How Nick and Holly Wrecked...Saved Christmas

by Carla Rossi

  “I’m sorry about yesterday, Nick. I was upset about something else and was rude to you.”

  He shrugs. His oversized mustard-colored thermal shirt moves on his slender body as he now cradles the popcorn bags in his arms. “A hard blow to the nose with a board will do that to a person.”

  “About that,” I continue and separate two more cups from the stack. “I’m over it. I know it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

  His eyes get so big I want to laugh. Leave it to me to make any guy feel completely uncomfortable.

  I look away. “So... Does your aunt want red stuff, too?”

  “No. She brought something.”

  I pick up the full cups.

  “It looks good,” he says too fast as if the words were trying to escape from his mouth.

  “What?”

  “I mean you look good. Your nose.”

  “Thanks. It feels better with the tape off. I tried dusting some powder around my black eyes and adding some make-up, but I don’t think it helped. I look like a seriously deranged raccoon who knows how to use lip gloss.”

  He laughs. “No. It’s not—”

  His words are cut off when a short—like real short—woman slaps him on the back. A few pieces of popcorn bounce out of the bags.

  “Nick! Glad you could make today’s movie.”

  From the polo shirt with the complex’s name on it to the ID badge and coiled key ring bracelet at her wrist, I know this is the great activity director I’ve heard so much about. And I have to say it. She has a man’s haircut. I’m not saying it looks bad or anything, but if she’s trying to look like a female Ryan Seacrest, she’s pretty much nailed it.

  “You must be Holly.” She extends her hand. “I’m Tanya Bates, the activity director here.”

  I put the cups back down. “Nice to meet you, Tanya.”

  She motions over her shoulder. “I’ve been visiting with your grandmother and Nick’s Aunt Ivy. I understand you’re a very talented vocalist.”

  I look their way. Granny and the assumed Aunt Ivy are cozied up in a cluster of chairs around a small table not too far from the big screen. Granny waves and, like a dork, I wave back before I remember how embarrassed I am.

  “Thank you, but no, I’m not that big a deal.”

  “I hope you’ll consider participating with us this week. Tomorrow is Christmas karaoke. We’d love to hear you sing.”

  Wow. Just wow.

  Nick is no help at all as he looks at the ceiling as though he doesn’t hear.

  Tanya returns her attention to him. “We’re on for tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “Great. We have karaoke tomorrow night and the dance is the day after. We can also talk about setting up the room for the interfaith Christmas Eve candlelight service. Father Jonathan and Pastor Allen are going to let me know what they need.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And Holly. Glad to have you. I hope you’ll consider performing for us. A lot of our older residents don’t get out much in the winter. They have an understandable aversion to the snow and ice on the roads. They would consider it an honor and a real treat to hear you sing.”

  “If the nose permits,” I say with a smile and point to my face like it’s not obvious what I mean. “It’s much better, but I still sound like I’m stopped up.”

  Tanya pats me on the arm. “We appreciate the effort,” she says and moves on.

  Nick tries to maneuver a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “You’re going to sing?”

  I pick up the cups again and head for Granny. “I will try. Why are you so surprised?”

  “For starters, you haven’t seemed like you’re in a Christmas carol singing mood.”

  “Well, first of all I love to sing. There’s always stage fright and nerves, but I try not to miss an opportunity. I have to practice and you never know what will look good on a college application. I can’t get off this mountain if I don’t get into a good music school.”

  “You know what would really look good on a college application? If you came here every week and led the sing-a-long. Colleges love that community service cred. They talked all about it at our last class meeting. What’s the second thing?”

  I pause and turn to look up at him. I’m not ashamed of my faith, nor do I hide my relationship with Christ. I don’t, however, Bible-thump in the halls of Black Diamond High. I’ve already committed enough social suicide simply by being a choir nerd. But I have to ask myself: Do I care what Nick Zernigan will think of me when he hears I’m a Jesus freak? Not really. Especially since the highlight of my Christmas vacation will not be a party or a date, but rather a senior citizen Christmas dance—where I will probably bust a move with my granny. Or some old guy named Otis.

  Shame is no longer a concern here.

  “The second thing is the Parable of the Talents.”

  Nick twists his gorgeous face into a question mark. “Parable. That’s Bible talk, right?”

  “Yes.” I start walking again.

  “Cool, cool,” he says and catches up. “Uh... What does—”

  “Over here,” Granny shouts and waves and I find this hilarious because we’re ten feet away and walking right toward her.

  “Wait,” Nick says and stops again.

  “What?”

  “I have to go check on my house later and get the mail. Do you want to come? We can go by Starbucks.”

  I try to stay calm, but Christmas bells are going off in my head, and my inner choir nerd is singing about gingerbread lattes at the top of her lungs.

  And it’s not Nick I’m excited about. I know he’s only asking me because I’m the only woman on the premises with seventeen-year-old breasts—which he doesn’t get to touch, by the way, no matter how many red Starbucks Christmas cups he hooks me up with. No. I’m excited because I might actually get to leave this place for a couple glorious hours out of five long days.

  I shrug and walk on. “I guess so. If my grandmother doesn’t mind. Thanks for asking.”

  I set the cups on the table and Nick hands out bags of popcorn.

  “Nick, this is Gran…uh...This is Collette.”

  “Bonjour, Nick,” Granny says.

  I roll my eyes as Granny flirts with Nick. I whip out my phone to text Amanda.

  Christmas might be saved.

  ****

  “I’ll get it,” Nick says and jiggles the passenger door handle of his old truck. “Sometimes it sticks when it’s this cold.”

  I smile politely and catch his return smile in the glow from the street light in the complex’s parking lot.

  The door creaks like ancient metal as it comes open. I toss my small backpack inside and pray I don’t slide off the frozen running board.

  Nick’s hand is steady at my back. “Got it?” he asks sweetly and waits for me to settle in.

  “Got it.”

  He hops in the truck and flings off his gloves. “Takes it a minute to heat up.”

  I nod, but I’m already cozy in my boots, scarf, vintage wool coat, and jeans.

  And I’m far too excited for this outing. Note to self: Lose the goofy grin. You haven’t won a walk-on appearance in a Broadway show. You’re riding around the mountain in Nick Zernigan’s old truck.

  A new cigarette drops from somewhere, bounces on the seat, and lands near my foot. I grab for it in the dark before it finds moisture from the slush dripping off the bottom of my boots.

  “Here,” I say.

  He puts the truck in reverse and holds out a lighter. “Fire it up.”

  “I’m not firin’ it up, Nick. I don’t smoke. Do you know what that does to your vocal cords? And what it would do to my nose? It’s yours. I found it on the floor.”

  He laughs as he wedges both items in the visor. “Chill,” he says. “I didn’t think you smoked.”

  “You shouldn’t smoke either,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  I mumble under my breath and turn toward the window.
I shiver from embarrassment more than the cold, and realize I just sounded like my mother and Nick Zernigan is laughing at me.

  Is Starbucks worth this humiliation?

  If I only had a car...

  “I don’t smoke all the time,” he says. “Sometimes I do when I’m out with friends. Or at a party.”

  He drums his thumbs on the wheel as he waits for an opening at the exit. “Did your grandmother give you a list?”

  “Yes. She and your Aunt Ivy must’ve talked because when I left she handed me an envelope and said we would be picking up a few things. I hope that’s OK.”

  Nick shrugs. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. I’ve been running a lot of errands for my aunt. She doesn’t have a car and relies on the shuttle.”

  “My granny has a car, but she doesn’t drive in the winter. It’s a classic car so she stores it at Melvin’s Body Shop to keep it out of the weather and off the treated roads.”

  “What is it?” His huge, dark eyes shimmer as he glances my way at a stop sign.

  “It’s a red 1970 Camaro Z-28.”

  “No way! That is sweeeet.”

  “It is,” I agree. “Mint condition. Not many like it.”

  “That’s... Wow.”

  “I know. It’s pretty awesome.”

  “Do you know what’s under the hood?” He’s smiling now like a happy baby or like my mom when Jake hugs her in the kitchen and says he’ll clean up.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe something with a three in it?”

  “Gotta be a 350. Gotta be.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t seen it around town. Or heard it. It rumbles like a thunder storm when she rolls up to an intersection.”

  “You are killing me.”

  “Sorry,” I say and laugh. “When the mountain thaws out you can ask her to go for a ride.”

  He is still smiling and when he does, Nick Zernigan doesn’t look so much like a dangerous-smoking-loser-bad-boy. I try to relax.

  We start down the two-lane highway from Granny’s little community to the great metropolis of Black Diamond. Grey, slushy snow piles appear at random along the side of the road and large yellow road signs with blinking lights warn of hazardous curves and falling rocks. The dense woods on either side envelope the truck in darkness and only the occasional beams from oncoming traffic and our own headlights interrupt the black night ahead of us as we travel down the mountain.

  Nick clears his throat and messes with the radio. “I thought we’d stop at the store first, and then swing by my house. Then I have to make one other stop, and then we’ll drive out to Starbucks.”

  “Sounds good,” I say and fidget with my phone. Why Amanda thinks I have something to report this early in our non-date is beyond me, though I can already say I’ve embarrassed myself at least once. I tuck my phone in my coat pocket. “Are you working for that activity director or something?”

  “No. My aunt told her I was staying a few days and volunteered me to help out. I don’t care. It gives me something to do.”

  “So you’re the head of the senior Christmas dance decorating committee? Have you been cutting out snowflakes and attaching fishing line to them to hang them from the ceiling?”

  “No,” he says and pulls into the grocery store parking lot. “Collette volunteered you for that.”

  “You lie!”

  “It’s true. I’ll be moving chairs and wooden platforms and hooking up a lame sound system. You get to hang the snowflakes.”

  He dips his head and grins, and I don’t know how serious he is about anything.

  I chew my bottom lip. “As long as she didn’t sign me up to call BINGO. She did that one time. I’m not over it yet.”

  Nick laughs and hops out of the truck. He rushes around to make sure I’ve gotten out OK. It’s sweet the way he checks on me.

  I stomp the slush off my feet amidst the whoosh of the automatic doors. It’s nearly as cold inside the store as it is out. I pull my scarf closer to my face to hide my deformity, knowing full well only a ski mask would cover it.

  I grab a red plastic basket and hook it on my arm. “Granny doesn’t need much.” I take an awkward step toward the produce section because I don’t know if this is supposed to be a couples’ activity or if he wants to shop alone.

  He looks around and pushes his hat further down on the back of his head before he grabs a shopping cart. “Uh... OK. I’ll meet you back up front in about ten.”

  “Sure,” I say and tackle each aisle as if I’m on a scavenger hunt at youth group.

  But twenty minutes later, there’s no sign of Nick at the checkout. I consider texting him, but opt to do the next logical thing—creep on him from the end of every aisle until I casually run into him.

  I eventually spot him in front of the meat case along the back wall. He is leaning on the handle of his cart and popping the front wheels as he studies his list.

  I push my scarf away from my mouth. “I’m done,” I say. “About to head up front.”

  He passes me his list. “What does this look like to you?”

  “Whole chicken.”

  “That’s what I thought. But which whole chicken? The Sunday roaster or the fryer.”

  “No idea. Can you call her?”

  “Bunco night. She won’t answer.”

  We stare at the bags of poultry as it sloshes around in its own pink juice and looks more unappetizing by the second. I study the massive cases of meat running as far as the eye can see. “I guess there aren’t many vegetarians in this part of West Virginia.”

  “I’m going to get one of each,” he says and dives for the chickens with both hands.

  “Wait!” I grab his sleeve.

  “What?”

  “I remember this from my Food Science and Nutrition elective. Here,” I say and rip a couple plastic bags off the spool above our heads. “You’re supposed to put poultry in these bags. There’s nothing but bacteria on those things.”

  “Then why do we eat it?”

  “It dies when you cook it.”

  “I think the chicken’s already dead, Holly.”

  “Not the chicken, the bacteria. It can be on there if the packaging leaks. Take the bag, please.”

  He does and loads the fryer and tosses it in the cart. I pass him another one.

  I’m laughing into my scarf because I’m nervous, and this is the funniest thing I’ve seen since Amanda tried to wax her own bikini line.

  Now he’s laughing because he can’t get the bag open. In the struggle, the roaster drops out of his hands and slides across the tile floor.

  “Forget it,” he says and grabs another one like a football and tucks it under his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I swing around so fast I knock a box of diapers off the edge of a display.

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Nick calls out like a goofy ten-year-old as he rushes ahead with his cart.

  “Wait, Nick!” I wrestle the diapers back onto the wobbly stack.

  He spins with the cart, nearly knocking over more groceries. “What?”

  “Aren’t you gonna pick up that chicken?”

  “And do what with it? Put it back in the case with the other chickens that haven’t taken a slippery trip across the germy floor?”

  He has a point.

  “Oh, all right, Holly,” he says with a smirk. “If the chicken means that much to you, I’ll let someone up front know I dropped it and didn’t want to put it back with the others.”

  “The chicken doesn’t—I mean I don’t care that much about the chicken…”

  But Nick Zernigan is teasing me and races away with a snort of laughter while someone else’s Sunday dinner still sits on the floor of the meat department.

  ****

  I stare into the inky blackness toward the lake as Nick speeds around Lakefront Drive toward his house. The moon shimmers between bare trees and dances on the water’s surface. I am dizzy from watching it move and change in the night.

  He pulls into
the driveway which is the size of my whole yard. I’ve arrived on the wealthy side of the lake with its shimmering outside lamps that illuminate huge houses with balconies that overlook the frozen waters of Black Diamond Lake.

  I wait. I don’t know if I’m supposed to come inside or simply sit in the truck while he does what he needs to do.

  “C’mon in,” he says. “I have to do a couple things and get my Aunt Ivy’s Christmas present I forgot.”

  He lets us in through the garage and punches in codes on a large panel. I hear clicks and see lights flicker on elsewhere in the house and I wonder if his father is somewhere watching us from a phone app. Nick bends to remove his boots. I do the same and we pile the rest of our winter gear on a table by the door.

  There are long wooden stairs and large vases of odd bushy stalks I’ve seen only in my mother’s magazines. Nick tosses his keys on the kitchen counter. He makes his way around the huge island and glances at a note.

  And then pulls a six-pack of longnecks out of the fridge.

  “Want one?”

  I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “No,” I say, as if I don’t care. “No, thanks.”

  The glow from inside illuminates his face as the door bumps against his leg. He studies the carton as it dangles from two fingers and I hold my breath. If he drinks that whole thing, I’ll have a situation. I don’t want a situation, Lord. I just want my Starbucks...

  “OK,” he says. The bottles clank as he puts them back. “There’s other stuff in here.”

  “Something diet,” I say. “Or water.”

  He kicks the door closed and hands me a can. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

  I follow him closely up unfamiliar stairs. We arrive on yet another level of this monstrous house. He leads me to a near-dark space.

  Nick brushes my arm with his hand. “Hang on a minute.”

  His shadow crosses in front of me. He touches a lamp in the corner and soft light wakes up the room.

  My feet sink into the carpet as though I’ve stepped on warm summer sand. “This is a bedroom,” I say stupidly.

  “Yes. It is.”

  He opens the drapes across a wall of glass and nudges an oversized leather chair into position.