Rebel Without a Claus

by Keira Candace Clementine

  He stayed. He stayed and they stayed together. Which meant Christian drove Clara to her classes each morning in his mother’s old Jaguar. After class and perhaps a coffee and a bagel she would return, bright and shiny, tossing her bag onto the floor while simultaneously kissing his cheek. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about that, the driving and the Jaguar and the kissing. The sidewaysness of life.

  He regretted this daydream, but also not really, mostly because he was living a daydream now, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he happy to see Clara in his ancestral home, the home he’d avoided since the death of his parents? Wasn’t he thrilled to see her peel the white sheet off the baby grand piano and the way she sneezed as dust swirled in the air—didn’t that charm him? Yes, yes, and no, because the delight he felt, while still delight, taunted him, as if a spoonful of cheesecake was suspended in midair. He could almost taste the delight, but almost wasn’t the same as shoveling into your mouth three pounds of cake.

  He wanted to think of almost delight not as something which taunted him and that he disliked, but as something that made the delight he would eventually taste all the more richer for the anticipation. Besides, no one asked to hover a spoonful of cheesecake midair, in front of his lips, just like no one told him to visit his ancestral home with Clara. He made his own decision, which meant he had no one to blame but himself, and maybe the person who invented cheesecake, because what a genius, man. Cheese. And cake? Those were the two best food groups!

  ‘Do you still know how to play?’ Clara said, running a finger along the piano.

  ‘Yes,’ Christian said, without stopping to consider if this was true, if playing the piano was like riding a bike. ‘But I don’t intend to play.’

  ‘You should. I fell in love with you the first time I heard you play the piano.’

  Christian stood dumbfounded as Clara left the room. He’d only ever played for her once, and that was while showing off in Mrs. Quinn’s musical class, sometime between a year and fourteen months before they started dating. He’d liked Clara then, and she hadn’t liked him, and not because she felt something stronger than like, which was love. But then, Christian must have been mistaken. The loathing Clara once felt for Christian wasn’t loathing but love, or perhaps something love adjacent.

  ‘Do you mean Mrs. Quinn’s class?’ Christian followed Clara into the hall. His footsteps and his voice both echoed through the manor, twisting together in a sinister symphony. Knowing his luck, the manor was not only haunted, but haunted by the ghost of a Christmas tree farmer who needed Clara’s love to either become corporeal once more or to step into the light. Not that Christian believed in ghosts, but still—he’d take no chances. Not with Clara James.

  ‘I think so,’ Clara replied. ‘Do you play piano for girls in New York?’

  Christian had played a little when he first moved to New York, then never again. ‘Yes. I play piano for girls back home.’

  Clara stayed silent. She walked through the halls of Thornton Manor, tracing her index finger along the walls. In the bedroom, a photo album lay open on the floor, covered in a layer of dust. Clara rubbed one of the photos, as if clearing a port window on foggy glass, to reveal a teenage boy in a blazer. Christian had attended an exclusive private school where yes, he’d worn a uniform.

  Clara sat back. ‘Would we have lived here if—’

  ‘If you’d said yes?’ Christian said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘If you had liked.’

  Clara smiled then. ‘Would we have let our children slide down the banisters?’

  ‘No, but we’d have pretended not to notice when they did.’ Christian glanced at his watch. The Relic would be wondering where he was now. ‘We should have dinner here one time.’

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘No,’ Clara replied. ‘Let’s do it now.’

  ‘Clara. There is nothing to eat.’

  ‘We’ll imagine it,’ she replied. And so they did.

  Eighteen

  That morning, while tinkering around the inn, Christian found a box of cupcakes in the fridge with a note warning him off. Sure, the note seemed final, and yes, maybe he’d already had breakfast and a snack and a second breakfast and another snack and this was all he truly needed. But sometimes people act from a place of want instead of from a place of need. And Christian wanted those cupcakes.

  He thought about the pop song which was popular on the radio the summer of that year, how the pop star had sung about buying all of the things she wanted, and he thought yes, I can have what I want, too. So he ate a cupcake. And then he ate half a dozen more.

  He hadn’t expected any trouble. But then, Clara appeared as he was licking the frosting from his lips. She was wearing a reindeer sweater, and her hair was scraped into a knot a little too high on her head. She looked like one of Holly’s dolls that Christian had shoved into the garbage disposal when they were children.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Clara said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re eating?’

  ‘Yes, we humans must eat to survive.’ Christian maintained eye contact. Clara was like a shark; if she could smell fear, she would attack. Or was that bees? Christian frowned as he contemplated the sharks and the bees, while Clara placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot.

  She was tiny, but she was terrifying. ‘Those are Mrs. Bartel’s cupcakes. The cupcakes I bought for Mrs. Bartel. Did you not read the note I left on the cupcake box?’

  Christian blinked. ‘The note which read “Christian Thornton III, do NOT eat Mrs. Bartel’s cupcakes!”’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must have missed it.’

  Clara’s mouth twitched. She raised a hand and swiped the frosting Christian had missed off his lips, which made his breath catch. She hadn’t touched his lips in fifteen years. ‘Not that you care,’ she said then, ‘but Mrs. Bartel is going through a hard time. Her husband left her for a shopping mall elf. Those cupcakes were commissary cupcakes.’

  ‘Delicious commissary cupcakes,’ Christian added. His lips still tingled from her touch.

  Clara’s pocket chirped and she pulled out her phone. ‘Right. Luella needs me. Replace these cupcakes, Thornton. I’ll call the bakery. Again.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Christian didn’t want to replace the cupcakes. But he didn’t want to argue with Clara either.

  Besides, he felt privileged that Clara needed him. Yes, she only needed him because he’d eaten Mrs. Bartel’s cupcakes, but why not allow himself to feel a shiver of pleasure while collecting Clara’s order from the bakery?

  He stepped in a sleigh with a pink box in his pink hands, and he asked the driver to take him back to Milleridge. He’d actually said, ‘Take me to the inn,’ and even though there were four or five inns in Mistletoe, none of them, apart from Milleridge, were known as the inn.

  He set the cupcakes on the kitchen counter and he put on a pair of reindeer antlers, something he knew would make Clara smile. But Clara didn’t return to the inn, and Christian started to feel panic welling in his chest. Hadn’t she stepped out for a moment? Hadn’t she promised to return quickly, because the snow looked thicker by the minute? He took off the antlers. He frowned.

  Christian sat with Boxer on the windowsill and stared out into the twilight. They saw a figure wobble down the sleepy lane, and for a moment the panic vanished, because this was Clara, this had to be Clara. It was Officer Frost.

  ‘Hey!’ Christian cried softly as he tugged the officer into the entrance hall. ‘Have you seen Clara?’

  ‘Clara James?’

  ‘Obviously, Clara James!’

  ‘She wanted to help Luella. Luella doesn’t have proper heating, and the snow is getting thicker.’

  ‘OK, fine, but where is Clara now?’

  ‘I imagine she’s still with Luella.’

  ‘She’s not.’ Ridge appeared in the doorway. He shook the snow from his hat and looked at Christian. ‘I’m goi
ng to borrow Buckingham Palace and see if I can find her. I’ve just been to Luella’s and she told me that Clara left twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere near Clara,’ Christian told Ridge with as much venom as he could.

  ‘Mate, you can’t stop me,’ Ridge said, his tone biting.

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Boys,’ Officer Frost said. ‘Clara might be in trouble. Is this really the time to be comparing candy canes?’

  Christian knew the look in his eyes was getting harder, more dangerous. But Officer Frost was right. ‘Fine. Take Buckingham. But if you find Clara, you bring her straight back here.’

  ‘She’s not in love with you,’ Ridge said.

  Christian tried to reply, but the words stuck in his throat, and then Ridge was gone, vanished into the twilight. Christian grabbed Officer Frost by the lapels and said, ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Officer Frost said. ‘Ridge is a local and you’re not a local and the best thing you can do for Clara is sit tight.’

  ‘I’m not a local? I’m Christian Thornton III. I was born and raised in Mistletoe. I was once the heir to this Christmas kingdom. No one gets more local than me.’

  ‘You can’t help her.’

  Clara was out there, in maybe grave danger, and all Officer Frost wanted Christian to do was drink eggnog and eat apple pie and even candy canes while Ridge—he hated Ridge!—took Buckingham Palace and rode out into the snow to save the day.

  ‘This is Clara,’ Christian said, almost desperately. He pushed past Officer Frost.

  Mr. Nibbles was still in the stable, ready to ride. An elf helped Christian to take his seat, and then Mr. Nibbles bolted, just bolted straight out of the stable, because maybe somewhere in his horse brain and in his horse heart he understood the urgency.

  Christian searched the fields and the town and began to plan the search and rescue team. He knew Mistletoe had a helicopter. That would do for a start. But then he found Clara. She was curled up at the base of a tree, her nose pink.

  ‘Clara?’ Christian jumped off Mr. Nibbles. Clara was dazed, but unhurt.

  ‘I just got a bit cold,’ she whispered.

  ‘Something is wrong with you,’ Christian replied, not unkindly, as he scooped her into his arms. She was small and light and shivering.

  ‘Yeah, I’m obsessed with Christmas,’ Clara said sarcastically. She tried to wiggle out of Christian’s arms, but he was too strong.

  Christian needed to get her back to the inn quickly. ’Can you walk?’

  ‘No,’ she whimpered. She pressed her face into his neck and sighed. Christian felt her muscles relax.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Christian replied, ‘I would have carried you even if you could walk.’

  It felt like the walk back to Milleridge took hours. Mr. Nibbles walked behind them, neighing at the ponies he passed in the fields. When they returned to the inn, Christian placed Clara into a spare bed and stood impatiently outside the door while a doctor examined her.

  ‘She’s fine,’ the doctor said. ‘She’ll need to stay in bed and rest up.’

  Christian crumbled onto a chair. He didn’t think Clara would stay in bed. He didn’t even know how he had managed to keep her in bed for ten minutes.

  ‘You look awful,’ Ridge said as he bounded up the stairs. ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Christian—’

  ‘She can’t see anyone. Doctor’s orders.’ Christian leaned against Clara’s door, arms folded. He didn’t want Ridge near Clara, that was the problem. The doctor had given no such order.

  ‘Someone should stay with her,’ Ridge said after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Yes,’ Christian replied bitterly. ‘Well done.’

  Ridge raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you return to Mistletoe to win her back?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard she was in a bad relationship with a loser, and I decided to swoop in and save her. Good for you for noticing.’

  Ridge inhaled. Then he said, ‘I’ll come back and check on Clara tomorrow. Tell her I said hi.’

  ‘We both know I won’t.’

  ‘Whatever, mate. Just take the intensity down a notch.’

  ‘Or you’ll punch me again?’

  ‘I’m tempted.’

  Christian unfolded his arms and stepped forward. ‘Go on. I’d love another excuse to sock you in the jaw.’

  But Ridge merely shook his head and left. The man knew Mistletoe more intimately than Christian these days, and yet he had failed to find Clara. This disgusted Christian.

  He knocked on her door. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ Clara replied as he entered.

  ‘Do you ever think I look good?’

  ‘Not when you’re speaking.’

  Christian sat on the edge of her bed, smoothing down the covers with his palm. ‘Hey, do you want me to leave? Give you some space?’

  ‘Was that Ridge?’

  ‘Who?’

  Clara sighed. She looked exhausted. ‘I thought I heard Ridge.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let him come inside.’

  ‘You’ve gone all protective ex-boyfriend.’ Clara lay back on her pillows and smiled. ‘He’s not a bad guy.’

  ‘Then why wouldn’t you let him buy your sweet pumpkin pie?’

  ‘Um, because I want you to buy my sweet pumpkin pie. Obviously,’ Clara replied.

  She began to cough.

  Christian rubbed her back. ‘Wow, wow. No dying. You can die on Christmas Day,’ he added. ‘You know, after all the presents are opened.’

  ‘It’s illegal to die on Christmas Day in Mistletoe,’ Clara managed to say when she finished coughing.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Officer Frost will write you a ticket.’

  ‘Who pays?’

  ‘Family, I guess.’

  It felt important suddenly that Clara knew Christian was no longer the type to leave—that sure, he’d run in the past, but the past was done now. He pushed aside three novelty cushions and lay in the bed, on top of the covers, with a throw tucked around his waist, and plucked from her nightstand a copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.

  Clara started to laugh, although softly. ‘How did you know that was there?’

  ‘Mr. Tumnus was your first crush.’

  ‘Mr. Tumnus is still my crush.’

  Christian wiggled around until he found a comfortable sport on the bed. Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘Your mom used to read this to you every night before bed.’

  Christian opened the book, ready to read Clara to sleep, and they leaned their heads together gently, as if enjoying this closeness, as if they’d never parted. Clara listened to Christian and ate somewhere between three and ninety-five candy canes and then fell asleep, her head lolling on his shoulder. Christian lowered the book. He scooted out of bed. He paced.

  She was safe and warm and sleeping. But then, why did Christian keep hovering his hand beneath her nose, just to make sure she was still breathing? Why did he spend the night next to her bed, in an armchair and in a state, not sleeping, not reading, not doing anything other than staring at the face he’d spent the past fifteen years trying to forget?

  Christian Thornton III was anti-Christmas and maybe even a little bit anti-joy, so to wake up besieged by tinsel—to wake up and see the Christmas tree in Clara’s room had collapsed in the night and showered his blissfully unconscious body with tinsel and lights and dozens of ornaments—was a bit of a shock.

  ‘I’m late,’ Clara said.

  Christian realized now he’d woken up because Clara had been banging around the room, trying to find something to wear.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Christian jumped up. He pulled Clara back to bed by the scruff of her bathrobe. ‘I fall asleep for five minutes—’

  ‘I’m going to see The Nutcracker,’ Clara replied.

  Christian stepped into the bathroom and found a cool cloth. He returned to wipe Clara’s clammy forehead.
‘Shh, James.’

  ‘Thornton, I see The Nutcracker every year.’ She waved him off.

  ‘You can go another night.’

  ‘I have tickets for tonight,’ Clara argued. ‘The ballet is sold out.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Christian said.

  ‘This is The Nutcracker and this is Mistletoe. Getting tickets the first time around was impossible. I only managed because I’m the Christmas consigliere and I have my connections.’

  ‘You’ll feel worse if you go.’

  ‘No. I feel better already,’ Clara said, which they both knew was a lie.

  There’d be people in the theater, and perhaps they didn’t want to catch Clara’s cold—or whatever it was that reddened her nose now and filled her eyes with tears. No, they’d have to sit on the second level, Clara said, where no one sat, away from the toddlers and the grandparents, away from anyone with an immune system weakened by too many pumps of peppermint in too many cups of coffee.

  ‘Fine,’ Christian conceded. ‘We’ll go.’

  Clara eyed Christian suspiciously. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, it would take a braver man than I am to get in between Clara James and The Nutcracker.’ Christian sighed. He didn’t love this ballet, or any ballet, and now he’d have to sit through two acts of dancing snowflakes.

  Clara was thrilled. Everyone knows the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,’ but has everyone seen the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ while in their bathrobe and slippers? No, and Clara would be the first.

  Clara’s tickets gained them access to the theater, but then, instead of taking their allocated seats, Clara led Christian up and up, to the top level of the theater which was currently closed for construction. Closed for construction! At Christmas! Didn’t they know about The Nutcracker, Clara yelped. Didn’t they know a production of The Nutcracker can bring in anywhere from forty percent to maybe a little bit more than forty percent of a ballet company’s annual revenue? Clara stomped her feet, like she was five. Christian remembered Clara when she was five, if only just.

  ‘Calm down about ballet revenue,’ he told her.