Our First Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said not to. You look intimidating.”

  My best friend from high school, Kristi Lellenstein, had an annual Christmas party.

  Kristi shot off a rocket on a Wednesday afternoon in the cafeteria in eighth grade. She pulled the fire alarm when she wasn’t ready to take a math test, and she painted, with her considerable artistic talents, a bottle of beer on a school hallway in the middle of the night.

  Now she had four kids, a balding husband, was head of the PTA, and her house was dripping in Christmas trees, wreaths, mangers, and Santa collections.

  She pushed her blond bob of curls off her face when she saw me, gave me a long hug, and said, “Brace yourself. I’ve become totally boring. I had spit-up on my left boob ten minutes before the party. Now give me the guts of your life. How many women has Ace slept with? Is he as sexy as he seems? Are you two together?”

  “I can’t tell you the number of women Ace has slept with because I don’t know.” Slight lie. I did know. “He’s quite sexy on stage.” He didn’t look that sexy in his kitchen in jeans and a pink shirt stirring pancake batter when I last saw him, but what the heck. “Ace and I are not together, never have been.” No. Never.

  When Josh walked in, it was like the whole room turned. Several men scooted up immediately and shook his hand. I saw two women fluff their hair. One actually pulled on the vee of her Mrs. Claus sweater so more cleavage spilled out. I rolled my eyes.

  Josh laughed and I felt that laugh deep inside myself. It made me lonely. That laugh was not for me anymore. That man was not for me.

  “Dang it,” I whispered. I’d been at the party for almost two hours and I figured that was long enough. I darted through the kitchen, down the hallway, grabbed my purple coat and faux zebra print purse, and tried to slink like a snake out the door.

  And there was Josh.

  “You’re not headed out already, are you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to go home and sew aprons. Stack spools of threads into towers. Poke myself with knitting needles.”

  “Ah.” He got it. “Don’t go because of me, Laurel.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Okay, I am. I would rather run my sewing machine over my finger than stay here. Have a pleasant evening. I hope you don’t choke on your beer.” I headed out the door and he followed me down the driveway, the music, the noise, and chatter gone when he shut the door.

  “What are you doing, Josh?” I pulled my hood up, the snow gently falling. I was wearing a black dress, black lace tights, and red knee-high boots. I was trying to get in the Christmas spirit with the boots. Didn’t work.

  “I’m walking you out to your car.”

  “I can get there by myself.”

  “Yes, you can. I also wanted to tell you that your pink bedroom hasn’t changed much.”

  “If you think I’m going to thank you for carrying me up the stairs to my bedroom, I’m not going to.”

  “Okay. I did notice that you have a new bedspread. I liked the flowers. It looked soft.”

  “It is soft and we’re not having this conversation.”

  “I think I could still climb up that tree, if I was invited.”

  “You’re not invited. Climb up that tree and I’ll cut it down.” No, I wouldn’t.

  “It brought back a lot of memories.” He smiled, slow and loose.

  “Well, you can shove those memories straight out of your head.”

  “Can’t do that, darlin’.”

  I whirled on him, angry but hurting. I remembered those tree-climbing times, too. “Stop talking, Josh. Go back to the party.”

  He stopped, he waited.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I said.

  “What?” Smile, smile.

  “You’re waiting for me to talk. Okay, I’ll talk. I can’t believe where we are.” I threw my hands in the air and tried not to cry. Last time I was drunk; this time I was sober and I would not allow myself to turn into a crying hyena.

  “What do you mean?” Slow and loose smile now gone.

  “I can’t believe that after not seeing you for so long, I come home, and we’re in this.” I waved my hands.

  “Mess?”

  “Yes. And it could be fixed so easily.”

  “If you had your way.”

  “It’s not about my way, Josh, it’s about my home.”

  “I know. I missed you.”

  “What?” I was confused. Thrown off. His words and being that close to him threw me. “We’re not talking about that. We’re talking about my home, and why did you say that?”

  “Because it’s the truth. I missed you.”

  “Don’t be truthful then, I don’t want to hear it.” Yes, I did.

  I bent my head. He was inches away. He smelled delicious. Like pine and snow, and all things seductive. I wanted to run my hands through that blond, longish hair. I wanted to put my hands on his cheeks, then kiss that square jaw, the high cheekbones, and the scar across his eyebrow, courtesy of his father.

  I didn’t mean to lift my head, but I did. I didn’t mean to stare at his mouth, but I did. I didn’t mean to tilt my head to his and step forward, but I did. On instinct. Out of habit. Because I wanted to.

  That’s when his mouth came down on mine, warm and seductive, and his arms wrapped around me and my purple coat and pulled me close. I should have pulled back but I didn’t want to. I linked my arms around his shoulders and molded myself to his body, to that hard chest, and I clung to him.

  All the years dropped off . . . everything dropped off . . . except for Josh and his mouth and his hands and how protected I felt, like I had never felt with anyone, and how right it felt, and how the sweet, steaming passion I thought was buried forever came flaming to life, as if there were no lonely years or wretched heartache between us. I sighed and held him closer, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke. I wanted to strip my clothes off....

  And then, panting embarrassingly hard, I pulled myself away. I pushed at his chest. I fumbled for my purse and my keys.

  He said, “Laurel, wait,” and I didn’t say anything, my whole body on fire, craving him and his touch and that fun, tight friendship we used to have.

  “Don’t leave,” he said, following me, his boots crunching the snow. “What the hell—”

  I climbed in my car, shut the door, didn’t look at him, and drove home. I said a string of bad words, and tried to keep the tears in my eyes.

  It didn’t work.

  Josh and I started dating during our junior year of high school. We had math class together. I was too intimidated to speak to him at first. He was the athlete, the popular kid, tall and handsome. He played football, basketball, and baseball.

  I played sports, too, but I also spent a lot of time at home sewing aprons with my mom and aunt, helping them with their business. On the flip side, I also spent time with my half sisters and we often got into trouble.

  We were the Kellys.

  Camellia and Violet were known for living fast, driving fast, and partying. Unfortunately for all the parents in town, my sisters believed in “the more the merrier” and invited everyone to all sorts of rendezvous: midnight parties at the lake, or in a deserted barn, or in the middle of the football field. When the police came, it was not unusual for a hundred kids, including me, to make a hilarious run for it.

  My father drove a hearse he’d painted pink and had elk for pets. Chantrea had started her Cambodian restaurant with my father but was known to tell customers off when they irritated her. She served one rude man a live, flopping fish on his plate. She spelled out a common expletive with slices of radish for another difficult customer. She dropped a bowl of noodles on one man’s head who was drunk and later told him he’d done it to himself.

  My mother and aunt were raving feminists, which I was proud of, but they also wrote inflammatory commentary fo
r the newspaper on various women-centered topics that had some people cheering and others in a tizzy.

  Josh and I started with a smile, then notes passed between us, and within a few weeks we were dating. He was funny and fun. He explained my math homework to me, helped my mother and aunt around the house with fixing things, and called to talk every night when he was home from practice or work.

  He did not seem to be embarrassed at all that I was part of the semi-notorious Kelly clan, all stricken with a Wild Bone. In fact, he hugged me in the middle of the hall, held my hand, and kissed me in plain sight. He would come over and I would cook him dinner. He frequently brought me flowers he picked and little gifts. I brought him homemade cookies every day.

  We talked about our futures. He wanted to own a business. Since we fished together, he would call the business Salmon Fly, as I had suggested one afternoon on the river. I wanted to be a nurse. We both wanted to travel the world and we spent tons of time looking at National Geographic and making a list of the countries we wanted to visit together.

  Josh also climbed up quick to my bedroom via the tree outside my window. We used birth control, brought by him. We were very bad. We enjoyed being bad. We were totally, completely in love. The first time he told me he loved me, our junior year, we were in a canoe on the lake fishing. I told him I loved him, too. We both teared up.

  He told me that his grief over his mother’s death and his drunken father gave him the fierce aggression he needed for sports. “I take my anger out on the court or on the field, Laurel.” His bullying father, who was a contractor when he was sober, whom Josh worked for until he left home the previous summer, never even came to any of his games.

  I, however, went to all of Josh’s games, as he went to my soccer, basketball, and softball games where my competitive streak came roaring out, too, partly stemming from my anger and hurt with my own father.

  Josh received a full-ride scholarship to our state university for basketball. I was accepted there, too, and off we went. He had nailed the SAT and had won rifle shooting and rodeo competitions. He was my stud.

  As in love as I was, as passionate as we were together, it never occurred to me that we would be together for life. My father had left me. He had left his first wife and his second wife, my mother. I refused to talk to him most of the time, and he seemed way too busy with his new wife, Chantrea, the restaurant, and his boys. I had huge abandonment and trust issues, and I assumed that Josh would leave me, it was only a matter of when.

  I also believed that Josh would find someone better than me. Prettier, smarter, more like him. My self-esteem issues were a direct result of my father not being around enough to tell me, and show me, that he thought I was “enough.”

  I made a decision to be with Josh as long as I could, to grab life and ride it, as my mother always told me to do, and deal with the despair later.

  Who knew it would be me who would make the decision for both of us after a skid, a roll, and a plunge?

  Ace sent a Christmas bouquet the size of an elf and a note. He begged, he pleaded, he said he couldn’t go on. I consoled and reassured. He hardly heard me.

  The e-mails about Christmas Eve dinner kept rolling in....

  Dear buckin’ bull-riding sister Laurel,

  (I was so proud of you at the bar! Whip it, lady!) I can’t imagine all four wives and our gang of kids mashed together for Christmas Eve at your house, but hopefully everyone will be in a noncombative Christmas spirit and we can sing carols together and forcibly separate Chantrea and Velvet if we have to.

  They had a fight recently and are currently not speaking. Something to do with Velvet dressing too sexy in front of Chantrea’s boys and that’s why they want to go to Dad’s all the time. Ugh. Well, Velvet should keep those big girls of hers in her shirt if you ask me.

  I can’t believe this! Lizzy was suspended again for two days from preschool for painting another girl with a paintbrush. She used green this time. Shandry was also suspended for two days when she let the mice and the rabbit out. Whose kids get suspended from preschool? This is embarrassing. They have the Kelly Wild Bone.

  At least I don’t have vampires for sons like Camellia. They sure have chompers.

  I am bringing eggplant lasagna to Christmas Eve dinner because, as you know, dear Italian husband had that every year growing up and I don’t want to disappoint him.

  I’m also bringing banana bread because I like it. Stay in Montana, please. I miss my little bronco-riding sister!

  Violet

  Sister Laurel,

  Mom says you and your mother and aunt are organizing Christmas Eve this year at your house. For one, thanks, pal. Way to take one for the team. For two, just so you know, I am not coming if Velvet is coming. She can take her rock-hard fake boobs and stay home and practice sliding up and down her stripper pole. We’re going to have a Merry damn Christmas but not if she’s there.

  I am tired of her constant jabber about the benefits of vegetable cleanings on the bowels. She’s gone from stripping to organic health queen. What’s that all about?

  I don’t even think she can cook. Dad didn’t marry her for her brains. (Duh.) I think he was attracted to the same thing the governor was attracted to. By the way, her son, William, is her exact opposite. Which means he’s smart. He likes wearing suits. Nice attire here in Montana.

  I will bring a pecan pie and a chocolate silk pie. You think my pecan pie is the best, right? Velvet said hers is. No one makes a pecan pie like me.

  Love you, girl. Thanks for coming over the other day. Sorry that Teddy bit you. Doesn’t look like it will scar, though.

  Love, love, (again),

  Camellia

  I was up late sewing Christmas aprons. We had a whole shipment due out tomorrow. I was using pink fabric with pink, red, and white Christmas trees and would attach three Christmas wreath buttons down the bib. A wide ruffle at the hem of the skirt would add the frill that all our aprons had.

  As I sewed I sucked on a candy cane and thought about Josh. I was still mad. And hurt. He knew I loved my house. I was also mad at myself for being in a befuddled mess about him.

  We had grown and changed the last twelve years. We were not the same people. And yet . . . all that passion was still there. It came roaring on up until I couldn’t think. Maybe it was simply because of memories. Time spent together when we were young, he was my first, nostalgia, blah blah. That was it. That was all it was.

  I took the candy cane out of my mouth and ate a Christmas cookie. The cookie was in the shape of a Halloween pumpkin, decorated with green and red sprinkles.

  I sniffled. I couldn’t believe the house wasn’t ours. I loved it, loved the land. I knew where the deer hid. I knew where the elk congregated.

  I knew where my great-granddad and grandma’s initials were carved in the cement on the foundation. They had walked up the same stairs I walk up every day and admired the same views of the majestic Swan Mountains.

  I ate a second pumpkin Christmas cookie.

  I had learned to bake apple and pumpkin pies with flaky crusts on the kitchen table he built and how to sew stockings in front of his hearth. My grandma had shown me how to make Irish truffles on the island in the kitchen. She had also taught me how to shoot a rifle. My granddad had taught me how to rope cows, ride horses, and drive a tractor right outside our front door. In my room hung my grandma’s mirror and my granddad’s old holster.

  It was our home. This was where we decorated Christmas trees with high heels, feminist sayings, leprechauns, and Valentines.

  I had to get it back.

  And as soon as I stopped thinking about Josh’s kiss, how I fit right back into his arms, and how warm and strong and yummy he was, then I would devise another plan.

  Yes, indeedy, I would.

  I would call it Plan H and L, as in Laurel, get your house and land back!

  But that kiss . . .

  I put the candy cane back in my mouth.

  Chapter 4

  Wow.<
br />
  Josh owned the whole building? Obviously, he did. It was called the Reed Building, and it was in the middle of downtown Kalulell. It was brick with green canopies, old and traditional, with white trim and dental work, but clearly restored. There were busy ground floor businesses, a restaurant, a café, an art gallery, and two stories above that with offices.

  The lobby had been remodeled and the floors gleamed. Christmas trees, decorated with shiny red ornaments, graced either side of the doors to the elevator.

  I tried to settle down as I stared at my reflection in the silver doors of the elevator. I’d brushed my reddish/pink-tipped hair down, but the wind had swept it around. I was wearing black cowboy boots, woolen black tights, a black skirt with a lace ruffle to my knees, a flowing red and pink silk tunic, a striped red and orange scarf, and two pairs of gold hoops. I was also wearing a thick red coat.

  I looked pale. I looked worried. I looked ill.

  Don’t kiss him again, I told my reflection. Restrain yourself.

  The elevator swooshed up two floors and I stepped out into the office. The old, traditional feel to the building was there, with the open wood arches to the ceiling, the white trim, and crown molding, but it was modern, light, welcoming, and bustling.

  I stopped at the receptionist’s desk and stared. “Mrs. Alling?”

  “Yes. Oh, it’s lovely to see you, Laurel!” She stood up and gave me a hug. She had been my and Josh’s favorite English teacher in high school. We caught up, I heard about her four children and eight grandchildren. We talked about Hellfire, she liked their music, Ace was a true musician, wasn’t he? How tall was he? Was he married? His voice, to her, sounded smoldering. Was Ace always smoldering? It took us a while.

  “Here, dear. Come with me.” I followed her back to Josh’s office. She knocked, then opened the double wood doors to Josh’s office and announced me. I walked in and stopped. Josh’s office was so Montana-y.

  His windows offered a view of the ski slopes up the mountain and the Main Street of town. His desk was huge, with an exquisite leaping salmon carved into the front of it. I had flashes of all the fish we’d caught and released . . . and ate with butter and dill. There was a leather couch and two chairs in one corner and a long table by the windows.