Santa's Last Gift

by Sandine Tomas

  Matty looked surprised before conceding. “Doesn’t impact me the way it does others, though. Like, it calms me.”

  “I remember,” Seb said.

  That same considering look darkened Matty’s eyes. “Yeah.” He pulled a mug from a hook, poured, and placed it in front of Seb.

  After a moment Seb caught on that no further offering was being made. “Um, milk and sugar?”

  “Oh. Geez. I need manners classes, just ask Steph.” He turned to the refrigerator and withdrew a gallon container of milk. “I use it only in cereal but I keep extra for the girls.” After plopping the milk in front of Seb he yanked open another upper cabinet and pulled out a diner-style glass sugar dispenser with a chrome lid. Seb spied a similar old-fashioned straw dispenser on the shelf.

  Pointing at it, he asked, “Did you get that for the girls as well?”

  Puzzled, Matty followed Seb’s gaze and smiled. “Those are for me.” He leaned down to a lower cabinet. “They go with this.”

  Seb knelt down to see a milkshake machine in a pale shade of green with a gleaming stainless cup straight out of the 1950s. “Is that vintage?”

  Kneeling beside him, Matty shook his head. “Nah. Just a reproduction. Makes great shakes, though.”

  Despite saying that none of it was for his nieces, Seb couldn’t help but imagine their excited smiles upon seeing Matty pulling that up and filling it with ice cream. Or for that matter, Steph’s notorious sweet tooth making it a weekly occurrence. Fighting back the ridiculous pang of jealousy, Seb fixed his coffee the way he liked it and took a sip.

  “I should have remembered that,” Matty uttered.

  Seb raised his brows. “Remembered what?”

  “Sweet and light.”

  Never expecting that Matty would remember something as mundane as how Seb took his coffee, he thought it best to ignore the comment. Instead he said, “It’s excellent.”

  “Beanie’s holiday brew.” He snapped his fingers. “In fact, I should bring some over to the house later. Ma loves it too.”

  Hiding behind the large mug, Seb fought the prickle at Matty’s familiarity with his family.

  “Baz?” It took Seb a moment to respond because nobody ever called him that. He thought of asking Matty to call him Seb as everyone else did, but meeting Matty’s brown-gold stare, the words didn’t come.

  “Yes?”

  “I can show you my workspace now. If you wish.”

  Nodding, he followed Matty into the hallway, through the basement door, and down the wooden staircase. When they’d been teens, the basement had been filled with a large sectional sofa and a projector TV that had seemed like a huge extravagance to Seb. Not that they’d watched it much as they’d ground against each other on the sectional.

  Stopping on the landing, Matty said, “I made the most changes here.”

  Eyes widening, Seb thought that was the understatement of the century. The large room was stripped of all leisure. The dark wood paneling now shone a crisp painted white. Shelves brimming with supplies covered two walls. Brushes and tools, wooden trowels and rollers, bricks of red clay and buckets of various sizes. It was calming, how different everything was compared to years ago. It gave him hope he’d be able to navigate the land mine of Matty’s insertion into his family and come out unscathed.

  Before Seb could take it all in, Matty was leading him to the far end of the basement. His eyes glowed coppery in the dimmer light. “And this is my baby.”

  The large kiln stood three feet tall and nearly as wide. Seb gingerly touched the computer panel on the front of the unit. Matty lifted the top lid. “I have some pieces to complete if you want to see it fire up.”

  Seb nodded, fascinated by the device. Matty disappeared around a corner and returned with a tray of four-inch Santas and an array of elves with pointy hats. Studying the intricacy of the swirls in the old man’s beard and the outline of the fur trimming the tiny suits, Seb sucked in a breath.

  Matty arranged the pieces along the bottom of the octagon-shaped oven, closed the lid, and skimmed his fingers over the touchscreen. “It’s preprogrammed, so it makes the process so much faster. I set it for cone six—which is about 2200 degrees. That’s good for the glaze I’m using.”

  Waiting for sound that never came, Seb tilted his head and watched Matty fidget with the front panel again before raising his gaze to Seb’s. “That’s it. It’ll run for about eight minutes and then cool down for the rest of the time. About this time tomorrow it’ll be cool enough for me to remove.” He pointed to the back of the kiln and added, “I had it vented for extra safety but electric ones like this are fine for home use. Although due to voltage, I had to rewire. But there was no way around that in an old house like this.”

  “It’s so quiet.”

  Matty grinned. “Yep. In fact, if you hear noise it’s a sign of trouble. Popping could mean the work’s breaking up. Had that at first but now, well, it goes smooth.”

  The lights on the front panel were blinking while a timer ticked down. Seb watched it, mesmerized, for several moments, thinking it eerily resembled the countdown to an explosion. He mentally shook off his stupor. “Do you have any finished pieces I could see?”

  Brightening with a bashful-but-proud smile, Matty indicated that Seb should follow him around another bend in the large space. Seb recalled taking this same turn years ago, gawking at a running washing machine, so much quieter than the clunky old one at home.

  “Hey, you with me?” Matty asked with humor in his voice.

  “Yes, sorry,” Seb stammered, rushing to keep up.

  Matthew

  MATT studied Baz in his ongoing effort to reconcile the perception he’d built over his years of friendship with Stephanie, his own dimmer recollections, and the person standing here now. Baz looked older, of course, but physically he hadn’t changed that much. He’d always had a muscular physique with defined arms and sculpted shoulders.

  Cheryl spoke about Baz all the time in her proud mama tone. At first, Matt had thought it sweet, but after the many times he’d spotted his surrogate mother with tears welling from missing her boy, well, he could admit to some resentment that Baz didn’t seem to care enough to have seen his family in years.

  Baz walked back and forth the length of countertop where Matt’s completed or nearly finished pieces were displayed. His eyes rose in question as he reached out one finger, and Matt nodded his consent at the implicit request to touch. The reverence with which his art was being admired was rather heady.

  “These are incredible…. How do you—? I can’t even…. Wait, do you blow the glass, too?”

  Matt brushed his hand through his hair, wondering idly if he should get it trimmed before the holidays. “Yes. I have some equipment for that in the garage. But working with clay is my first love, so I only add the glass on occasion. There’s something more personal about the clay, touching it, molding it, stretching it.

  “There’s a quote I love by Michelangelo: ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’ That’s how I feel about clay. I work it till something breaks free.” He stopped, realizing what he’d said and added, “Not that I consider myself in the same league as Michelangelo!”

  Baz chuckled. “I didn’t think you meant that.” He put down a figurine and met Matt’s eyes. “But these are beautiful.” Blinking, Baz worked his way farther down the row until he came upon the stacks of molds. “This is how you mass-produce?”

  “Yes. I make some limited editions from the same mold.”

  “And they’ve become collectibles, Mom said.”

  Nodding, Matt flushed. He was never good at accepting acclaim. Baz turned back to the molds and Matt watched him scrutinizing them, one hand on his stubbled chin. “What?” Matt asked as the silence lingered.

  “I was thinking that I could commission a few lots. They would make amazing corporate gifts. Hell, folks would fight over these.”

  Feeling his face warm further, Matt tucked his fists beneath his a
rmpits and shrugged. He wondered what Baz meant by a lot. “We produce sets of one hundred,” he said.

  Baz bit his lower lip. “Then we’d need anywhere from three to fifteen sets, depending on the event. Figure a minimum of ten events a year.”

  Matt returned the mold that Baz had examined back to its correct spot on the shelf. “I never considered a corporate audience for my art. Well, not at this small scale. The larger installation was different.”

  Eyes lighting up, Baz asked, “I forgot. Do you have photos of the Park Avenue exhibit?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He proceeded through a door at the basement’s far end toward his gallery and office. Up-lighting showcased the delicate sculptures positioned on several staggered rows of glass shelves. In the center of the room was a glass-topped desk with chrome legs. The desk and its clear acrylic chair blended into the background so the rainbow-hued figurines floating on the walls dominated the view. On the wall opposite the desk was a hanging monitor. Matt flicked on the laptop and hit a switch to start a slide show of images of his larger pieces.

  Baz’s approval oozed off him as he stared at the screen transfixed. Something wriggled deep in Matt’s chest. “Wait! Stop it a moment. Can you go back? That was yours?” Baz’s voice squeaked with excitement.

  Clicking the mouse, Matt returned to the Park Avenue exhibit. The tall, slate-gray sculpture was made up of a fluid series of swerves that suggested a middle-aged woman, arms hugging her center, body soft with curves. The clay had spoken to him and the image emerged as if drawn from a sacred space in his heart.

  “I remember that.” Baz’s breath hitched. “I walked by it a few times and thought of Mom…. It made me miss….”

  “She missed you too,” Matt said and winced at the accusatory tone in his voice.

  Cool blue-gray eyes met his. “I know she did. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It took you five years to figure that out?”

  Matt knew he’d gone too far, uncertain where that sudden anger had come from—other than his having witnessed the sadness in Cheryl’s and Steph’s eyes more times than he could count.

  Baz bristled. “What gives you the right to judge me? At least I have a family who wants me. I don’t have to glom onto someone else’s.”

  Silence fell over the room, heavy as a wool blanket. Matt stumbled a step and turned his back to Baz, flicking off the monitor. He heard Baz’s mumbled swear.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Stomach clenching, Matt sucked in a deep breath and straightened his spine before turning around. “I shouldn’t have judged. I’m sure you had your reasons for staying away.”

  Baz pawed his hands through his hair and averted his eyes. “I should get going.” He pointed to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. “The driveway is up to the right?”

  Matt nodded, unsure of why he was nipping at Baz like a teething puppy. He tried again. “Baz… I didn’t mean…. Steph is happy you’re back.”

  Baz darted outside with a mumbled, “Later.”

  The cold air penetrated the space and Matt leaped to the doorway to remind Baz he’d forgotten his jacket. When he didn’t spot him, he sprinted upstairs, grabbed the leather jacket, and ran out the front door. Baz was staring at his car, mouth downturned, looking like a lost child. Catching his breath, Matt thrust the coat toward Baz. “Here. You’re going to need this.”

  With a rueful glance, Baz shucked it on and stood shifting foot to foot, before retrieving the car key fob from his pocket. “Thanks for showing me the kiln and your work…. And for the coffee.”

  There was something disarming about the stammering, and Matt couldn’t help the conciliatory smile that split his face. “Thank you for coming to see it.”

  A whorl of reactions crossed Baz’s handsome visage, starting with pleasure, morphing to regret, and ending with self-reproach. “I’m sorry I made you feel unwelcome at my mom’s home. I know I’ve been away and I have some time to make up for. But that’s not on you.”

  Unsure how to respond, Matt tucked his hands in his pockets to hide their tremble. He understood Chance and Rowen needed an opportunity to bond with their uncle.

  “I appreciate that. I’m sorry for what I said too. They don’t talk about it much, but I know it was hard when the business first started. And I know how much you helped.” Shivering, he rocked on his heels. Never one to lack words, he was surprised at how tongue-tied he felt. Before it could get weirder, he uttered, “See ya.”

  Baz nodded sharply and slipped into the driver’s seat. Matt watched him drive away and swallowed hard.

  Chapter Four

  LATER that day, Matt smiled as Stephanie reached out greedily when he entered the shop holding two large takeout coffee cups with a large script B emblazoned on their sides. “Tell me one of those is a cinnamon latte.”

  “What do I get if I say that?” Matt teased.

  She mulled it over, lips twitching. “Snickerdoodle pie?”

  Placing one cup down near the cash register, he grabbed his chest with his free hand. “Woman, marry me?”

  “Hah,” she answered. “I’m already your platonic wife. It’s redundant.”

  Dropping down on the counter stool next to Stephanie, he took a sip of his own black coffee and released a sated moan. She eyed him sideways. “Has my brother heard that yet?”

  He stared at her. “Heard what?”

  The Cheshire Cat had nothing on her enigmatic grin. “Never mind.” Demurely sipping her own drink, she inquired, “How’s the sculpture for the auction? You’re secretive this year.” Before he could reply, she continued, “I heard Jackson’s coming early this year?”

  Jackson Kunstler was a grad student from Matt’s alma mater, RISD, whom Matt had taken under his wing. Of course, he had introduced him to the Chesnut clan, and Jackson’s blue hair and gregarious personality were particularly popular with Chance and Rowen.

  “Yeah, in about two weeks instead of three. He told me he’d be here December 12.” He brought his head closer conspiratorially. “But he’s staying with Cameron, not me.”

  Stephanie arched an elegant brow at that. Cameron Barrett was on their charity dance committee. Of course, staying with Cam didn’t mean that Jackson was involved with him; the two were as opposite as sand and rain.

  Stephanie’s eyes were gleaming. “Do you think—” Her cell phone buzzed. Good mood disappearing, she swiped Ignore, but Matt saw the caller ID.

  “How many times has he called?” Ignoring her ex-husband wasn’t going to make Steph’s problems go away.

  She ducked her head and sipped her coffee.

  “Steph….”

  “I know. But I don’t want to think about spending Christmas without the girls.”

  Matt neutralized his voice. “Not talking to Ryan doesn’t make the issue go away.” Heaven knows, Matt didn’t want to think about a Chance-and-Rowen-less Christmas Day, but “The agreement was to alternate Christmas, and Ryan skipped his turn last year because Rowen was so little.”

  “And he didn’t have a girlfriend he wanted to impress with his parenting,” Steph answered bitterly before running a frustrated hand through her hair. “I know… that wasn’t fair. Ryan loves them too. It’s just… hard, you know?”

  Before he could answer, customers approached and Steph moved off to assist them. Frustrated but unable to do anything about it, Matt retreated to the storeroom in search of Cheryl. She was sitting at the small desk situated in a corner of the larger space, dealing with paperwork. “Hey, Ma.”

  Cheryl looked up at him, blue eyes twinkling. “Hey, you.” She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to spend the day with Seb.”

  Matt looked down, fighting a blush. Why would she have assumed he’d keep Sebastian company all day? It didn’t help that he’d barely managed a couple of hours without pissing off his ex-flame royally.

  “He came by,” Matt replied.

  “Oh,” Cheryl said. It sounded like a request for more but Mat
t wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I showed him my workshop and photos of the New York installation. He mentioned maybe commissioning some smaller pieces as executive giveaways.”

  Cheryl’s brows lifted. “Interesting.” She gnawed her lower lip. “Could be lucrative. Sebastian knows his business.”

  “Yeah,” Matt replied. He took a deep breath and told himself to man up and say what he came to say. “I won’t be able to come over for dinner tonight.”

  Closing the notebook before her with a snap, Cheryl rose. “What? Why not, honey?” She walked around the desk and looked up at him. “I’m making your favorite.”

  He knew that, and ran his hands through his hair while turning around. It was always odd to see his art lining the storeroom shelves. They had leftover inventory of nonwinter holiday items, including a row of bunnies standing side by side like sentinels. That had been a popular set, a momma bunny and her two small charges. Funny how many of his pieces featured families of three.

  “I know. Crab cakes. I just… I’m caught up in the auction piece. You know how it is.” He hated lying to her.

  Disappointment dampened her sunny features. “I can’t put off making them as I defrosted the crabmeat. But I’ll have Seb bring you leftovers.”

  If he mussed his hair again, it would start coming out in clumps. Instead, he captured his fists under his armpits and fought the urge to bowl the smiling bunnies down in a wide swoop. Facing her again, he shook his head. “If there are leftovers, I can grab them tomorrow. Baz always had a hearty appetite.”

  And that made him blush, dammit. Cheryl said nothing

  Sebastian

  EMPTY, Seb’s mother’s house felt preternaturally still. He supposed he’d already started getting used to the bustle of it being occupied. The morning’s events played on a loop. Still miffed at Matty’s accusing tone, Seb knew that some of it was true and that’s why it irked so much. Yet, Matty didn’t know everything. Working as hard as Seb did was part of being a good son and providing for his family. And most importantly, helping keep his mother’s dream of running the shop alive. Mom and Stephanie were smart, creative, inventive—but economic downturns don’t care about things like that. Whatever he did to help was… well, it was everything.