‘They are not going to explode,’ Christian said, irritated.
It was then that a chestnut exploded, which resulted in a large popping sound and a shower of chestnut meat. He pulled the chestnut roasted from the fire and placed it on the table. Christian pretended he was shocked, and he was a little. Who knew scoring chestnuts served a purpose? Who knew it wasn’t just a waste of time?
‘So I forgot to score a chestnut or two,’ he replied as Clara stared at him, puzzled. ‘Everything is fine.’
What was he doing? He knew he didn’t score a single a chestnut, but maybe that didn’t matter? Maybe, now that the chestnuts were off the open fire, they wouldn’t explode like their little buddy, except Christian’s hope was misplaced. One by one, the chestnuts began to explode, popping out of the chestnut roaster, showering everyone in the room with fuzz.
‘Cover the children!’ Clara yelled. She raised her wooden spoon as if it were a bat and started hitting the torpedoing chestnuts away from the young and the elderly.
‘Christmas is killing us!’ George screamed. He began to clamber up the Christmas tree, but Holly managed to wrestle him down.
The chaos continued for three full minutes. Grace stood in the middle of the room cackling, while Grayson and Gus cried, and George dug his nails into Holly’s arms. Clara managed to evacuate the elderly from the room uninjured, but it was himself that Christian felt anxious for.
Clara was unaware of how badly Christian had needed to not score the chestnuts. ‘You are one of the Christmas people,’ he told her as she demanded an answer, ‘but I am not.’ She didn’t understand. She really didn’t understand. But then, maybe she couldn’t understand, because scoring chestnuts was fun for her—or if not fun, then an easy enough task to complete.
Christian tried to reason with her. How could they begrudge each other their passions? But then, knocking down a historic inn wasn’t the same as, say, watching The Nutcracker seven nights in a row. One was restorative, and the other destructive. One was hopeful, and the other—well, Christian supposed he would find out as soon as he demolished Milleridge to make way for his luxury hotel.
‘Clean up this mess,’ Clara said.
Eight
Christian had been writing in his Smythson journal the night before, getting his frustrations out onto one of the one hundred and ninety two leaves of gilt-edged, pale blue featherweight paper, readying himself for sleep, which would not arrive until three.
He used to hate journaling, but now he loved it. He loved his handwriting, which was neat and often admired by women who wanted to kiss him, and by women who did not. He loved centering himself in the narrative of which he should always be centered—that is to say, the narrative of the world.
Except now he shared the narrative with Clara. That’s the thing about relationships—even fake relationships engineered to scam a historic inn out of a not so sweet little old lady. You have to share top billing with another person, and Christian Thornton III didn’t want to share top billing. He wanted to be the star. And yet, he still wrote Mr. Clara James in the margins of his journal accompanied by several little hearts.
There was a knock on the door. Christian slammed his journal shut.
‘It’s Clara.’
‘Go away,’ Christian called over his shoulder. ‘I hate you.’
‘I hate you too,’ Clara replied. ‘We have to make dinner, remember? We’re cooking for the Relic and Holly.’
‘I’ll be down in a second.’
Christian tossed his journal to the side and capped his pen. He wrote with a Lamy 2000 Fountain Pen, which he’d inadvertently stolen from the writer Neil Gaiman, who liked the pen because the regular Lamy, the non-2000 Lamy, while good for signing novels, was no good for writing them.
‘Right,’ Clara said as Christian arrived in the kitchen. She tied an apron around her waist. ‘I need you to mash the potatoes.’
‘You mash the potatoes,’ Christian replied.
‘You mash the potatoes.’
‘Fine.’ Christian tied an apron around his waist as he scowled at Clara. ‘Wait, who’s mashing them?’
‘You are.’
‘Fine.’
Christian was fine with mashing potatoes by hand, but why mash potatoes by hand when you have a perfectly good blender? Christian dumped the spuds into the blender and pressed down the lid. Why hadn’t Clara thought of this herself? Was she stupid? All these years she’d perhaps mashed potatoes by hand when there was a better way sitting right there on the kitchen counter. Christian hit the on button before Clara could stop him, and suddenly the mash potato exploded everywhere. Mash potato coated the walls. Mash potato coated the floors. Mash potato even coated the roof.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Clara cried as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Never mind that now. Just get the turkey out of the oven.’
‘I have to get cleaned up,’ Christian replied, sopping mash potato off his forehead. He then went to collect the turkey.
‘You do not have time to get cleaned up. You do not even have time to serve the eggnog. I can’t believe you put potato in the blender.’
‘I’m not a Michelin-starred chef.’ Christian set the turkey on the kitchen counter and removed the oven mitts. ‘At least the turkey is perfect. I’ll just leave it here to cool down.’
‘Luckily, turkeys cannot explode like chestnuts,’ Clara said. ‘Or potatoes.’
‘Whose idea was it to cook for the Relic anyway?’
‘Ours.’
‘We suck,’ Christian said.
‘That chicken looks good,’ Holly said, as she arrived in the kitchen for a top up of eggnog. ‘That chicken smells good.’
‘It’s not a chicken,’ Clara said, incredulous.
Christian nodded. ‘It’s obviously a turkey.’
‘That’s definitely a chicken.’ Holly began to smile. ‘Did the packet say turkey?’
‘No, the packet just said it was a bird for roasting.”
“It’s a chicken,” Holly said. She filled up her eggnog and left the room, giggling.
‘We told them we were serving turkey,’ Christian cried.
‘We also told them we were serving mash potato,’ Clara said, trying to shove Boxer out of the kitchen but giving up when he refused to budge. ‘Come, help me set the table while the others are in the sitting room.’
Christian balanced a stack of plates in his arm as he followed Clara into the private dining room.
Here is a thing Christian learned about dogs: even a very good boy can be tempted into becoming a very bad boy by a steaming hot chicken. When Christian returned to the kitchen, he saw Boxer laying on his back on the floor, his tummy exposed and robust with the chicken that was not two minutes ago a turkey—the chicken he’d pulled off the kitchen counter and devoured.
‘Boxer!’ Christian cried.
Clara charged into the room. ‘What happened?’
The answer became clear to her as Boxer thumped his tail on the floor.
‘Aww, buddy,’ she said, and she knelt down to scratch his ear. ‘Well, at least we can tell everyone Boxer ate the turkey.’
‘True. They never have to know that we, two perfectly capable adults, are incapable of telling the difference between a chicken and a turkey. Of course, it wouldn’t have been as embarrassing for me.’
‘What does that mean?’ Clara stood and folded her arms.
‘You’re Little Miss Christmas. You’re meant to know about Christmas things, like turkey. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d let Boxer into the kitchen so he could destroy the evidence of your Christmas incompetence.’
‘Turkey is a Thanksgiving thing. And I maybe many things, Christian Thornton III, but incompetent is not one of them. Let’s not forget who tried to blend the potatoes. I’m going to see if Holly will take Grace and the boys and find us a roasted chicken. Please sort out the cranberry sauce.’
Clara left the room, and Christian found himself getting angry. It wasn’t the potatoes, thoug
h that clearly had been a mistake. It was Clara. It was the wound which still lingered from Clara’s rejection. How could she not see Christian’s worth? He’d taken care of his girlfriends, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he gone to couples yoga and hosted couples pizza night and pretended he wanted to do nothing more than visit a cookie shop in Brooklyn? Why did she still think of him as a dumb eighteen-year-old?
Christian stood in front of the cupboard. Cranberry sauce. He couldn’t possibly mess up cranberry sauce, could he? He found seven cans of the stuff behind the ketchup, and decided three cans were enough for six people. Then he opened the cans and stuffed them in the microwave, because he recalled eating warm cranberry sauce as a child at his grandfather’s table. But the microwave did not like this idea, crackling and sparking and finally emitting wafts of black smoke.
Christian unplugged the microwave and then backed away slowly. Maybe despite the yoga and the pizza parties and the cookies, he actually was the man Clara thought—that is to say, not a man but a dumb kid. And who wants a dumb kid as a husband? Who wants a husband that makes microwaves emit wafts of black smoke?
‘I got you,’ George said, appearing in the kitchen. George seemed like a normal seven year old—he loved to yell silly words in the hopes of embarrassing his parents, which seemed to Christian like a normal kid thing. And yet here George stood, wise beyond his years, with solemn eyes and a thoughtful expression, getting ready to do whatever he felt he needed to do.
‘What happened?’ Clara said as she returned. She moved around the kitchen, opening windows and wafting the smoke outside with a dish towel. ‘Christian, what on earth have you done now?’
‘I was helping Uncle Christian and accidentally exploded the kitchen,’ George said. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘That’s okay, honey,’ Clara replied. She opened the microwave and eyed the melted cans of cranberry sauce. ‘Oh, we can’t put metal in the microwave. That’s what happened. No drama. We all make mistakes.’
‘I host pizza parties,’ Christian said. Meaning, I am not always a disaster of a human being. Clara raised her eyebrows but didn’t reply.
In the dining room, Grace and Grayson were laughing gigantically, and Christian missed the days he’d done the same with Clara. He sank into a chair, as Holly popped out with Grace and her restless boys to let them run the wiggles out and also to buy a dozen corn dogs from the gas station, corn dogs which Clara and Christian served on the Relic’s finest Christmas china. Everyone said it was the greatest festive feast they’d ever eaten, which was a lie, but a very kind lie.
Even after the cooking disaster, Christian felt content. Later that night, he told Clara about his horoscope, which was not a comforting horoscope, and she told Christian about her horoscope, which was. They drank eggnog, and watched cartoons, and when the Gs fell asleep on the Chesterfield couches, they covered them in blankets and turned off the television and settled onto the floor to sleep. And when they awoke in the morning, they’d found their hands woven together, which meant they were braver when asleep than awake.
Christian realized something that night as he lay next to Clara. She lived in the past, and he lived in the future. If they both let go, maybe they’d have a chance of meeting in the present.
Nine
As Christian buttoned up his shirt that morning, he told Boxer he was going to spend the day relaxing. Yes, he needed to relax. His breakfast, which was his favorite breakfast, a candy cane followed by another candy cane, was delicious. He kept thinking, ‘Why don’t they sell candy canes all year round?’ He looked at Boxer, and he wondered if he could make the little guy some peppermint treats. Then he remembered that he couldn’t cook, that mash potato still shone on the ceiling. He was also lazy.
He spent the morning reading, and then he spent the afternoon not reading, and then he settled into the sitting room with a hot chocolate. Maybe he would return to his room and there read a book. But something happened when Christian looked up from his hot chocolate. He saw Clara, and he saw Clara slip off her coat to reveal a dress. Christian didn’t know anything about dresses, just that some dresses caused him to look at women he would have otherwise not have looked at.
‘Clara,’ Christian drawled. ‘You really didn’t have to get all dressed up for me.’
Clara didn’t roll her eyes, which was unusual. ‘Ha ha ha,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’ His voice was rough.
Instead of responding, Clara scooped up all the miniature marshmallows from a plate to annoy Christian, the flicker of mischief in her eyes reminding him of when they were young. Christian scooped up the last candy cane in retribution.
‘That was my candy cane,’ she said.
‘Then why am I putting it in my pocket?’
‘Why are you putting it in your pocket?’
Good question, Christian thought. ‘Er, to save for later. You know how I like a midnight snack.’
‘Whatever. I’m going to hang my coat up,’ Clara said through a mouth full of marshmallow.
‘I’ll hang your coat up. You shouldn’t eat and talk.’
‘Thank you, but I think I can manage.’
Still, Christian followed Clara into the coat room. They were both dangerously out of breath when they arrived, even though they couldn’t have walked more than ten feet. Christian hung Clara’s coat up, because Clara was too short to reach, and because he hoped she’d look at the skin which appeared when his raised shoulders tugged up his sweater. She did.
‘I see you’re still doing that move,’ Clara said.
Christian let out a deep breath as he lowered his arms and fixed his sweater. ‘I don’t have moves, Clara.’
‘Any woman could tell you that.’
Clara twisted around to leave, but Christian grabbed her. The light tug on her elbow brought her straight into his arms, and she pressed both hands against his chest. The blue-throated hummingbird (Lampornis clemenciae) has the fastest heartbeat of any creature on earth, second only to the Etruscan shrew (Suncus etruscus). In that moment, Christian’s heartbeat would have left them both in its dust.
‘That’s a nice dress,’ Christian said to break the silence. It was a nice dress, but also he didn’t know what else to say.
‘Thank you,’ Clara said shyly. She dropped her head so her hair would cover her red face. ‘You smell good.’
‘You smell good too.’
‘I have a date.’
Christian needed a moment to process the whiplash. People had begun to line up for the coat room. He could hear them outside. He opened the door and apologized, and when the crowd saw it was him, they smiled and laughed and waved away any wrongdoing.
‘I didn’t know how to tell you,’ Clara whispered, following Christian back into the sitting room.
‘A date with whom?’ Christian said.
He never felt this flustered. He tugged off his sweater and threw himself into an armchair, fidgeting with the strap of his watch.
‘Ridge. You know, er, Ridge Brooks. He’s to meet me here in ten minutes. He knows all about our fake engagement, and he isn’t the least bit concerned or anything.’
Ridge Brooks had gone to school with Christian. His grandfather owned a legendary toyshop in town. Ridge was practically royalty in Mistletoe—not just because of his family, but because he’d inherited a talent for making toys out of wood. Christian never could stand Ridge. He had always been confident to the point of being too confident, even before he knew how to whittle. A type of confidence that came with not only being an Australian but an Australian with the abs of a Hemsworth and also the face of that same Hemsworth. The hot Hemsworth. Not his brother.
Christian said nothing for several minutes. He couldn’t bear the heat of the sitting room. Clara stared at the fire. Staring at the fire meant she didn’t have to stare at Christian’s face, which he knew looked thunderous.
‘We’re not really engaged, Christian,’ Clara said finally.
‘You think I don’t know that?’ He cast a look
at Clara so contemptuous it even startled himself when he caught his reflection in the window. ‘I’m not playing your fiancé because I’m still in love with you. I want to inherit the inn as much as you want me to inherit the inn.’
‘I know.’
Clara’s face was so open and curious that for a moment Christian was tempted to say yes, there is still something between us. There will always be something between us, because I am Christian Thornton III and you are Clara James.
Clara fidgeted with her hair. Clara only fidgeted with her hair when she felt annoyed. Christian wondered if Ridge Brooks even knew this about her—if Ridge Brooks even knew what any of her quirks signified.
‘Why are you still talking to that guy anyway?’ Clara looked confused, so Christian added, ‘Ridge. Ridge Brooks. We hated that guy in school.’
‘No, you hated that guy in school. You hated every guy in school. You hated every girl in school too, for that matter.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I…’ Clara began to say, but let the sentence fade. ‘Ridge is—’
‘An idiot.’
‘He’s not an idiot. He’s very clever.’
‘Then why does he still live in Mistletoe?’
‘I still live in Mistletoe.’ Clara was annoyed.
‘Ridge Brooks is a mouth breather,’ Christian said, and Clara frowned like he hadn’t just made a very good point.
‘Oh, so I’m supposed to hate the guy because he breathes?”
‘Oh, Clara,’ Christian said in a voice like she had only just been born. It didn’t escape either of their notice that he’d used her first name. ‘Oh, Clara.’
‘Oh, Clara, what?’’
Christian exhaled long and deep and patted her hand. It was a dangerously condescending move, which was the vibe he wanted.
‘Ridge is a catch, Thornton,’ Clara said.
Yeah, well I’m a catch too, he thought. He was a millionaire. He bought art from China. He played tennis and steamed clams and sometimes read GOOP because the opinions of Gwyneth Paltrow’s editorial staff on crystal-infused water mattered to him. He read his horoscope, forgoing his love of not reading his horoscope. He cooked breakfast. He liked dogs but respected their autonomy and so refused to use them to pick up women, unlike his buddy Jake, who rescued a dog purely to gain admittance to the dog park and its selection of dog moms.
Rebel Without a Claus Page 7
