The Christmas Company

by Alys Murray

  The little boy dug his heels in to argue, but a call from his father on the porch rescued Clark from any kind of debate.

  “Bradley! Come in here and help your sisters set the table.”

  The boy groaned. Kate knelt down and handed him the stick of gum. In another scenario, Clark would have protested. He didn’t earn the gum, and what kind of lesson was she teaching him if she gave him things he didn’t earn? Maybe that was the problem with this town. Everyone here was too soft, too afraid of hurting feelings to say no.

  “Here’s your gum. Merry Christmas, B.”

  But…even he had to admit how sweet Kate looked as she ruffled Bradley’s hair and sent him on his way. As he walked towards his tiny house, he gave one last goodbye.

  “God bless us, everyone.”

  It didn’t take a master of subtext to read into his declaration. God bless everyone. Even you, Mr. Clark. Once he disappeared behind the faded red door, Kate turned on him.

  “You couldn’t have even smiled for him?”

  He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring into the depths of her eyes, catching the flickers of mixing colors and light in her pointed gaze. When had she gotten so close? And why did he want to be closer? His gaze flickered down to her lips. Just a breath closer, just a heartbeat nearer to her and they’d be less than a kiss apart. And it shocked him how dearly he suddenly wanted that in this moment.

  He coughed. Stepped away. And shook his head.

  “No. No, I couldn’t.”

  “What a shame.” She smiled, a tease hiding in the corner of her mouth. “I bet you have a nice smile.”

  He coughed again and put as much distance between them as he could, flexing and clenching his hand. The movement of muscles in his fingers did nothing to quell his desire to take her hand and hold it in his. As they got in the car, Clark recalled thinking coming to this house and meeting these people was the worst thing he’d done in recent memory. He knew now that wasn’t true.

  The worst thing he had done since arriving in Miller’s Point was almost kissing Kate.

  Or not kissing her.

  He couldn’t decide which was worse.

  Chapter Seven

  The afternoon rolled past Clark in a flurry of cold, slushy rain and tittering laughter and conversation. He drove them to their next few stops, but no longer got out of the car. He considered it a strategic move. They would be safe from any near-miss kisses if he did the noble thing of helping to bring the boxes to the door and immediately returning to the safety of his car. Insulated by the steel and leather interior, he couldn’t hear her laugh or smell the nutmeg in her hair. Every once in a while, his attention snagged on bits of conversation muttered outside of his window. Mostly insults about him. Why are you hanging out with that scumbag? Makes sense he wouldn’t want to come in and touch us poors. If I didn’t respect his uncle so much, I’d take him out back and give him what for.

  Every year, Texas Magazine ranked the towns and cities of the state by the kindness and friendliness of their citizens. Miller’s Point regularly came in at #1. The nicest people in the entire state hated him. Normally, he didn’t mind hatred. He tried not to mind it now, but he couldn’t help but think, I don’t want Kate to hate me.

  When he didn’t catch them saying cruel and utterly justified things about his character, Clark captured little glimpses into the life of the woman who’d singlehandedly invaded his life. Thank you so much for bringing my boy to the doctor last week. I couldn’t have gotten the time off. Or, you’ll never believe what happened last week! I took your advice and asked Laura out at her favorite place at the festival and she said yes! We’re going out next week for New Year’s. Kate invested herself in these people, and not just for cheap displays of her own dedication to charity. Clark couldn’t name a single neighbor in his apartment building, while Kate consistently remembered birthdays, anniversaries, breakups, and the name of every single person she came across. Small-town living came with perks and privileges not enjoyed by city folk like him, but he didn’t suspect everyone in Miller’s Point—or any small town for that matter—acted exactly like her. She was a creature entirely unto herself. He’d yet to meet anyone on earth, much less in Miller’s Point, who rivaled Kate in any way.

  Whether that was a point in her favor or a demerit, he couldn’t be entirely sure.

  The car’s bells chimed as the doors opened and the ragtag team of daylight Santas, now relieved of their boxes and presents, slipped inside.

  “That was the last one,” Kate said.

  Clark turned the key in the ignition and headed for town. Driving around today gave him a much better sense of the place, all of its hidden side streets and tangled roundabouts. Cell service cut out all over town, making his cell phone directions absolutely useless. Upon first arriving in Miller’s Point, the maps would disappear and reappear at will, sending him on crazy routes until he finally gave up. Finding the town square last night was nothing short of a miracle.

  Michael, on the other hand, knew every inch of Miller’s Point and didn’t require battery life or WiFi.

  Conversation flowed easily between the three friends, leaving Clark to feel a bit like an out-of-the-loop Uber driver, an experience he only knew from the one time his bike got a flat tire in downtown Dallas and the public transportation workers spent the day on strike, forcing him to use the car-sharing service. In a city with plenty of bike racks and trams, Clark saw no reason to pay seven bucks for someone else to ferry him around.

  “Wanna stop somewhere and get lunch?” Michael asked. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving.”

  “No one is starving. We all ate this morning.”

  “We could go to the diner.”

  “It’s closed.”

  “You were literally there this morning.”

  “Mel opened it special for Kate and Clark to sneak in. Mel felt too bad to tell him to get lost.”

  The tips of Clark’s ears reddened. He hadn’t even noticed a closed sign. Was he really so entitled that he just waltzed in and assumed he’d be served?

  “No.” Kate inserted herself into her friends’ conversation. Calm before the storm. “We can go back to Woodward.”

  Oh, no. That sounded like trouble. To Clark’s knowledge, the kitchen hadn’t been stocked since the last time his uncle visited the place. What was she planning to feed him? Canned chicken and bagged rice?

  “What’s at Woodward?” he asked, failing to hide his suspicion.

  “You’ll see,” Kate replied.

  “I’d really like to know…”

  “You’ll see.”

  He swallowed hard as the town passed by around him. Possibilities ricocheted against the walls of his skull. Was she going to make him go into the woods and kill a wild turkey or put him on a cabbage soup diet? Television ads around this time of year and NPR podcast sponsors assured him everyone ate instant stuffing and probably turkey for their holiday meal, but having eaten grilled cheese or zucchini lasagna on this day the last three or four years, he couldn’t be entirely certain.

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Really?” Emily snarked. “You seem like such a zany, seat-of-your-pants kind of guy.”

  The burn effectively silenced Clark. No one was going to take his side in this. The urge to retort pried open his jaw, but when nothing came to mind, he closed it again. The board room at Woodward Headquarters had sharpened his wit, sure. Only no one there dared to take jabs at him. He mostly swung his verbal sword in their direction, not the other way around.

  Knowing his own way back now, he turned into the town square. Without the festival, the streets opened themselves to cars again. In Dallas, the people would have thanked him for giving them the streets back, but not in Miller’s Point. Driving through the square gave off an almost eerie, end-of-the-world vibe. Half of the decorations
were gone—most likely taken down to be strung up in his house—and the sidewalks sat empty and unused. The tree, a monstrosity of fir and ornaments he couldn’t even begin to calculate a cost for, lorded over the square, dark and unlit. Eerie, even for someone who hated this holiday and everything it stood for. The silence probably didn’t help. Clark usually drove to NPR and various podcasts about business and finance, but after they’d asked for Christmas music he’d panicked and said he preferred to concentrate on the road.

  When they started talking again, he’d have given anything for the sweet release of some kind of background noise. Every word they uttered dug into his skin, sharpened arrows built to pierce him.

  “I can’t believe everything’s over.” Michael clucked. “No more festival.”

  “Don’t say that. Anything can happen.”

  Kate’s reply embodied everything Clark knew about her so far. Foolishly optimistic. Beautifully wasteful. What did she think, he was going to cave and give in to their ridiculous whims? Waste money on something he saw no value in? Or did she think some other millionaire investor would sweep in and take the loss? Not likely. He’d already warned potential investors off the project when he decided to close the place down. Even keeping the place open for a few more nights, the rest of their season, would waste money in personnel and electric bills.

  They finished the ride home without incident…until they pulled up to the house, and Clark’s worst fears about Kate’s “surprise” came to life through the clear wall of his windshield. During their brief time in the wilds of Miller’s Point, the long driveway had turned into a parking lot. At least thirty trucks and SUVs made themselves very much at home on the pavement stretching almost a hundred yards from the street to the carriage-house-turned-garage tucked away behind the manor.

  Clark pulled through the center clearing—thank God someone gave a thought to how they would all get in and out—and fought the quiver of anger in his voice. Control yourself, man. You have always been able to control yourself before. Why can’t you control yourself around Kate?

  “What’s all this?”

  “You’ll see when we get inside.”

  He parked and they headed for the back door of the house, with Michael and Emily at the lead and him and Kate trailing behind. If Kate disturbed or confused them with this turn of events, they didn’t let on. Clark didn’t think anything about Kate would faze them by now. From what he’d seen of their friendship, Kate charged forward and everyone else hopped on board without a second thought. He secretly admired that about her.

  “Why are there are people here?”

  “You’ll see. Just follow me. Everyone’s inside.”

  Something strange happened then. Something Clark hadn’t expected and didn’t know he wanted. She reached for his hand, took it in her own, and led him forward. The contact didn’t spark or crackle with electric shocks; the books and poems lied about that. She held his hand like she wanted to remember what it felt like. Like she wanted him to know every line in her palm and how her pulse danced against his. Holding hands with Kate Buckner was like falling into his own bed after a long day of work. A complete relief.

  He ripped himself away, violently breaking up the sensation. It made Kate flinch, but her smile didn’t falter or slip. She shook it off. She shook off everything he threw at her. He added another word to his description of her. Endlessly foolishly optimistic.

  “I don’t want people here. I told you this isn’t a party.”

  Up the servant’s steps and into the back hallway, Kate led him through the family house. How was it possible she knew this place better than he did? Up until his ninth birthday, he spent every Christmas here with his family. He should lead, not her.

  “Okay,” she began, popping with excited energy. “Every year, on Christmas Eve, we have a huge festival feast for lunch before we open the doors for the guests. I mean, it’s huge. Everyone in town comes and we have everything you can imagine—”

  “Last year, Buzz Schrute carved a Nativity scene out of butter. With a chainsaw,” Michael called over his shoulder. They turned the corner to the main living wing, which housed the library, the study, the formal parlor, the living room, kitchens and formal dining room. The public wing of the house.

  “Eating is as much a part of the Christmas experience as anything else. Everyone really opens up around the table. When you share a meal with someone, you’re really sharing a part of your soul.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  They approached the formal dining room. Oh, no. The house no longer reeked of gingerbread or fir. Other smells swirled in dizzying circles around Clark’s head. Garlic. Onions. Sage. Parsley. Paprika. Sweet potato. Brussels sprouts… Turkey.

  “I wanted to show you what it’s like. Give you a taste of the real Miller’s Point Christmas experience. So, drumroll, please…” Kate shoved the French doors apart, revealing Clark’s worst nightmare. He thought a redecorated house couldn’t get any worse, but once again, Kate blew him and his expectations away.

  “Surprise!”

  The shout came not from Kate or her two compatriots, but from a room filled to the brim with Miller’s Point Christmas nerds. In his rushed morning, Clark never inspected the formal dining room. He knew from his childhood that it accommodated almost forty-five people, though he’d never seen so many in there. Old, young, fat, thin, tall, short, black, white, in Christmas sweaters, in dresses. Everyone crammed around the table to surprise him and welcome him to his own personal brand of torture. Decorations covered the carved wood paneling of the walls and a miniature Christmas tree—apparently the towering monstrosity in the living room wasn’t enough to sate Kate’s lust for the noble fir—took post in the corner.

  But ornate decorations were nothing compared to the table. Pages from Dr. Seuss stories were less cluttered and colorful. Anything ever featured on a Martha Stewart Thanksgiving special or on the cover of the November issue of Southern Living claimed space at this feast.

  Stuffing. No fewer than six varieties of potato. Sweet potato casserole. Sweet potato biscuits. Green bean casserole. Cranberry sauce—homemade and canned. Cornbread. Corn pudding. Corn on the cob. Creamed corn. Mac ’n’ cheese. Gravy. Brussels sprouts. Soup. Ham. Spinach dip. Broccoli salad. And on and on until the room nearly exploded with plate upon plate of delicious calories.

  Three turkeys. Who needed one turkey, much less three?

  It all looked so delicious. And so, so unnecessary. He clenched his jaw so tight he thought it might break his teeth.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a feast.”

  Kate joined the crowd, leaving him alone against a sea of strangers. He marveled. They all believed in this garbage. They all thought he would sit down at the table and suddenly be a changed man. Kate believed it. She was wrong. They were all wrong. He shoved his hands into his pockets so no one could spot their trembling.

  “I can see that. Where did it all come from?”

  “We ordered it. Well, some of it was already cooked and frozen for the feast, but we had to order some of it because—”

  “Who paid for it?”

  This time, Kate hesitated. The air in the room tightened, tense and uncomfortable. People shuffled, shifted their weight from one foot to the other, glanced uncertainly at Kate and coughed. With every tick of the grandfather clock placed against the far wall, as the inevitable explanation came closer and closer, Clark’s pulse boomed in his ears. His right hand kept flexing and clenching against the lining of his suit pocket. One woman stepped back, apparently afraid he’d turn violent.

  He wasn’t a violent man, but he didn’t rule out knocking over a gravy boat or two.

  “It’s part of the company expenses. We do this every year for the festival and—”

  There it was. The explanation he knew was coming still managed to enrage him. His carefully constructed
mask flew away, leaving nothing but the anger. He may have admired Kate, even liked her a bit, but she was still, at her core, stealing money from his company by disobeying his directive to cancel all festival-related orders. Stealing that which didn’t belong to her all to prove some stupid point about a holiday he would never like.

  “I’m dissolving the company because it’s wasteful. This entire stupid holiday is a monument to waste and excess and it sickens me!”

  A woman stepped forward, a coaxing but vain smile on her aging face.

  “We worked really hard on this and—”

  “Well that hard work was a waste of time because I’m not touching this. Go. Leave. Get out of here.”

  “Clark.”

  Kate threw him a lifeline. A chance to take it back and respond with a little bit of kindness. These people did nothing to him. They followed Kate and tried to help her. This was all her doing, really. He knew all of this intellectually, but his emotions either didn’t get the memo or they got the memo and crumbled it into an unreadable ball before burning it.

  “I didn’t stutter. Get out of here.”

  When no one moved and all attention turned to the dumbstruck and now decidedly unsmiling Kate Buckner, Clark repeated himself.

  “Get. Out!”

  With that, the great exodus began. Everyone practically ran for their dishes, picking up what they could and filing out through the connected kitchen door, carefully avoiding Clark, who stood in silent rage. He’d deal with Kate once everyone else left. Only a few stragglers remained when Emily squared off with him.

  She was ready for a fight.

  “Hey, man. You’re being a real jerk, you know that?”

  She passed passive-aggressive and dove straight for aggressive-aggressive. Clark didn’t care. He could be aggressive too.

  “Am I? I feel like someone entered my family’s house without permission and spent our money on things I didn’t approve after she knew how I felt about it. How am I the bad guy here?”