Lakeshore Christmas

by Susan Wiggs

  The headache that had been building all morning reached a crescendo. Then again, so would the library. She hated having to choose. How did one compare the ineffable lifting up of the spirit with the priceless treasure of the library?

  You didn’t, she realized. And the decision had already been made the night before, the moment her pen touched the paper. Changing it now would mean that once again, she was second-guessing herself, just like Eddie accused her of doing. It would mean she’d caved in to Mr. Byrne’s bullying. She led the way into the vestibule.

  “It’s done,” she said stoutly. “You’ll have the most important role, so I hope you’re up to it.”

  His eyes lit, and his amazing smile seemed to warm the whole room. “I’m definitely up for it.”

  They shook hands, sealing the deal. “With all the rehearsals in the coming weeks, we’ll be seeing a lot of one another. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”

  His smile turned a little bashful. “Okay.”

  “You have an incredible voice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you had professional training?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “No, ma’am.” He shouldered his back pack and headed for the door. “See you around.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Have a good day, Jabez. Hey, can you use a ride?”

  He must not have heard her, because he was gone in an instant. After he left, she took one final look at the list. Her stomach tightened into a knot of nerves. She had better make this a kick-ass program, as Eddie would say.

  No pressure. No headache, either, she realized. One minute it was coming on like a freight train, yet now it was gone.

  With a feeling of well-being she wasn’t sure she’d earned, she headed for the door. As long as she was up this early, she might as well make the most of it.

  Because now, in addition to putting on a kick-ass program, she had to kick some ass in the library fund-raising department.

  She was so not good at ass-kicking, but realized it was all up to her. Having created this mess, she was the one who needed to figure a way out of it. The library’s budget was tapped out. What on earth made her think she’d find a way? Because she had no choice. She had to fix this. She stepped outside, into the gray early-morning chill. It was a new day. Every new day was an opportunity, she reminded herself.

  As she walked across the parking lot to her car, something struck her as odd. She frowned, not knowing what it was, and stopped in her tracks.

  Her tracks, that was it. She saw, in the snow, a line of footprints from her car to the portico of the building. But those were the only tracks she could make out. Where were Jabez’s footprints?

  She looked left and right, wondering if there was a different exit she didn’t know about that he could’ve taken. But no. There was none visible. There must be a simple explanation, but for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom what it was.

  The day had turned colder with the coming of the light, and snow flurries started up, chasing her and her overactive imagination to the car. She jumped in, blasted the heat and turned on the radio, which was set to her favorite local station, WKSM.

  “And here’s hoping this fine day is off to a great start for you,” said Eddie Haven.

  If she hadn’t been wearing her seat belt, she would have jumped right out of her seat. “Eddie?”

  “So take it from me, Eddie Haven. Get your shopping done early, and buy local this year. Your community will thank you.”

  Maureen was hyperventilating. “What on earth—”

  “…and thanks to Zuzu’s Petals boutique for sponsoring this part of our program,” Eddie continued. “Remember, Zuzu’s Petals, your neighborhood fashion-forward boutique.”

  “Oh.” Maureen slumped back against the seat. “Good grief, you’re on the radio.” She carefully pressed the accelerator and eased out of the parking lot. “I’m an idiot,” she said to an imaginary Eddie. “I thought I was hearing things.” She snatched up her phone and dialed her friend Olivia Davis, who was always up at oh-dark-thirty. “Eddie Haven’s on the radio,” she said.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Olivia said.

  “Are you listening to WKSM?”

  “Sure, every morning. The regular host is Jillian Snipe. She’s on hiatus and Eddie’s her substitute. He’s doing a good job, too.”

  “I never listen because it comes on at such an ungodly early hour,” Maureen confessed.

  “What are you doing up?” Olivia asked.

  “Long story,” Maureen said.

  “Meet me for coffee and we’ll have a chat.”

  Maureen smiled; Olivia was the best sort of friend, the kind who would drop everything if she sensed she was needed. Soon, Olivia would go the way of new mothers. This was what her married friends did. They moved on, retreating to that quiet place where new mothers dwelled, removed from everyday matters as they went about the hard but vital work of loving their newborns. Maureen understood this completely, but each time one of her close friends or sisters had a big life change, it left a void.

  “I’ll call you later, okay?” She rang off and sat with the car’s heater gently blowing while she thought about the idea that Eddie had a radio show. She knew it was broadcast from the Fillmore on the town square, a vintage brick building that housed the local cable and Internet company, as well. The show was called “Catskills Morning,” and it was a combination of NPR, talk and music. Other than that, she didn’t know much about it.

  Then Maureen had a brainstorm. She was about to find out a lot more about “Catskills Morning.” She turned up the volume as she drove a short distance from the church to the town square. “… and now, here’s one for all you fans of quirky love affairs that only last a little while. This is Courtney Swaine singing ‘Temporary Insanity,’ off her album You Should Know Better.”

  “Ah, yes,” Maureen muttered as she leaned forward over the steering wheel. “Big fan of quirky love affairs that only last a little while. Huge fan.”

  The song was excellent, though, she had to admit. The female vocalist performed solo, accompanied by an acoustic guitar played by the lightest of touches and plenty of unsentimental honesty. Maureen listened to two more selections while she drove, both also good. Eddie seem to favor new artists and unmixed music. She didn’t mind admitting to herself that she liked his taste.

  “…sponsored by Pluggit MIDI Controllers, the musician’s choice,” Eddie was saying in another promo. “Now bands can record for the price of a laptop and release albums all around the world. A fantastic gift for musicians and music lovers.”

  “I’ll put that on my list,” Maureen said to herself. “‘Dear Santa, I want a Pluggit.’”

  The station had a shop front window with a painted logo of a microphone emitting lightning bolts, and the slogan, “You’re in good company with WKSM.”

  “I certainly hope so,” she said, getting out of the car.

  She could see Eddie in the window. He was wearing a head set and speaking into a microphone equipped with a diffuser the size of a dinner plate, smiling as he talked. He spotted her and gestured at the door, motioning her inside. Two young women sat in the tiny reception area inside the door. Their desk signs identified them as Brandi, the producer, and Heidi, the engineer. Brandi wore a pleated plaid miniskirt and cropped sweater that showed off a navel ring. Heidi, with pink-tipped hair, looked as though she was about to head out for a day of snowboarding. They both had porn-star names and looked like Hooters waitresses. If a thirteen-year-old boy was allowed to design the ideal coworkers, he would probably come up with these two. In her wool slacks and sweater, Maureen felt old and dowdy.

  “I stopped in to see Eddie,” Maureen said after introducing herself. “Can you tell me when he’ll be available?”

  “You can go on in now,” Heidi said, gesturing toward the broadcast booth. “We’re live on the air, but he’s got seven-and-a-half minutes of music going.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eddie m
otioned again, and she squeezed into a small room crammed with equipment, including a console with a padded stool on rollers. She took a seat on the stool. He flipped some switches, moved the mic out of the way and turned to her.

  “Stalking me this morning, Moe?”

  Moe. Why did that sound sexy to her? “Yes, I have nothing better to do.”

  He laughed, his blue eyes twinkling. Good grief, the guy had twinkling eyes. He shouldn’t hide on the radio.

  “Okay,” he said, “what can I do for you?” He leaned back in his chair. A tight Radiohead T-shirt accentuated his chest.

  She reminded herself not to stare. “I—we—need to do a fund-raiser for the library.”

  “Sure, you got it.”

  “I love the fact you didn’t hesitate.”

  “It’s the library, not the NRA. Who doesn’t like the library?”

  “See, that’s the thing. Everybody loves the library. But when it comes to funding, only a few carry the load.”

  “Sort of like public radio.” He gestured at the rows of mugs and totebags given out to subscribers. “Seems to be human nature to want something for nothing, and then gripe when it gets taken away. So tell me what you have in mind.”

  “It’s an emergency appeal. A life-or-death matter for the library, and that’s no exaggeration. It’s slated to close if we don’t make our target by the end of the year.”

  “No shit.”

  “Um, right. I wish I was kidding. Unfortunately, I’m not.”

  “That sucks. So what do you need? What’s the goal here?”

  She explained about the need to raise a year’s operating budget in an impossibly short amount of time, and he gave a low whistle. “By the end of the year? In a community this size, you’ll need a year, minimum. Maybe two years.”

  “We don’t have that kind of time.” Maureen was surprised to find herself on the verge of tears. This mattered so much. Couldn’t he see how much it mattered?

  “Hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t think it can be done. Even rich people don’t give away chunks of money like that.”

  “You’re probably right. But some guy once told me I had to have a little faith. Maybe I heard him wrong.”

  “Touché,” he said.

  “You understand, I have to try. I could never live with myself if I didn’t give this everything I’ve got.”

  He looked at her for a long time. In the soundproof broadcast booth, she could hear the beating of her own heart. She could hear it speed up.

  “Same here,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  Eleven

  Eddie was dreaming of the angel again. At least, he—the Eddie in his dream—assumed he was in the presence of an angel. It wasn’t a person, but a vision of light, a breath of warmth in his soul, a feeling of comfort surrounding him, a sense of safety. Sometimes Eddie’s sleep yielded disturbing matters, yet whenever he dreamed of the angel, a peaceful calm settled over him like a fresh blanket. The light pulsed gently with an unarticulated promise to resolve into the face of someone he knew, but it never quite went there. That was where the dream always left him, wondering what more lay beyond the light.

  He hovered between slumber and full wakefulness, reluctant to acknowledge the insistent buzz of the alarm. Just a few more minutes, he told the angel. Just a few. He wasn’t eager to leave the golden presence. Maybe other people dreamed of angels all the time, but for Eddie, it was a rare occurrence. Like the opening sequence of a movie, the dream had started…he could actually pinpoint exactly where it had started—the night of his wreck. The moment everything had changed. His mind went back to that night, and he observed himself from a distance, as if watching a stranger. His life had been spinning out of control like the van on black ice, gathering speed until some obstacle stopped him. In the case of the van, the obstacle was an elaborate nativity scene. He’d first seen the angel then—more than one if he was being honest with himself. But it was crazy enough to have even one vision, so he never told anyone.

  He lingered inside the dream until finally, it evaporated along with the last of his sleep, shrilled to wakefulness by another series of rings. He blinked and sat up, scowling at the clock, only to realize the noise wasn’t coming from the clock. He grabbed his mobile phone, hitting the button to silence it.

  Then he glanced at the screen, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Flipped the thing open.

  “Hey, Barb,” he said. He called his mother Barb because in the commune where he’d been raised, there were no moms and dads, no terms of authority or rank. Back in the commune days, she’d gone by the name Moonbeam, but even as a little kid, he couldn’t bring himself to go there. It had felt false, and forced, particularly to a boy who wanted to call her Mom.

  “There you are, you handsome thing.”

  “You’re up early.”

  “My new regimen. I’ve taken up hotbox yoga, five-thirty in the morning.”

  “Oh. Um, okay.” He pictured her in her yellow Long Island kitchen, wearing the latest trend in yoga outfits.

  “Did I wake you?”

  He shook off the last of the angel. “I’m up. I’m going in to the station.”

  “For your morning show.”

  “Yeah, I’m filling in for the regular host.”

  “We listen to you on the Internet, you know.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know. Thanks.”

  “You’re very good. We’re proud of you, son.”

  “Thanks,” he said again. Eddie’s relationship with his parents was functional. Just not real deep. As a recovering alcoholic, he knew he needed to make amends with them, and make peace with a past he couldn’t change. He simply…hadn’t tackled the issue yet, though he often promised himself he would. It was a painful business, though, so he kept putting it off. Easier just to maintain a polite distance. Yet he knew he carried around a burden of unacknowledged rancor for his peripatetic childhood. He tried to be philosophical regarding the past. His parents, like everybody else, were products of their own upbringing. They both came from show business families, thrust into the spotlight before they were old enough to know whether or not it was the life they wanted. Their marriage as kids of just eighteen and nineteen was more publicity stunt than lifelong commitment, yet here they were thirty-five years later, still together. As newlyweds, they’d starred in a short-lived but popular variety show, and afterward they’d done their best with Eddie, more or less. More when they took responsibility for him, less when they abdicated their parental duties in favor of the backwoods commune they’d shared with a crazy hodgepodge of old hippies, young idealists, tax dodgers, earnest environmentalists and misfits determined to live off the grid.

  “How’re you doing, Barb?” he asked. “How’s Larry?”

  “We’re both fine,” she said. “Great. Your dad’s in the city three days a week, working on voice-overs. He’s doing intimate reads for a series of fragrance commercials.”

  Eddie’s father had a whole stable of voices, from gravel-toned cowboy to continental lover. The “intimate read” was an industry standard. It was also, to Eddie’s embarrassment, one of Larry’s specialties. It was always startling—and a bit disconcerting—to turn on the radio or TV and hear him voice a car commercial or political attack ad. But that—as both parents would say—was showbiz. You never knew what was around the next corner.

  “So I wanted to talk to you about holiday plans this year,” his mother said.

  Correction, he thought. Sometimes you knew exactly what was coming next. “I’m all ears, Barb.”

  “We’re planning our usual Christmas Eve get-together—old friends and neighbors.” She spoke in the light, sweet voice that had endeared her to America, decades ago. She still sounded endearing. “Oh, and we’re having the Sheltons up from Florida. You remember the Sheltons.”

  “They had the annoying dog act, years ago.”

  “I don’t know about annoying—”

  “I do.”

  “Well, they’re a nice famil
y, and they’ve got a lovely daughter—”

  “Evelyn,” he filled in for her, remembering a girl about his age, with red hair and a child-star smile, the kind that blazed like a spotlight, turning on five thousand watts of pure, blinding artifice, on command. He went to the window and raised the shade. It was still dark out. Street lamps cast a yellowish glow through the neighborhood, an eclectic mix of lakeside cottages. From his window, he could see the lake in one direction, the town in the other. A few cars lumbered along the snow-covered streets.

  “Yes,” his mother declared. “She’s been abroad, and now she’s back. I thought maybe—”

  “Abroad as in rehab?” Eddie asked. “Or abroad as in over seas, in another country?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Barb said. “Abroad simply means abroad. We’ve got such fun times planned. There’s going to be a caroling party and then a Christmas Eve visit to the Village Family Shelter. You know, to bring them a little holiday cheer. Lord knows, battered homeless women and their children could use a little of that.”

  “Lord knows,” he echoed, focusing on the blinking neon of Hilltop Tavern in the distance.

  “And of course, afterward, we’ll have everyone back here for a party. And we’ll screen your movie, same as we do every year. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a viewing of The Christmas Caper. That’s always my favorite part. Everyone always has such fun watching it.”

  “Don’t they, though.” He dragged himself to the kitchen and started making coffee.

  “This year more than ever, because the remastered edition is just so fantastic. We’re hoping you’ll come. It’d be such a special treat if you could be here. We always have such fun—party games, eggnog, a fabulous potluck. And of course, you shouldn’t worry about your, ah, problem.”

  Her lowered tone irritated him. “You can say it, Barb. I’m an alcoholic.”