by Cathy Lamb
A wind picked up and blew by, and I huddled into my coat. I wanted to huddle into Logan’s and hug him. It was hard to see a young, hurt, lonely kid in Logan now, but it was there, and it made me hurt. I thought of Jacob and Sarah, how lost they were, how lonely for a mother who had never acted like a mother.
“I’m sorry, Logan,” I said. “I’m sorry that your childhood was . . . such a struggle, a challenge.”
“I didn’t tell you so you could feel sorry for me, Meredith; I told you because I wanted you to know about it. I wanted you to know what was behind my love of fly fishing. If I’d had a different childhood, with less bumps in it, less trauma, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I wouldn’t be the person I am now. I understand people better because of what I went through. I know what it’s like to be poor. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know how people can morph into someone they’re not when they’re struggling. I get it. The river, for me, was the great equalizer. It’s you and nature and fish.”
“Fly fishing isn’t only about fly fishing, is it?” I said, and smiled at him.
He smiled back, and for a second I realized that my anger, such a constant for years since my accident, was gone. At least temporarily.
“You’re right. Fly fishing is not only about fly fishing. But I still cannot truly explain how thrilling it is each and every time to actually hook one.”
I laughed. “There’s nothing like it, is there? Nothing.”
“Well, there is something like it, only it’s better.”
“Something is better than fly fishing?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Falling in love.”
I swallowed hard. Yes, that would be better. I sneaked a peek at Logan. He smiled back.
“Even though you look so macho and male and testosterone practically oozes out of you, I think you’ve got a romantic side, don’t you?” I said.
“Now you know my secret.”
“You hide it.”
“Yep. I do. But I’m showing you it’s there. Only you.”
“Thanks, Logan, I’ll take note of that.”
“You do that.”
I thought my heart would flip.
“Want to race?” he asked.
I did. I had to, or I would probably lean over and kiss that Montana man.
I kicked my heels, and our horses thundered off.
I won.
Chapter 5
That night, alone in bed, scrunched up in my yellow comforter, I admired the manger I’d set up on my dresser. I took it out every Christmas season, the day after Thanksgiving, as my parents had. My grandma, the first owner of the manger, always said to me, often with a whiskey tonic swirling in one hand and a cigar in the other, “Gifts are great, but don’t forget the ultimate gift.” Then she’d give Jesus a kiss.
The manger had seen better days, but then so had the barn where Jesus was born, so I figured it was authentic. There was fake hay, a pitched roof with a tilted star on it, the back wall painted blue. One of the wise men had no head. A lamb was missing a leg. A shepherd had lost an arm. The drummer boy’s face was mostly gone, I don’t know how that happened. But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were in good shape.
I thought of my grandma then, long gone. Her thoughts on love? “Love big, sweetie. Love the right man. Love love.” Then she’d kiss me and say, “And don’t forget the bedroom. That’s a man’s favorite place to be.”
I thought of Logan in my yellow bed. I groaned.
With those tantalizing images dancing through my head I thought about this impossible situation. Logan has a house here. He would be in and out of Telena. I live here full time, therefore I could not get involved with him, be rejected when he knew more about me, end up emotionally shredded, and then have to see him all the time and pretend everything was fine.
I couldn’t do it.
I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth. The problem with getting older, as a woman, and losing all innocence and naïveté, is that you have lost all innocence and naïveté. You know things don’t always work out. You know what’s coming down the pike in terms of pain. You know that your heart could get pummeled.
And, you know when you meet a man, like Logan Taylor, whom you are connecting with on every level, that he’s the one who’s gonna do it to you.
He’s the one who’s going to send you under the covers, crying your eyes out for days, sniffling into tissues, your face a blotchy mess, as you contemplate joining a nunnery in rural Iowa.
I can’t do it.
I won’t do it.
I should have been able to do it. I felt that anger creep on in again.
* * *
“We have to get our numbers back up again for the concert,” I told the board of the Telena Christmas Concert Series the next night. I had brought my No-Flour Freak Out Frozen Chocolate Pie.
“This is exquisite,” Norm said. “A sensory slice of heaven.”
“My goodness it tastes like romance!” Becky Nutt sighed.
“By cannons and guns,” Howard said, “This is the best pie I’ve ever had.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I said, and leaned forward. “We need something new, something different . . .”
They nodded.
“We need a concert with energy, originality, spark. We need to make the audience laugh, sing, and most important remember what Christmas is all about. We’ve got a terrible economy here, and bringing people in from all over will add money to Telena’s businesses, with all our profits going to the children’s hospital wing.”
“Can’t do what Ava the Hun did last year,” Barry Lynn said.
“She picked only a few people to be in the concert! Excluded so many people.”
“That’s right. People who had been in the concert for years were knocked out so she could have the perfect, boring choir up there.”
“She hurt people’s feelings by kicking them out.”
I thought of Telena, the people I’d known as a kid, the ones I knew now. I thought of the mix of people who came into my bed and breakfast every day.
“I have it,” I whispered, the idea forming in my head, gaining speed by the second. “I think I’ve got it . . . How does this sound . . .”
* * *
“I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I’m grateful my husband is going out of town for a week so I can get a break,” Katie said. “He bought me a Mrs. Claus outfit with a red thong and short, ruffled skirt with white fur trim. The satin shirt has a V neck plunging to my waist and no back.”
I brought a beer to my lips. “I hardly know what to say, Katie.”
I noticed that the Christmas tree in Barry Lynn’s bar now had many presents underneath it. Of course the sign, IF YOU DON’T GIVE TO MY TOY DRIVE YOU’LL BE SUSPENDED FROM MY BAR, helped, too.
“In my Grateful Journal I wrote down that when I’m herding cattle through a snowstorm I’m grateful that I’ve never gotten lost. God gave me a GPS system in my head.” Vicki tapped her head.
“I’m grateful that God gave us math, and I finally received my new calculus textbook. I can’t wait to start working on it! I’m saving it for Friday night,” Hannah said. She pushed her brown curls back with both hands, she was so excited. “I’m sure my students will be thrilled, too. I get positively orgasmic off of math, equations, quantum physics . . .”
There was a dead silence. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Hannah,” Katie said, confused.
“What did you write in your Grateful Journal, Meredith?” Vicki asked.
“I wrote I’m grateful that . . .” What I was grateful for was that I had not flung myself into Logan’s arms yet, stripped off his shirt, buttons flying, yanked off his belt, pulled off his pants, and jumped him. I could, so easily, take the pleasure for as long as it lasted and live off those memories the rest of my life. “I wrote that I’m grateful for you three.” That was true; you have to be grateful for your girlfriends.
Vicki sniffled. Hanna
h held my hand.
“That’s so sweet,” Katie said, tearing up. “I don’t know what I’d do without you three. All day long, with four noisy kids, then Mr. Creative Love Life comes home and my second shift begins, and I usually have part of a Bible study to finish.... Do other women like wearing vampire masks with their husbands to bed? Those plastic teeth are so uncomfortable.”
* * *
Jacob had a day off school and he played his own haunting, emotional songs in the parlor while Martha, Mary, and I served breakfast to the overnight guests, no cranky ones, none too odd, and the regular crew of people from town who were in and out all morning.
It was when I was pouring coffee for the professors and their professor friend from Nigeria, Chinaza, that I heard him talk about how he loves to play the drums.
“Have you played for long?” I asked.
“Oh yes, since I was child. In our village, we all play drums.”
“Does your family live in Nigeria still?” I asked.
His face fell. “Some. Too many gone. My aunt, though, she live in France, my father and his wife in Germany. I here.”
We fell silent for a moment, and I was struck, as I often am, by others’ pain. But then I had an idea. “Would you like to play the drums for the Telena Christmas Concerts?”
I could tell by his huge smile that his answer would be yes.
“I bring my village in Nigeria to here, to Montana, to my new friends, my new home.” He patted my hand. “Yes, I play the drums for you. Thank you. Now I can give a gift.”
I didn’t spare the professors. “I hear you play the xylophone, Stan.”
“Yep, I do. My grandfather taught me.”
“Good. I’m signing you up to play in Telena’s Christmas Concerts.”
“Me? In a Christmas concert?”
“Yes, you. Start practicing. And, Terry, you have a low, deep voice. You’re going to be my narrator.”
Terry, with the low, deep voice looked so surprised, and so pleased. “Are you sure? The narrator! I’ve always wanted to be the narrator! Whoa ho! Thanks, Meredith!”
“No problem. Rehearsals start immediately.”
Buoyed by my new drummer and company, I headed back to the kitchen. But I was stopped by Charlie, one of the Old Timers, who said, “By golly, if I were to die today and meet my maker and hear the choirs of angels singing, I would be happy, Meredith, because I’ve had your Kick Butt Crab Cocktail and it is scrumptious! Scrumptious.”
I eyed the Old Timers.
They eyed me back. Davis counted off, one, two, three, and they all yelled, “Merry Meredith!”
“Very funny. Gentlemen, do you sing Christmas songs?”
I later peered out the window, up and down the snowy street. Who else had talent in this town who I could throw up on stage for this Christmas extravaganza? My high school friend, Marty Shan, had a dance studio, and everyone likes seeing little kids in costumes.... I would ask my artist friends, Claudia and Tim, if they could paint something holidayish, maybe we could transfer their work up to a screen during the concert.... The choirs from different churches, schools . . . Ranna May for sure . . .
“Do you think it’s normal to crave avocados in your cereal when you’re pregnant?” Mary asked. “Because I do. Do we have any avocados?”
* * *
“Good evening.”
Logan. Right behind me.
I kept my eyes on the towering Christmas tree in the middle of the town square that would soon be lit with hundreds of colored lights. My body felt like melting into a warm puddle of caramel.
Currently, a group of kindergarteners on bleachers in front of the tree were singing Christmas songs for a large crowd of people. One of them was picking her nose with her middle finger and studying the contents so it looked like she was flipping the audience the bird; another was turned completely around wriggling his butt in time to the music; a third, Katie’s daughter, kept exuberantly raising her red velvet dress up over her head, then down again, after displaying her underwear.
Her mother, Katie, stood beside me, “Oh gracious God, oh gracious God,” she kept muttering. “Do something!” she hissed to her husband. He was a kind and dear man and tried to signal their daughter to stop flashing the audience.
It backfired. She brought the skirt way, way up and waved the skirt at her parents. “Lord Almighty,” Katie breathed. “And she had to wear her brother’s Spiderman underwear, didn’t she?”
“Hello, Logan.” My voice sounded squeaky. I tried to breathe, couldn’t, then decided to pretend to be composed. “Logan.”
“Meredith,” he said. He was way too close, making me feel small compared to that giant chest. “Nice to see you again.”
“You, too.” Darn that squeak! But how could I talk when I was now envisioning Logan fly fishing next to me, with wedding cakes on silver platters gently sailing down the river around us? I shook my head. Wedding cakes! Where had that come from?
“Where are Sarah and Jacob?”
“They’re at home. I invited them but . . .”
“They didn’t want to come?”
I shook my head. No, Sarah didn’t want to come because, she said, “The girls don’t like me. Larissa drew a picture of me with all this black makeup over my eyes. Everybody laughed. She called me raccoon-hooker face.” She’d pretended she didn’t care, but she ran up the stairs lightning quick and slammed her door.
“Jacob, do you want to go to the tree lighting tonight?” I’d asked.
He’d pounded out Bach on the piano then said, “No. Did my mom call today?”
When I said no, he went back to a ferocious pounding of Bach, but I saw the tears.
Telena was in high Christmas gear. The main street of town had been decorated with garlands, with huge displays of red and green lights arching over the entire street. Trees were wrapped in white lights, and each lamppost was decorated with a huge wreath.
Logan suddenly laughed, and I knew he had spotted the girl who was flipping everyone the bird.
“How about dinner afterward?” he said.
“No.” I felt that tension instantly between us.
“Why not?”
Why not? Because I was feeling way too much for this man, way too soon, and the situation was an impossible heartache speeding toward me that I needed to avoid. “I . . . uh . . . I need to get home . . . to wrap presents.”
“To wrap presents,” he said, long and low. “Ah. Well, with Christmas weeks away, it’s a good idea to get right on it.”
“Yes. It is.”
“How about dinner, then I’ll help you wrap the presents up?”
“No.” I turned so I was facing him. I tried to speak quietly because the Three Wise Women, Katie, Hannah, and Vicki, were nosily eavesdropping. “Logan, I don’t date.... I told you that.... I’m not in the . . . mood.”
“All right, if you don’t want to call it a date, let’s call it dinner.”
“That’s not going to work—”
“So would everyone please welcome . . .” Norm, standing on stage, dramatically drew his words right on out, “our next director of the Telena Christmas Concert Series, Merry Meredith Ghirlandaio!”
Whew. For the first time in my life, I was glad my name was being announced over a loudspeaker. I scooted on stage, everyone clapping and shouting and cheering, and stood right in front of Katie’s daughter. I subtly waved my hand down, and she dropped her dress to her knees, covering Spiderman. I knew Katie would thank me forever.
“Hello everyone, this year’s concert is going to be spectacular. We have a few changes, but I think . . .”
I went on with my spiel, smiling, and at the end was given a red cowgirl hat with a Santa Claus on the brim from the mayor. “She knows how to wear ’em, doesn’t she folks? Coolest cowgirl hats in Montana. We all know that, well, maybe not everyone. We have a new man in town, many of you know him, from Copper, Logan Taylor. Welcome to Logan! We’re glad you’re here! Folks, he was the one who saved Meredith
at Barry Lynn’s. A real gentleman.”
I wanted to dissolve, disappear, hide.
Logan grinned at me as people slapped him on the shoulder, clapped, cheered.
The Christmas tree lit up, everyone oohed and aahed, and we were into, officially, the Christmas season.
And soon I was, unofficially, on a dinner date with Logan. I don’t even know how he got me into the restaurant. The man’s so persuasive I don’t know why he bothers to use a fly when he fishes. I’ll bet he can just as easily ask the fishies to jump up on shore, and they’d do it....
* * *
“So you’ve never been married before, Meredith?”
I dropped the bell-shaped Christmas cookie to my plate and tried, once again, not to envision Logan kissing me outside his huge, decorated gingerbread house. Argh. I am so weird.
“No, I’ve never been married. I’m surprised no one told you that; you seem to know everything else. I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew the circumference of my head, my grades in high school, and my favorite rock star.”
He smiled in the dim light, the candles at our table flickering. “Okay. I was told you hadn’t been married, but I was confirming it.”
I picked up my coffee and tucked my white streak behind my ear. I love when coffee is served, as I do at my B and B, in thick white ceramic cups, and I love adding cream from cold silver pitchers. “Consider the fact confirmed. I’m still trying to figure out why I’m here, out at a restaurant with you, eating all sorts of delicate appetizers and miniature lemon meringue pies. You’re smooth, Logan. How come I’m letting you push me around?”
“I’m not pushing you around. I simply convinced you that a dinner tonight would be a good start to the Christmas season. Ho ho ho.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Have you ever wanted to get married?”
“No.” I dragged my thoughts away from him and being married to him, waking up each morning, making strawberry crepes together, kissing, fly fishing dates, fires outside a tent while camping, kissing, canoeing, hugging, laughing, horseback riding, hanging out with the kids for movie nights, making love, kissing more . . . and then the pain came. Hard, fast, like it was splitting me in two, followed by the anger because I couldn’t go there, because the choice to go there had been taken from me.
