While each word was wrapped with resolve, boxed tightly with conviction, Carter couldn’t bring himself to pull at the ribbon. “I’m not sure I’m ready, Mom.”
She licked disappointment from her lips, then started slowly. “I can respect that. But will you come out for the wedding, meet him there, give him a chance?”
“That’s another thing. Why are you getting married three days before Christmas? What’s up with that?”
“We thought it was a marvelous idea. Family would already be in town; people wouldn’t need to take extra time off. Besides, we’d like to be married by Christmas. It will be perfect.”
“Here’s a better idea. Wait until next Halloween. It’s more appropriate.” The words came out withered, perhaps because he was only half joking.
She laughed or at least faked it, but the empty moment that followed stretched across the room to cover everything. When he finally spoke, it was mostly to himself. “I just don’t need another reason to hate Christmas.” He regretted speaking the words aloud, tried to force them back into the box in his head from which they’d sprung. Oddly, they no longer fit.
Lorella jerked upright, clasped her son’s hands. “Hate Christmas? Carter, you don’t hate Christmas. That’s silly.”
When his frown didn’t surrender, she pulled him back down to sit beside her.
“The first time your dad and I separated—when you were younger—it was right before Christmas, and for that I’m sorry. It’s why I came back, why I tried for so long to make it all work. But I won’t sit here and listen to you say that you hate the holiday, because that’s not true. As a small boy, Christmas was your favorite,” she told him.
He inhaled a pause. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s true. When you were seven or eight, you and I would spend hours decorating the house for Christmas. You loved it!”
“I don’t remember.” His words whimpered. “Where did you meet Joel anyway, a bar?” Carter asked, changing the subject.
Lorella giggled like a tickled child. “Carter, you’re hysterical,” she said. “Actually, I met him in a biker gang. We were at the same tattoo parlor when I was getting a skull inked onto my chest . . . right after we’d pulled off that bank robbery.”
If she was trying to make him queasy, she had hit pay dirt. “Mom! That’s enough,” he protested, flailing desperate arms that begged for her to stop.
She didn’t. “Truthfully, we met at church.”
“Church?” The word was a stranger. “Since when do you go to church?” he asked.
“I went as a little girl. I guess I simply got out of the habit later in life. After the divorce, one of the benefits was that I found my way back.”
Her words flew out with such confidence, such self-assurance, Carter couldn’t help but take notice. “I guess that’s what bothers me,” he said. “You seem so okay with all of this—the whole divorce thing. It’s a bit unnerving.”
Lorella leaned in with love. “Carter, everyone is dealing with it but you. Just come out for a visit. You’ll see that it’s all going to be fine—better than fine. We’ve missed having you. We worry about you.” She hesitated, then fished in her purse and reeled out an envelope. She handed it to Carter. “I even brought you a plane ticket, so, no excuses. Can I count on you being there?”
His one-word protest bazookaed out. “Mom!”
She was ready. “If you don’t use it, no problem. But I hope you do.”
Before he could answer, the doorbell interrupted. Yin hollered the news up to Carter from the bottom of the stairs.
“Abby is here!”
Carter tried to hold open the car door with confidence as he waited for Abby to climb in behind the wheel. He hurried around to the passenger’s side and then let the silence settle in long enough for both to enjoy the new-car smell.
To celebrate Abby’s purchase, they’d decided to go out for German food because, according to Rosa, it was never a bad choice.
Carter’s pre-date jitters had proved pointless. Sitting beside Abby now, he felt warm and comfortable—even playful.
“Have you read any good books lately?” Carter asked, interrupting the moment with interested eyes.
Abby pulled her gaze from the road, directed her squint momentarily in his direction. When she looked as if she hadn’t understood, Carter clarified. “It was one of the suggested questions for first dates that I read online.” He followed it with a smirk. “Then again, since you’ve been reading my book—at least as much as I have written—it may not be the best choice to start.”
“I see,” Abby said, letting her smile chase his. “First-date questions from a website. That should make for interesting conversation. What are my other choices?”
“Asking about your favorite holiday was on the list, but I think I know that one already. We could move on to your hobbies and interests.”
“Then I should answer suitably,” she declared.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m told that the energy of all first dates is spent trying to impress the other person enough to garner a second, so I need to be proper about it.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s see, my interests: I adore salacious discourse with fascinating people, delicious films that make me think, and inventive books that make my soul fly. Was that eloquent enough?”
Carter was nodding. “Impressive. Next, I’d like to hear how you’d describe yourself to a stranger.”
She gave him a subtle wink, laughed without missing a beat. “That’s easy. I’m a low-maintenance girl but with high-maintenance hair.” She pulled forward in the seat and shook her head to settle her curls.
“I’ve noticed that much already,” Carter continued. “I guess now tell me about your faults.”
“Faults?” Abby asked, letting the conversation screech to a halt. “Was that really on the list? That’s a terrible site. It’s way too early for faults.”
“Sorry, I just threw it in to mix things up.”
“I see. Well, I’m looking for a therapist who can help me with my adjectivious obsession. Can we count that?”
“No, but you get points for your sense of humor. Next—”
“Sorry,” she interrupted. “It’s my turn now. Have you always wanted to be a writer?”
It didn’t sound like a question from a website, and the way she kept glancing at him made it appear as if she was truly interested.
“I’ve always been intrigued by the way writers craft sentences,” Carter began, “but deciding to write a book was . . . we’ll call it unexpected.”
“I can tell you that your talent has come a long way from insurance embellishing.”
Carter’s head swiveled. A question slid across his brow, caused it to wrinkle.
Abby didn’t wait for him to ask. “The insurance company called me yesterday,” she explained. “I spoke with lovely Louise in customer service, an extremely pleasant woman. She was making a follow-up call and seemed surprised that I hadn’t received a copy of the accident report. She said they usually send a summary with the settlement check. Since I didn’t receive it, she was kind enough to email the complete report right away.”
“The long one?” Carter confirmed, his voice stumbling. “Those are usually never sent out.”
“I must be special because it was sent to me. Let me see if I can remember the phrasing,” she said, as the night’s teasing light reflected off her polished teeth. “Lightning ripped the sodden, sleeting clouds like they were pieces of two-dollar fabric.” She giggled as the words bubbled out.
“I’m turning a sunburned red, aren’t I?” Carter asked.
A finger touched her lower lip. “I’d say it’s more tomato.”
“Descriptive writing was about the only thing there that kept me sane. As you’ve probably figured out by now, they fired me over it—though I still prefe
r to call it creative differences.”
“You were creative. I’ll give you that.”
“Yeah, but I imagine you think a guy who gets fired is a . . . loser?”
“For what you did? Not at all. I did some editing once for a woman who was a stay-at-home mom. When she reentered the workforce, she wrote on her resume that she’d been a Domestic Engineer who had manufactured four children. She listed that she’d been their direct supervisor and was responsible for their annual increased output.”
“Did she get in trouble?”
“Trouble? It was all true! They hired her. That’s the point. When creativity focuses on the positive, it’s an art. Embellishing doesn’t mean lying. Liars are plentiful, Carter. Good communicators are hard to find.”
“But I was fired.”
“I think the key, as with perhaps everything in life, is knowing where to draw the line.”
They arrived at BetterWurst, Rosa’s favorite German restaurant, and on opposite sides of the most delightful dish of sauerbraten that either had ever tasted, they discussed both writing and dating questions in equally healthy proportions.
Then, to Abby’s delight, as an encore, Carter took her to see the Christmas light display at Forest Park, nearly three miles of twinkle heaven. She couldn’t have beamed brighter, and to top it off, he bought her hot cocoa, which they sipped together in the car, careful not to spill.
“You’ve been quiet for a spell,” she said. “You must still be contemplating my charm.”
“This is terrible to admit on a date, but I was actually still thinking about my mother.”
“Probably not the answer most girls want to hear.”
“It’s just so bizarre. I can’t let go of the fact that my mother is marrying a stranger.”
“She seemed awfully nice, at least for the moment we spoke on the porch. I think she’s right . . . you should go to the wedding. You’ll regret it later if you don’t.”
“I feel like I need more time.”
Abby blew on her hot cocoa, as if she hoped for a moment to craft her words. “Possibly, or perhaps you need to get closer to the situation to see the beauty. It’s a trick a friend of mine taught me.”
Carter held up his fist, waited for her to bump it. How could he argue?
“Hang on,” she said, as she set down her cup and reached into her pocket. “I know another way to cheer you up. Give me your phone.”
“My phone?”
“Now! Hand it over.”
She placed it beside hers, pushed buttons, transferred files. It took only a few minutes. “There you go,” she said, her grin wide. “You now have a playlist of all my favorite Christmas songs. Not to mention that I changed your ringtone to ‘Santa Baby.’ I guarantee you will never be sad again.”
“You didn’t!” he said. But her face clearly indicated that she definitely had. “You’re a little crazy when it comes to Christmas, you know that?”
“Mannie reminds me of that frequently.”
“Why is that?” Carter asked. “Why do you love it so much?”
“The truth?”
“Absolutely,” he said, though actually, if he could keep watching her lips, a lie would be perfectly fine.
“Perhaps I’ve decided to love it,” she answered matter-of-factly.
His head tilted right. “Decided? What does that mean?”
“I just think in today’s world, it’s easy to be cynical. It takes effort to look past the negative and proactively seek out the good. For me, it’s meant deciding to love the holidays.”
Carter’s escaping scowl looked unconvinced. “Fair enough. I guess I get that,” he answered, “but what if the goodness is an illusion? What if the world is simply a cold and bitter place? Isn’t choosing Christmas hiding from that reality?”
He read her eyes. They told him there wasn’t a pretty way to say certain things. She straightened in her seat. “First of all, the world isn’t always cold and bitter. At times it’s warm and wonderful. Second . . . let’s pretend you’re right. It means I can face reality and be miserable, or choose what you suggest is an illusion but live a happier life. Thanks, but I’ll stick with Christmas. Don’t you agree?”
He could barely convince the answer to rise above his throat. “I guess I’m still figuring that out. My mother said as a boy I used to love the holiday. I don’t remember it that way, but I trust she’s telling the truth.”
She patted him confidently on his leg. “Then we’ll call you a doubter who sometimes believes, and I’m a believer who sometimes doubts. We’re not that different. It means there’s still hope for you, Carter Cross. There is still hope for you. If that’s true, the night has been charming and I think I’m ready to try out your theory.”
“Which theory is that?”
“Come a bit closer, Carter. Tell me what you see.” Her stare tipped into his.
“I see a crazy girl,” he quipped.
She wasn’t laughing. “Get closer, then. Now what?”
“I see . . . a tiny freckle on your cheek.”
“Closer,” she whispered. A few inches separated them.
He could feel the heat of her breath. He was about to speak, but their noses touched. As her lips pressed his, Carter closed his eyes. Instead of darkness, he saw teeming colors—true, dependable, loyal, and alive colors. Crimson, auburn, plum, cinnamon, magenta, indigo, mango, and gold—so much gold. He wished that he had words deep enough to describe the warmth that was filling him inside. When their lips pulled apart, when his eyelids lifted open, the images fled, but the light remained.
Abby’s eyes opened next. She stared back at him for a moment, perhaps curious at the questions she seemed to read in his gaze. She didn’t offer answers. Her finger instead touched his lower lip and then lingered. “Don’t say a word,” she finally whispered, with words scarcely there. “Let’s try that again!”
“Good morning. I’m calling for Mr. Carter Cross.” The woman’s voice reaching through the phone was formal, businesslike. She sounded oldish, but it was hard to tell.
“This is Carter. How may I help you?”
“Mr. Cross, my name is Janice Cumberford. We met once, at corporate training, when you were first hired by Business Alliance Deposit Insurance. I was with the legal department. I helped teach a session on Business Ethics. Do you recall?”
Legal department? Business Ethics? Lenny wasn’t kidding. “I recall attending the class, but I’m sorry, I don’t remember you specifically. How may I help?”
Carter could hear the woman shuffling her papers.
“Bear with me and I’ll explain,” Ms. Cumberford said. “When an employee is terminated at the company, the supervisor must document the reasons for the termination. It’s company procedure to cover our legal liabilities. Do you understand?”
Not at all. His stomach twisted. “What does this have to do with me?”
“When you were terminated, Mr. Cross, your manager, Mr. Rotterdamm, sent in several of your accident descriptions as prima facie evidence that his action was justified—which, of course, it was.”
“Prima what?”
“I apologize. That’s my legal background coming through.”
Carter’s feet spread wide. His stance broadened. He glanced around for a pen in case he should need to document the communication. His voice deepened. “Look, am I being sued or something? What is this all about?”
“Sued?” Her reply flowed with confusion. “No, no, Mr. Cross, you misunderstand. I’m no longer in legal. I head up the HR department now. When Mr. Rotterdamm sent your descriptions over, I’d remembered you from the training. Mr. Cross . . . we’d like to offer you a new position.”
The room percolated puzzlement. “You want to hire me back?”
“Not as an adjuster. I think we can both agree you are not exactly suited for that. Rather, I
’d like to bring you on as our Public Relations Liaison. It’s a position created after the acronym debacle of ’98. The liaison writes press releases for the company, approves brochure content, oversees our marketing materials, that sort of thing. You’re good with words, Mr. Cross. You’d be a natural. Anyone who can describe something as horrific as a car accident with such beauty, that’s a person we need in our PR department. The communications team works out of our Sunnyvale office. That’s where HR is located. You’d be on the floor right above us.”
Was this for real? Carter wondered. “Sunnyvale?” he asked.
“Yes, in California. Near San Jose, south of San Francisco. It’s a beautiful place to live. Superb weather . . . oh, and Sunnyvale was recently named the Safest City in America.”
“Safest?” repeated Carter, not meaning to speak it aloud.
“Very safe, and a tremendous opportunity. I’d like to fly you out to meet Michael Lowe. He heads up the department, but we’ve already talked, and it’s merely a formality. The position pays . . . well, I’ll send you all the information via email, but I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Does this sound like an opportunity that would be of interest?”
Carter chased his breath. “I . . . this is unexpected. When would the job start?”
“As soon as it’s convenient for you to make the move, but we were hoping within twelve weeks. Real estate here can be tight, but we can provide temporary housing until you find something permanent.”
“And you said Sunnyvale?” Carter confirmed.
“Yes. Safest place on earth.”
Carter’s words loitered while his head measured the possibility. Cued by the silence, Ms. Cumberford continued. “I don’t expect an answer today. I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. I have your email and I’ll send more details. Look everything over, and if it’s a position you’d like to consider, give me a call back by the end of next week and we’ll fly you out to discuss it further. How does that sound?”
“That sounds . . . thank you.”
Christmas by Accident Page 8
