Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (11 page)

Lachlan seems speechless as he holds up Lionel’s, Emily’s and Jo’s cable-knit sweaters, all with their names knitted in contrasting yarn.

“I’m not sure if they’ll fit,” I try and explain. “It was hard trying to measure Emily, she nearly took my head off.”

“They’ll fit,” he says, almost whispering, as he runs his fingers over them. He looks to me, his beautiful eyes burning into mine, trying to tell me all that his lips cannot.

I kiss him on the cheek and he relaxes himself against me, pulling me into a hug. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “This means so much.”

I run my fingers along his strong jaw and smile, careful not to get too carried away with a captive audience.

“Only one more gift Kayla,” Jessica says, clearing her throat. I pull away from Lachlan’s warmth and look at her shining face. Even she seems a bit emotional over the sweater situation.

I nod and pick it up from under the tree. As I slowly unwrap the plain brown packaging, I try not to let my thoughts run away on me. Runaway thoughts have never done me any good.

But, when the packaging peels away, I’m left with a jewelry box and it’s hard not to think about it. What if it’s an engagement ring? What would I say? Isn’t it too soon? Would Lachlan really take such a private moment and share it with his family, with his grandfather?

“Just open it,” Brigs says.

I do.

I gasp.

It’s not an engagement ring at all. In fact, it’s almost better.

I carefully reach in and hold up a silver necklace, a locket in shape of a heart, engraved with delicate flowers and stars across the face. It shines brightly, probably the prettiest piece of jewelry I’ve ever had. I look up to see Lachlan staring at me expectantly so I look for the snap on the side of the locket and pry it open.

On one side there is a picture of us together. Very small, just our smiling faces, but in black and white. I think it was taken at the Ruff Love gala over the summer. On the other side it says something in what I think is Gaelic. Something I can’t pronounce properly.
Sibhe mo clann.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him breathlessly. “What does it say?”

“It says, you are my clan.”

Jessica makes a dreamy sigh.

I feel like my insides are dancing, my heart buzzing, my blood fizzing like champagne.

“I’m your clan,” I repeat, my pulse racing loudly.

“Aye,” he says. “That and more.”

I swallow hard, those pesky tears finding me again. I want to take him upstairs and show him what this gift, this beautiful, thoughtful, emotional gift means to me. But I can’t. Not here. Not now. All I can do is hug him, kiss him and hope he knows that he’s my clan too, always and forever.

I feel like I’m walking on a cloud for the rest of the day. Even when we go outside to help Brigs dispose of more puppy poo and walk up the lane to check on Brigs’ car and to see if the neighbors are home yet (they aren’t), the cold doesn’t bother me a bit. My heart is a glowing furnace, keeping me warm, and the necklace rests against my chest like it’s always been there.

***

When the darkness starts to fall, bathing the house in twilight, I gather with Brigs in his room with Lachlan and the puppy. Christmas dinner is almost ready, the house smells absolutely amazing, and I’m gearing up to finally try haggis.

We’re also playing with the puppy, whom Brigs has already named “Winter.” I called my brothers back home earlier to wish them a merry Christmas, and while it was so good to hear their voices, it also cut deep to not be with them. But puppies are a quick fix to pain.

“You can’t give the dog a name if you aren’t going to keep it,” Lachlan tells Brigs.

“Sure I can,” Brigs says as he sits his tall frame on the edge of the bed. “You name your shelter dogs all the time. Besides, if it turns out it’s not the neighbor’s dog, then you’re keeping it, not me.”

“What?” Lachlan says as the little fluffball plays with leftover wrapping paper. “The shelter is no place for a dog that young. He needs a home. Training. Complete love.”

“You need to take him,” I tell Brigs. “The little guy already looks up to you. He thinks you’re dad. You just named him for crying out loud.”

Brigs shrugs. “I’ll try again in the morning. Then I have to leave and the dog isn’t coming with me.”

“Well aren’t you just a puppy Scrooge,” I tell him.

He doesn’t seem that phased though I can tell from the way he’s playing with Winter, that he’s far more attached to the white pup than he pretends. I just hope by the time the holiday is over, Winter is reunited with his family or Brigs comes to his senses.

Eventually we make our way downstairs ready for the feast. The kitchen table is prepped with silver candlesticks, elegant cutlery and a range of steaming dishes all laid out on a pristine white tablecloth with red trim. In the middle is a beautiful centerpiece of pine cones, ribbon, holly and fir that I have a hunch Jessica made and arranged herself. She’s a regular old Martha Stewart this one.

We take our seats, Lachlan and I beside each other with George at one end of the table and Brigs at the other. While I’m just wearing a simple black dress and maroon cardigan, my necklace the star of the look, everyone else looks done up. Even Lachlan is wearing a white shirt with no tie, unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of his tattoos.

Jessica leads us into a quick prayer and then it’s time to eat.

I’ve just dolloped out a scoop of mashed potatoes and am thinking about the haggis, which really does look like a type of stuffing, when George says, “Where the hell is the wine? Not even sherry?”

Jessica gives him a placating smile. “We have sparkling apple juice or the mulled wine from IKEA.”

“There’s no alcohol in those,” he says. “You can’t have Christmas without wine. This is ridiculous.”

Donald gets up and grabs George’s glass. “Let me get you some of the sherry, dad,” he says.

“Get me some? Bring the bottle here. There’s two bottles of red in the cupboard by the sherry, bring those too.” He eyes Jessica. “I don’t want to take from my own collection, but I will if I have to. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. Yes, his literal sake.”

I flinch while Lachlan has grown still beside me, holding his breath and avoiding eye contact.

I put my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” I whisper.

He nods. “I’m fine. Really.” He attempts to smile but the pain in his eyes betrays it.

I believe him too, that he will be fine, until Donald comes back with the wine and George insists he pour some for everyone.

“None for me,” Lachlan says quickly, covering his glass.

“Me neither,” I add. “But thank you though.”

George narrows his eyes at us. “No wine? Lachlan, you were usually the first one to finish the bottle. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with him, grandpa,” Brigs says but offers no more than that. None of us want to be the one to say it, if we even have to say it at all.

“Well something is,” he says. “I haven’t seen him for a year. Suddenly he’s stopped drinking and has some half Chinese girlfriend. I don’t even know you anymore, do I Lachlan. Perhaps I never did,” he adds under his breath. “You Lockharts are a strange breed, not like us McGregors.”

You can cut the tension above the table with a carving knife. I can see what it comes down to, even now. While Lachlan considers me part of his clan, George doesn’t consider Lachlan to be part of his. I don’t think it matters what Lachlan says or does, if he was a rugby player or a politician, an alcoholic or a church-going saint – in his eyes, he’s not one of them.

Lachlan clears his throat and stares at George dead in the eye. “No. I’m not really a McGregor am I? But I am here, just as I always have been. I have your last name. I have this family’s heart, as well as my own. I would just hope that one day, just as I said to Kayla, that you could see I consider you my clan and maybe one day, you’ll consider me to be yours.”

The room falls silent.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re not drinking,” George mutters, cutting into the turkey on his plate.

“Because I’m an alcoholic,” Lachlan says, so matter-of-factly I nearly spit out my water. “I’ve always been one and always will be one. My whole life I’ve dealt with my problems, my past, my own soul, by using drugs or drinking my way out of it. You can only get away with it for so long and it wasn’t until I met Kayla, that I opened up my own eyes to what I was putting her through. What I was putting my family through. What I was putting myself through. You can judge me all you want, blame my clan, my origins, blame me for being a black sheep. But the truth is the truth and while I may not wear it proudly, it is mine.”

Everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting for George’s reaction. But I’m not holding my breath – I can barely breathe. This man…just when I thought he couldn’t surprise me anymore, he just laid his heart out on the table and all the ugliness that comes with it, for all the world to see. He expects to be hurt, to be ridiculed, to be judged and he still did it anyway. He did it because that’s him. He’s Lachlan McGregor, Lachlan Lockhart, my beast and the bravest man I’ve ever known.

The amount of love I have for him exceeds the deepest reaches of anything.

Infinite and uncontained.

Tested.

True.

Finally George clears his throat, making everyone jump slightly in their seats.

“So you can’t handle your liquor,” he says in his gruff brogue. “Maybe you are a McGregor after all.”

The joke is barely funny. But it’s a joke. And maybe the closest thing Lachlan will ever get to being accepted. Everyone bursts out into laughter, nervous at first, then one filled with relief. I can only squeeze Lachlan’s arm, right over his tattoo of Lionel the Lion, and stare at him like the googly-eyed lovebird that I am.

And, after that, everything seems fine. The tension dissipates. George has his sherry, Donald has a glass of wine, while the rest of us do it up with sparkling apple juice, sipping it like fine champagne. There is a sense of rightness, of peace, and the falling snow outside the windows just adds to the magical feeling of Christmas.

That is until we hear a loud CRASH from the drawing room. We all freeze, exchanging glances, then jump to our feet, filing out down the hall and into the drawing room.

The tree is completely knocked over, sprawled over the couch, ornaments and tinsel everywhere.

“How did this happen?” Donald exclaims as we gingerly come over.

Suddenly, at the base of the tree, a pile of the used wrapping paper starts moving.

“Oh my goodness,” Jessica says, hand to her chest, nearly clutching her actual pearls. “What is it, a rat?”

“Has anyone ever seen National Lampoons Christmas Vacation?” I ask absently, thinking it could be a squirrel or perhaps someone wrapped a cat.

But then the wrapping paper shakes some more.

Small, pointed puppy ears poke out and then the rest of Winter’s white head.

“The little bugger!” Brigs says while Jessica cries out, “Oh my god, is that a dog?” She looks to Lachlan. “Is that yours?”

“Actually it’s Brigs’,” Lachlan says while Brigs crouches down and approaches the puppy, scooping him up into his arms before he can run away.

“Brigs,” George says sternly. “You know how I feel about animals.”

Brigs sighs, cradling Winter to him. From the way the puppy looks at everyone in the room, mild fear, strong curiosity, it’s impossible not to fall in love with the pup. “We all know, grandpa, but I found him in the barn, the farm next door, and there was no one around. I wasn’t about to let it starve and freeze to death. We even went by earlier to see if there was anyone home, but they’re gone.”

“They always go away on Christmas,” George says, eyeing the puppy. He looks up at Brigs and squints, making some internal decision. “The dog can stay. But if he shits anywhere, it’s your problem. Tomorrow we’ll bring him back where he belongs. Just so you know though…I’ll be watching you.”

As if on cue, Winter looks at George and sticks out his tongue.

Christmas rolls to a merry end.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lachlan

It’s late when Kayla and I finally retire to bed. Jessica and Donald are down by the fire, Jessica drinking the sherry she didn’t dare drink in front of me earlier, talking and listening to the last of the Christmas music. I know we will still have Christmas music going tomorrow on Boxing Day, but Christmas day feels different from all the rest. It’s the last time it counts.

Brigs is in his room with the dog, probably grappling with saying goodbye in the morning, while I think George fell asleep in his recliner.

Aside from the faint strain of the music, the house is silent. The snow has stopped falling, adding to the hush.

And Kayla, beautiful Kayla, is staring at me with so much love, my heart can hardly take it.

“Lachlan,” she says, pressing her naked body against me and I close my eyes at the feel of her sweet warmth against my skin.