His Last-Chance Christmas Family

by Michelle Major

  It was a big family night here in Masterson, Texas, home of the Masterson University Musketeers. The Yule log was always lit by the mayor on the first Saturday of December. This park had a huge, square sandpit. For most of the year, it was used for volleyball courts, but in the cool December weather, the nets were taken down so a massive tree trunk could be laid across the sand. A bonfire was built under one end for the celebration. Each night, the bonfire would be lit again, a couple of feet farther down the log, until the last of it was burned on January sixth, the traditional date of Twelfth Night and Epiphany. The university’s spring semester would begin, and the regular rhythm of life in a college town would resume.

  For safety, the fire department had soaked the sand with a gazillion gallons of water for tonight’s kickoff. With great, purposeful strides, Mallory had walked right into the deep, wet sand on the dark side of the pit. She was stuck now in mid-stride, each of her boots mired in the muck.

  Back and forth, back and forth, she kicked. Her foot slid around inside her rubber rain boot, but the boot itself was still firmly stuck, shin deep. “Damn—darn it. Darn it, darn it, darn it.”

  “Hey, beautiful. Got a problem?”

  Because this was not a movie, the person who stopped on the edge of the sandpit was not a sexy, rugged man. He was an overgrown boy, undoubtedly one of the university students, because he wore an athletic team’s burgundy hoodie with the crossed sabers of the Masterson Musketeers printed in white on the sleeve.

  He threw his arms open wide as if he were revealing an S on his chest, but it was only the university’s initials, MU. “I’m your solution, baby.”

  He was the problem. She’d been hoping to lose him and his two buddies when she’d started walking with such confidence toward the Yule log and the temporary stage.

  She’d come to the park for the anonymity offered by the night. On one side of the Yule log, Christmas lights sparkled, the temporary stage glowed, and rows of booths sold holiday crafts and treats. But on this side of the Yule log, there was no artificial lighting and people were sparse. Mallory wanted peace and privacy to watch the yellow flames while she thought through her plans for the new year ahead of her—only ahead of her. She wouldn’t look back.

  These blockheads had spotted her as she’d leaned against a pecan tree, alone, and they’d started with the “hey, beautiful” type of catcalls. Nothing to do but ignore them, she’d thought at first.

  When their comments had gotten more persistent and they’d begun to zero in on her, she’d decided the best course of action would be to lose them by blending into the light and action on the far side of the Yule log for a little while. But, as she’d started skirting the wet volleyball sandpit, she’d taken her eyes off her goal to look back over her shoulder.

  Never look back. Whatever you left behind is of no benefit to you now.

  It was one of her favorite maxims from her favorite book by her favorite hero, the multi-millionaire entrepreneur E.L. Taylor. Two Decembers ago, she’d received How to Taylor Your Business Plan as a birthday gift from her godparents. Her godmother had looked at Mallory’s online wish list and gotten her something she genuinely wanted.

  Her brother had given her a gift more typical of the rest of her family, a pillbox with Bluetooth technology that reminded one, through cell phones and smart watches, to take their medicines. Mallory didn’t need any medications; her brother had explained that it was a gift for her, because it would make her role as their grandfather’s live-in caregiver so much easier.

  Their grandfather. Her role.

  Pill dispensing wasn’t her passion. Business was. Profit and loss statements, fixed and variable assets, supply chain operations—all of it fascinated her. She had finished her junior year at Masterson University’s College of Business when her father had been seriously injured, his leg crushed in an accident. She’d been asked to take the next semester off to go back to Ohio to live with him, to dress his wounds, to cook his meals, to clean his clothes and his house, since he’d lived alone after her mother had moved out.

  He’d been expected to recover within six months. That December, Mallory had spent her twenty-first birthday driving through an early Ohio snowstorm, chauffeuring her father to the clinic, counting the days until the spring semester began in January and she could go back to Masterson University and the mild Central Texas winter. The doctor, however, had crushed those plans. He’d confirmed what she’d suspected, what she’d been hoping wasn’t true: her father’s leg hadn’t healed enough yet for him to regain his mobility—and for her to return to college.

  After his appointment, her father had directed her to drive his car through Sonic for milkshakes to celebrate her birthday. He might have thought she’d wolfed down that milkshake in happiness, but she’d been binge eating ice cream for her heartbreak.

  Six months had turned into two years. Her father had regained his health just as her great-aunt had fallen ill and required in-home care. Mallory’s entire family had looked to her. Her final year of college, her dream to climb a corporate ladder to a position of respect and financial security—all of that could wait, her family reasoned. She was still so young, and Aunt Effie had cancer. What were a few college classes in the face of her battle?

  By the time Aunt Effie had gone from surviving back to living, another relative had needed care. Mallory had become the de facto choice at that point. After all, as it was pointed out to her, she wasn’t doing anything else, and she had so much experience now...

  She’d received her crisp, new hardcover copy of How to Taylor Your Business Plan two years ago on her twenty-seventh birthday. Once she’d started reading it, she couldn’t stop until she’d finished the whole book in the middle of the night. When she’d turned out the bedside lamp, she’d lain in yet another spare bedroom in yet another relative’s home, and she’d admitted the truth to herself: she was an unpaid laborer assigned to ill or aging relatives, not their cherished daughter or niece or cousin. Somehow, one delayed semester at a time, one relative in dire straits after another, six months had turned into six and a half years.

  When despair had threatened, she’d turned the light back on and picked up her book. The chapter that began with Never look back had saved her sanity. E.L. Taylor had been so confident that she, his reader, would succeed in the business world if she followed his advice, regardless of her past. In firmly worded prose, he told her to keep looking forward to her goals, so Mallory had created a plan, mapping out the steps she needed to get where she wanted to go. This September, she’d finally returned to Masterson to finish her bachelor’s degree.

  This was, finally, December of her senior year. She should have been turning twenty-one. Her family obligations had stopped her life in its tracks as surely as this quicksand had stopped her boots, so instead, she was turning twenty-nine and spending her birthday kicking her way out of a mess of her own making.

  Never look back.

  Yeah, well, she’d looked back tonight, physically taking her eyes off her goal. That hadn’t been what E.L. Taylor meant, but it applied: she’d caved when she’d been faced with a tiny moment of insecurity, and she’d blundered right into this sucking-sand situation. Served her right. She should know by now not to ignore any Taylor-made advice.

  “I’ll be your knight in shining armor.” The ringleader of the trio struck a pose, punching one fist in the air. It was Superman’s pose, nothing like a knight’s, and only when Superman was about to fly away. If this guy wanted to fly away from the scene, that was fine with her.

  The other two told him to stop being such a dick.

  Charming heroes, all three of you.

  “There are children everywhere,” Mallory said in her most motherly tone. She was dressed like a student—bright blue ski cap pulled over long hair, jeans tucked into colorful rain boots—but she felt old enough to be their parent.

  The second boy, surly in corduroy,
sneered at her parental tone. “Like I give a flying f—”

  “Dick isn’t a bad word,” said the third. “Relax. You’re a pretty girl. Smile.”

  She kicked her boot a little faster, back and forth, back and forth, darn, darn, darn.

  The one who’d posed with his fist in the air still fancied himself a hero. He stood on the grassy edge of the sandpit and reached for her. “Give me your hand. We’ll get you loose and go party.”

  “No, thanks. I’m almost loose. Go enjoy your party. Don’t worry about me.”

  He grabbed the sleeve of her pink peacoat and started hauling. She clutched at his forearm as he pulled her off balance.

  “Stop! Stop. I was almost—” Her right boot chose that moment to finally pop free from the sand.

  Did the hero catch her?

  Of course not. Real life was never like the movies. He kept pulling, so onto her butt Mallory fell. Her rear end landed on the cold, grassy edge of the sand court, but her left foot was still stuck in the quicksand, so her left ankle was stretched to its absolute, painful limit.

  “Damn it!”

  “Watch your language,” the corduroy-wearing dude sneered. “There are children everywhere.”

  “Let go of my arm.”

  The ringleader finally realized that he’d done more harm than good. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah. Here.”

  He let go of her, then reached over the wet sand and snagged the top of her left boot. He pulled it free. Since Mallory had been pulling hard herself, the sudden release sent her own knee banging into her chin. Her teeth clacked together and she fell back, but she didn’t curse this time.

  “Sorry,” the ringleader said again.

  Mallory lay on her back in the grass while three dudes who didn’t know their own strength leaned over her, looking almost comically confused at how she’d gotten there. The one who’d told her to smile now offered his hand. When he pulled her to her feet, he pulled her knitted mitten all the way off her hand.

  “Whoops,” he said, laughing.

  When she grabbed for her mitten, he held it over his head. “I’ll give it to you when you agree to come party with us. It’s for your own good. You need to have some fun.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink,” the ringleader said.

  Mallory held her hand out, palm up, for her mitten. “You can’t. You’re not even twenty-one.”

  They all seemed faintly surprised at her statement. Offended, too. “We’ve got plenty of booze at our house.”

  The ringleader narrowed his eyes and studied her face a little more closely in the faint light from the too-distant bonfire. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to buy my own drinks.” Or she could, if she had the spending cash. She made another quick grab for her mitten, but she wasn’t fast enough. Damn, damn, damn. The mitten was a blue cable-knit, like her hat. She wanted it back, but she wasn’t going to beg while they watched her jump for her own mitten.

  “Come with us. We’ll show you a good time.”

  The stage, the crowd—light and anonymity—were at her back. So was the ringleader. The other two were in front of her, nothing but darkness beyond them. It galled Mallory to have to be polite to them, but she fell back on one of the little white lies women used in these situations. “No, thanks. I’m meeting my boyfriend here.”

  All three scoffed at that. Apparently, they knew the game better than she’d thought.

  She pulled her ski cap down firmly over her ears. “Really, he’ll be here any moment.”

  “Bring him, then. Where is he?”

  The ringleader walked around her to join Corduroy Boy and Mitten Stealer, so the three stood shoulder to shoulder with their MU letters on their puffed-up chests. They’d called her bluff, and they knew it. However, with the three of them in front of her, she could now back up freely. She glanced back over her shoulder.

  Never look back.

  Yeah, well, she was playing a role here. She pretended to spot her boyfriend in the crowd behind her. “I think I see him. Gotta go.”

  “Aw, don’t be that way.”

  She turned her back on them and walked fast, heading toward the light and the crowd. One guy called out, “Your mitten will be at the Kappa Lambda house. Come and get it, beautiful.”

  She didn’t look back until she’d skirted the sand courts and reached the stage. The children were filing off. The university’s string quartet members were climbing up, cellos and violins in hand. She’d lost the trio of athletes, but now she was surrounded by other people’s families, other people’s holiday happiness, so much noise and chaos when she’d craved some time alone.

  A line had formed in front of the Yule log. People stopped at a card table, scribbled their hopes for the coming year on little pieces of paper, then waited for their turn to throw the paper on the burning log. Their wishes for the new year were carried by the smoke up to the stars.

  The fire department had erected a waist-high fence to keep anyone from getting too close. Little pieces of evergreen were tied to the paper notes, so the paper could be tossed more easily into fire. Some people were throwing hard, trying to hit the actual Yule log, but most of the papers were falling short, landing in the bonfire.

  A little boy threw his note, but it barely cleared the fence. One of the firemen quickly used a fire iron as a golf club to chip-shot the little folded paper into the bonfire. “Close enough for a Christmas wish,” the fireman assured the little boy.

  Mallory would aim for the Yule log, just to be certain.

  A donation jar sat on the table amid the clutter of paper slips and stunted golf course pencils. Its handwritten sign indicated which charity the money would go toward. Donations requested but not required. Not required meant free.

  Free was right in Mallory’s price range—temporarily. She made a mental note of the charity. She would donate to them when she started making money. She merely had to stick with her plan. Never look back, never this, never that. There were a lot of nevers in a Taylor-style business plan, but if she could just follow them all, financial security would be hers.

  It was working. She was here; that was proof. Her very first step had been to reconnect with the Masterson University admissions office by signing up for their email newsletter. Because of that step, she’d seen an announcement that their esteemed alumnus, entrepreneur E.L. Taylor, was going to be the Executive-in-Residence the next academic year. He would spend the spring semester as a guest professor for the university’s College of Business. Her college.

  That had seemed like fate. It had ignited a fire under her, at any rate. She’d accelerated her timeline to free herself from the endless family obligations and win readmission to MU. Parts of that had been painful, but she’d started her senior year this September. She had just one more semester to go. When it began in January, E.L. Taylor himself was going to arrive on campus, and she was going to be here to meet him. Before her graduation in May, she would take the next-to-last step: she was going to ask him to look at her Taylor-inspired business plan.

  And then, Mallory Ames was going to execute her final step. She was going to ask E.L. Taylor to invest in her first business venture.

  He would, because he’d be impressed with her business plan. He just had to be, for she’d followed his book precisely. She would present it with the confidence he’d assured her she deserved...unless her nerves killed her first.

  Not nerves. Anticipation. The anticipation was killing her. What if he said no? What if he laughed at her plan?

  What if her hero didn’t even like her?

  Mallory picked up a pencil stub and a blank slip of paper, one with a tiny pine cone attached by a ribbon. She refused to blush as the woman to her left and the man to her right each dropped dollar bills into the jar and gave her pointed looks for not doing the same.

  Mallory knew her coat made her look more affluent than s
he was. She’d found it in her grandmother’s closet. Peacoats never went out of style, and although the color was a Paris Hilton pink from a previous decade, the hand-me-down was high quality. Let the locals judge her for being cheap tonight. Someday, her donation to that charity would dwarf theirs.

  She’d barely finished scribbling a single sentence when she heard Corduroy Boy’s unwelcome voice.

  “Well, well. Look who’s here.”

  She stuffed the paper and its mini pine cone into her pocket. She wasn’t going to wait in line, getting harassed the entire time by three meatheads who didn’t know the difference between flirting and pursuing someone relentlessly. She headed toward the opposite side of the park, where hundreds of square hay bales were stacked three high, far enough away from the Christmas festival that no spark from the Yule log would be carried on the wind to ignite them.

  As the crowds came nightly to enjoy the Christmas lights, the hay would be spread to keep the field from turning to mud. During Mallory’s first three years as a Masterson Musketeer, she’d watched the stacks of bales get shorter and shorter as the holiday break had gotten closer and closer. She’d associated the smell of fresh hay with Christmas and college, anticipation and excitement, every year that she’d been away.

  What would she answer if Mr. Taylor asked her about that huge time gap between her junior and senior years? I never look back, she’d say with confidence, and then she’d move on to her business plan. It would be the right answer. It was the only possible answer she could give him.

  E.L. Taylor would never invest in Mallory’s ideas if he knew the truth. She was practically thirty and definitely broke. What kind of person let herself be told what to do, where to live, with whom to live for so many years? A weak person. So weak that three young men had instinctively singled her out as their easy target tonight.