The Steward

by Christopher Shields

  I heard Dad talking to Mitch downstairs and let my worries drift away. My father was in the holiday spirit. He helped Mom decorate … everything. She always went nuts in Florida, but she was exponentially worse here. They hung more lights on the cottage, in the trees, and throughout the garden than I thought physically possible.

  Dad strung the big old-fashioned lights, the one’s with painted bulbs, along the roof of the cottage. Only red and white, Mom insisted. It made the cottage look a little like a gingerbread house with peppermint eaves. The tiny clear lights in the leafless shrubs came alive and twinkled when the wind blew. The centerpiece of the Christmas garden, though, was the White Spruce. Picea glauca. I chuckled to myself as I rattled off the botannical name in my head. It stood nearly thirty feet tall, and it was one of the few things that stayed green all year long … until Dad worked it over, at least. He had completely covered it with lights of all colors. After turning my bedroom lamp off, I stared at it. Breathtaking. The Fae appeared to enjoy our seasonal spirit, too. I sensed several of them flittering about, just beyond the garden wall, in various physical forms.

  I really wanted Aunt May to see this. It was so beautiful here. I wanted to tell her that she had been right last January when she told me that Christmas in the Weald was spectacular—she had been right about a lot of things. Experiencing four distinct seasons hooked me on Arkansas. I still loved Florida, and I missed Boca, but I already looked forward to spring in the Ozarks. Even if he can’t bring it early this year, it’ll still be him when it comes.

  I pulled a deep breath through my nose. It smelled like Christmas was supposed to smell—there were so many aromas in the air. The scent of chocolate, spiced cider, and bread warmed the air, while peppermint and the Douglas Fir Christmas tree in the living room gave it a clean and cool edge. We used the fireplaces again, so the smell of burning logs added even more depth.

  Surrendering to hunger, I relinquished my solitude and joined them downstairs. The Christmas Eve stew was as good as I imagined, but we didn’t spend a lot of time sitting around the table enjoying it. As soon as we finished the first bowl, Mom ran us down to the basement. She had a “gift” for us and demanded we wait there until she gave us the okay to come back up. I could hear her walking about and guessed that she was in the dining room. While we waited, Mitch and Dad played pool. Mitch was still distant with Dad, but their relationship had improved a little since Dad sold the car. His behavior after Aunt May’s death had really hurt Mitch.

  When Mom sounded the “all clear,” I followed them up the stairs. She led us to the dining room where there was something on the buffet, under a sheet. I suspected that she probably dug her ceramic Christmas village out and wanted to suprise us with it. She removed the sheet, quickly setting a few things back in place, a tiny tree here and a piece of miniture stone wall there. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had created a tiny version of every structure in the Weald. The detail was amazing. I enjoyed looking at all of it until I noticed the caretaker’s cottage. Like the rest, it was in perfect detail, and done as though the cottage had been restored.

  “Mom, when did you do the caretaker’s cottage?”

  “It was last. I finished it a week ago. The whole thing was missing something so I decided to use it—except cleaned up.”

  “You measured?”

  “Yes, I did that a month ago—when all of you were away, I snuck up and got what I needed. I’m so glad that Chalen can keep a secret—you know, he’s isn’t as bad as people say. He’s been perfectly pleasant each time we’ve talked.”

  “You’ve talked to him?” Panic set in.

  “Don’t be silly, Maggie, May took your dad and me up and introduced us back in January—I thought you and Mitch were with us, but no, I guess we did that while you were at school. Seriously though, he lives on the property, of course we met him.”

  I was stunned by my own stupidity. I hadn’t even considered it before.

  “We’ve tried to invite him down for dinner, but he won’t come.”

  Now I was stunned for another reason—Mom and Dad were friendly with Chalen. I figured that Mitch would be terrified, but he reacted to the news by rolling his eyes. He just thought Chalen was a creepy old man—he didn’t know what I did, so the danger didn’t register.

  “Mom, when was the last time you saw him ... Chalen?”

  “Two weeks ago, when you were at school.”

  I was at school, with Sara, and Dad had probably left for work with Billy following. That left Mom here on the Weald unprotected anytime she wandered away from the garden wall.

  “He visited me in the studio and gave me his opinion on these. I think he really liked them. In fact—I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—on New Year’s Day, he has invited us all to his cottage for dinner.”

  “Oh, Mom, I don’t like that man, he’s a creep,” Mitch protested.

  “Mitchell, you were not raised that way.”

  “Mom, I don’t want to go there!” Mitch said.

  “We’re going, and no whining—unless you want Santa to skip you.”

  “Mom, I know there isn’t a Santa—I’ve known for, like, three years.’

  “And who told you that?”

  “The internet, hello,” he said.

  In a sweet, cooing voice, Mom bent over and explained things to Mitch. “You’re wrong about that—Santa is standing right here, and she still has all the receipts for your gifts. If you don’t get rid of the attitude, Santa will return them—comprende?”

  He looked at her, a little red-faced, and his smile spread—dimples at full power. “Comprendo, Momma.”

  I was doing all I could to hide my anger and discomfort when the chime at the door rang. The Monroes were here. Mom and Dad had met them briefly after Doug and I started swimming together, but Dad wasn’t at his best. This was their first chance to really get to know each other. Tonight was Doug’s idea. He found dozens of ways to be near me.

  The Monroes did what everyone else did when they visited the Weald: they gushed on how ‘charming’ it was. Mrs. Monroe was stunned by the Christmas tree that Dad let Mitch pick out. It filled the back half of the living room, hiding the large windows, and soared nearly to the peak of the ceiling some thirty feet above the floor.

  We’d found the O’Shea family’s horde of tree ornaments in the toy box. While we didn’t use all of them—it was impossible—every branch that could hold an ornament, did so. In the past, Mom had always done themed trees, but this one was eclectic. Antique painted wood and glass ornaments, clear glass icicles, gingerbread, and colored lights—it was a perfect Weald Christmas tree.

  When we settled in the living room, Mitch studied Dad for a moment before climbing into Doug’s lap. I loved that Doug and Mitch were so close, and Mitch idolized him, but I could tell it bothered Dad that Mitch was still mad. Like he always did, Dad gave him space and seemed willing to wait it out.

  I could only trust that Sara was right. She said that their relationship was doing substantially better, and I simply needed to give them both more time. Of course, she was here. I found it amusing that no one seemed to notice the perfectly still Blue Jay ornament near the top of the tree.

  It was a good evening. I learned for the first time that Dad had retired and planned to do nothing for a while but focus on us. That made me very happy. As the evening wore on, Mitch fell asleep in Doug’s lap and I curled up next to them both. I liked this. It was the way Christmas Eve was supposed to be, and I wished more than anything it could be this way forever. It was bliss, except for the few moments my thoughts turned to my pending meeting with Chalen. I pushed it back, out of my mind, until after the Monroes left and we all went to bed.

  I had done it as a child, lay awake on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep, but it wasn’t the promise of presents under the tree that kept me up this night. I thought about Mom and Dad seeing Chalen on a regular basis. It was worse than I originally thought. Chalen wasn’t sneaking around finding my father when he was
away from the Weald. Dad was going right up the hill and visiting on his own volition. How could I stop that? I thought about it for hours, running different scenarios through my head, and I didn’t have an answer.

  The truth was simple—Mom and Dad were in danger here. Everyone was. There was no way to protect them, or Mitch, every hour of every day. Nor did I want to try. I wanted to protect them, sure, but the thought of being a Steward and a body guard—well, I hated it. Playing Billy’s game of mental hide-and-seek was bad enough.

  At five o’clock I still hadn’t slept, but I didn’t feel physically tired, either. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw Mom and Dad walking up the abandoned road to the Seoladán, and a black-fanged beast attacking them below the greenhouse. Either Chalen or I needed to go, and I knew he wouldn’t voluntarily go anywhere.

  Thirty minutes later, I heard one of my parents, maybe both, moving around in the living room below. It sounded like they were stuffing stockings and setting gifts out while trying not to laugh loud enough to wake us up. Shortly after the sun came up, and still without sleep, I heard Mitch hollering in joy. I laughed. Okay, game on.

  I pulled on my robe and mussed my hair a little—I didn’t want anyone to know I hadn’t slept—and joined them. Everyone but Mitch was exhausted—he alone had slept all night. It took an hour to rip through the gifts, leaving shards of colored paper and bits of ribbon everywhere. Dad had bought several things for Mitch, remote controlled this and x-box that, and Mitch said thanks with each one, but he was still distant. It was killing Dad—I saw it in his eyes. It was after nearly all the gifts were opened that I implemented phase three of my plan. Yes, my unapologetic scheme.

  “Mitch, here’s one more for you.” I looked at the tag, even though I had written it myself a few hours earlier. “It’s from Dad.”

  Mitch took it. “Thanks, Dad,” he said softly, sitting back in a huge pile of paper.

  It was a small box wrapped in red paper with a white bow. Dad looked confused, unable to remember what he had given him. Mitch looked even more confused when he lifted a set of car keys from the open box. It took him a minute to notice the note inside, which simply read:

  Look in the Toy Box

  Mitch’s eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open. I laughed—it looked a bit odd for a nine-year-old to be holding the keys to a car. Mom and Dad exchanged looks while Mitch sat speechless and stunned. After he read the note, my father did a double-take on the keys he clearly recognized. Mitch hadn’t caught it—he didn’t recognize my handwriting, but Dad certainly did.

  At a full sprint, Mitch was up and running toward the door, and Dad was there nearly as quickly. Mom and I followed them through the garden. Mitch didn’t run ahead. He grabbed Dad’s hand instead, and walked with him. He had a death grip on the keys in his other hand.

  I started getting emotional in the driveway. Seeing them, like normal, was what I had hoped for. No, I thought, this was better than I had hoped.

  “What is it, Daddy?” Mitch asked, looking up.

  Dad cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?”

  Dad pushed the big door open and Mitch started bawling. There, in it’s proper place, was Dad’s fastback—with a gigantic red bow. Dad couldn’t speak. He just looked down at Mitch who was clinging to his waist, crying harder than I’ve ever seen. Dad glanced up at me after a minute, and mouthed the words “Thank you” with tears in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to cry in front of me this morning.

  He wasn’t the only one—Mom was choking on sobs, too. She knew, like I did, that this one thing had hurt Mitch the most—the broken promise. The car was the one thing that could make it whole. Dad picked Mitch up and tried to calmed him down. It wasn’t until Dad said, “Let’s go for a ride,” that Mitch finally stopped sobbing.

  His lower lip was quivering, and his face was wet. “But Dad, we’re in our pajamas?”

  “We’re not getting out of the car—it’ll be alright.”

  “Okay.” Mitch wiped his runny nose, smiling.

  When Dad put him down, Mitch ran to the driver’s side door, wiping his eyes, key’s in hand.

  “Hold on there, kiddo, you have seven years to go before you’re old enough to drive.”

  Mitch smiled broadly. “No Dad, only five, I’ll be fourteen in five years—I ain’t waitin’ like Maggie ta get my learner’s permit.” Oh, god, he already talks like Aunt May.

  Mom walked up beside me and put her arm around my shoulders. “What you just did...” Her voice trailed off with emotion.

  With a twist of the key, the dark green Mustang roared to life. Mitch’s eyes were big, and he fought with tears again. I owed Danny big—this was a bigger hit than I ever thought it would be. Danny rolled it down the hill last night and pushed it into the Toy Box without making any noise. I remember seeing him chuckle and smile at me through my window before he blinked away. There is a Santa, and he’s a Fae lawyer from Fayetteville.

  Mitch smiled ear-to-ear when they drove past us. No one would have to hear the conversation to know what was said. Mitch twirled his hands as a signal for Dad to peel out, and Dad nodded his head while pointing up the hill. Mom and I were very quiet—we were listening. It was completely peaceful this morning, and you could hear every little sound in the Weald. So even from the highway, the gutteral snarl of the revving engine and the high pitched scream of spinning tires echoed through the motionless trees to where we stood. Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes. I laughed.

  I had won. I turned down a mountain of money to keep the Weald intact. I figured out a way to convince Dad to stay here and be happy about it, and my family felt normal again. Still, I wrestled with the decision over the next several hours.

  After dinner, around ten o’clock, Sara disappeared and Billy took her place. I was exhausted so I said goodnight and went to my room. As I turned out the light, I heard the familiar growl of the Maserati coming down the driveway. With a sharp breath, I sat up and looked out my window to see it stop at the front gate. I was happy to see Sara get out, but disappointed it wasn’t Gavin. I knew better, of course, but this was the first time since that day that I had seen his car.

  She moved lithely through the garden, half dancing—half walking, toward the front door. I reached the top of the stairs in time to hear Mom say, “I’m sorry, Sara Ann, but she has gone to bed already.”

  “It’s okay, Mom, I’m still up.”

  Mom exhaled loudly, and allowed her in.

  Sara sat on my bed, but I noticed she didn’t embrace a pillow. It was odd. She seemed serious but not upset.

  “Why the car? I didn’t even know you could drive.”

  Her head tilted to the side and she looked at me like I was an idiot. “I can create hurricanes, Maggie, driving is not much of a challenge. I drove because I wanted to give you this,” she said. She held a Christmas package. “It’s a little too cumbersome for a Blue Jay, and I flatly refuse to transform into a crow.” She winked and smiled, joking with me.

  I took the box and began to open it.

  “But I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t think...”

  “Open it,” she insisted, not waiting for me to finish. “I think you’re ready. What you did today for your father did more good than two months of my healing. You deserve a little healing yourself.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I finished opening it. Inside was a necklace. A thin, beautiful gold chain with a small golden bird attached. It reminded me of the story Gavin told me.

  “It’s beautiful.” I held it under the lamp light to get a better look. “It reminds me of Caorann. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t,” she said uncomfortably. “I’m just delivering it.”

  “But...” was all I managed before I looked into the box. There was a card inside, with only one thing on it.

  G

  “G!” A sharp breath caught in my throat. “Oh my god, is this from...”

  She nodded. “He asked me to give this
to you.”

  Happiness, excitment, shock, they all hit me in the chest, and once again I had tears welling in my eyes.

  “When did you see ... is he...”

  “I’m sorry Maggie, he isn’t here, if that’s what you’re wondering. He found me before I returned from Europe. I have debated giving it to you sooner, but with all that you were going through, I...”

  I interupted her. “No, don’t apologize. This means so much to ... I can’t think of what to say. Except thank you.” After a few moments, the smile on my face disappeared when I stared at the little bird and thought about Gavin—hiding somewhere, eternally an outcast. Guilt again. A frown formed on my face—Sara seemed puzzled.

  “Maggie, are you angry?”

  I tried to smile, to act grateful. But I could only think about my idiotic, impulsive kiss, and what it had cost Gavin. “I’m not angry with you. I’m ... I’m totally pissed at myself. I caused this.” My voice was surprisingly calm and even. “If Chalen hadn’t seen me kiss him in the car, that car,” I said, pointing out the window, “Gavin would still be here. If I could do it all over again, Sara, I wouldn’t be so selfish and stupid ... and I’d ... I’d be more careful. He would be safe right now.”

  “That’s not the case, Maggie. The Council didn’t make its decision based on Chalen’s evidence alone.”

  I felt cross when she said it.

  “Then what evidence did they base it on?” I snapped. I immediatelty considered the possibility that they’d peered into my mind at the Fire trial, or watched my dreams.

  “Maggie, the Council asked Gavin whether the allegations were true.”

  “What? That we are in love? Good grief! That he loved me? Whatever...” I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

  She had a pained look on her face, and she seemed ... emotional. I was stunned to silence by her stare.