by Joy Fielding
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been getting these crank calls. . . . It’s nothing.” I sighed, shook thoughts of other voices out of my head.
“Rough day?”
“Actually, no,” I said, regrouping, refocusing. “It was a great day.” I wondered briefly why he was calling. Surely it wasn’t to talk about my day. “You remember Sheena O’Connor? She came out of her coma this afternoon,” I prattled on, almost afraid to let him speak. “It was incredible. Everyone’s calling it a Christmas miracle.”
“It must have been very exciting.”
“It was amazing. And the best part was that she’d heard me singing to her while she was comatose. Isn’t that incredible?” I asked, sounding just like Alison, aware I’d used superlatives three times in as many seconds. “Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
An awful silence followed. For the second time that day, my heart sank, my happiness crashing to the floor with such force I felt the room shake beneath my feet.
“I feel like such a jerk,” Josh was saying.
“Is there a problem?” I opened the nearest drawer and stuffed the gift bag from Lorelli Gallery inside it. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be seeing Josh Wylie anytime soon.
“It’s Jillian,” he said, referring to his daughter. “She came home from school and said she wasn’t feeling very well.”
“Does she have a fever?”
“I don’t think so, but I just wouldn’t feel comfortable about leaving her. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I’m doing this to you twice in one day. Maybe you should call the police.”
“Some days are like that,” I said gamely, slamming the cupboard drawer shut, watching the three Santas collapse against each other, like dominoes.
“I feel really terrible about this.”
“You’ll make it up to me,” I ventured bravely.
“Absolutely. As soon as I get back from California.”
“You’re going away?”
“Just for a couple of weeks. The kids have cousins in San Francisco. We leave the day after tomorrow, get back January third.”
So much for New Year’s Eve, I thought.
“I hope you don’t hate me.”
“These things happen.”
“I will make it up to you.”
“Have a wonderful trip,” I said. “And tell Jillian I hope she feels better soon.”
“I will.”
“See you next year,” I said cheerily, then hung up the phone before I burst into tears. “Damn it!” I swore. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!”
There was a knock on the kitchen door. I gasped, budding tears coating my eyes, leaving a filmy residue.
“I’m sorry,” Alison apologized over the sound of jingling bells as I opened the door to let her in. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I caught a glimpse of strawberry curls, white shorts, and long, tanned legs, before turning away.
“Terry, what’s wrong?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you lost your job?” I demanded, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, refusing to look at her.
I could almost feel the color drain from Alison’s face. “What?”
“I dropped into the gallery this afternoon. I spoke to Fern Lorelli.”
“Oh.”
“She said she had to let you go.”
Silence. Then: “What else did she say?”
“Not much.”
“She didn’t say why?”
Wiping the last errant tears from my eyes, I pivoted around to face her. Alison’s gaze immediately dropped to the floor. “She said I should ask you.”
Alison nodded, still unable to look me in the eye. “I was going to tell you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I thought I’d wait until I found another job. I didn’t want you worrying about the rent. I didn’t want to ruin Christmas.”
“Why were you let go?”
Slowly Alison lifted her gaze to mine. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” her voice implored. “Apparently there was some money missing. Certain figures didn’t add up. . . . I swear it wasn’t me.”
“It was just easier for her to fire you than confront her own niece,” I offered after a pause, biting down on my tongue to keep from adding, I told you so.
“You don’t have to worry about anything. Honestly. I have enough money.”
“I’m not worried about the money.”
“Then what is it? Are you worried about me? Don’t be,” she said before I could respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I won’t lie to you ever again. I promise. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded, realizing it was true, that if I was angry with anyone, it was with myself. For being such a damn fool.
“I have a great idea,” Alison suddenly announced, running from the room.
Seconds later, I heard her foraging around under the Christmas tree, and seconds after that she was back, a brightly, if somewhat sloppily, wrapped gift in her hands. She extended it toward me. “Since we’re opening the presents early anyway, it won’t hurt to open this one now. Ignore the wrapping. I actually took a course in gift-wrapping once, would you believe? Go on. Open it. It’ll make you feel better.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
I tore the wrapping off the brown cardboard box, opened it. Large dark eyes stared up at me from under a shroud of translucent bubble wrap. Slowly, carefully, I lifted the head vase into the air. The china lady sported an elaborate blond coif, a large blue bow at her throat, and mock diamond studs in her ears. “She’s beautiful. Where did you find her?”
“At the flea market over by Woolbright. Isn’t she great? I mean, I know you think they’re junk and everything, but I couldn’t resist. I saw her, and I thought it was kind of like a sign or something.”
“A sign?”
“Like I was meant to find her, and you were meant to have her. Fate,” she said with an embarrassed roll of her eyes. “I mean, the other heads were more your mother’s. This one’s, well . . . she’s all yours. Your firstborn, so to speak. Do you like her?”
“I like her very much.”
Alison squealed with delight. “She’s in mint condition. Check the eyelashes.”
“She’s perfect.” I turned the china head over in my hands. “Thank you.”
“Feel better?”
“Much.”
“Where are you going to put her?” Alison glanced toward the five shelves of ladies’ heads.
“This one’s pretty special. I think I’ll keep her in my room.”
Alison beamed, as if I’d just paid her the highest of compliments. “So, I guess I’ll see you later?”
“Later,” I agreed, hearing the bells jingle as the kitchen door closed behind her. I wandered into the dining area, smiling at the sprigs of holly and pine that lay across the top of the cabinet, at the apple-cheeked Santa Claus who stood in the middle of the dining room table, at the papier-mâché reindeer that leaned against the wall.
The living room was more of the same: more Santas, more reindeer, at least a dozen elves. If there was a space, something Christmassy was in it. And then there was the tree itself—tall and full and smelling of the forest, its branches swathed in pink bows and small white lights, presents swelling from beneath its base. Just looking at it buoyed my spirits. And it was all Alison’s doing, I recognized, cradling the china head vase in my hands as if it were indeed my firstborn child.
Alison was the true Christmas miracle, I decided.
What was I doing moping around the house because some guy had stood me up? Just think of all the things I had to be grateful for.
Name three, I heard Alison urge.
“My health,” I said reflexively, then groaned. “Sheena O’Connor’s amazing recovery.” My God, she’d actually heard me sing to her! “Alison,” I whispered, then again, louder, more forcefully: “Alison.”
>
I looked down at the china head in my hands, my heart full of remorse. I was no better than Fern Lorelli, I thought with disgust. I’d used Alison as a scapegoat, transferred my anger and disappointment with someone else to her.
How could I have let her leave without giving her something in return? I reached under the tree and selected a small parcel wrapped in silver foil. Then I carried it back into the kitchen, leaving the china head on the kitchen table, next to the Santa Claus salt-and-pepper shakers Alison had picked up at Target. The sound of jingle bells followed me across the small patch of yard to the cottage door.
I heard the voices as I was about to knock.
“I told you to let me handle this,” Alison was saying, her voice an angry hiss, intense enough to be heard from outside.
“I’m just here to help.”
“I don’t need your help. I know what I’m doing.”
“Since when?”
I turned to leave, my shoulder accidentally brushing against the bells hanging from the bronze knocker, setting them jangling. Almost immediately, the door opened, and Alison stood before me with questioning eyes. “Terry!”
Instinctively, I thrust the gift toward her. “I wanted you to have this.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet.” She glanced toward the interior of the cottage. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know, but I thought . . .” What did I think? “Is someone here?” I ventured meekly.
There was a moment’s strained silence as a handsome young man materialized behind Alison, as if waved there by a magic wand. He was several inches taller than Alison, with fair skin, curly, dark hair, and the disturbingly blue eyes of a Siamese cat. Well-defined biceps bulged from beneath the short sleeves of a black T-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest.
“That would be me,” the young man said, smiling. He reached around Alison and extended his hand.
“Terry,” Alison said, her gaze drifting toward the grass, the second time this afternoon she’d been too embarrassed to look me in the eyes, “I’d like you to meet Lance Palmay. My brother.”
TWELVE
A pleasure to meet you,” Lance said, his handshake surprisingly gentle.
“I called him after Thanksgiving. Remember?” Alison asked.
I nodded, recalling the one-sided conversation I’d overheard the morning I was so desperately sick.
Everything is going exactly as planned. You’re just going to have to trust that I know what I’m doing.
“Lance decided he needed to fly down and see for himself how I’m making out.”
“Looks like she’s managing just fine,” Lance pronounced.
“That’s why I came over before, to tell you about Lance,” Alison explained, inviting me inside the cottage with a sweep of her hand. “We got kind of sidetracked. . . .”
I’m not sure what I expected to see when I stepped inside—a tinsel-covered wonderland, a veritable army of toys, a re-creation of the North Pole? But surprisingly, the cottage bore only a few traces of Christmas—a large red candle, surrounded by a few careless sprigs of holly, on the glass coffee table in front of the deep purple love seat, a lonely Santa Claus doll lying facedown on the bentwood rocker. That was it.
“Do you want a cold drink?” Alison offered.
I shook my head, watched as Lance flopped down on the large floral-print chair. He looks way too comfortable, I thought, masking the unkind thought with a clearing of my throat. “When did you get in?”
“Plane got into Fort Lauderdale around twelve-thirty.” He smiled at Alison. “I rented a car at the airport. White Lincoln Town Car, no less. It’s parked across the street. You must have seen it. Surprised old sleepyhead here as she was getting out of bed.”
Alison’s eyes narrowed as her shoulders tensed.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
The two exchanged wary glances.
“We were just talking about that,” Alison began.
“I thought I could stay here for a few days,” Lance said as if the decision had already been made.
“Here?” I repeated when I could think of nothing else to say.
“Of course if you have any objections . . .,” Alison said quickly.
“Why would she object?” Lance asked, looking right at me.
“But where would you sleep?” The sofa was far too short for the elongated legs of a former high school basketball player, the double bed way too small to accommodate a brother and sister comfortably.
“This is a pretty neat chair.” Lance pounded its oversize arms. “And I can always throw a pillow on the floor.”
“Is it all right?” Alison asked me again. “Because honestly, if it isn’t, Lance can find a motel.”
“At this time of year? Without a reservation? I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Alison said.
“Absolutely not,” Lance concurred. “If my staying here would make you feel uncomfortable in any way . . .”
“It’s your comfort I’m concerned with.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll pay you extra,” Alison volunteered.
“Don’t be silly. That’s not the point.”
“Terry had a bad experience with her last tenant,” Alison told her brother.
“How so?”
“Too long a story.” I shook my head. “Well, okay then, I guess it’s okay. A few days, you said?”
“Absolutely,” Alison agreed.
“Christmas . . . New Year’s, tops,” Lance said, effortlessly stretching the few days to ten.
“Well . . .”
“Can I open my present now?” Alison asked eagerly. Without waiting for my reply, she tore off the silver wrapping paper, her eyes widening with delight when she saw what was inside. “A wallet! Oh, that’s so great. I need a wallet. How’d you know that?”
I laughed, picturing the loose bills that were always tumbling around inside her purse.
“We are just so tuned in to each other, don’t you think?” Alison stated more than asked, turning the honey-colored leather wallet over in her hands, caressing its smooth sides. “It’s amazing. Don’t you think?”
“I think it’s a very nice wallet,” Lance said. “Terry is obviously a woman of impeccable taste.”
Was he being sarcastic? I couldn’t tell.
“I should go.” I turned toward the door.
“You’ll come with us for dinner, won’t you?” Alison asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m not very hungry. You guys go, get reacquainted.”
“Okay,” Alison agreed reluctantly, “but only if you promise to spend the day with us tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I know you’re not working tomorrow, and I want to show Lance all around Delray.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“Yeah, I do. Please. It won’t be the same without you.”
“You know it’s pointless to argue,” Lance said with a laugh.
He was right, and we all knew it.
“You have to come,” Alison persisted. “Please. It’ll be so fun. Please. Please. Say you’ll at least think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
*
OF COURSE, in the end I agreed to go. What other choice did I have? It’s pointless to say that I was being dangerously naive, even reckless, that I was deluding myself into thinking that everything was going to be all right, that Alison and her brother were exactly the people they represented themselves to be. I’ve said all these things to myself, and much more besides. But I continued to rationalize my doubts away. I convinced myself Alison was sincere in her reasons for not telling me she’d been fired, and that, of course, she’d had nothing to do with any money that might be missing from the gallery.
And what of the conversation I’d overheard at the cottage door?
I told you to let me handle this.
Handle
what?
I’m just here to help.
I don’t need your help. I know what I’m doing.
What did it mean?
Nothing, I assured myself that night. Alison and her brother could have been talking about anything. What self-conscious paranoia made me think their conversation had anything to do with me? Not everything was about me, as my mother might have said. Whatever Alison and her brother had been arguing about probably didn’t concern me at all.
Handle what?
I was too tired to try figuring it out. And the truth was, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to believe that Alison was anything other than the beautiful free spirit who’d brought magic into my otherwise mundane existence. Why would I assume she had ulterior motives or that she might be planning anything sinister? Why couldn’t her brother’s visit be as unexpected and spontaneous as they claimed?
So I made a conscious decision to ignore the warning bells that were jingling like mad in my head, much like the bells Alison had hung from our doors. I rationalized away my instincts, reminded myself that Lance Palmay would be gone in a few days, scolded myself for being so suspicious, so uptight. Then I made a cup of tea and carried it into the living room, where I curled up on the sofa with a new book, the white lights of the Christmas tree winking behind me, the smell of pine needles competing with the aroma of white oleander. I took a sip of the soothingly hot liquid, read a few pages, read them again when they failed to register, then slowly drifted off to sleep, the book slipping from my hands to the floor, as old ghosts rushed toward me from the darkness and distant voices whispered in my ears.
In my dream I was kissing Roger Stillman in the backseat of his old red Thunderbird, his hands groping me under my sweater and skirt. A succession of increasingly loud moans escaped his lips as he triumphantly rolled my panties down over my hips and climbed on top of me. “Are you wearing a rubber?” I asked him, feeling my flesh tear as he pushed his way roughly inside me. I cried out, opening my eyes, eyes that had been tightly closed throughout most of our encounter, and that’s when I saw the policeman staring at us through the car window, his flashlight illuminating the careless sprinkling of dark hairs across the top of Roger’s bare buttocks. I screamed, but Roger continued humping away, like an unwelcome dog on a human leg. Any leg, any human, I realized, pushing him off me, watching him effortlessly morph into Alison’s brother, Lance Palmay.
