Authors: Carly Alexander

The Eggnog Chronicles (15 page)

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles

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“Yes, but must he inflict his agitation on others?” Cracker asked. “I'm only telling you this because you love the man, Ricki. God knows you're not responsible for his behavior, but his lack of civility is off-putting at times.”

“He's just in a bad place right now.” I bit my lower lip, not sure how much to reveal to Cracker. He was a close friend, the kind of friend you could dump on, but it's hard to express your feelings when you're not entirely sure of them.

Cracker unwrapped a kiss and popped it into his mouth with a knowing, “Mm-hmm.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, honey, you can tell old Cracker. Do you know how long I've been mending the world's problems from across the bar? I am the Dr. Phil of the lovelorn.”

“Lovelorn?” I squinted at him. “Have you been reading historical romances again?”

“Tell Cracker. What's the problem?”

I stepped up on a stool to hang a clear glass icicle on a high branch. “It's not that big a deal. Just that he keeps picking arguments at home.” I stepped down, sighing. “And me, fool that I am, I argue right back. And the weird thing is, we're not arguing about details of his divorce or custody of his kids or anything like that. We're arguing about Nate's attitude toward the divorce. His inability to push it through. That passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Cracker rolled his eyes. “Nothing new about that.”

“But somehow it's beginning to seem like a new problem, like my problem.” I hung a glittering pine cone on the treeâone of the first ornaments I'd made before the shop had opened, and it made me feel a twinge of nostalgia for that sweeter, simpler time. “Sometimes I worry that he's losing interest. That the thrill is gone.”

“I thought you two had a sizzle goin' in the fry pan.”

“We do,” I said, a little freaked that I was following his metaphors. “But it still doesn't mean he isn't straying. What if he's having an affair, Cracker?”

He pushed down an arm of the spruce to shoot me a look. “Who would fool around with him?”

“Well, I did, back in college,” I admitted. “Don't you think Nate's attractive?”

“Good looks got nothing to do with it, sugarlamb. You fell for Nate because he was forbidden fruit. Another man's wife.”

“Well, not quite. I mean, they were separated and getting a divorce and everything.” That much was true. Had I thought Nate was truly involved with his wife, I would not have gone near him. Scout's honor. A home wrecker I am not, partly because of scruples, partly because I figure if a man is willing to be stolen away, then no woman will ever have a secure hold on his heart. “The legal matters weren't supposed to take so long, though. Whoever heard of a nice, friendly divorce that lasted four years?”

Four years. Had Nate and I really been together that long? Four years. When we'd met, his youngest daughter Molly had been a freckly nine-year-old, still playing with dolls and holding hands with her dad. Now she was a basketball player with a fierce hook shot, a shape that made boys gape, and a strong loathing for spending summers in the Outer Banks with her dad. Poor Nate. He tried to be a good father, but his ex-wife wasn't very supportive of his efforts, dishing the dirt to Molly and Kaitie whenever she had the chance. For my part, I tried to keep my distance from Gina; tried to give the girls space and time alone with their father. I did my best, though there was no getting around the fact that I was the intruderâthe unwanted future “step.” With these obstacles, it was amazing Nate and I had made it this long.

I thought of the first time we'd met, at a college job fair, how Nate had seemed more seasoned and laid-back than the eager rugby types at Brown who wanted to plumb more than my mind before we'd even shared a cup of coffee. After years of fending off requests for meaningless sex, I'd found it entirely refreshing when Nate had asked me out for a weekend afternoon, inviting me to accompany him to an exhibit of FabergÃ© eggs scheduled to leave Providence the following week.

An afternoon of art, tea, and stimulating conversation.

So began my first adult relationship, a connection based on mutual interests, social interaction, and (much later) great sex. At the time, Nate had been deeply involved in commercial real estate in Providence, so he knew most of the tony restaurants and cafÃ©s. He had been instrumental in finding space for the proprietors in Little Italy and Fox Point, and consequently had a standing reservation (and a discount, I think) at the city's hot spots. I'd been impressed by the way he had a finger on the pulse of Providenceâa social reference so different from my student colleagues, whose expertise didn't reach beyond the list of pubs that had two-for-one drinks at happy hourâand by the fact that he knew the city so well, knew its rich history and its stately buildings.

Our first few outings were purely platonic. Nate took me on a walking tour of Providence's historic East Side, showing me the excellent examples of restored eighteenth-century mansions and homes. Another time we walked the “Mile of History,” a concentration of original Colonial homes along Benefit Street, splendid sites of early Federal and nineteenth-century architecture. Nate seemed so at home in those neighborhoods that I drew a sort of psychological connection, envisioning him as the master of one of those fine city estates. In my mind, he was one of Providence's favorite sons, and I felt special to be strolling along the river with him, catching the ArTrolley on Gallery Night, or dining out in a Portuguese restaurant where the staff treated us like royalty. Nate seemed thrilled to be with meâhe admitted that he had been lonely since he'd parted with his wifeâand he acted as if I were the most amazing woman on the planet. He started naming things after me: a “Ricki smile,” or a “Ricki look,” or “that Ricki sigh.” In Nate's world, I was the “It” girl, and honestly, I loved being the feminine center of his universe.

Not that such euphoria came without its price.

More than once I'd stumbled over Nate's baggageâhis guilt over the emotional withdrawal of his two kids. There were Nate's financial woes, the prospect of losing his million-dollar home to Gina, the divorce lawyers' fees, the cost of financing two households.

But when you're falling in love, your sweetie's torturous troubles compel you to love him more, to defend him from his adversaries, to buoy him up from the depths of sorrow and buffet him against the winds. I couldn't fight Gina, but I could offer Nate half of my bed and a drawer in my bedroom dresser in my apartment, which was a million times better than the bachelor pad he'd signed the lease on. By the time I was starting my final year of grad school, Nate and I were a couple.

“Mm-hmm?” Cracker's suspicious hum brought me back to reality. “Do you think there's ever such a thing as a nice, neat divorce?”

I waggled a glittery pinecone at him. “They hadn't slept together in two years.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don't you believe that?”

“It doesn't matter what I believe, Ricki. Let's focus on the situation at hand, which is the fledging interest of your man. When is the last time you had sex?”

I gasped with mock exaggeration. “You want me to kiss and tell?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Hello? I'm the one who knows about your marathon in that vacated beach house in Rodanthe. The horizontal tango for, what, two days was it?”

I laughed. “It would have been three if that agent hadn't shown up unexpectedly to scope out the place.”

“Mm-hmm. But we digress. The point is, you're worrying about all the wrong things, sugar. You think his eye is straying, but let me remind you, we're talking about Mr. High Maintenance here. Mr. Loud-Talking, Cell Phone-walking, Highway-Passing, Sports Car-Revving . . .”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Stop holding back and tell me how you really feel.”

“Oh, honey, don't get me started or I'll be hissing and tearing up your upholstery.”

“Minus the claws and the hissy fit, please.”

“That man is just preening for some extra coddling and attention. So why don't you head on home now? Adena is coming in soon, isn't that right?”

I checked the clock that had a different colored ornament on each number. The small hand was creeping toward the purple “six” ornament. “She'll be here in a half hour or so.”

“So when she gets here, give yourself the night off. Light some candles so you can set the mood, feed him a nice warm meal and, you know . . . butter his beans.”

“Ugh, dinner! My cupboard is bare. There just aren't enough hours in the day, you know?”

“I could send you home with some of my famous corn chowder,” Cracker said. “But then, soup isn't enough of a meal for Mr. High Maintenance, is it?”

I sighed. “Now, see that? Prissy. And we were on such a nice track for a while.”

“Prissy?”
Cracker folded his arms. “I may be dramatic, occasionally catty, but never
prissy.
Now if we can keep this all dignified, I'll help you. But you can't make me like him.”

“That's okay,” I said. “Leave the liking to me. You just hang around and spout off great advice.”

“My specialty. Is that a yes or a no on the soup?” Cracker asked. “Because Miller's has some nice-looking salad fixings that would go well with the chowder.”

“Yes, please,” I said, thinking that it would be a marvel if I could actually get out of here before six o'clock tonight. Leaving early during the busy season . . . It was absolutely decadent, but Cracker was right in his backhanded way. I'd been so focused on spreading Christmas cheer, I hadn't really been sharing myself with the person I loved most.

Well, that was about to change.

T
he worst thing about resolutions is that when you can't follow one through, you feel like a failure. That night when I got home, the cottage was dark. I kept calling Nate's cell but he didn't pick up until the soup was hot, the salad dressed.

“I'm home early!” I told him. “I've got dinner ready.”

“You're kidding? I'm on my way to Avon.” A good hour south of us. “I just assumed you'd be working late, so I decided to drive down to this site.”

So my big evening fizzled into a big “Oh, well.”

By the time Nate came in, I was asleep on the couch. I remember Dave Letterman saying: “I don't know what that means,” and the audience roaring as I clicked the remote and stumbled through the living room. The bathroom floor was ice-cold, but I forced myself to brush my teeth and rinse my face, knowing the activity would be enough to wake me up just enough to ruin my sleep. I hate when that happens, but I was too tired to stay up, and Nate was already in bed, possibly asleep if the sound of his steady breathing was any gauge.

“You awake?” I asked softly.

“Mmm.”

I turned off the light and slipped under the red plaid quilt. My side of the bed was cold, and I eased closer to Nate and nudged my chilly feet into the warm aura surrounding his body. It was a ritual of ours in winter, one of those patterns couples fall into when they've been together a while: I always prodded him with cold toes and he always withdrew, grousing, “Get those icy feet away from me, you witch.”

Not wanting to wake him, I moved tentatively, trying to steal warmth.

To my surprise, he reached down and pulled my feet to him. “Come here, you.” He tucked my feet between his thighs, folding them into furry warmth. Sweet heaven.

I sighed, loving the feeling, charmed by the implications.

It was more than a gesture, more than a small exception. I knew it was a sign that something had changed. He was opening himself to me, accepting me whollyâcold feet and all. Nate wanted to be my protector, my champion against the cold.

A sign? I could only hope that my wish was beginning to take hold.

“So how did your evening go?” Lola asked the next morning when she and Ben appeared with three coffees and the morning papers.

“It sort of
didn't,”
I said sheepishly, biding time as Ben slipped over to the rocking chair by the fire and settled into his usual spot to read. That was the problem with living on a small peninsula where everyone knew everyone else's business. When I'd stopped into Miller's to pick up a salad last night, I'd told Lola about my plans, and now it was good manners for her to follow up. “The next time I try to stage something with Nate, remind me to let him know in advance.”

Perching on a stool by my worktable, Lola seemed to get the picture quickly. “Do you want to talk about it? And what's that you're working on?”

“An emergency costume for tonight's pageant. Turns out they're short one elf.”

“It's so nice of you to do that for the school,” Lola said. “And you don't even have a kid in the show.”

“I enjoy it,” I admitted as I traced a holly-leaf pattern onto green felt. “Though I'm stretched a little thin this year.” With my work on the school pageant and decorating the town, I was falling behind on mail orders, but there was still time before I had to use rush shipping.

“So what did you end up doing last night?” Lola pressed.

As I gave her the nutshell version the door bells jingled and a carload of customers streamed in. “Merry Christmas!” I called, then lowered my voice for Lola. “By the time I reached him on his cell, it was too late. So he drove to Avon, and I sipped soup in front of the TV and watched
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“Isn't that just the way things happen sometimes?” Lola said. “My kids love that movie. Corey always feels sorry for the elf who wants to be a dentist.”

“So do I,” Ben called from behind his paper. “It's no fun to be trapped in the wrong profession.”

Sometimes I forgot Ben was there, like a loyal hound by the fire, until he added the occasional thoughtful remark.

Lola crossed her arms and tilted her head toward him. “Ben, it's a good thing you managed to get out of your mistake before it was too late,” she teased. “A lot of people don't have the guts to make a major change in their lives.”

“Is it guts or sheer idiocy?” Ben lowered his
Washington Post.
“That's a matter of some debate. Some of my old friends think I threw away the best part of my life. A solid job.”

“Wow, do I hear my mother's voice!” Lola cupped a hand around one ear. “When I married Tito he was working in a pizza place, and my mother tried to stop the wedding. She kept asking me, âWhy would you want a man who doesn't have a solid job?' For Mama, it was all about job security.”

I squeezed the scissors, cutting through the felt with satisfying precision. “I've always been lucky in that area. Since I minored in education, I knew I could teach. I just never needed to.”

Ben folded the paper in his lap. “My job security is about fifty yards that way,” he said, pointing toward the door. “The Atlantic never shuts down. Yeah, I've got a few boards to recondition now, but once the weather warms up, the people come, and they need boards and wet suits and surf shirts and sunglasses.”

“You own the surf shop next door?” asked one of the customers, a thin man with wispy gray hair and gangly arms. When Ben nodded, the man introduced himself and mentioned that his nephew ran a shop down in Key West.

“Paul Gaber?” Ben smiled. “Pleasure to meet you. I used to rent sail kites from your son.” While Paul Gaber's wife browsed, Paul and Ben settled into the chairs to chat by the fire.

Lola reached into her pocket for her tarot deck, her newest New Age preoccupation. Lola was a student of astrology and tarot, always seeking wisdom through the movements of the planets and the symbols in the cards. Although I'd studied the tarot deck years ago, I gave it up. The cards were too addictive back then, and sometimes I found their vivid symbols dark and intimidating. “Busy today?” Lola asked.

“Nonstop. I've got mail orders coming out my ear, plus all the foot traffic here,” I said, realizing that I had another school group coming in and a busload of teachers from Raleigh, as well as the women from Georgia's quilting bee. “Then there's the school pageant tonight, and tomorrow is the first Saturday in December: my Shopfest. Which reminds me, can you put a few gallons of eggnog and vanilla ice cream on hold for me? I have to serve eggnog tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Lola fanned the cards over the table and shuffled. “When things settle down, you have to let me throw some cards for you. Looking at your chart, I see a crossroad coming up for you. A turning point. Any idea what that's about?”

“A crossroad? Does that mean choices?” I asked, intrigued and wary. “Hey, when did you do my chart and what else did you see? I mean, what's in my future?”

Lola smiled, gathering up her cards. “Listen to the song.”

The carolers on the CD sang: “Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.”

“Comfort and joy,” Lola repeated. “The very thing you give, you shall receive.”

“That's so sweet.” I trimmed the holly leaf, pleased with the sharp points and curves. Lola's prediction was a lot better than I'd expected, but I wanted to hear more. “So what else is in my chart? Do you see Nate? Any kids down the road?”

She touched the puka shells at her neck. “Of course you'll have kids. Every woman needs her children.”

Good news, I thought, though it wasn't clear whether Lola was thinking of my astrological chart or simply spouting off edicts of the world according to Lola. I wanted to ask her, but then the doorbell jingled again and a new group of customers appeared and I was lost in the act of juggling conversation, creativity, and commerce.

That afternoon I was juggling a shop full of customersâmostly my busload of teachersâwhile working through the list of e-mail orders when the door bells jingled and Georgia appeared, greeting all the shoppers as if they were family. Georgia is such a social creature; always so cheerful and silly. I secretly harbored plans to steal her away from Miller's in the next year, if The Christmas Elf could afford another full-timer.

“How's it going, honey?” Georgia called to me. “Your candy-cane curb has been lined with cars all day, so I know you've been busy. Brought you some hot chicken tenders. Martha's on the fryer today, and she always does them just right.” She took out a cardboard box and waved it under my nose.

“Thanks.” I dropped a Santa tablecloth into one of the mail packs and snatched the chicken from her hand. “What time is it? After three already? The day goes so fast when I'm busy. I promised Mrs. Joel I'd be over at the school by seven and . . . Thanks for the food, honey! If it weren't for you, I'd be fainting in the tinsel.”

“My pleasure,” Georgia said, pushing me back onto a stool. “Now you just take a break and I'll help you out here for awhile. What were you doing, filling orders? And I know how to run the register, too. Lord knows, I do it all day at Miller's.”

“Just for a minute,” I conceded, sitting and balling up a napkin. “Don't want to get chicken grease on any of the merchandise.”

“Oh, I love this song!” Georgia said. “All I want for Christmas is you!” she sang as she sashayed up the step stool to reach an ornament from one of the top bins. “Hey, how are you?” she asked a couple browsing through the trees, except when Georgia spoke it came out: “Haryew?”

Confident that she had things under control, I moved to the computer chair and logged on. “Eighteen new orders?”

“Good for you!” Georgia said.

“That's just in the last ten minutes.” I stared at the screen. “This is phenomenal! Fantastic. What am I saying?” I smacked my hands against my cheeks. “I'm going to be up all night.”

“I'll help you,” Georgia offered. “I can stop by after the pageant if you want. I'll even bring Daniel. Maybe the Christmas mood here will soften his old Grinchy heart a little.” Daniel was Georgia's boyfriend, a good-looking artist who shared Nate's malady: Failure to Commit. The greater difference being that Daniel was homegrown; his parents owned hammock shops here in Nag's Head and in Avon, and, as Daniel liked to say, he was “easing” into the family business.

“And I'll give you a hand,” Ben called from the CD section. “You know my business is slow. No problem closing up for a few days, and my surfers can reach me by cell if they need me.”

“You've already helped me so much,” I said, blinking as two more orders came in. “I really appreciate it. This is just . . . really exciting and a little scary.”

A few minutes later Cracker appeared with three spools of packing tape. “I was over at the hardware store and thought you could use some extra,” he said, “before people buy it up to send off their Christmas gifts.”

I threw my arms wide in amazement. “I was just running out! You're an angel!”

“Honey, I'm no angel, but I'm happy to propagate the myth,” Cracker said as he attacked a stack of brown boxes.

Just then the door bells jingled and as I looked up my pulse quickened. Nate. He didn't stop by here too often, but I was happy to see him amidst this seasonal insanity.

“Hey, honey!” I waved him over past the glittering trees and the bins of cranberry and pinecone garland to the small computer station. Once he saw me Nate plunged his hands into the pockets of his cashmere coat and averted his eyes, not a good sign. Little alarm bells rang in my head as he made his way through the crowded shop. Something was wrong. Nate was not happy.

“What happened? You look so sad.”

He raked his hair back with one hand. “How soon can you get away from here? You need to get packed. We're hitting the road in the morning.”

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles

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