Christmas by Accident

by Camron Wright

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Honey, I didn’t want to ruin Christmas for you. I know how much you love the holidays. I was going to tell you right after, I promise.”

  Her hands joined the quivering. Was it anger or frustration that lifted her voice? “And you didn’t think this would ruin my Christmas? We don’t celebrate Christmas by lying. Never. Never, Mannie!”

  Her interrogation had focused solely on her uncle. She turned now for the first time to address Carter. “And you’ve known the entire time?”

  Carter’s breathing quickened. The answer was rancid and yet he couldn’t spit it out. No matter—he was sure she could see the surrendering guilt spilling from his eyes. “And you said nothing to me? Nothing?” The nerves in his stomach twisted and tightened.

  “How often have you been coming here?” she asked, a question that cuffed him caustically across his face.

  Carter held up two fingers. His answer barely choked out. “A couple of times a week, I guess, for a few weeks now.”

  Resentment gathered into tears. “How could you keep this a secret from me, Carter? How?” It was not her tone that punctured his heart, but rather her disappointment. As her gaze dropped to the floor, his followed. There was a picture on the table that caught her eye. She reached for it, picked it up, studied it.

  “Where did you get this?” Her question was directed at Mannie but followed his stare to Carter. She repeated her words with more force, in case he didn’t understand. “I said, where did you get this?”

  “It was in your car . . . at the tow lot. I found it there and I meant to give it back, but I . . .” There was no good way to finish the sentence. Carter’s silence sagged under its own weight.

  With the picture still clutched in her fingers, her head still shaking, Abby fled from the room the same way she’d entered.

  It was Mannie who pried through the disdainful silence she had left behind. “Give her a little time to cool off,” he said. “I’ll have a talk with her.” His attempt to sound confident caught fire and then nosedived.

  Carter ignored the advice and instead chased Abby out into the driveway. He reached her as she was climbing into her car.

  “Abby, please, give me a chance.” Every word begged.

  He grasped her hand, which was resting on the ­handle, but she pulled it away. It was hot to the touch. She turned, faced him, snarled like a threatened animal.

  “Carter Cross, if there is one thing in a relationship that’s important to me, it’s that we can talk about anything. Anything! Without that, we have nothing.” Surprisingly, her next words fell to a whisper. “My uncle is dying and you knew and you didn’t say a word.”

  She glared at the picture still in her hand. It must have been repulsive to her because she tossed it at Carter’s feet. “What other secrets do you have? What else are you hiding?”

  “Abby, there’s nothing else. I swear!” Panic circled his neck, plunged into his chest.

  Her follow-up question was a simple one. “How am I supposed to believe you?” The tremble in her cheeks cued sadness, which she tried to wipe away with shaky fingers. She began to sob softly, but her outstretched arm instructed him to keep his distance. Then, with Carter helplessly watching, she climbed into her car, gently closed the door, and drove off into the night alone.

  Yin swerved to the curb at the airport’s passenger unloading zone and waited for Carter to gather his luggage.

  “Remind me again when you return?” he asked.

  “The wedding is tomorrow. I stay with my brother, Grayson, in Spokane through Christmas, then head to Sunnyvale for my meeting on the twenty-eighth. I should be home to wrap things up by New Year’s.”

  Yin turned off the car and tipped back his head. “This all happened so quickly!”

  Carter didn’t argue. “Life has a funny way of messing with you, that’s for certain.”

  Yin asked hesitantly, “Have you talked to her?”

  Carter held the weight of the heavy words. Both understood that Yin meant Abby. “I left a message on her phone, but she hasn’t responded.”

  “But you’ll call her again?” Yin confirmed.

  The thought rattled through Carter’s head, then lodged in between a cough and a swallow. “You sound like my mother,” he said. “I left her a message. I’m not a stalker. If she wants to be in touch, she’ll call.”

  His answer shivered.

  He grabbed a breath and his backpack, then lifted his free arm in a half wave toward Yin, his best effort at a parting thank you. He reached toward his obedient suitcase, coaxing it to fall in line behind him. And then, with helplessness still oozing, he wandered away to brave the rushing holiday crowds.

  As Carter exited the concourse in Seattle, a man of perhaps sixty held a lettered sign displaying Carter’s name.

  “I think you’re waiting for me,” Carter told him. But the way the man hesitated, then stepped back for a better look, made it obvious that he was more than a driver.

  He lowered the sign, extended his open hand, waited for Carter to shake it. “Carter! I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Joel Penton. Your mom is busy with some last-minute wedding details—you know women—so she sent me. I hope that’s okay. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  Carter would guess Joel was about the same age as Lorella, perhaps a year or two older, and taller, more trim than he had expected from the picture his mother had shown him in Springfield. Today the man wore slacks and a striped button-down shirt, neatly pressed.

  “I’m parked in the short-term lot. Are you waiting for luggage?” he asked.

  “I’ve just got my backpack and carry-on,” Carter replied.

  “We’re sure glad you could make it. It means a lot to your mother,” Joel said, in a tone that sounded genuine enough, with no hint of condescension. Then he waited for Carter to walk side by side, instead of stepping out in front to lead the way, as Carter’s father would have done.

  “So what do you do, Joel?” Carter asked, hoping his questions would fill the silence but still sound unassuming.

  “I work in finance. I’m the CFO for DigiPlan. We’re an electrical engineering firm.”

  They located his car, a Volvo XC60, and while they drove back to the house, Joel and Carter continued to make small talk: weather, golf, NBA standings, backpacking, and whether two-wheel-drive or all-wheel-drive vehicles were more practical for Seattle’s climate. For the half hour they spent together, Carter found the man to be unusually pleasant, even interesting. And for a handful of minutes, he nearly forgot that CFO Joel Penton from Seattle, Washington, who already had several children of his own, would soon be sleeping with Carter’s mother.

  The wedding was booked at Belle Gardens, a setting that to any bride was a blissful five acres of heaven. Among its most adored features—and most photographed—was a waterfall and pond, complete with a boat so lovers could row a few feet from shore while admiring crowds swooned on the bank, shooting enough Instagram-worthy pictures to clog the Internet for days. The dock was decorated with hundreds of twinkling lights that reminded Carter of the colored light display he and Abby had visited at Forest Park.

  In addition, there was a garden encircling an oversized gazebo, adjacent to a Victorian cottage replete with vintage furniture. Even in the winter, the home and grounds were spectacular. Merely add a bride and groom and it completed a scene that would make Norman Rockwell weak in the knees.

  Carter listened as “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” began to play romantically in the background. Although he remained uneasy about his mother creating a brand-new life with someone unknown—as nice as the man seemed—the evening simply proved to be the ultimate embellishment. Any wayward situation could be dressed up when it was set to the right music.

  When “Santa Baby” cued up next, Carter couldn’t help but pull out his phone and check for mes
sages. There were none.

  All morning Carter had been helping his scurrying mother finish a few of the final details—placing table centerpieces, hanging roses upside down on strings in the hallway, filling dishes with packaged mints all imprinted with the initials L & J—and frankly, now that the moment had almost arrived, he longed for something more to keep his mind busy.

  The ceremony would begin in forty minutes, and already the early arriving overachievers were filtering in through the door. He recognized a few of the faces—Darcel Sims, the neighbor three doors down who always baked banana bread; Mr. Hinning and his wife, who played golf with his parents at the club; and Yvonne Kane, who served with Lorella at the Rotary.

  And then, like a shark fin breaking calm water, Carter noticed a gray head of perfectly moussed hair rise up from behind an entering couple. Carter swayed sideways, bending like a willow in the wind as he bowed for a better look.

  The man noticed Carter, strode toward him, stopped a foot short, then scanned him from head to toe, as if examining merchandise he was considering for purchase.

  Carter wanted to say Hello, or It’s been a long time, or I have no idea what you’re doing here, but the words huddled in his throat.

  The man’s eyes drew close and his forehead pleated, as if confused at the hush. When he extended his hand, however, the quiet scattered, accepting the reality that the two could never occupy the same space.

  “Hello, Carter,” he boomed, loud enough to deafen anyone in a five-foot radius. “I hoped you’d be here!”

  Carter took the man’s outstretched hand, shook it, and then pointed to a waiting table where they could sit and talk.

  “Hi, Dad. How have you been?”

  Mannie pulled on his old brown slippers, the ones Abby had threatened to throw away because they were separating at the heel, and shuffled out the door toward the mailbox.

  He’d been given orders to keep his activity to a minimum, but he was also not supposed to stay bedridden. “Just be careful to not overdo things,” the doctor had instructed. Certainly Mannie’s daily afternoon trips to get the mail would meet with approval.

  A dozen steps away from the house, a pain shot down his left arm to linger in the fingers of his hand. It was a familiar sensation, but one he hadn’t noticed since starting the trial drug.

  He flexed his fingers, shook at the numbness, hoping it would push out his fingertips to the sidewalk and scurry away. Another six steps and he could feel perspiration mustering across his brow.

  He reached the mailbox, pulled open the lid, and found only a flyer from a local carpet cleaning service, a credit card offer, and a bill from the gas company. Clenching all three in his right hand, he prepared to trek back to the house with a promise to lie down until the symptoms passed.

  Perhaps later in the afternoon, he would even try calling Abby again to see if she was ready to come over and talk. He wanted to thoroughly explain the situation with Carter, confess that it was all her crazy uncle’s fault, clarify that it was he who had insisted the boy keep everything a secret. He needed to convince her that she and Carter should patch things up and get back together—because he genuinely liked Carter.

  As Mannie pivoted, a pain exploded in his chest that felt like an angry lion clawing apart his heart. The mail in his hands dropped to the cement and scattered. He tried to suck in air, but it only fanned the firestorm unfurling in his ribcage.

  He recognized that it must be a heart attack, but prayed it wouldn’t be the end. He reached into his pocket for his phone to call for help, but it was not there. He’d left it on the kitchen table.

  His breaths were shallow—too shallow—and by not drawing enough oxygen into his lungs, he understood that he would soon pass out.

  He dropped to the curb, half sitting, half falling, and despite the lack of a phone, his lips began calling, speaking words meant for only one to hear.

  “Please, not until after Christmas. Not yet. Please, not un—”

  Before he could finish his plea a second time, the sky turned a punishing black, the noises around him closed their mouths, and Mannie Foster McBride slumped motionless onto the cold and unforgiving December ground.

  Burnell Cross, Carter’s father, was a smartly dressed man with a stout nose, styled hair, and a pragmatic stare—a man who pushed middle age to its limits. He was wearing a suit that cost more than a penthouse mortgage payment and shoes that spoke fluent Italian.

  Carter positioned himself beside the man, let his jaw lower, but then seemingly paused to rest. “Do you have something to say?” Burnell finally asked.

  “I guess I’m still trying to process that you’re here.”

  Burnell’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “Your mom’s getting married. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

  It was a fumbled pause, the kind that gropes for lost words. When the words arrived, they carried confusion. “Exactly my point. Since you and mom split up . . . and considering that she’s marrying another man . . . I thought that you’d be . . . angry.”

  Burnell bent in with a smile that was close to coy, as if he were sharing inside information at the horse track. “I admit, I do hate to lose—but at least it’s not a court case!”

  He appeared to wait for a laugh, but it was a tough crowd. Carter winced instead. “So you truly don’t care?”

  Burnell leaned back, his words leaning with him. “I didn’t say that. Look, Carter, we married young. We made mistakes.” Without any prodding, he corrected himself. “I made mistakes. I’m not expecting to collect a trophy. At this point, I just hope she’s happy—and I think she will be. Joel can provide things I can’t.”

  “You call him Joel?” The question flinched.

  “Why?” His father’s eyes narrowed. “What do you call him?”

  Carter’s silence shrugged.

  Burnell continued, “Honestly, he seems like a decent guy. How can I be anything but pleased for both of them? Besides, her marriage reduces my alimony.”

  Again, with no hint of amusement leaking from Carter, only a pregnant pause, Burnell changed the subject. “So your mom told me about your job offer. I’m proud of you. I have to admit, when you turned down law school and moved away, I didn’t expect you’d make much of your life.”

  “That’s a compliment, right?” Carter replied dryly. “Because I’m getting all warm and fuzzy.”

  “You know me. I say it like I see it—and I’m telling you, you’re doing okay. I’m proud of you.”

  The words fell to the ground and waited. Carter wasn’t sure how to pick them up. But, for the first time since their conversation had begun, the tension gripping Carter’s shoulders slackened.

  “Can I ask you something?” Carter finally said. “You know, get some fatherly advice?”

  “As you’ve learned by now, it’s not my specialty,” Burnell replied. “But I can give you an expert legal opinion.”

  Carter’s sigh conceded. “At this point, I think I’ll take it.”

  Burnell straightened. “Perfect,” he said, now on the clock. “What’s the problem?”

  The words were ready, even anxious. “There’s a girl I’ve been dating, Abby, who lives in Springfield. She runs a store there with her uncle, but he’s sick. If I take the job in California, I’ll be walking away from the relationship, and I don’t want to do that. On the other hand, the job offer is totally amazing. We’re talking six figures, an expense account, a career I would love. So you see, it’s a dilemma. I truthfully don’t know what to do.”

  Burnell’s fingers intertwined. He rested them noticeably against his chin, as if it helped him think. “It seems pretty straightforward to me,” he finally said.

  “It does?”

  “Sure, this is a case of value in use versus value in exchange.”

  Carter’s head listed to one side. “I don’t know what that means.”

 
Burnell was speaking low, as if a jury were listening. “They’re legal terms,” he offered. “Value in use weighs the utility of an object in satisfying—directly or ­indirectly—the needs or desires of human beings. Value in exchange represents the cost in an open market to replace said commodity—in this case, the girl. It’s simple, really. Make your decision as to the best valuation method. If it’s value in exchange, for example, then compare the acquisition value—I’m talking the cost for a similar girl in Sunnyvale—to what you’d be giving up to forego the job, and I think it will all become pretty clear. As for me, from experience, I would suggest value in use.”

  “Acquisition of a similar girl in Sunnyvale?” Carter echoed. His open mouth made a perfect circle. He expected a hint of sarcasm, but there was no smirk, no sneer, no turn of his father’s frown. The man had never been more serious.

  “The numbers don’t lie,” Burnell added, as if no one could now argue. “I should know. You won’t go wrong with value in use.”

  The flowing wisdom was interrupted by “Santa Baby” crooning from Carter’s pocket. His cell phone was ringing.

  “Abby?”

  “No, Carter, it’s Seven.” Her words were restless, fearful.

  “Seven? What’s wrong?”

  They either had a bad connection or she was gathering her thoughts. “Mannie’s had a heart attack. Abby’s not sure if he’s going to make it. A neighbor found him in the street, out by his mailbox. He was unconscious, barely breathing. We’re at the hospital with him now. I wanted you to be aware.”

  Angst anchored itself to Carter and began to pull him under.

  “Seven, I’m in Seattle.” It wasn’t an excuse, simply a fact.

  “I understand.”

  Anxiety latched onto every word. “Should I try to fly back? Would it help?”

  “You’ll need to decide.” He heard her voice wobble. “I just thought you should know.”

  Carter found his mother lined up ready for the procession music to begin. White dress notwithstanding, the moment she looked into Carter’s face, she knew something was wrong.