A Very Merry Christmas

by Cathy Lamb

  “I’m sorry, Simon.” And, I was. I didn’t know what had happened to Simon in his life to make him so nervous, so compulsive about things, but I had a lot of compassion for the guy. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  “Please, Meredith. Please do. It was upsetting.”

  “Have a nice day, Simon.”

  “I don’t think I can do that anymore. That was a loud noise. Upsetting.” His hands trembled. “I think I will go and lie down so I can decompress.”

  * * *

  Over the weekend, Jacob, Sarah, and I spent hours decorating the bed and breakfast with garlands, wreaths, and outdoor lights. I’d bought five Christmas trees. One each for the entry, dining room, parlor, the landing on the second floor, and one for our living quarters.

  Each tree had a theme. The pink angel tree was already decorated for the dining room. The entry tree’s theme was an old-fashioned Christmas, in keeping with the house, so we popped popcorn and strung it, strung cranberries, candy canes, old toys, strings of lights that looked like candles, and raffia. The parlor tree was Jacob’s idea: it was a music tree. We wrapped it in colored lights, and attached a lady’s violin, a flute, a few small drums, and sheet music tied in ribbon. The ornaments were all musical instruments.

  The tree on the landing was the “Shiny Ornament Tree,” dubbed so by Sarah. Only huge, shiny, colorful ornaments and white lights.

  It was decorating the tree in our living space on the third floor, a winter sun peeking through the French doors, that brought on the tears.

  “Let’s get out the ornaments we brought from the other house,” Sarah said, angry. “Then we can remember that our mother dumped us in favor of her boyfriend.”

  Jacob slumped on the couch.

  “Or, hey,” Sarah said. “Maybe we can remember all the Christmases where Mom either wasn’t there or had another boyfriend lying around.”

  Jacob scrunched his shoulders in.

  “She’s not coming to visit us, is she, Aunt Meredith?” he asked.

  My heart ached for the kids; my stomach burned with anger toward my sister. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  Jacob buried his head. Sarah kicked the couch, three times. “I don’t even like her, and I’m glad she’s not coming, but I’m so mad at her!” She kicked the couch again. I hugged her, she tried to struggle away, I held her close, she struggled more, then gave up the fight and hugged me back. We both hugged Jacob. “I love you two so much,” I said. And I want to string your mother up by her toes on a tree deep, deep in the forest.

  We did not use the ornaments from the other house. We went and bought entirely new ornaments: bears in canoes, Santas on skis, Mrs. Claus in a tutu, upside-down elves, a confused Rudolph, singing reindeer, a snowman sunning himself on a chaise lounge, and two crosses. When we finished decorating the tree, we were actually laughing.

  I dreamed of the accident again.

  The clanging noise, the burning, acrid smells, the pitch darkness, my sister’s giggle, that wrenching pain. I saw him running toward me; he was blurry. I saw his hands reach for me. The blackness enveloped me, sucked me in. The last thing I saw was his eyes.

  “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I’m glad I didn’t have to do the twister last night with my husband.” Katie blew her bangs out of her eyes. No wonder she was so thin. Four kids and a husband who chased her around the house. “We settled for the hurricane. So much easier, and I could wear my trench coat. How popular do you think weather games in bed are with other women?”

  “I hardly know what to say, Katie,” I said. The hurricane? The twister? Dare I ask?

  “I wouldn’t know, Katie,” Hannah said. Her T-shirt said, “E=MC squared.” “For some reason, members of the opposite sex do not find me attractive. I do think I would be good at the hurricane and the twister, as long as there was some sort of mathematical equation I could attach to it.” She pushed her glasses further up her nose. “There are no solid mathematical equations for human emotions, though. It’s so perplexing.”

  Vicki flicked her brown and gray ponytail back and said, “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I’m glad I have the horses I have. Fast and afraid of nothing. Plus I got another ranch hand. The man’s gorgeous. If all he does all day is walk back and forth in front of my windows, he’ll earn his salary.”

  “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I am so thrilled I’ve memorized another twenty-five prime numbers,” Hannah said. “And, I’ve decided to attend a mathematics convention in Sacramento. All day, every day, math. It’ll be the trip of a lifetime.”

  There was another silence.

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Hannah,” Katie said, dumbfounded.

  We were interrupted by Barry Lynn, who stood on top of a chair and pointed at her Christmas tree in the corner. It was decorated with white lights and beer and wine glass ornaments. Already, there were loads of gifts and bikes. “Folks, only a few more weeks for my toy drive. Kids are in need. We need to give them a Christmas. Bring those gifts and bikes in or you’ll get suspended from my bar.”

  We raised our beer glasses. The Three Wise Women and I had already dropped off four bikes and a pile of toys.

  “So how is it being the director of the Telena Christmas Concert Series?” Vicki asked.

  “I might lose my mind over it. It’ll probably fall out of my head, land in my eggs. I’ll whip it right up, and I won’t even notice. We need people who can sing and dance and play instruments and be in skits. I’m signing you three up for a skit.”

  “Us? I haven’t been in a skit since fourth grade,” Vicki said. “I played a sheriff, and at the end of my solo I shot off my gun into the ceiling. My teacher, Mrs. Phillips, had told me, ‘Remember, Vicki, end your solo with a bang.’ I thought she meant for me to shoot off my gun. It got the audience’s attention.”

  “Well, you’re going onstage again,” I said. “But no shooting of guns.”

  “What will our skit be about?” Hannah asked.

  “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in the Three Wise Women.”

  They gaped at me and then, slowly, Hannah nodded. “Are there any rules? Any formulas?”

  “Rules?” I pondered that. “Well, it’s a Christmas concert so your skit should have Christmas in it somehow. And keep it clean.”

  “I think I have an idea,” Katie whispered, then giggled. She stared into space. She chuckled. She tapped her fingers. She laughed. “Ha! Ha ha! I’ve got it.”

  “Good.”

  “Put us down. We’ll do it.”

  “Well, at least there will be one act,” I said.

  Katie laughed, huge and rollicking. “Yes indeedy. There will be an act. I’ll invite the gals from my Bible study to come. They have a warped sense of humor, so they’ll like it.” She motioned for Vicki and Hannah to put their heads near hers, then started whispering.

  They kept whispering. They giggled. They chuckled. They laughed.

  “Hey!” I protested. “I’m sitting right here, ladies! Hello!”

  Hannah hissed, “We need math in there to inspire our young people to become mathematicians, the greatest occupation.”

  “You’re gonna love our Christmas skit, sugar bell,” Vicki said. “We Three Wise Women know exactly what to do.”

  * * *

  I had no plans to go horseback riding with Logan. None. I would say no when he arrived.

  On Monday I watched the clock hit 11:30, then 12:00, then 12:30. I took a shower, washed my hair. Not for Logan, for myself, put on my cutest jeans and sweater, not for Logan, for myself, and added a bit of makeup, not for Logan, for myself.

  By the time the doorbell rang, exactly at 1:00, I was happy that I looked nice, for myself, and ignored the trembling in my hands and how sizzly I felt in those special secret spots.

  He smiled when I opened the door and handed me a beautiful Christmas bouquet tucked into a wicker basket with red roses, white lilies, baby’s breath, and greens. “I’m hoping, Meredith, that you’ve chan
ged your mind and will come horseback riding with me.”

  “No.” I smelled the flowers, couldn’t help it, tried not to bawl. I couldn’t remember the last time I got flowers....

  “For three hours, total, that’s it.”

  “No.” I reminded myself that the hulking he-man with the sharp emerald eyes could cause me calamitous heartbreak. “You would have to carry me off by force before I would go horseback riding with you.”

  He stepped closer to me and, before I knew it, he had swung me up into his arms. I almost dropped my Christmas flowers! “Darn it! What are you doing?”

  “I would like to take you horseback riding, Meredith, but I won’t carry you off by force, so let’s stand here and chat for a while. I’m comfortable. Are you?”

  “Put me down.” My voice sounded shrieky. “We’re not going to chat, we’re not going horseback riding, you can’t give me Christmas flowers like this and sweep me off my feet. . . .” I stopped. How stupid could I have sounded?

  “Then let’s talk for a while.”

  “Talk? I’m in your arms. I can’t talk, I can’t even think!”

  Logan grinned at me. I thought of cupcakes, I don’t know why. Pink and blue ones. I wanted to lick the cupcakes.

  Three older ladies, all neighbors, gaped at us from the end of my pathway. I heard one of them say, none too quiet because she is a loud person, “That’s Logan Taylor. He saved Meredith the other night at Barry Lynn’s. He’s come for Christmas. He has nice hips, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. Firm. Not too thin. Enough to grip,” her companion added.

  “My Sherman had nice hips. I miss his hips. I do not miss him. He was a cross between a lizard and the devil,” the third lady said.

  I didn’t ponder that confusing statement for too long. “Please, Logan,” I whispered, furious. “Put me down. The neighbors are going to talk. . . .”

  “Young man, what are your intentions?” one of the ladies demanded.

  “My intentions for today are to take Meredith horseback riding.”

  “Oh my stars and sex! Isn’t that romantic!”

  “Go, Meredith, go! Take it while you can; get it while you can get it!”

  “I’ll go and ride your horse.” One of the ladies poked her cane in Logan’s direction. “I’ll ride you all night.”

  My mouth dropped open. Is that what would happen when I was older? I would still be thinking about . . . that!

  “Meredith, if you don’t say yes, I’ll go in your place. I’m a she-lion.”

  The ladies continued to have their fun while I hissed, “Put me down, you giant giant. Let go of me, you obstinate boar.”

  “Meredith, we can stand here all day,” Logan drawled. “Believe me, you don’t weigh more than a shovel full of feathers, you should eat more, but I think it would be easier if you agreed to go horseback riding with me.”

  My face was inches from his. I saw the way his hair was ruffled by the wind, the slant of that full mouth, the humor in those eyes.

  “Okay,” I whispered, knowing, knowing, I was signing up my heart for brokenness. “I’ll ride you this once.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I meant, I’ll ride with you this once.”

  His eyes, no kidding, they twinkled again. His mouth tilted. He held me closer for a second, then gently put me on my feet.

  “Thank you, ladies,” he said, waving. “Meredith has agreed that a horseback ride is exactly what she wants to do this afternoon.”

  “How come Meredith gets all the fun! Excitement is wasted on the youth!”

  “I’d still like to ride you, young man. I’d have to bring my cane.... Do you mind canes?”

  “You can ride my horse any day. . . .”

  I rolled my eyes and slammed into the house, stomping up to my bedroom to get a jacket and my gray cowgirl hat with a black ribbon. I pretended that I didn’t care that the Christmas flowers Logan had brought me were so lush and beautiful and that he was lush and beautiful.

  * * *

  “You’re on, macho cowboy, tell me more about yourself.”

  Logan moved his horse closer to mine, both horses panting, the two of us panting, too, after we’d galloped them across his property. It had been so much fun, I had laughed, and laughed again, for the first time in a long, long time.

  “I’m a man from Montana.” He grinned.

  “And?”

  “A businessman.”

  “Ah. You’re mysterious.”

  “Not at all. I’ll tell you everything if you want, but can I get away with saying that I’m a professional fly fisherman?”

  “You could, but I already knew that. It was the glint you got in your eye when I asked you about your fishing rods at your cabin.”

  Logan had a new log cabin, about fifteen minutes outside of Telena, on a hill. I knew at night his view of the town lights would be pure magic. As it was, during the day, he had a full-on sweeping view of the town and the Elk Horn mountains.

  The “log cabin” definition should not be misunderstood here. His home was sprawling, with a pitched roof and high ceilings. The logs were a golden color on the inside that seemed to glow. A modern kitchen had all the cool, new appliances; there was a breakfast nook, a great room, and a den. We’d had lunch in the breakfast nook, bought by Logan, from my favorite Greek restaurant, which was delicious.

  Upstairs there were three bedrooms, with a master bedroom that faced west so, as Logan explained, “I can see all the sunsets I’ve been missing out on all my life because all I’ve done is work so far.”

  I about choked on that one. I had this thing, this incessant interest in and excitement about sunsets. Every night they were different, radically, utterly different, like a gift, and I wanted to see each and every one of them, too.

  I scooted out of that bedroom fast, so fast that Logan laughed. I had imagined him, sleeping on that bed, naked, and for some reason there was a pile of talking lemon meringue cookies on the nightstand, a glorious sunset lighting up that room like gold and pink fire.

  “Do you happen to like fly fishing, Meredith?” He was relaxed in his saddle; he’d obviously spent a lot of time on horses, like me.

  Should I tell him? Would that link us too strongly, fly fishing pole to fly fishing pole?

  “Have you ever been?” he asked.

  We already loved charging horses over wide open spaces.

  “It’s a great experience. Beautiful,” he said.

  We loved sunsets. We did not like drunken sea urchins.

  “I think you might like it.”

  We both wore cowboy boots.

  “Logan,” I said, turning toward him, “I live for fly fishing. I live for it.”

  Now, men should not get that excited about women who fly fish. It’s a bit too carnal, but he could not stop that easy grin from spreading across his face. He looked up briefly to the sky as if saying, “God, thank you.”

  At the same time, I was almost quivering. He loved fly fishing, too!

  Our horses neighed to each other. He didn’t say anything for a second, and I knew he was in a state of fish-bliss, like me. The wind ruffled that blondish hair of his. He had the kind of face you get when you spend much of your life outside, which made him look like a man, not a pretty boy. “Tell me how you came to love fly fishing, Meredith.”

  Well, first off, I loved it because I did not have to be with my sister. Could I say that this early in the relationship? No, I would sound like an unforgiving, mean loon.

  “I loved it because I had my mom and dad to myself.” That was the utter truth. My sister didn’t like it, so she and her temper tantrums and mood swings didn’t come. “We’d get up early and take our drift boat down the Missouri or Smith Rivers.”

  “I’ve been on both rivers many times.”

  “All good fly fishermen and women have,” I said, pushing my gray cowgirl hat back. Logan was a fly fishing dude. Of course he’d been on those rivers, and many more.

  “What else did you love about it?”

&nb
sp; “I loved being outside with my parents, being on the water, watching the wildlife, not seeing it from behind a glass window. I loved catching the fish, of course, the challenge, the techniques, but more than that I liked the peace. I liked being in natural beauty. I still do. My mother always said, ‘Rivers are a gift, Meredith. Fly fishing is a gift. It is a gift that I always catch more fish than your father.’”

  Logan laughed.

  “And my father said that fly fishing is like having one foot into heaven. So, you see, loving fly fishing is in my genes.”

  Incredibly, Logan asked me questions after that, about my parents and my childhood in Telena, and hung on every word. I say, “incredibly,” because in my experience men ask women one or two questions, as if they need to check it off their lists, then they launch off on themselves again, addicted to their own lives, their voice a song to their shriveled brains. He asked about my sister. “Can we talk about her another time?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  He was a smart man. I had told him earlier that her kids were living with me, but I had the feeling that he already knew. Clearly there was a problem there, but he let it go.

  “How did you come to love fly fishing?” I asked him.

  “I had a coach named Bill Rotowsky who literally collared me into every sport my school offered. Football, basketball, track, wrestling. I think he saw my home life, how my mother and I struggled financially, saw my rebellious, anti-authority streak, and he came right for me. Sometimes, when I was younger, Mr. Rotowsky used to take me out fishing. His son, Caleb, who is still my best friend, always came, too. They would pick me up early in the morning, we’d drive to the river, and we’d fish all day. Mrs. Rotowsky always made a lunch, and snacks for us, and put everything in a wicker picnic basket. At the time, I didn’t know what I was more excited about: fishing or what was inside that picnic basket. But the best thing about those fishing trips was that I felt I belonged. I was part of a family. I had a father figure in Mr. Rotowsky, a mother figure in Mrs. Rotowsky, and a brother in Caleb. That picnic basket was a microcosm of what family love looked like to me.”