Our First Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  “You cook better than anyone I’ve ever known, Laurel, better than any restaurant, so you cook and I’ll do everything else.”

  “I haven’t cooked much in years, but thanks for the flattery. It’s not taking away my desire to give you a little push.”

  “Maybe skiing will.”

  “Maybe. Probably not. I may run you over with my skis.”

  “That’s not friendly.”

  “I’m not in the mood to be friendly.” I pulled on the collar of my old red ski coat. Sheesh. My pants were too loose, but I didn’t take pride in that. I didn’t want to be bony. As my mother always said, “A woman should have curves to grip.”

  “What’s wrong, Laurel?”

  “What’s wrong is that you own my home.”

  “What else?”

  He could tell, couldn’t he? He always knew. He could read me like no one else could. “Nothing. I’m in the ho ho ho Christmas spirit.”

  “Something is wrong, but if you don’t want to talk about it, then we won’t.”

  “Good. Because I’m not talking to a man who now owns my pink bedroom.”

  He smiled. Man, he was killing me.

  “I remember all kinds of fun things that happened in that pink bedroom.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. I’m glad you never broke your neck on your way up or down the tree outside of it.”

  “I took a risk, but it was worth it.”

  “Stop talking about it.”

  “Okay. But now I’m thinking about that pink bedroom and you in it and thinking that I should climb up that tree. . . .” He skied close to me, his skis between mine.

  “You’re too close to me. Back off or I will use my poles to defend myself and you may end up less of a man.”

  “Please don’t. I’d like to keep my manhood.”

  He was sexy. He hadn’t lost an ounce of sexiness. In fact, he was more sexy than ever. Irresistible. Funny. Quick.

  I moved my skis, pulled my goggles down, and took off down the slope. It would have made a cool “shove off” sort of statement, except that twenty yards later I caught an edge, fell, tumbled, rolled, lost a ski, and ended up on my stomach, facedown in the snow. It’s hard to be cool when you’re eating snow.

  When I dug the snow off my face, Josh was bending over me. “I think if you skied with me you’d have better luck.”

  His smile was going to kill me a second time. I flipped inelegantly onto my back, packed a snowball, and threw it at him. He ducked, I missed. I threw again, missed again. A third time: missed. I lay back. We both laughed.

  “I’ll get your ski,” he said softly. “Why don’t you work on your pitch while I’m gone?”

  I watched the blond giant ski down to get my ski, then walk back up, sideways. He helped me get it back on, then pulled me up. I tried not to smile, I tried not to heat up like a volcano. I tried not to let my head get all wrapped up in him again.

  Josh was always protective. Caring. Always there.

  And I’d run. Before that, I hid.

  I pulled my hand out of his, but not until after I’d stood staring up at those green eyes for far too long.

  I would run again. It was only a matter of time.

  That night my whole body ached. My muscles were no longer used to skiing, and I felt like I’d been eaten by the ski slope and spit back out. I peeled off my clothes, turned off the lights in the bathroom, dumped in amber rose bubble bath, and settled in.

  “Groan,” I said out loud. “Oh, groan.”

  Amidst the bubbles, and screaming muscles, I thought of Josh. We had skied all day.

  We’d laughed. I crashed three times. He pulled me up each time, my body against his, his arms around me. We rode the ski lift. We stopped for lunch and hot chocolate in the lodge in front of the massive fireplace.

  “Tell me about your job,” he said, the flames warming our hands.

  “It’s busy.” It was busy. I wouldn’t tell him that I’d quit and was currently jobless.

  “How did you come to manage a rock band?”

  “When I was in college in Los Angeles, studying to be a nurse, I had a roommate, Dani Shriver, and we became best friends. Her father, Leonard Shriver, was managing the Don Steiger Band. We interned for him one summer, followed the band around the country to their shows, worked constantly, and we loved it. After college Don Steiger hired us.

  “I met Ace when Hellfire was opening for Don Steiger before Hellfire had their first hits. We met backstage, started to talk. Ace and I had a common interest in cooking, actually. When Don Steiger took a break, I went straight back out on the road with Ace, as did Dani, and then we stayed on with the band. They soon had hits and I helped to organize their first national, then their world tours, with Charlie Zahn as my mentor, a great man who retired three years after I came along to go fishing.”

  “What do you do for Ace?”

  “I see myself as the headache manager. I’m the organizer behind the music and the hard-rocking men, including rehearsals and concerts. I work with the band and crew. I get them from one place to another, and figure out what the concerts are going to look like, including lighting, special effects, stage antics, song choices. I work with the agents, and the people at the record label. I arrange interviews with the press. When I’m out on tour, I work about sixteen hours a day. By the end of the tours I could not tell you my name or if I was a human or a baboon.”

  “Definitely human, lovely Laurel.”

  I tried to shrug that off. Couldn’t, so I blushed. I only blushed in front of Josh. “I manage all the trouble that comes up, whether it’s personal or professional. For example, one of our band members had too much tequila and decided to start throwing bananas out the hotel windows in Tokyo. Couple of people were hit in the head. Another time two of our band members, a little drunk, took all the hotel room furniture out of their penthouse suite, including their beds, and decorated the hallway. They fell asleep in the hallway, too. Not in the beds.”

  I fell into the conversation with him as if we’d never been apart. He asked questions. He listened. He laughed with me. He asked what I’d liked about my job and what was hard. “I liked Ace, his band and crew, and a lot of their music.”

  “Was there anything you didn’t like about working for Hellfire?”

  “Yes. I was never home. I didn’t even have a home. When I came home from the tour the first time, I moved into Ace’s guest house in the hills above Hollywood and stayed there.”

  “Are you dating Ace?”

  “No. I’ve never dated Ace. Never wanted to.”

  “Good.” He looked so pleased, and relieved. “Where have you traveled to?”

  “All over.” I told him about our stops. “Eastern and western Europe. Canada. All over America. South America. Southeast Asia. Australia.”

  “You loved the traveling, didn’t you?”

  “I did love it, often. New countries, people, cities, food, culture. Sometimes I didn’t.” I thought of you everywhere I went, Josh. I imagined you with me. I shut those thoughts out because they shredded my heart. “Even though I’m friends with the guys in the band and crew, and Dani, it could be . . . lonely.”

  “I’m sorry. But I understand.”

  I could tell by those green eyes that he was sorry, and he did understand. “I think everyone gets lonely sometimes.”

  “I do,” Josh said. “Part of life. Not the best part, but it’s there. I would like for it not to be, although loneliness does make you examine your life, the people in it, and you become more compassionate, I think, for others.”

  That was one of the things I loved about Josh: his honesty. His introspection and thoughtfulness. Tough guy, yet I could sit down, talk about something serious or tell him my problems, and he could always handle it. He always knew what to do, what to say, or to simply be quiet and hug me.

  “I think, sometimes, it’s about managing the loneliness,” he said.

  “How do you manage the loneliness?” I have never been ab
le to manage my loneliness for you.

  “Staying busy. For me, building a company. Work has taken up a lot of my time. When I have time off I ski. Fish. Hike. Full days.”

  “Yes. Full days. Like today. Skiing ’til you hurt.”

  “But I don’t feel lonely now, lovely Laurel, at this moment.”

  I smiled at him. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Since you came back, in fact.”

  “You’re flirting a little.” Oh, stop it. Or I might fling myself at you.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I am. It’s that huge smile of yours and the dimples. And the pink hair on the ends. I am liking the pink hair on the ends.”

  Dang. That was one more thing I loved about Josh. He had always flirted with me. He never flirted with any other girl. He always made me feel like I was the special one.

  “Try not to flirt with me, Josh.”

  “Impossible. Flirting with you is wired into my DNA. Want to go up again?”

  “Sure.” I had to get out of the warm lodge and into the cold air to cool off.

  On the ski lift up he tried to hold my hand. I pulled it away. He laughed.

  Why did we have to be tumbling right back into our relationship, as if we’d never left it? I thought that high school sweethearts who broke up and came back to their ten-year reunion were supposed to look at each other, find they had nothing in common, and say to themselves, “Whew! That was a close call! I could have been stuck with him/her my whole life. I would have been a wreck. We would have been a wreck. Lucky me.”

  I stole a peek at Josh on the ski lift, those snowflakes falling down around us, the mountains covered in white, the sky now purplish blue.

  He turned his head and saw me studying him. He winked.

  Dang.

  I gave Josh the Christmas cookies I’d baked him after we tossed our skis in the back of his truck. I had put the peppermint bars, fudge, gingerbread, lemon meringues, stained-glass windows, and butterscotch crunches in a red tin with an 1800s scene of two women in long dresses, bustles, and flowery hats in front of a Christmas tree. It was feminine, which was so not Josh, which made me laugh.

  “Ah, Laurel.” He lifted the lid. “Now I’m completely, totally happy.”

  I blushed. Stop blushing! That would have to be Plan B, for blushing.

  Chapter 5

  “Get your smiles on, ladies,” I told my mother and Aunt Emma. “I need to take photos of you two for the Web site. The farmhouse, the land, the animals, your aprons, and your sewing room. And Zelda, if she’ll cooperate.”

  “Photos. Like we’re models.” My mother elbowed my aunt. “I’m going to lie across our sewing table on my side with an apron on. Prepare to be a model, Emma.”

  “Are we doing naked modeling?” my aunt asked. “I’d do it. I’m not embarrassed. A body is your vessel on earth, it’s not your character. It’s not your personality. My scars and sags have come from a life well lived. Some of that life has been easy; some of it made smiling again a struggle. But I’m still here, in one piece, and I’m proud of my body.”

  “Women definitely get better as they age,” my mother said. “There’s more freedom in your life and freedom in your head.”

  My mother and aunt do not bother with makeup, but they did brush their auburn/white hair before we headed out. I studied both of them in their jeans and jackets. They were beautiful. Slender physiques, elegant cheekbones, peaceful blue eyes.

  Out on their deck, newly rebuilt by Josh, I took photos of them in their aprons. Many of them were Christmas designs, candy cane fabric, Santas, gingerbread houses, reindeers, stripes and ruffles, polka dots and pockets, but I photographed them in the day-to-day aprons they sewed, too.

  They pulled out the apron skirts, twirled around, arms out, then wrapped an arm around each other. I took photos of them posing in front of the snowcapped Swan Mountains, their tractors, the farmhouse, and sitting on the fence talking.

  I took photos of them in our rocking chairs, riding their horses, and cooking lasagna and cinnamon rolls. I took photos of all the Christmas cookies, the colorful grizzly bears with the wreaths around their necks and the Christmas farm animals. I also took photos of our five decorated trees, the giant Christmas frog, Gary, the gingerbread house witch, and the dragonfly, Tilge.

  I photographed the cat, Zelda, paws scratching the air, mouth wide open, the dogs cowering in fear in a corner. I took photos of their colorful sewing room, sewing machines, the stacks of fabrics, the reams of lace, and their jars of buttons, rickrack, and thread.

  I sent Josy photos of my great-granddad on a black stallion, and my great-grandma looking saucy as she leaned against a fence post. I sent old black-and-white photographs of the women in our family in long skirts and bonnets, then in flapper dresses, then my mother and aunt in their hippie outfits in the sixties with long hair, tie-dyes, and peace signs.

  I grabbed my great-grandma’s and grandma’s personal recipe collections and took photos of the pages, the recipes written in their flowing script.

  I sent all the photos to Josy, the web designer, then wrote copy for the Web site.

  It would be interesting to see what she would come up with.

  And the Christmas Eve e-mails kept coming....

  Hey girl,

  You’re a brave but insane woman to host all these loose cannons for Christmas. Man, if I did it, I’d end up getting my fine butt handed to me in a sling, if you know what I mean.

  Last year I thought that Longer Dick was going to box Chantrea’s boys for their song and dance.

  Chantrea sure had her panties in a twist. Could have konked someone clean through with that butter dish she sent sailing across the room.

  But, moving on, quick as a bottle of whiskey. I know you were here a few days ago, but can you come over and visit the kids again? Daisy and Banyan would love to see you. They love all the souvenirs you send them from around the world. They wore the stuffed snakes around their necks for a week and whoa! I mean, the shark teeth necklaces and dinosaur models were, like, kicking. They loved them. They also loved the posters of that art museum with the triangle glass thing in front in Paris and whatever they call that big bridge in London.

  Anyhow, I’m bringing pecan pie and carrots and slew for Christmas. I got the carrots and slew recipe from a friend at the Strip and Click in Nashville. Sounds bad, but it’ll make your tongue hang out it’s so tasty. Heavy on the brandy. We’re gonna need brandy at your place, I’m telling you.

  I don’t want to compete with Camellia over the pecan pie, but mine is kick-butt special. My grandma gave me the recipe before she had to do a stint in the state prison for running over her cheating boyfriend’s leg. I don’t know why Camellia thinks hers is better. Her pecans are always dry, and the crust tastes like plastic, like silicon. Silicon pecan pies. I know you won’t say I said that or a hissy-fit war will break out.

  See you soon, insane one.

  Love,

  Velvet

  Laurel, dude,

  Thanks for taking us all skiing last night. You are a sick sister. Radical. Sorry you fell so much, but you’ll get the hang of it again. Don’t worry about losing your ski over that hill. Those skis of yours are, like, antiques. You need new ones. You skied sick on one ski, though.

  We three ski bums had a beer-busting night with you, old sister.

  Thanks for taking us to lunch on Wednesday, too. We love steak. Makes us manly.

  So, Mom says we have to cook something this year and bring it to your house for Christmas Eve. To, like, participate. We’re bringing hot dogs and mustard because that’s what we like to eat. And fries. We’re going through the Burger Cow before we come and we’ll get a huge bag of fries. Ketchup.

  We love you, old sister. We wished you lived in Montana. Thanks for getting us each an autographed T-shirt of Hellfire and the band. That was sick.

  Be cool, cool one.

  Oakie. Aspen. Redwood.

  PS Get ready for a new song we made up about Longer Dick, Amy�
��s dude.

  In between sewing aprons, and talking to squabbling family members about Christmas Eve, I thought about Josh.

  He hardly left my thoughts. When he called two days after we went skiing and asked me to dinner for Date Number Two, I figured if I had a tail, I would be wagging it.

  Maybe it was Christmas joy, but I could not wait to see him.

  And it had nothing to do with getting the house back.

  On the way home from my father’s house on that freezing night, driving through snow that blew sideways, I exploded at him like a mini human bomb. I told him what I thought of him moving out years ago. “You left us. You broke up our family.” I told him what I thought of him as a father and as a man. “You’re a crappy father. You left your first two kids, you left me, you’ll probably leave Chantrea, too. A real man would not break up two families.” I went on and on. “I hardly even think of you as my dad.” I saw him wipe tears from his cheeks, then he handed me a tissue for mine.

  That’s when he skidded on the ice. There was no guardrail, and we pinwheeled right off the road, our car bumping and rolling down the embankment and splashing into the water. I remember watching the brackish, icy water rush in through the broken front window. My head banged up, my panic swiftly rising, I unstrapped my seat belt and turned toward my father, but I couldn’t see him through the waterfall. I screamed his name, but heard no answer, and swallowed water.

  I couldn’t find the door handle, couldn’t get out. I took in another gulp of water and coughed it out. It was pitch-black, the car tilted, and I hardly knew which way was up. I screamed for my dad again, swallowed water, heard a crash, then felt his hands on my arms. He pulled me out as the water went straight over my head.