by Kim Golden
It's hard to believe that tomorrow is Christmas Eve. It's hard to believe that it's only been a month since I first met Mia. While she chats with her friends, I shrug into my winter jacket and boots and go outside. The air is crisp and nippy. When I first arrived in Hunters Grove, people used that word all the time and I didn't understand it. I'd just arrived from Cape Town, via New York, and was still thinking of the syrupy air I'd encountered during an August spent in Manhattan.
My skin was still weathered from the sun and my agent said I had a perpetual squint from too much sunlight. I was still raw on the inside. Maybe even a little on the outside. The constant noise and aggressive vibe in New York wore me down. Reuters was gunning to send me to another war zone. There is never a shortage of them; no matter how much we tell ourselves that we are at peace.
This time, my editor at Reuters was hot for me to go Yemen. The political climate there was threatening to boil over and she wanted a team on the ground there, to see if the Arabian Spring that had unraveled so many regimes across North Africa would spread. Darius, one of the correspondents I often worked with, had turned down the opportunity. His wife had just had a baby and he didn't want to leave when she still needed his help. Then Rob, who'd been in Afghanistan with me, was kidnapped in Pakistan and later found discarded on the side of a road with his throat slit. Maybe it was that news—Rob who'd survived reporting the wars in former Yugoslavia, who had street cred for having reported both Gulf Wars and survived a suicide bombing of a marketplace in Afghanistan, only to be brought down in Pakistan… his death rattled me more than any of the others I'd heard about. Of all the journalists I'd worked with, he was the one who never seemed to lose his sense of humanity. He wrote articles that touched on the human factor—the children affected by the wars, the women who were having to take over with all of the men gone from their villages. His bosses tried to force him to only write about military casualties and the "victories", but Rob wrote what felt natural and right. And now he was a casualty…of war, of life. I went to his funeral and tried to say all the right things to his widow, but my mouth went dry. I went through the motions of giving condolences to his relatives and friends, but, really, I was thinking how scared I was that someday it would be me who would end up dead on a roadside, in a country where no one knew me and no one cared.
I think it was that fear that brought me to Hunters Grove. I rented a car, thinking I would drive to Boston and clear my head, but then I ended up in New Hampshire, just across the border in White River Junction, and I knew I couldn't go to a big city. I'd pulled over to the shoulder of a road that would eventually take me to a covered bridge I'd read about in the Sunday edition of the Times and I began shaking. Shaking so hard that I thought maybe I was ill. I couldn't drive any further and I left the car there and walked along the road until I came to an inn and checked in the for the night. The next day, I asked them for directions to the bridge and the proprietor gushed about the antique shops and nature in Vermont. She confided in me that she was originally from Windsor, but only worked in White River Junction, because the pay was better.
"You'll love Vermont," she said. "It's exactly what you need—quiet, calm…green…you'll feel better once you're there." She was right.
Now, as I walk along the curving street that will take me to the village proper, I cannot imagine leaving this town. The town Christmas tree is decorated and lit. All the shops around the green are decorated for Christmas and Hanukkah. The town hall even has a Christmas tree and a menorah on the lawn. As I pass the diner, one of the waitresses knocks on their window and gestures for me to come in. I go in and greet her with, "Merry Christmas!"
"Same to you, Sugar!" She holds up a pitcher of creamy, yellow liquid that smells like cloves and cinnamon. "You want some egg nog? Should warm you up after your walk."
I glance around. Everyone else seems to be drinking some, so I say sure. I grab a seat at the counter, so I can watch everyone. It's an old habit from the war zones. Never sit with your back to the door. Always know who is doing what. Know where every exit is located. I've tried to let go of some of that. Soon I will have to decide if I am going to take more high-risk stationing. I've gone through it in my head a million times. I could stay. Working for Reuters has given me a green card. I wouldn't be dependent on Mia. We could be on equal footing with neither of us feeling beholden to the other. But, even without a green card, I would have come back. I know I would. I would figure out a way to be here, even if it meant having to fly home every three months. None of it matters if I am alone. But, maybe this year is going to be different. It already feels like it.
I take a sip of the egg nog and grimace. It's like an overly spicy milkshake with a weird aftertaste. Not really my sort of thing, but I finish it out of politeness.
"Where's lovely Mia?" The cook pokes his head through the door. "I've got some sticky buns ready for her."
"She's at home, finishing Christmas decorating. I can take them with me."
"As long as you don't eat them all. I packed three of her favorites."
"Scout's honor, I won't eat them, not until tomorrow."
"You're a photographer, aren't you?" Doris, the older waitress asks. She gives an order to the chef and then refills my egg nog. Shit…I'll have to drink another one. Maybe she sees my grimace. "It's better if you spike it." She reaches under the counter and produces a bottle of dark rum. She adds a bit to my egg nog and adds, "That should do the trick."
I take a sip—she's spot on. With rum, the weird aftertaste is a thing of the past. Now, I understand why Mia keeps buying bottles of this stuff and guzzling it down like there's no tomorrow. I wonder if she is spiking it too.
Doris tells me her grandkids will be part of the carolers who go with the Town Carolers to the nursing home and hospital tomorrow. "It's the first time they'll be doing it," she says proudly. "I'm so proud of the little buggers. I could never get their dad to do it."
"Mia and I are going to sing with the carolers too."
Doris nods in approval. "You know, that's how her grandparents met."
"Caroling?"
"Yup, at least, that's how the local legend goes," Doris pours herself a cup of spiked egg nog. She calls out a "Merry Christmas" to some guests who are leaving. "They say Hart Wilkinson was in the hospital, recuperating from a bad case of the flu, and Ruth came in with the carolers and sang for all the young men in his ward. She gave him a Christmas kiss on the cheek and the rest is history."
"How much of that story is true?"
Doris shrugs and laughs. "Does it matter? Everyone believes it. And, if you ask me, it's romantic enough that it makes even cynical old farts like me want to sing and find the One."
"The reporter in me likes to dig for the truth," I joke. "But maybe this is a story that we can file under feel-good and leave it at that."
"Say, why don't you take some pictures tomorrow while you're caroling? The local paper could always use some nice shots for the Christmas Day edition."
"I could do that…"
"It'll please the editor to bits. Last year's pictures were blurry, and, let's face it, you can't ask a 94-year-old man to take pictures when you know he can barely hold the camera these days."
"A ninety-four-year old?"
"Owen Cudahy's great-grandfather…we hated to say no to him. Well, he passed away a few months ago, so now we need someone to take pictures. I am surprised Owen's grandmother didn't ask you. She owns the paper."
"I could call her…"
"Don't you worry about that, Jacob. I will tell her. She's over there." She points to an older woman sitting at a table with three young children. All of the kids look like Owen—so this must be the brood Mia sometimes mentions. Doris pats my hand, before she goes to check on her customers. Sure enough, she makes a bee-line for Owen's grandmother. She points at me and I can just hear her above the layer of Christmas music blaring from the jukebox. When she comes back over to the counter, she hands me a business card and says, "Mission accompli
shed."
Before I leave, Mrs. Cudahy approaches me and thanks me for volunteering to help. "We'll reimburse you, of course. Maybe not as much as you get from Reuters or AP, but we'll take care of you." She, too, pats my hand and then she rounds up the kids and heads off into the snowy night.
I sit there for a while, enjoying the cacophony of families laughing and neighbors greeting one another with cheer, of passers-through coming in for directions and deciding to stay for a cup of coffee and a slice of cranberry-apple pie before hitting the road again, of the cook (whose name I've found out is Pete van Schwilden) banging pots and pans and singing along with the Christmas carols playing on the kitchen radio. If I take the posting Reuters has offered me in Cairo, I will miss all of this. They say they want someone with my special touch, but right now I feel like the only special touch I have is surviving. I haven't touched my cameras since I arrived. That's why I chucked all my trunks into to the attic. I didn't want to be reminded that I'd had this life that revolved around recoding misery. Somehow, that had become my specialty—turning death and the horror or war into images stark enough to get a reaction from the readers and beautiful enough that galleries wanted to show them. Maybe doing this favor for the Hunters Grove Gazette—recording a day in the life of the local carolers as they sing for the elderly and the infirm—because now it's become more in my head than just a picture or two of us singing in the village green or in the hospital lounge, will help me remember why I loved photography in the first place. I've decided to chart our entire day. I grab my napkin and ask Doris if I can borrow one of her pens, then I jot down notes for what sort of shots I want to capture and which locations should give us the best photo ops. Old habits die hard, even when you've tried to bury them.
I put some bills on the counter for Doris, but she shakes her head. "Tonight, your money's no good here." She slides the bills back towards me.
"But the egg nog…and the pie…and the buns?"
"We always donate sticky buns to the carolers, and the egg nog and pie were on the house. Just enjoy your Christmas, Hon."
"Thanks. I hope you'll have a nice Christmas too. Are you going to come and listen to us on the green tomorrow night?"
"You betcha. Practically the whole town will come. It's one of our traditions." Her smile softens her usually stern face. "What are you doing for Christmas Day? Have you got someplace to have your dinner?"
I nod. "Mia and I decided we would celebrate Christmas together."
Doris's smile broadens. "I knew you two would hit it off. Mia's a good girl. It's good she shook herself free of that jackass."
"You mean Evan?"
"Everybody here knows about him, Hon. Ruth Wilkinson couldn't abide by him. Hart was no fan of him either. They were always saying they hoped Mia would find a man who was worthy of her."
"It's early days still…and we still have Evan and his wife in the guest house."
"Hon, you need to look at it this way: God has closed a door and opened a window."
"I don't get it…"
"Sure, her ex has shown up on your doorstep and he's a bona fide jerk—but Mia has finally realized she isn't in love with him, she never was. You're the one sleeping in the same house as her, and everyone is talking about the sparks flying between the two of you. So take a chance. Stop worrying so much. Get the woman under some mistletoe and make a little Christmas magic."
"You're a real romantic, Doris." I smile at her. "Maybe I'll take your advice."
"See that you do. We're all rooting for you, Jake. We're rooting for Mia too."
Loaded with a shopping bag full of buns, some pie that Doris insisted I take with me, and a package of homemade sugar cookies from Laurie, I take the scenic route home. For me, the scenic route involves walking along Main Street and peering into all the shop windows and absorbing the holiday atmosphere.
I make the circuit around the village green and then stop when I come to the corner of Main and Jeremiah Streets. There's a shop there that's been closed since I arrived. On the window is a sign advertising vacant retail or studio space. It could be a nice space for a photography studio. Before I was lured into the glamour of being a foreign correspondent, I wanted to be one of those photographers who did editorial and artistic work. I could do that here. I pull out my phone and tap in the contact info for the real estate agent.
Horace Lundgren.
Why am I not surprised that it is the same one who was managing Mia's place until her return? Everyone in this town is connected. When I first arrived it bugged the hell out of me. Now I appreciate it. I like that most of the people I meet seem to know who I am, before we've even been introduced. I like that everyone looks out for one another. I didn't have that in Cape Town, not after I left Paarl and moved into the city. When I was on the road, especially when we were embedded with the military, we all tried to watch each other's back, but you were also trying to stay alive, and sometimes the skin on my nose was more important that anyone else's. I don't want to go back to that life—of dodging in alleys and praying that a sniper's bullet will never target me. These months in Hunters Grove have taught me that. I don't want to die, because of a tactical error or a calculated sacrifice. I want to stay here with Mia, if she'll have me. Maybe we'll have kids. Maybe we'll grow old together, like Hart and Ruth. I just know that whatever happens I want it with her.
So I start moving again, climbing the hill so I can get home as fast as I can. I want to tell her how I feel. I am tired of tiptoeing around our feelings. We're not kids anymore. We don't need to play games.
The sky is full of feathery snowflakes. At the top of the hill, I stop and watch them drift in the air. I can see the house from here. I wonder what Mia is doing. Have her friends stopped calling? Will we have a moment to ourselves? My feet sink into the snow. It's up to my ankles in some spots, closer to mid-calf in others. But, I manage to traverse the snowy hill and cross the road. I am nearly at the house when my cell phone rings. "Where are you?" she asks in a low, almost uncertain voice. "I looked up and you were gone."
"I'm right outside your door," I tell her.
I see her approach the living room window. She waves and then disappears. A moment later, the front door opens.
The smile she greets me with is exactly what I need.
13 Love: Mia
Rule # 9 We are not spending Christmas together. I We stay in my house and you can eat at the diner eat dinner with me…
Rule # 10 I don't need any Christmas presents from you. Let's leave it at that. All I want for Christmas is you...
Seeing him walk towards me fills every part of me with a sensation like butterflies in flight. I feel silly and happy and so full of every emotion I feel for him, I want to sing. I barely let him come in the door, before I've latched onto him and showered him with kisses.
At first, he tries to hold me off by saying, "Wait, wait…just let me get out of my coat."
But I don't want to wait and, soon, neither does he. The shopping bag in his hand falls to the vestibule floor and then his arms encircle me. Our kisses are deep, full of longing. I have not felt like this in so long, this overwhelming desire to give myself completely to someone. I don't think I ever felt it with Evan. Usually, I was trying too hard to make him want me to think about if I wanted him with all of my heart. With Jake, the touch of his hands gripping my hips turns me slippery inside. I want to strip away everything and let him do whatever he wants—if he asked, I would do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. So, when he suggests we leave the drafty vestibule and go upstairs, I practically drag him up the staircase.
My bedroom is cozy. I'd lit a fire earlier and, though it's died down, the crackling warmth is still perfect. We close the door and begin undressing one another, our fingers stumbling over buttons and snaps. We laugh at our own clumsiness, then dive in for more kisses. When he has stripped me bare, I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he steps out of his pants.
His skin is golden in the firelight glow. I marvel at the beaut
y of his body. He is naturally strong without the artificial look of someone who's spent too many hours in the gym. Everything about him is impressive, from the defined muscles of his torso and the slope down to his erect cock, to the lean strength of his well-molded legs. I take hold of his hips and pull him close. I don't want to wait anymore. I want to taste him, want to feel him swelling inside me. And when he scoops me with one arm until we're both lying together, our bodies entwined in a most perfect love knot, I know I do not want to be anywhere else. I just want him. Only him.
He slides down between my legs and opens me up like a flower, his lips and tongue devouring me, taking possession of me. Beneath his tender assault, I writhe and moan. My fingers clutch at the sheets, then at his hair and press him deeper. He slides his hands under my ass and holds me still. When his tongue grazes my swollen clit again, I cry out and lose control. I buck under him. My nipples are so hard they twinge. I am so wet, and all I can think is "more…" Then he pulls back and grins at me, his lips slick with my cum. He moves on top of me and fidgets with a condom. I nearly stop him. I want all of him, but I know we should be careful. This is too new. We are too new to one another. I hate that we need to think this way, But when he eases into me I forget my worries. Slowly…slowly, my body opens to him, gripping him and pulling him deeper inside me. I press him deeper, wrap my legs around his and move with him. We are in perfect synchronicity, pulling each other in, our breath hot against one another's skin.
Oh God…is this what love feels like?
Afterwards, we lay together in a sweaty tangle of limbs. I kiss a trail from his lips to his neck and let my fingers play with his softly curling hair. He closes his eyes and smiles. Is he thinking what I am thinking? That this could be us…? This doesn't have to end with me going back to Philadelphia. We could make a go of this… Am I rushing into it if I tell him this? I am tired of measuring my words. I want to share everything with him. He rolls on top of me, trapping me in a cage of his limbs, lowers his head to my right breast. I moan at the slightest tug of his teeth, gasp as he sucks on my tender nipple and sets off fireworks of desire in me.
