My Christmas Goose Is Almost Cooked

by Eliza Watson

  * * *

  Upon returning to the house, Zoe ran to her room, and I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. There was something comforting about the saying I’ll put the kettle on. Yet I wondered if many people still heated an actual kettle on the stove. A flip of the switch and the plastic pitcher plugged into the wall was soon whistling, steam rising from its spout. I selected a yellow ceramic mug from the white cupboards and added water and a teabag. I sat at the table topped with a blue-and-white gingham cloth, which matched the curtains. I relaxed, sipping the warm golden beverage, peering out the window at the backyard stretching toward a tree line in the distance.

  Zoe flew into the room, holding up a red sweater with a Christmas tree decorated in miniature lights. “You can wear this to the pub party tonight. Try it on.”

  It was hideous. However, Zoe was bubbling with enthusiasm, and a party might put me back in the holiday spirit, so I reluctantly slipped on the sweater.

  “It looks fab. But here’s the best part.” She pressed a small button on the sweater’s inside, and the tree lit up. She pushed another, and “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” began playing. “You can also make the lights flash.”

  How about making them turn off?

  Jane walked in and smiled at the goofy sweater. Thank God she wasn’t staying locked away in her bedroom, avoiding me and the holidays.

  “I see Zoe sucked you into the ugly jumper contest at the pub tonight.”

  My gaze darted to Zoe. “So you think this sweater’s ugly?”

  Her top lip curled back. “It’s bloody awful.”

  If Andy could only see me now. Last Christmas we’d attended a friend’s party at an upscale downtown hotel and I’d had to lose five pounds to fit into a red designer dress he’d intentionally bought a size too small. He’d had such a fit over my “tacky” jingle bell earrings that he’d given me my present early—the Tiffany diamond studs I’d sold on Craigslist. Despite all the compliments, I’d been bummed about not wearing the festive earrings that jingled every time I moved my head.

  “I’ll wear it,” I said.

  “Brilliant.”

  “What about you?”

  “Be right back.” Zoe flew upstairs and returned wearing a green sweater with Jesus in a red party hat and a white tunic that read Birthday Boy.

  “Take that thing off,” Jane demanded. “It’s blasphemy.”

  “Why? It’s His birthday, isn’t it?”

  “Wearing that to an ugly jumper contest is disrespectful. What if Father Doyne is at the pub? Now take it off, and go to the store for me. I need to make party treats, and I forgot the green grapes for the Grinch kabobs.”

  “I should bring something,” I said.

  Zoe’s face lit up. “How about egg nog? They’re always drinking it in American movies, like National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. I’m dying to try it.”

  “I make it for our family party. I have the recipe memorized.”

  “That’d be brill.”

  I gave Zoe the list of ingredients and twenty euros. “That should cover it. I’ll buy the rum from the pub.”

  “Yum, rum.” Zoe licked her lips. “I knew I’d love egg nog.”

  “I can stay and help you,” I told Jane.

  “That’d be lovely.”

  “Leave the reindeer pops for me to make.” Zoe whisked out the back door.

  Jane glared at her daughter for not having changed the sweater. “A bit cheeky, isn’t she?”

  I smiled. “I have to warn you—I’m not exactly Betty Crocker.” I wanted to ask if their homeowner’s insurance premium was paid but didn’t want to worry her. “As long as we aren’t making goose, I should be okay.”

  Jane’s nose crinkled in disgust. “I’d never make goose.”

  Deciding she needed some cheering up, I shared my goose curry debacle.

  She laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not making my curry dip or curry cheese melts. Can you stick a marshmallow, banana slice, and strawberry on a toothpick?”

  “I can handle that.” How much damage could a toothpick cause? I’d thought the same thing about a baster.

  “Grand. I’ll have you start on the Santa kabobs.”

  Jane placed wooden cutting boards on the white countertop. I stuck big soft marshmallows on the end of several dozen toothpicks while Jane sliced chunks of bananas for Santa’s face.

  “There’ll be melted chocolate for dipping. Light and dark. Declan only fancies dark.” She frowned. “If he’s home for the party…”

  “I’m sorry again about before.”

  “No worries. It’s not your fault. We never should have gone so long without talking about Shauna. At first I honored Declan’s need to not discuss her because it was too painful. Then, he rarely came home, and the longer we went without talking about her, the more difficult it became. When he was only home a day or two, I didn’t wish to upset him, afraid he’d stop coming home. But we all stopped talking about her, and that’s not right.”

  I totally got it. I hadn’t even been able to utter Andy’s name out loud to myself for months after our breakup. Since confiding in Rachel and Declan about him, I’d lost three pounds cutting back on comfort food and was sleeping through the night without meds. Martha would advise me to encourage the family to discuss Shauna. That it wasn’t healthy keeping problems bottled up inside. If I couldn’t help Declan heal, maybe I could help his family so they’d be in a better place to help him.

  “I’m just afraid he’s closed himself off to ever loving again.” Jane was slicing the bananas with excessive force. My bagel incident flashed through my mind.

  I wanted to confess that Declan and I were more than friends, give her a glimmer of hope to not give up on him—and to not lose a finger.

  And to remind myself not to give up on him.

  “In Paris, we took the group to a cemetery, and he broke down and told me about Shauna.”

  Jane smiled, setting down the knife. “That’s probably the first time he’s talked to anyone about her.”

  She didn’t appear hurt that he’d confided in me when he was incapable of saying Shauna’s name to family. I wouldn’t tell her that he’d also made me promise to never bring her up again.

  “He admitted avoiding his emotions since her death. That it was easier to just stop feeling, period.” Although he hadn’t promised to start expressing his feelings, I’d assumed he would after our kiss.

  Declan was going to flip out that I’d told his mom this. Yet it also affected me, and I needed to talk about it.

  Jane gave me a hug. “Don’t give up on him. I fear I had.” She drew back, smiling. “Come here.”

  I followed her down the hallway. She snatched a framed family Christmas photo off the credenza and marched up the stairs. With a defiant look, she hung the picture on the empty nail and let out a whoosh of air.

  “I feel like a dark cloud has finally passed after hovering over our house for three years. You probably think it’s silly that hanging a snap there is such a big deal.”

  Not at all. That empty nail had been haunting me since I’d arrived. Yet how was Declan going to react?

  “Shauna loved the holidays. We’re going to honor her memory by celebrating it, not ignoring it.” She smiled with determination. “Whether he’s home for it or not.”

  She also believed Declan might not return before I left?

  He obviously had a track record of running off, and it didn’t seem to faze anyone except me. I’d never seen this selfish side of him, and I didn’t like it. He was no longer merely emotionally avoiding his feelings, but now physically avoiding them. I didn’t want a guy who ran away from his problems, especially now that I was learning to face mine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carter’s pub was only a half mile from Declan’s parents. We walked single file on a narrow strip of grass bordering the side of the road. My flashing sweater and Colin’s and Jane’s yellow reflective vests cautioned vehicles to slow down. I hop
ed my sweater wasn’t distracting enough to cause a driver to run off the road and into a sheep field. Carrying the food containers, glass punch bowl, and sloshing egg nog-filled pitchers wasn’t easy when struggling to walk against the forceful winds. However, Colin was too afraid to risk a drunk-driving ticket.

  A group of men stood smoking outside the white pub with blue-framed windows. One of them eyed the creamy beverage in my glass pitcher. “Milk, is it? Jane gotcha off the whiskey, does she?” he asked Colin.

  “It’s egg nog,” Colin said. “An American tradition.”

  “Made with alcohol, so you’ll fancy it, Daniel,” Jane said.

  The men raised their pints, wishing us a happy holiday as we walked inside.

  A small dog in a red Santa sweater sat on a barstool next to an elderly man. Another slept curled up under a table. Several kids were dancing to “Jingle Bell Rock,” sung by two musicians on stools next to a decorated tree. Coal burned in the brick fireplace despite the body heat warming the small pub. Rather than horse races, a dart championship was playing on TV. Besides Jane in her plain red sweater and Colin in a green reindeer tie, red and green sports jerseys were more popular than festive sweaters.

  I eyed Zoe in her red reindeer sweater and antlers headband. “Thought this was a contest?”

  “I’m trying to get people in the spirit of the ugly jumper.”

  I turned off my flashing sweater, reminded of the time Declan and I had been the only ones dressed in Halloween costumes at a trendy Paris lounge. Declan had looked way hot in the pilot’s uniform, and the flight attendant costume had given me a boost of self-esteem, making me feel worldly and envied by others. However, right now I’d rather be here in this rural pub than jetting off to Bangkok or Venice.

  I wasn’t sure if I should be worried that Declan might have gotten in an accident after driving off like a lunatic. Or maybe he took off for another country. He probably had enough hotel points to hide out until summer. Part of me wanted to call him, and the other part said he should call me. And what if he didn’t answer my call? I was leaving in another day, and he wouldn’t see me again until… I didn’t know when, now that my February Venice program had canceled. It apparently bothered me more than it did him. Which bothered me even more.

  Carrig, who owned the Christmas sheep, stood with a group of buddies dressed in soccer jerseys and T-shirts, drinking pints. They eyed me with curiosity, either admiring my unique fashion sense or questioning the sanity of the crazy Yank wandering their roads baaing at sheep.

  “Where’s your feckin’ brother?” one of them asked Zoe.

  “Didn’t feel like being involved in any of your shenanigans, Darragh Reilly. He’s more mature now.” She looked over at me. “He’s probably the one who painted Carrig’s sheep. He and Declan used to get into some fierce trouble.”

  “Like stealing the Guinness truck?”

  “Yeah, they were quite the pair. But that Darragh is gorgeous, isn’t he? Too bad he’s engaged to Breeda.” She gave her eyes an exaggerated roll.

  Zoe knew everybody in the place. I’d never known my neighbors at my downtown condo. I hadn’t realized the woman across the hall had died until a new owner moved in a month later. I didn’t know any of my parents’ newer neighbors.

  A teenage girl wearing a Santa stocking cap came around selling raffle tickets for a charity providing toys to underprivileged children. I bought twenty-euros worth and stuffed them in a canister for a gift basket containing a bottle of Jameson, a Jameson T-shirt, whiskey glasses, whiskey fudge, and whiskey marmalade. It reminded me of the Irish gift basket I’d devoured last meeting in Dublin, before learning I’d received an attendee’s gift by mistake. Yet this one would make a perfect gift for Declan.

  Even though he didn’t deserve one, making everyone worry.

  Des and Mags Carter were third-generation publicans, running their ancestors’ business. Des gave me a deal on a bottle of rum to mix with the egg nog in a punch bowl. I ladled the frothy beverage into cups and lined them up on the bar for people to taste. I offered one to an elderly man who’d been sitting at the bar watching me prepare the drink. He had on a dark suit, red tie, and reindeer slippers. A plaid flannel cap topped his wooden cane resting against the bar.

  He sniffed the glass. “Egg nog, is it?”

  I nodded. “You’ve had it before?”

  “Certainly have.” He took a sip. “It’s quite tasty, luv.”

  He took another sip, closing his eyes, smiling. “Brings back memories, it does.” He opened his eyes. “Memories of a lovely lass just outside Boston.”

  I gave him an intrigued smile.

  “I worked in Boston for three years. The only time I haven’t lived up the road in my parents’ house.”

  “She must have been quite the woman.”

  “A true lady. Would still be there if she hadn’t broken my heart.”

  Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

  “So what brings a young lass like yourself here from the States?”

  I told him about my Coffey ancestors in Killybog and how I’d hoped my Grandma had been married to her Daly neighbor.

  “The landowners?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I surely have information on the family. They owned most of the land in the area. Of course, the shooting at their Killybog estate gave them historical infamy.”

  My gaze narrowed. “Shooting?”

  “In the 1880s, a plot to shoot the landowner went bad. His sister was mistakenly killed instead while returning from church in a covered carriage. Five men were sent to prison. Supposedly more were involved in the conspiracy, but not enough evidence to bring them up on charges.”

  One hadn’t been a Coffey, had it?

  “I’m a bit of a local historian, Nicholas Turney. If you’d like, you may call down to my house tomorrow, and I’ll find the story and whatever else I might have on the family.”

  “That’d be wonderful.”

  Sadie would have mentioned the murder if our ancestor had been involved, wouldn’t she have? If she’d known. Or maybe she was trying to hide skeletons in our family closet. Our fear that Grandma’s supposedly dead family members had been sheep thieves or petty criminals paled in comparison to having been murderers. And a Daly certainly wouldn’t have married into the family responsible for murdering his rellie.

  * * *

  We left the pub shortly after midnight. Luckily, my sweater was lit up because I was lit. I’d never had so many people I didn’t know buy me drinks. The Jameson basket weighted me down, so the wind didn’t whisk me away, though it made my staggering appear even worse. When we arrived home, nobody commented on the fact that Declan’s car wasn’t in the drive. Upset and disappointed, I gave his parents the whiskey basket as a thank-you for their warm hospitality and a silent apology for causing so much drama at the holidays.

  Zoe and Colin went to bed while Jane and I sat in the living room, taste testing the whiskey fudge. Luckily, the chocolate flavor prevailed over the liquor. Lying on the back of the couch, Quigley poked his nose over my shoulder and sniffed the fudge as I took a bite. Unimpressed, he laid his head back down and dozed off, looking cozy and a bit like Elmer Fudd, in his red knit hat with ear flaps on the sides.

  I studied the painting of a little girl hanging a star on a Christmas tree, next to the fireplace. “Did Declan paint that?”

  Jane shook her head. “I took his paintings down after Shauna passed. They met while taking an art class. Declan was a model.” Her gaze narrowed. “Wasn’t naked or anything. The assignment had been to capture a realistic portrait of the model. Shauna drew a caricature instead in bright colors accenting Declan’s blue eyes and exaggerating his mischievous grin. She gave it to him and said, ‘That’s how I see ya, Declan Grady. You’re a real character.’” Her reminiscent smile faded. “He certainly was.”

  “He still is,” I reassured her.

  I recounted several of the funny tales Declan had shared about his work m
ishaps to make me feel better and not so inept. How his stories and upbeat attitude had helped me survive the start of a very difficult job.

  Jane laughed softly. “Ah, thank you for that.” She sprang from the couch. A bit tipsy, she steadied herself. “Be right back.” She went upstairs and returned with two paintings and handed me one. “He’s a brilliant artist. So sad he gave it up. You keep that. Zoe mentioned you two were out herding Carrig’s sheep from the road today.”

  In the painting, sheep grazed on rolling hills, a lamb and its mum the focal point. A stone house sat on a ridge in the distance. Not a cloud in the blue sky. It was the field across the road. D. Grady was scrawled in the lower right corner.

  “This is wonderful, but I can’t take your painting.”

  Could I, when Declan refused to discuss his muse, Shauna? Would he want me hanging the painting in my bedroom when he wouldn’t allow his parents to hang it on the wall?

  “Nonsense. It’s a gift. You can’t refuse a gift. It’s the perfect fit for your hand luggage.”

  She replaced the painting on the wall with Declan’s. The scene transported me to their home on a starry night, washed in a haze of blue and white hues, streams of smoke rising from the chimney. A warm, cozy feeling wrapped around me.

  When Declan returned, the house would be decorated with reminders of Shauna, and he’d have me to blame. Yet maybe his family would have me to thank.

  * * *

  I lay in bed, thinking about my encounter with the local historian, Nicholas Turney. What if an article identified a Coffey as having been brought up on murder charges but not convicted? At least he wouldn’t have been found guilty. Bernice and Gracie had said they wouldn’t want to know about a killer in their family unless it had been a famous one who used his powers for good rather than evil, like James Bond. Maybe that Daly landowner had been a horrible slum lord, charging outrageous rent for squalor dwellings, evicting people when they couldn’t pay. Yet that didn’t justify attempting to shoot him and murdering his sister.