Christmas by Accident

by Camron Wright

  Once the call had ended, Carter checked his phone’s log. He Googled her number to make sure it wasn’t a prank. Sure enough, the company had offices in Sunnyvale. His next call was to Abby to share the news. He pressed send to connect, but thought better of it and immediately hung up. Things were going well with Abby. He really liked her. If he took the position, it would mean moving three thousand miles away.

  As he did his best to weigh the prospect of moving, one word wouldn’t sit quietly: Safe!

  Was it time to play it safe, or did he need to take a risk?

  Carter paced. Yin waited on the couch. He knew from experience that a volley of questions would soon be landing nearby. It was verbal ping-pong, and he was ready to play.

  Carter served. “Help me out here, Yin! What should I do?”

  “It’s a job. The pay is fabulous. It’s in California. How can you pass it up?”

  “I know, but I’m finally getting to know Abby. She kissed me. How can I leave?”

  “You’ll turn down a life-changing opportunity for a kiss?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I hope there will be more. I like her, and I don’t want to simply walk away from a meaningful relationship for a job.”

  “Then invite her to go along.”

  Carter’s hands hurled sideways. “Yin, she owns a store! Her uncle is sick. She won’t be going anywhere!”

  “When is your lease up?”

  “Not until June, but I have the right to sublease.”

  Yin’s arms folded. “But Carter, who’d want to live with me in this dump?”

  Carter swiveled. “Are you kidding? You obviously ­haven’t read my ad.” He motioned toward the north wall. “You know how at night we can sometimes hear the rattle of big trucks on the expressway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That, my friend, is easy freeway access that will have you at work in no time. And the avocado shag carpet in the back that probably hasn’t been replaced since the ’70s?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Carter’s finger pretended to follow an imaginary advertisement he was reading midair. “The quaint retro decorating style in this lovely apartment embraces an almost grandmotherly charm.”

  Yin was quick to clue in. “That means it hasn’t been updated since the old hag died and it still smells just like her, right?”

  Carter was barely getting started. “You know the steep stairs to the bedrooms?” he asked.

  “How could I forget?” Yin confirmed.

  Carter waved like a game-show sidekick highlighting lovely parting gifts. “This cozy abode has an upstairs that will absolutely take your breath away!”

  “It’s true!” Yin chimed, his pupils wide. “You’re terrific, Carter! I can see why they’d want to hire you.”

  “There’s one more,” Carter insisted. “The apartment also comes furnished with the world’s most incredible roommate, a man who will help you stick to your diet.”

  Yin’s bobbing chin stopped. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” Carter continued, as his lips tugged into a grin, “that he’ll always be there to eat at least half of the pizza.” Carter stood tall. He turned to Yin. “Seriously, you’ve been the best friend one could hope for, and if I take this job, I’m going to miss you.”

  Yin nodded his thanks. He wasn’t one to get emotional. “Is there anything else that would keep you here, then, besides the girl and your brilliant roommate?”

  The truth could be stabbing. “I guess not.”

  “My mother always says, ‘A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.’”

  The game stopped. Carter scratched at his hairline. All remaining questions bounced to the floor. “What does that even mean?” he asked.

  “I think,” answered Yin, “it means you need to go talk to the bird.”

  It took exactly four minutes from the time Mannie pressed ‘request’ for the driver from the ride-sharing service to pull up in front of the home—a feat Mannie found remarkable. It was the first time he had used the app that Abby had loaded onto his phone, and he was stunned by its efficiency. He didn’t even have to explain to the driver—a coffee-drinking man with thick ­fingers—where to go. The address had already been transmitted magically to him online shortly after Mannie had punched it into his own phone. Why, the trip was even prepaid, and as the man drove, Mannie couldn’t quit shaking his head. He was indeed living in, as Aldous Huxley had noted in his classic novel, a brave, new world.

  Eleven minutes later, with no traffic at such a late hour, the car slowed to a friendly stop in front of the ReadMore Café.

  “Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?” the driver asked, his question crusted with concern. “It’s the middle of the night. The store is closed.”

  “It’s fine. I’m meeting my son here. He’s a policeman.”

  It was a lie, of course, and whether it was believed by the harmless driver didn’t honestly matter to Mannie. Besides, what was the worst that might happen? A malcontent would jump from a dark alley and take Mannie’s life? Get in line! You’re a little late! Mannie mused to himself as he climbed out, slipped his key into the store’s lock, and then methodically marched inside.

  He wouldn’t eat a dessert from the display, wouldn’t touch any books left sitting on the counters, wouldn’t disturb anything in the back room. Short of Abby watching the store’s video surveillance footage in the morning, which she’d have no reason to do, Mannie didn’t want her to know he’d been here.

  His wasn’t a visit to check up on things, to make sure his niece was properly running the place. He suspected she was doing a stellar job of that. This visit was—how would he put it?—a reckoning of reality. For a man facing his imminent demise, what better place to reconcile the meaningful moments of his life than where much of the adventure had started? Mannie had come to the ReadMore Café at midnight to think, reflect, and ­consider.

  He pulled a stool from the front near the register to his favorite spot toward the back where the main bookshelves intersected—travel, history, fiction, and how-to. Was there a more glorious place in all the world?

  Where else could a long arm reach books on Plato and Play-Doh, fashion and fascism, Hemingway and Rachael Ray?

  “So many books and now so little time,” he said aloud. But he didn’t intend this to be a session to simmer in self-regret. That wasn’t why he was here.

  He straightened.

  No, this was instead a personal pilgrimage—albeit a short one—like in The Canterbury Tales or The Pilgrim’s Progress. Granted, if he’d had more time, more opportunity, less responsibility, no disease that was pilfering away his existence, perhaps he would have gone on a true search to discover life’s real meaning in a place like Mount Kailash in Tibet or Char Dham in India. He’d certainly traveled to many similarly exotic locations as a single man, before Abby had been thrust into the ­picture.

  He rocked forward on his stool.

  Was that what this unsettling midnight search was about? Was he hoping to reconcile harbored regret? His head shook. He wouldn’t admit to such. Then what?

  Answers.

  Contrary to what Mannie had told Carter, the notion of writing his obituary had caused some reflection. He simply hoped now, after a tiny bit of introspection, to uncover a smidgeon of understanding, an end-of-life resolution. In short, before dying, he wanted to feel at peace.

  His questions were simple: Had his life mattered? Was he satisfied? Was he ready for what was to come next—and what might that look like? They were the normal kind of questions any dying man might wonder about while sitting alone in a closed bookstore at quarter past midnight.

  “Is there more? Is there a purpose for the life I’ve lived? Please let there be more!” Mannie whispered, this time to the walls, the shelves, the surroundi
ng stories.

  Mannie had never been a religious man and in fact had seldom set foot inside a church. The questions he needed answered, as near he could tell, seemed equally relevant no matter his surroundings. While most people prayed for answers, Mannie often chose an alternative method. He turned to the pages of his books.

  In the hours that followed, Mannie perused Shakespeare and Socrates, Rousseau and Thoreau. He even cracked open the good book of Psalms and read several chapters attributed to David.

  It was all interesting, informative, imaginative, and, to a degree, soothing, but it was nothing he hadn’t read before, and the verses didn’t provide the depth of comfort he’d hoped to uncover.

  Finally, an hour before dawn, exhausted, waving a white flag and ready to return home, Mannie carefully put away each retrieved volume, replaced his stool to the front—careful to return it exactly as he had found it—and then he opened the app on his phone and requested his ride home.

  He waited in the dark near the door, motionless but still empty, chained to longing as he watched for the driver who would arrive in four and a half minutes—if he believed the numbers counting down on his app.

  He shifted his weight. He twisted slightly.

  Perhaps there were no real answers in books or elsewhere. Perhaps there was no true purpose to this crazy existence called life. And then Mannie cast a glance back toward the only light still left on in the store. It was the sole security light, a single fixture in the pocked ceiling of square fluorescent boxes that remained constantly on, day and night, to always make certain that the store was never left in total darkness.

  Yet it wasn’t the lone light casting its embracing glow to the floor and fixtures below that caught Mannie’s attention, that had locked his feet to the floor and kept his neck twisted in curiosity. It was that he’d just noticed that the light hovered, like a lone illuminating sun, directly above Abby’s familiar Christmas book display.

  It was a towering thing, stacked from a solid yet diverse foundation, each story distinct, but each whispering a familiar strain:

  Joy to the world. Peace on earth. Good will toward men.

  Mannie had come tonight hoping to find answers in books that might address his apprehensions—and as he pondered the beams breaking past the darkness to dance across the multitude of Christmas covers, the hard wrinkles wrapping his tired eyes softened.

  A pair of headlights turned the corner, pulled up to the storefront, and stopped. The waiting car honked.

  Mannie twisted back around, pushed open the glass door, listened to the bell sound, and waved his hand at the driver to motion that he’d be there shortly. Then he locked the door and walked to the awaiting car—this one driven by a thin man whose head was loosely wrapped with a checkered bandanna—and he climbed inside. The driver didn’t ask Mannie what he was doing in that part of town so very early in the morning. He didn’t seem to care. And as the car pulled away, Mannie couldn’t help but focus on the store window and wonder.

  Like a lighthouse in a raging storm of darkness and fear, the shining glow radiating to the world from inside the ReadMore Café had never been more meaningful. The trailing light even reached its warm fingers through the car’s back window as it raced away, light that seemed to voice words.

  “Have peace, Mannie! All is well! Peace and good will toward men.”

  Carter pushed out the words. “Abby, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been offered a job.”

  “Carter, that’s awesome. With who? What type?”

  “Mostly writing—press releases, articles, brochures, corporate stuff. Surprisingly, it’s with the same insurance company I just left. It’s a different department.”

  “It sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

  Carter nodded. “It’s an unbelievable opportunity. I’d be the company’s communication spokesperson.” As he explained, he tried desperately to read her reaction. “The problem is that I’d have to move to Sunnyvale.”

  Abby’s head turned. Was she casting a look of concern or curiosity?

  “California?” she asked.

  “That’s where the job is located. I’ve been emailing the recruiter in HR. They want me to fly out and firm everything up as soon as possible. They’re offering a salary that is nearly double what I was making.”

  “Well, that . . .” Abby’s words paused for a moment midsentence. “ . . . that sounds amazing.”

  If he was hoping she would drop to her knees and with tears beg him to stay, he was disappointed. In Carter’s head, however, thoughts were scrambling to take sides. On the left, romance rallied emotion. On the right, realism circled reason. The leader of each drew a sword.

  Explain to her that you’re falling in love, Romance demanded. Tell her that you can’t live without her.

  Realism laughed. You unemployed FOOL! This is a rare opportunity for you to finally do something you love! You can’t pass this up. Invite her to come along if you must. If she can’t, know there are plenty of other beautiful women in California.

  Metal clanked against metal. Carter could smell the sweat, almost taste the blood.

  “Carter?” Abby was flapping her hand. “Are you listening?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said that if you took it, I would miss you, but I would also never want to stand in your way.”

  “If I do, will you come out . . . for a visit?” he asked, but with words so unsure they wilted.

  “Sure,” she answered politely. “When will you decide?”

  “I have to let them know soon.”

  “Okay, but let me know when you do because I have another application pending.”

  “Application?”

  “Yeah! For a boyfriend. A girl has to have a backup plan.”

  He’d hoped talking to her would make things easier. Had she just called him her boyfriend? With a raised brow, with romance and realism still in open combat, he watched her do something that caused them both to stop and turn.

  Abby reached for Carter’s cheek, let the soft tips of her fingers brush along the surface of his warm skin, held his face in her hand long enough to gaze for a lingering moment into his eyes, then bent close and kissed him alluringly on the lips.

  Carter punched in his mother’s number, hung up before it could connect, then growled aloud and dialed her again. This time he held his breath and waited.

  It rang once . . . twice.

  When her message began to play, Carter high-fived air and praised heaven. Leaving a message would be so much easier.

  “Hi, this is Lorella Cross.” Her tone was so bright Carter needed sunglasses. “I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave your name and number and I’ll ring you back as soon as possible. Good-bye, now!”

  Carter was wet around his neck. “Hi, Mom. It’s Carter.” He felt like he was calling in sick for work when he knew he’d be spending the day on the beach. “Listen, I’m not going to be able to make it out for the wedding. I’m sorry and I simply wanted to let you know. Maybe I can come out in early spring. I can meet Joel . . . er,” Carter said his name but instantly decided it wasn’t right. “James . . .” he continued, but he knew that wasn’t right either. “George?” he finally stammered sheepishly, as if the recording would correct him. It sounded like he was playing Name-the-Beatles. He tried to save face. “You know who I mean . . . your new husband.” He was flustered by his mistake, how it would sound when she played it back. Perhaps that was why, as he was about to hang up, his lips engaged one more time on their own without first checking with his brain. “Give my best to Dad.”

  It was too late to retrieve the words once they’d escaped, and if he could have flogged himself for his stupidity without it hurting, he would have.

  “The comedy show is over,” he fi
nally mumbled, her machine still recording every syllable. “There’s nothing more to see. ’Bye, Mom.”

  And he hung up.

  Carter sat on a wooden stool at the counter beside Abby, praying that customers would shop elsewhere today so he and Abby would have more uninterrupted time to talk. So far it had been working.

  “You’ve been giving me pages of your story,” she said, “but I haven’t heard a title. Are you keeping it a secret?”

  His timid words barely plied their way out. “I have . . . one idea, I guess . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Yin came up with the approach. I was thinking of calling it The Christmas Carol, Angel, Box, Wish!”

  She was stoic. Make a note to never play poker with Abby. Then the edge of a smile pushed through.

  “I see a grin, but I can’t tell what type?” he announced.

  “As an editor,” she replied, “I can tell you that titles are important. So let me ask, what does it mean to you? What do you think about when you hear it?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “It makes me laugh.”

  “You appreciate the sarcasm?”

  “Who doesn’t? What about you? What do you think of the name?”

  Her mouth opened but then closed. It meant she was thinking. “It also makes me laugh—and yes, I too appreciate sarcasm, if it’s offered up in the right serving size. But it’s more than that. It’s a name that likewise reminds me of my favorite Christmas books.”

  “Does that mean you like it?”

  “I like how it reflects varying views of the season. Some will see only the humor. But I hope others will see that in addition, it mirrors the reasons so many love the holiday. It’s a name that will—like Christmas itself—let people choose what they take away.”

  “Is everything to you a metaphor?”

  “Does a stitch in time save nine?” She blinked owlishly.

  “I think metaphorically that means, yes.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, but it merely served to encourage her.