A Very Merry Christmas

by Cathy Lamb

  “The problem, Meredith, is that I am never going to be able to forget you.”

  I tried to breathe in and out like a normal person.

  “I went to California to work, to check on my business down there, and I could not,” he snapped his mouth shut, and looked away, “I could not get you out of my head for a single damn second and you know what? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get you out of my head, and here you are, in Telena, breaking off our relationship, breaking off us, and I have no idea in hell why you did it. None.”

  “Logan, I—”

  “You what?” He glowered down at me, that frustration, that raw hurt emanating from him. “You want to throw out what we have? You are driving me up the wall. No woman has ever hit me in the heart like you have, but you want to go back to your bed and breakfast and hide, Meredith, from me.”

  “I don’t think you understand—”

  “I understand, Meredith, that you keep pushing me away, but you don’t have the courage to be honest about why. What’s between us is normal, it’s natural, and I adore you and your cowboy hats so why are you cutting me out of your life?”

  I felt hot tears spring to my eyes and I blinked quick, told myself to suck it up, be a strong cowgirl, and deal with the blow I knew was coming. This would be it. I knew he would not want to see me after this. I knew that. I heard the voices of those other men and my sister in my head, that black cape of pain settling on my shoulders.

  I couldn’t bear it. I ran a hand through the white streak in my hair, pushed all my black hair back, then wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him in tight. I wanted one last hug.

  He hesitated for a minute. I knew he was fighting with himself, but then those strong arms were around me again, tight and loving. “I have never met anyone as troublesome and as difficult as you, Meredith.”

  Within a minute, though, he was pulling away, hands on his hips, inhaling deeply. “Okay, I can’t do this, Meredith, I can’t get thrown into all the passion between us only to have you walk, or run, away from me. Is it me? Are you afraid of getting hurt? I will never hurt you. Are you still afraid I want some short fling? I can assure you that’s not what I want.”

  Those tears dropped out on their own accord. I probably resembled a menopausal porcupine. What had happened to my tough girl demeanor? My strength and fortitude? What happened to the woman who could break a horse? Who could belt a drunken sea urchin? Where was she?

  “Meredith, tell me now. I thought things were going great, I can hardly resist you, but if the feeling isn’t mutual, tell me, and I will go away this time. I will. It’ll kill me, but I will.”

  “No, Logan, it’s not that.” I adored him, too. So much. “It’s that.... I don’t think you’re going to like me after I tell you . . . something.”

  “Babe, I will like you. I don’t care what you tell me, I will like you. I will never stop liking you. You are the most likable person I’ve met . . . What is it?”

  “I . . .” I hated this. I hated this moment. So, I blubbered some more and tried to get control.

  “Aw now, honey, honey,” he pulled me close, and I clung to him. I knew after I told Logan about my leg he would pretend it didn’t matter; that was the kind of man he was. But I knew it would matter. It had mattered to everyone else. He would not want to sleep with me. He would not want to be with me. He would not want to ride horses and fly fish and eat my strawberry crepes anymore. He would make his excuses, and he would be gone, and these last holiday weeks, which had been so . . . magical, so fun and warm and happy . . . gone. All gone.

  “I have to tell you that . . .” I about choked, the top of my head under his chin. “I . . . Logan, I . . . I haven’t wanted to get close to you . . . physically because . . . because Logan, I don’t have . . . I have a right leg, but I only, my left leg was amputated below the knee.” I closed my eyes and more tears slipped through. “I wear a prosthesis. I was in a car accident when I was younger. . . .”

  Harsh, screaming images of that night flashed through my mind.

  “I know.”

  “What?” I pulled away to stare into those green eyes. “You know?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  I wanted to conk myself in the head. Of course he knew. It was a small town. Who was I fooling? You were fooling yourself. Yes, I was. I didn’t want him to know, so I hoped he didn’t. “Someone told you. A lot of people told you, didn’t they?”

  “No, honey. No one told me. They kept your privacy. The reason I know”—he cupped my face with one warm, strong hand—“the reason I know is because I was there with you the night of the accident.”

  I tried to form a word, but couldn’t.

  “I was the one who put a tourniquet on your leg with my T-shirt. I ripped your sweatshirt in half and gave you CPR. I stabilized you until the paramedics and your parents came.”

  I held tight to his shoulders so I wouldn’t collapse. “That was you?”

  “Yes, it was. When I saw you in Barry Lynn’s, I recognized the white streak in your hair. You were critically hurt that night, and I didn’t think you would remember me, plus it was a long time ago. I didn’t tell you before this, Meredith, because I didn’t want it to be something odd, something heavy between us. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me. I wanted us to be built on us, not that event, or any other misplaced emotions surrounding that tragedy. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you before.”

  “I . . . I . . .” I was shocked.

  “Sit down, Meredith. Let’s talk.” I collapsed on a bench, and we talked about the accident, my sister’s reaction, my medical trauma, and how he left for California the day after the accident for work but called the hospital to get a report on me. “I felt terrible for you. Just terrible, and I worried about you. You have no idea how often I’ve thought of you over the years and wished you well, hoped that you were happy.”

  When the nerve-blowing shock of sitting next to the man who had literally saved my life waned so I could think again, we got back to my leg.

  “My prosthesis doesn’t bother you, Logan?”

  He looked utterly confused and more than slightly ticked off. “Why in hell would it bother me, Meredith?”

  “Because I have a prosthesis, because I’m not whole. . . .”

  “You’ve got to be joking.” He did not say those words too nicely.

  “No, I’m not—”

  “You’re not that self-pitying are you? You can’t possibly believe that?”

  I closed my eyes. Had I been self-pitying? Had I let my resentment of the loss of my leg, the anger I felt toward my sister, mottle my thinking that badly? Had I allowed the accident to take more than part of my leg, but also a huge chunk of my self-esteem, my joy, who I am as a woman? Had the anger taken me from me? Yes, I thought instantly, yes, it has.

  “I do . . . I have . . . Other men . . .”

  “Meredith, I am not ‘other men’,” Logan semi-shouted. “I have never been ‘other men’. I will never be ‘other men’. Has this been why you’ve pushed me away? Why you can’t commit, why you can’t be . . .” He struggled to find the word. “Is this why we can’t be together?”

  “Yes. I don’t want you to see me . . . I’d feel exposed. . . I feel ugly . . . I don’t like to be naked with that . . . I always wear pants . . . Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Now that steamed him to the boiling point. “After all the time we’ve spent together, do you think I’m that damn shallow? Do you think I’m the kind of man who would let something like that bother me?”

  I bit my lip.

  “You did, didn’t you? Haven’t I shown you that I’m more of a man than that? Why would you think I would break up with you once I found out?”

  Why would I think that? Because I didn’t like that part of myself. Well, of course you don’t, I thought, of course you would rather have your leg back. Anyone would. And yet, your leg is only one small part of yourself. It isn’t your compassion, or your kindness to others, or y
our smarts, or your ability to shoot targets in the center, fly fish, or hug Sarah and Jacob. It’s a sad thing. It’s done. You’re still here, aren’t you? You’re still alive, right, at Christmastime, in Telena, with Logan?

  “I . . . I didn’t . . . I judged you unfairly, Logan, I did. I assumed you would react a certain way, based on my past, how I let others make me feel, how stupid men made me feel, and based on how I feel about myself. And I was wrong.”

  “You certainly were!” he roared, a bull now who was not happy. “One hundred percent wrong.”

  For a long time we locked gazes, his furious, mine apologetic. I knew I still looked like a menopausal porcupine.

  He stood and turned around, those shoulders huge and solid, and I heard him swear, and mutter something about me being “an impossibly difficult woman,” but by the time he turned around, hands on those yummy hips, I knew we’d crossed a threshold. He sighed. “Damn, but I thought I was going to lose it in California, alone, lonely, wanting you by me. Is there anything else, sugar, that’s going to keep you from kissing me for the rest of my life?”

  For the rest of his life? Dare I hope? I shook my head.

  “Nothing?”

  “As long as you promise never to give up your cowboy boots, I think we’ll be good.” The menopausal porcupine smiled through her tears.

  He pulled me into his hug and this time, with that Christmas tree glowing in the distance, the North Star extra bright, I gave Logan Taylor a big smackeroo right on the lips.

  “I love you, Meredith,” he murmured. “I love you so much.”

  My life had not turned out as I had planned. I had lost part of a leg. I had spent months grieving, had to relearn to walk, and was in mind-smashing pain because my sister drove drunk. After that I had had to leave New York and my career to take care of her kids, who had brought me pain and joy, but much more joy than pain, and I had faith there would be more joy to come. Plus, I loved those kids with my whole happy heart.

  Everything had worked out near perfectly, barring the loss of my leg. It wasn’t the plan, but it was a near-perfect plan.

  “I love you, too, Logan. And thank you for saving me that night at Barry Lynn’s.”

  He laughed, and that laughter flew up and around us, swirling around, like Santa’s magic, sparkly and bright.

  “Thank you for saving my life years ago, too, cowboy.” Then I did what any tough Montana cowgirl/fly fisherwoman would do: I went toe to toe with him with our cowboy boots and didn’t stop those happy tears slipping down my face, mixing with his, as I kissed those luscious lips.

  I had a sudden, yummy vision of me and Logan kissing in front of his giant gingerbread house.

  Chapter 11

  For the concert I wore a black, satiny, sparkly dress that displayed a bit of cleavage (for Logan). The dress dropped to a few inches below my knees. I wore black cowboy boots with sparkle and my red cowgirl hat with the Santa Claus from the mayor. My prosthesis showed, and I felt fine about it.

  It was time for me to stop hiding. I was me, Meredith Ghirlandaio. I’d lost part of my leg. I still had my heart. Still had my arms, my white streak, and my frazzled brain. More importantly, I had Sarah and Jacob, Logan, my parents, and my friends. Logan said I looked like the bionic woman, exposed. I kissed him. He kissed me back, and Simon whipped out his violin and played part of a passionate love song.

  I’d learned a lot these last weeks. From Norm, Howard, Chinaza, and Maly I’d learned about enduring hardship and still embracing life. From Simon I’d learned to be brave again. From Logan I’d learned how to love and trust, and to continue my independence while depending on him for who we were together.

  From my sister I had learned who I did not want to be. Maybe we learn as much from others about how not to treat people as we do about how to be good, kind, and compassionate. I also learned I had to let go of the anger I had for Leia and the impact she’d had on my life. I had to stop wishing I could lasso her around the waist and drag her to Florida and leave her in a swamp with chomping alligators. That had to stop. Not for her, for me. My anger was hurting me. And, it had hurt my relationship with Logan. That was never, ever going to get in the way again.

  So I wore a shimmery black dress and my cowboy boots up on stage, smiled hugely, and said, “Good evening, everyone! Merry Christmas to all of you!”

  The concert began with the pink-haired teenagers rockin’ the house with “Jingle Bell Rock” with their own special slant, and we were off. The lights came down, and the full choir, wearing white robes and carrying candles, swayed down the center aisle singing upbeat Christmas carols. We put the words on two huge screens, and the audience stood and sang with them. Jacob came out next and softly played “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” while his new friend, Tuck Daniels, who held the hand of his sister, Marky, a specially-abled child, wondered aloud why we celebrated Christmas.

  A ringing solo by Ranna May, the former opera star, of “Let There Be Peace on Earth,” came next. While Tim and Claudia painted a lone, decorated Christmas tree on a snowy hill, their work projected on the screen, the choir belted out, “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” We had a duet backed up by the choir with “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” and a gospel number that brought the house down. The Wise Women Christmas skit could sometimes hardly be heard through the laughter. I can only explain it by saying it was about Christmas, single women, hot flashes, men, push up bras, tummy tuckers, math, birthing cows, runaway horses, Santa, and dating.

  Maly and one of her sons iced and decorated an exquisite gingerbread house, their work also projected up on the screens. The Old Timers Still Kickin’ Band came out and sang, in their shepherds outfits, “O Come All Ye Faithful.” A children’s choir sang two songs about Santa with Stan on his xylophone, with a bunch of little girls in red tutus and Santa hats dancing around. There were no devil masks. Norm and Howard spoke about their wartime experience, how the soldiers sang Christmas songs, and how their friend Paul said, “I’m grateful to be alive, and even more grateful you two are alive, thank you Jesus and Merry Christmas.” You could not hear a peep when they were talking. The Old Timers sang “Silent Night,” all lights off, each man holding a candle.

  Chinaza played his drums after telling a short story of his life in Nigeria, Jacob played “What Child Is This,” and we launched into the story of baby Jesus with Terry narrating and Tuck throwing in more questions about what Christmas is all about. We ended that scene in total silence with one spotlight right on Joseph and Mary/Sarah/Rebel Child as they held Jesus, the cross glowing behind them.

  Finally, Simon played his violin. Two Christmas songs. “I’m going to be brave, Meredith.” I heard the quick intake of breath as the audience gasped, almost in unison, “Oh my gosh, it’s Simon Baumgartner!” At the end, Simon beamed, his relief a palpable, breathable thing. It had been a battle for him to get back on stage. Battle won.

  We ended with everyone up on stage, in the balconies, candles lit, three more Christmas songs, including “Joy to the World” with Santa Claus (Logan) waving his way down the aisle, tossing candy, followed by a bunch of kids dressed like elves, and bam.

  We were done.

  Long, long, long standing ovation. The best part? After the concert I saw a whole bunch of girls surrounding Sarah, laughing and chatting, and a bunch of boys wrestling and talking with Jacob. Both of their faces were so joyful, so happy. I knew we had a new start.

  As I locked up the Community Center well after midnight, Logan pulled me close. “You are the most incredible person I have ever met in my life.”

  “Thank you, Santa.”

  We were booked solid starting the next morning and had to add three shows.

  * * *

  We hadn’t bargained for Mary’s baby to be born on Christmas Eve. The sweetheart was two weeks too early. But babies have tiny minds of their own; this one was ready, so out it came.

  The only problem? The mother, Mary.

  Mary, despite my insistence that she go
home and rest, did not. So, when she felt those universal pains that all mothers recognize, she ignored them and kept working around the bed and breakfast.

  Me, Logan, Jacob, Sarah in her Mary outfit, Joseph (her new friend) in his outfit, the shepherds (the Old Timers), the Three Wise Women (still laughing about their skit), Martha, and the drummer man from Nigeria, Chinaza, arrived home for pecan pie and eggnog to celebrate Christmas Eve together.

  When we found Mary, in the kitchen, on all fours, we knew we would soon be joined by one more. The paramedics were called and rushed in, but could not transport her because she was too far along. Her husband sprinted in, saw she was in pain, went pasty white all over, and raced to the bathroom. He came back in, hugged her, cried, went pasty white, raced for the bathroom.

  “He’s not very good at being pregnant,” Mary panted. “It makes him feel sick.”

  Logan propped her up. The Wise Women and I encouraged her, breathed with her, and held the baby when she arrived, squawking. The shepherds stayed in the other room with Sarah, Jacob, Chinaza, and Joseph.

  “Next time I’m going to make it to the hospital,” Mary panted, “but thank heavens I didn’t have to ride in on a donkey or give birth in a barn, amidst lambs and hay. That Mary was an incredible person.”

  That she was.

  The sweet baby’s name was Noelle.

  * * *

  “Merry Christmas,” Logan murmured against my mouth before he kissed me on Christmas Day.

  “Merry Christmas to you.”

  I gave him his gift. It was a wicker picnic basket filled with food. I’d made him turkey sandwiches carved into salmon shapes, two salads, and plate-sized chocolate chip cookies. He knew it stood for family.

  His eyes shone with tears, and he had to sit down. He patted the couch beside him and hugged me close. I saw him wipe his eyes but I pretended I didn’t. The big, emotional grizzly bear was a lot more emotional than he let on.

  He handed me a pink box. Inside there was a pink cake. On top of the pink cake there was a jewelry box. A jewelry box for a ring. Inside the jewelry box was a gorgeous sparkler with smaller sparklers surrounding the mongo sparkler.