All They Want for Christmas

by M. K. Stelmack

  * * *

  JACK HAD INTENDED to sleep the day away, but his circadian rhythms were on the fritz, and he’d woken to Bridge stirring across the hall. He’d laid on his side of the queen bed and listened to the creaking of floorboards, a stifled sneeze, a rush of sink water and her stealing down the stairs.

  If he’d done the smart thing twelve years ago, he could’ve listened to this every morning from the comfort of their bed. Or joined her.

  He’d expected noise from the kitchen, but instead picked up on the clumping of boots and the snap of an opening bolt lock, and then she was gone.

  It only occurred to him then that she’d left for the restaurant. He’d glanced at his phone—5:20. How long had she been doing these early mornings? As long as he’d been away. He’d hit burnout first.

  He’d turned, jostling the girls on the other side. They slept suctioned together, legs entwined, Isabella’s arm looped over Sofia, her chin on Sofia’s head. He felt as if he didn’t belong. On paper he was their father with sole custody. He had invited them to call him something other than Jack, something that acknowledged that he was more than a caregiver. While Sofia had wavered on the idea, Isabella had refused. To her, he was a necessity, a source of food and shelter only.

  Sofia had allowed him to carry her through the airport when her legs were too tired, but Isabella held on to her sister’s ankle, boot and all, as if afraid he’d run off with her. Isabella never allowed him to touch her. She’d ignored his outstretched hand, evaded his touch on her shoulder, taken things from him without grazing his fingers. He hadn’t pressed her. She’d come around, wouldn’t she?

  In the darkness of the room broken only by a night-light, Isabella had stirred and her eyes snapped open. She had that superpower. To be asleep, then suddenly awake.

  “I’m hungry,” she’d said in Spanish, at normal volume.

  “When Sofia wakes up,” he’d whispered, “we’ll get breakfast.” He’d rustle up something. Surely Bridget wouldn’t begrudge them that.

  Isabella had shaken Sofia’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up, time for breakfast.” In Spanish.

  “Let her sleep,” Jack had hissed, but obedient even in sleep, Sofia had yawned and stretched herself awake.

  Too early to bang around the kitchen, waking Krista and Mara. He knew of only one other place within walking distance where he could get breakfast.

  So it was that he and the girls ended up listening to Bridget declare that she wouldn’t date him.

  There was a time she had. Had agreed to marry him. But he blew it. He wouldn’t again if she opened that door even a crack. He’d wedge himself back into her life. Date her, marry her, get it right this time.

  If she didn’t leave him out in the cold. Quite literally.

  “We came for breakfast,” he said. “The girls got up early and I didn’t want to disturb your sisters.”

  Bridget’s attention glided to the girls. “Come on in.” Once the girls cleared the entrance, she let go of the door, obliging him to hold it open for himself. She guided the girls to a table by the kitchen, while Jack trailed behind. Third wheel again. Or the fourth, in this case.

  “I have a problem,” Bridget said to the girls. “I have a fridge full of food and no one to eat it. Could you help me?”

  Jack translated. Sofia nodded.

  “We can’t eat it all now,” Isabella said.

  Jack translated back with a straight face. Bridget didn’t crack a smile, either, though her dark eyes flashed humor. “That’s okay,” she said. “Eat what you can.”

  “Tell her,” instructed Isabella, “that we can take the rest back to the house.”

  Bridget listened and made a counterproposal. “We’ve already got tons of food there, so how about you come here for breakfast every day until it’s gone?”

  Isabella accepted the deal.

  “What do you say?” Jack prompted the girls in Spanish.

  Thank-yous came in careful, sincere English. Isabella even granted Bridget a small smile. It had taken him three months before he’d gotten the shadow of a smile from her.

  “Any allergies?” she asked him. It was the first she’d spoken directly to him since they’d entered the restaurant.

  “None I’m aware of.”

  “Coffee?”

  He assumed she meant him. “Yes. Please. Thank you.”

  She left before he could specify black. He wondered if he was included in the fridge deal.

  The girls watched Bridget pour orange juice for them and coffee for him—nothing added, no creamers on the side. She didn’t hesitate, as if she’d done it every day of her life.

  As she set down the drinks, he said, “You remembered that I take my coffee black.”

  “You betcha,” she said, as if he was an ordinary customer. “I’ll be right back with your food.”

  Right back by way of a trucker who’d come with his own double-size travel mug. Jack hoped Bridget double-sized the price, too. A woman came in and Bridget immediately offered her free coffee because they didn’t have whipping cream.

  “I don’t want free coffee, I want coffee the way I like it,” the woman said.

  “I hear you, Marlene, and as soon as I finish this morning, I’ll get it for you. I do have eighteen-percent.”

  “I’ve been coming here for years. It should be a staple item, like coffee or cups,” she grumbled.

  A middle-aged couple came in, arms wrapped around each other like newlyweds, and took a seat at a table next to Marlene.

  “She’s out of whipping cream,” Marlene informed them.

  “Good morning, Mel. Daphne. I have eighteen-percent,” Bridget repeated her offer.

  “Everything’s off here,” Marlene said.

  Jack saw Bridget’s grip on the coffeepot tighten, though her voice stayed cheerful. “I assure you that every last single drop of cream here is sweet and fresh.”

  “I don’t mean the cream,” Marlene said. She made a sweeping gesture. “The whole place feels different. Without Penny, how can it still be Penny’s?”

  Bridget smiled. The same stiff smile she’d used last night when she’d invited him and the girls into the house. “Food’s still the same. You still sit in your spot. Mano’s still here.” She paused. “I’m still here.”

  “That’s the problem,” Marlene said. “If you’re here serving me, it means that Penny isn’t. And I don’t come here to feel depressed before I go to my depressing job.”

  Bridget had the coffeepot in a death grip. “I miss her, too, Marlene. I know you coming in every day will help me get through it.”

  “Great,” Marlene said. “Now I feel obliged to come here and be depressed.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—” Bridget stopped. She looked around, as if the right thing to say was lying about somewhere. Her gaze collided with his, her expression filled with the pain and weariness of loss. He’d seen it on thousands of faces over the years. He’d seen it on Isabella and Sofia when he’d first met them six months ago at the Venezuelan orphanage. To see it so stark on Bridget... Well, he couldn’t exactly adopt her, now could he?

  But neither did he have to leave her high and dry, standing alone with only a half-filled coffeepot to hold.

  “I’m the new Penny,” he announced, loud enough for Marlene to hear.

  Marlene, along with Mel and Daphne, and the trucker guy, turned to him in surprise. No wonder—he had surprised himself. Isabella and Sofia lifted their heads, too, more from his raised voice than his words.

  “I inherited her half of the place.”

  Out came the cook from the back. What was his name again? He took in Jack and called over to Bridget. “Him? Why didn’t you tell me he’s taking over?”

  At least Jack had succeeded in chasing away Bridget’s sorrow. Anger was her new look. “He’s not taking over,” she said, glaring acros
s the way at him, not even trying for a fake smile.

  “Sounds to me as if he is,” Marlene said. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Mel spoke up. “Jack Holdstrom. A friend of Bridget’s. And Penny’s.” He waved to Jack. “Mel Greene. My wife, Daphne. We’re also friends of the Montgomerys.”

  Jack had no recollection of him. Penny had made a point of introducing Jack to everyone who happened to be in the restaurant on the half-dozen occasions he’d stopped by over the years. He’d never paid attention, wanting only to track Bridget as she’d moved among the tables.

  “Hey,” he said to the girls. “I’m going over there to talk. I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Okay,” Sofia said immediately and went back to sucking the bottom of her orange juice dry with a straw. The level on Isabella’s glass had barely lowered, rationing herself as usual. He could feel her watchful gaze on him as he crossed to Mel and Marlene. And Bridget.

  “I didn’t see you at the service yesterday,” Marlene said.

  “I arrived last night. I’ve known Penny since I was a kid.”

  Recognition lifted Marlene’s eyebrows. “Oh, you’re that Jack.” Whatever that meant, and she didn’t seem to care to explain herself, peering into her cup of black coffee instead. “Well, New Penny, what are you going to do about the fact I have no whipping cream for my coffee?”

  “I am going to take personal responsibility going forward for your creamery needs. In the meantime, I would recommend Bridget’s generous offer.”

  “You don’t have anything else?”

  “I have ten percent,” Bridget said. “But that’s a worse solution.”

  “How about,” Jack said, “we put in ten and eighteen for twenty-eight, that’s almost whipping cream concentration. Or double shots of eighteen, and we’ll be over the top.”

  His illogic pulled a near smile from Marlene. “Sounds reasonable. I’m nothing if not agreeable.”

  Bridget jumped to make it happen and Jack edged past the cook and retreated to his seat. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the girls seemed to relax now that he was back. Or maybe it was Bridget coming past with a big, genuine smile for the girls. “Two plates of breakfast coming,” she said pointedly to the cook.

  “I make real food. I don’t serve leftovers.”

  “I can—” Jack began.

  But Bridget snapped, “I will do it.” And cut back to the kitchen.

  The cook turned to Jack. “The old Penny fed herself, you know.”

  “I don’t expect her to feed me or the girls.” He remembered the cook’s name. “I came here for breakfast like everyone else, Mano.”

  “Except it turns out you’re not everyone else.”

  He wasn’t. But despite what he’d said, he wasn’t Penny’s replacement, either. He fully intended to approach Bridget about her buying out his half. He would have given it to her, if his finances weren’t so bleak.

  The doors opened and there was Bridget with two plates heaped with strawberries, melons, sausage rounds, crackers, cheese, date squares and, on side saucers, three strips of bacon each. The thank-yous came spontaneously this time in Spanish and English.

  “De nada, de nada,” Bridget said. Then she frowned. “Did you wash hands?”

  The girls shot questioning looks at Jack. Bridget pointed. “Back along there. Stool’s under the sink if you need it.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said as the washroom door closed behind them. “I keep forgetting the little things.”

  She set egg-salad sandwiches and chunks of cantaloupe in front of him. No bacon. “I shouldn’t have interfered. They’re your kids.”

  Your kids. He felt a punch of pride that she accepted the girls as his, even if the girls saw him only as a primary source of their basic needs. “First met them six months ago. Final adoption papers came last month.”

  “That was fast.”

  A process expedited by his connections in Venezuela and Canada. “Not for nothing was I in the business of providing relief to the world’s most needy.”

  “And now you appear to be in the hospitality business.”

  He lowered his voice. “Listen, Bridge, I said that because I wanted to... I don’t know, cause a distraction, I guess. I don’t mean to take over. I was hoping we could talk, come up with a plan. Are you free later?”

  “Not today,” she said flatly and swung away, just as Isabella and Sofia emerged from the washroom. Right. Well, considering they now lived under the same roof, she couldn’t avoid him forever.

  Jack had learned that the girls didn’t like to talk when eating. He’d have to work on the art of mealtime conversation, but later, when they didn’t eat as if the food could be yanked away at any moment. For now, he would chow down on sandwiches and once again pretend he wasn’t watching Bridget.

  She used every part of her body. One hand for the coffeepot, left arm for the serving tray, foot to hook the high chair and her butt to bump the bar fridge shut. Her black hair, in its ponytail, swung, too. All the while, her eyes roamed the tables so she could top up coffees, settle bills. She was kept busy not because the place was hopping, but because she was the only one there.

  The girls were picking date-square crumbs up with moistened fingertips. “Manners,” he said in Spanish. “Use a fork.”

  “He’s doing it,” Isabella said and pointed. Sure enough, trucker guy was finger-pressing up his hash-brown remainders.

  Bridget reappeared. “Can I get you another coffee or are you finished?” Her tone suggested that the latter option was much preferred.

  He would go, but not before he tried again with a different tack. “Bridge, let me help out here for a little bit in the mornings. While the girls have their breakfast. Fair exchange for the meals.”

  “Thanks, but I can handle it.”

  “I’m already duty-bound to deliver the perfect cup of coffee to Marlene.”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  “Seems as if you’ve got enough to deal with.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “Tell me about it.”

  “Bridge—”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get your answer. Coffee or are you done?”

  He was far from done, but he didn’t know how to reach her. “We’ll see you back at the house, Bridge.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BRIDGET WAS CROSSING the bank parking lot to keep her appointment when Mara phoned. “I’ve got news.” She sounded both excited and worried. “You’ve got another guest. Mom.”

  Bridget halted, hand on the freezing steel handle of the bank. “Is she here to sort out Auntie Penny’s affairs?”

  “And to see us.”

  To see Krista and Mara, specifically. Deidre and Bridget had never clicked. While Bridget had loved Krista, Mara and Dad at first sight... Well, Bridget had never called Deidre “Mom.” Maybe because she’d known her real mother. A drunk. A thief. A drug addict. Transferring the title of Mom seemed way back then, to be unloading the same toxic personality on Deidre, too. She started with “Deidre” and that was how it stayed. Sometimes Bridget wondered if it was the name that created the distance between them, or if the distance had always been there.

  At any rate, she could strike inviting Deidre off her list. Bridget pulled open the bank door and stepped into its foyer.

  “How did she get here from the airport?” For that matter, how had Jack and his girls traveled from Calgary? No one had been there to greet them.

  Before Mara could answer, she heard Deidre pipe up in the background. “Friends. I met them at the Phoenix airport.”

  In other words, she started a conversation with people until she’d found someone driving north from Calgary and played them into giving her a ride. Bridget’s parents had spent their entire life together traveling the world practically for free.

  “She wants to have a reading of the will tod
ay with everyone present. When will you be home?”

  Inside, Bridget leaned against the cool window front of the foyer. “She’s the executor. Why isn’t she asking me this?”

  “She’s right here. Did you want to speak to her?”

  Bridget pictured Deidre waving her frantic refusal. The two got along as well as they did because they didn’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary.

  “I should be home at five thirty or so. We can have supper, and then do the will. Wait, Jack will have to be present, too. Let’s do it after the girls are in bed, whenever that is.”

  Mara relayed the information and replied. “Jack said that’ll work.”

  Of course, it would work for Jack to get the official word that he was to take everything that had once belonged to Penny. What had her aunt been thinking?

  Bridget saw Tanya, her account manager, hovering at her office door. “I got to go, ’bye.”

  She’d come to the bank to find out in cold dollars and cents where the restaurant stood. By the time Tanya finished with her circles and arrows and negative numbers, Bridget felt as numb as she had when Deidre had called her about Auntie Penny’s death.

  “Your aunt never told you the situation.” Tanya spoke softly, like a doctor delivering a fatal prognosis.

  “I knew things were bad. I knew she’d cashed in some of her savings to make payments, but this—”

  Bridget couldn’t say it, could barely think it. Two months without mortgage payments, into the third month on the house. Three months of delinquent payments could trigger foreclosure. And this wasn’t a first. Her aunt had done this time and time again in the past two years. The bank had long ago flagged the account.

  “If it was up to me,” Tanya said in the same calm manner, “I’d let it ride. But head office in Toronto makes the decisions, and I’ve seen it too often these past years. They follow a formula, a pattern, and yours fits it.”

  “Couldn’t we renegotiate? Smaller payments over a longer period. Could I take equity out of the house?” That would work. If Jack agreed.