bright and twinkling and magical. So full of promise.”

“I love the music. And the smell of Christmas trees,” he says. “I could live at a tree lot.”

“Fake trees are not an option,” I agree. “That’s the one thing I don’t like about The Christmas Room. The trees aren’t real.”

“Not very practical, though, having to redecorate.”

“I know. And Mrs. Kimble actually keeps the room open year-round.”

“Hard to find fir trees in May,” he says.

I laugh softly.

“Thank you, for what you said earlier,” he says, gently nudging my arm with his.

“What did I say?”

“Everything. All the right things, actually. About my family. About life being too short. And I don’t think
anyone
has challenged Derrick like that.”

“I just think we’re all on our own journey—our own timeline. And I don’t care how well you think you know someone—unless you can get inside their head or their heart, you
never
really know all of the facts. Something inside you is pulling you to major in English, because it’s what you love and what you’re passionate about. And if that’s true, then who is anyone else to argue? I think it’s worse for someone to slap ‘business’ or ‘finance’ on their degree plan just because they think it’ll make them rich, or because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do. I’m actually kind of impressed you’re going after what you love in spite of the unnecessary pressure.”

“Wow,” he says, sitting taller. “No one has ever said they were
impressed
with me before.”

“Then they don’t have all the facts,” I reply.

Mrs. Andrews steps to the middle of the room, claps her hands. “All right, y’all!” she calls.

Everyone quiets, and suddenly the strains of a Mannheim Steamroller song can be heard overhead. I glance at the ceiling. Surround sound. “I want to thank everyone for coming. You’ve made this night so special already. Lord, I’m gonna cry,” she continues, fanning her face with palms and fingers, bracelets jingling. “Okay, no I’m not.” Her eyes lift skyward, and she quickly swipes beneath them, wiping away happy tears before they have a chance to fall. “Okay. I just want to say that it’s so great to have all the family together like this. We really don’t do this often enough.”

Across from us, Derrick sits comfortably in an overstuffed easy chair, Tessa in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her. And Grandma is on the couch, sitting beside Grandpa. And Jonathan’s mom. And a man I assume to be his dad. Mr. Andrews. All of these people, connected to each other, by blood or by marriage, a witness to each other’s lives.

And something inside me fills as Mrs. Andrews thanks everyone who brought a dish of food, travelled hours to be here, helped make this night possible. So I lean closer to Jonathan, rest my temple against his shoulder. Just for a moment—just to thank him for letting me be here, letting me experience this. Because no—families aren’t perfect, but if you’re lucky enough to get a good one, you just might have everything in the world.

I lift my head, smile as Mrs. Andrews acknowledges the “friends” here with us.

“So here are the rules of the game,” she says. “Ya’ll will each draw a number from the bowl. Person number one will pick one gift from the pile, return to your seat, and open it, showing everyone what it is. The next person, person number two, has two choices. They can either steal person number one’s gift, or unwrap a new present. A gift can be stolen three times. The third person to get the gift gets to keep it. If your gift is stolen, you have to head back to the pile and grab a new one. Got it?”

“I can’t believe we’re stealing Christmas presents from each other,” Jonathan says, but his tone has changed, the idea itself not as “appalling” as it was previously.

“Relax,” I say. “It’ll be fun.”

The bowl makes its way to us and we draw our numbers, pass it on to the next person.

“Twenty-two,” he whispers.

“Fourteen,” I reply, showing him my slip of paper.

He grins. “My new favorite number.”

I bite back a smile, trying to calm the tap dance in my stomach, as the game begins.

The first family member grabs the biggest present from the floor. It’s a griddle. The next person, Tessa, steals it.

“Why? You don’t even know what to do with it!” Derrick teases.

Grandpa ends up with a silver cuff bracelet, looks at it carefully, mutters: “What the hell am I going to do with this?” I glance at Jonathan, laughing. It doesn’t matter, though, because a few numbers later, a guy takes it from him, claims: “I forgot to buy Daphne a gift.”

Grandma gets Jonathan’s teapot. She loves it, holds it tightly to her chest with wrinkled fingers, swears anyone who goes after it will be disinherited immediately. He smiles at this, and secretly I think he wanted her to have it the whole time, that maybe he even bought it with her in mind—that he had a plan after all.

When number fourteen rolls around, I stand from my place on the hearth, smooth my jeans.

“Go, Olivia!” Mrs. Andrews calls, encouraging.

“If you steal my cooler, you’re not invited back next year,” Trent warns. “I need it for tailgating.” I laugh at the promise of “next year.” The implication of permanent. Even though there is no such thing—no such thing as perfect, and no such thing as permanent—for this moment I let myself feel hopeful. I allow myself the expectation of the best possible outcome from this night—as dangerous as the feeling might be. 

I don’t second guess or rethink my decision. I head immediately for the box wrapped in red paper and tulle, still tucked away in that pile. I carry it back to Jonathan, feeling everyone’s eyes watching, sit back down beside him and open it.

“An ornament,” I announce, lifting it by the string.

“Oh! That’s so pretty!” Tessa says, mouth forming a perfect circle.

The next number is called.

Jonathan leans closer. “How is that not cheating?” he asks, voice low, colored with humor.

“The whole concept of this game is rooted in stealing gifts from each other,” I remind him. “I’m not entirely sure there’s a moral code in place.”

Derrick is number eighteen. I know what’s happening as soon as Tessa climbs off his lap, moves to the chair. I know when he smirks at me, crosses the length of the room, what he’s about to do. I hold the box closer, laugh out loud while crying on the inside. “No!”

“Sorry, Olivia,” he says.

I give up the box. My ornament. Of course he’s getting it for Tessa.

“Aww! Sorry, Olivia,” Mrs. Andrews says. “Looks like no one is safe tonight.”

“It’s okay,” I assure them, heading back to the gift pile, searching for something new. I finally locate a small box, one of the few remaining, remove the lid. “A gift card to Cracker Barrel,” I tell them.

Jonathan’s mom is next. She doesn’t hesitate, walks straight to Derrick. “Hand it over,” she insists. He shakes his head, sacrifices the ornament, heads back to the dwindling pile to find some new gift.

The ornament is forgotten until Mrs. Andrews calls number twenty-two. When Jonathan stands beside me—confident, determined—steps over feet and piles of discarded paper, aiming straight for his mother.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“That’s three!” Mrs. Andrews calls. “Derrick stole it from Olivia, Vivian stole it from Derrick, and now Jonathan has it, so the ornament stays with him.”