Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  And him in deck shoes. With no socks. Just to look cool.

  Great.

  He sighed. Planning ahead had never been his strong suit, but this time he thought he'd done well, allowing a ridiculous amount of time because of the weather, and even running into a Stop and Shop en route and buying a bunch of red carnations wrapped in crinkly cellophane—and bound with a sprig of mistletoe, an unexpected but welcome bonus.

  And now she wasn't home? How was that possible with the snow and with her car in the drive? He hoped she hadn't gone off to the shelter with some pal who owned an SUV, because Wendy would have his head on a platter for not having confirmed the pickup with Zina personally.

  The fact was, around Zina he felt awkward and shy, a totally unique experience for him. Talking to her on the phone would have been painful in the extreme. It had been so much easier to leave a message.

  Thirty-one, going on twelve, he thought, disgusted with himself.

  He was going to have to trudge back to his car for the phone and try calling her. Short of breaking in, he didn't know what else he could do. He turned, and at that moment the adjacent porch light went on and an older woman poked her head through the cracked-open door.

  "Bell's busted. Just knock, for Pete's sake," she said, and headed back to her blaring TV program.

  "Oh, okay, sure," Dave said, feeling stupid. He knocked, and when Zina still didn't come to the door, he became a little alarmed. She seemed to have come a long way since the multiple traumas she'd endured, but there was always an unspoken concern about her. It was hard, even for Zack, to predict how his sister would react to any given event.

  Dave had tried to make conversation with her on the two or three occasions that their paths had crossed, but it was always an uphill climb. She was shy, he, shyer, the times they were face to face.

  He pounded harder on the door, and after a moment Zina swung it open to a gust of wind and a rush of snow. It took her by surprise, and she staggered behind the force of the door. Laughing at her own unexpected frailty, she said, "Dave! Why are you here? In this weather?"

  "You didn't get my message a couple of days ago?"

  "That you would pick me up on Thursday for a tree-trimming evening at Wendy's house? Oh, yes. You said to call if there was a problem, but there was no problem. So I didn't."

  "Thursday! No, I said Wednesday."

  "No you didn't. Thursday. Come listen."

  She led him through a cozy and colorful living room to an answering machine that sat on a counter in the small kitchen. Nearby was a sewing machine set up on the kitchen table, where she was working on a huge quilt that spilled over the table and draped down to the floor. She looked happy and still half-immersed in her labor of love. She didn't even ask about the carnations he was clutching. So much for making an impression. What had he been thinking?

  Her back was to him as she punched buttons on her machine, which gave him the chance to rip off the mistletoe and stuff it in his pocket.

  "Here you are. Listen," she said over her shoulder.

  Hi, Zina. Dave here. Wendy's brother Dave, I mean. Uh ... Wendy told me to tell you that they're having a tree-trimming thing, Wendy and Zack are, on Thursday, and if you want to come, I'll be, um, willing—glad—willing to pick you up and—"

  "Thursday," he muttered, embarrassed all around by his performance. "I did say Thursday!"

  She turned and gave him a good-humored grin that would've knocked his socks off, if he'd been wearing any, and sent a signal he wasn't quite sure how to interpret.

  "Yes, you did say Thursday," she didn't mind saying. "But I can go today instead. That's really nice of you, to come all the way out here for me in this snow."

  There was a warmth in her blue eyes that he hadn't seen before. From the quilting, from the holiday, who knew? But he loved it. She turned back to reset the answering machine, and he pulled out the mistletoe and jammed it back into the ribbon around the cellophaned carnations.

  "Um ... for you. Because I went to the store," he said, offering an incomprehensible explanation for why the carnations were in his hand.

  "Really? Thank you," she said, confused and suddenly looking as awkward as he felt.

  He handed them over and of course the mistletoe fell out to the floor. She scooped up the sprig and looked from it to Dave to it again, which made him blurt, "I didn't add that; it was already on it."

  "Oh," she said. Just: "Oh."

  "But I was glad," he added immediately, and reddened.

  "Oh," she said again. "Well ...." She laid it gently on the quilt, which made Dave wonder how he was going to get her under it, and then she said, "Can I go like this?"

  She was wearing a jewel-toned, flowery, flowing dress, and with her long blond hair looked to him the very vision of Christmas. "Definitely," he said on a sigh.

  "Then let me get my coat, and we can leave."

  Just like that. No running around to change her clothes up or fix her hair or put on, as his older sisters liked to say, a face. And why would she? She was perfection itself.

  She went into her bedroom and five seconds later, out came a black and white cat.

  "Say hi to Cassie," he heard Zina call out in a suddenly musical voice. "She's a rescue I just couldn't give up." Her voice dropped a little lower, a little sadder, as she added, "Cassie has seen me through ... a lot."

  The cat in question paused and stretched her front legs with her hindquarters in the air, then stretched her hind legs, luxuriously thorough. She licked her front paw. She took a swipe or two at her ruff with her long, pink tongue. And then, and only then, did she saunter over to check out Dave.

  She bumped her head against his leg, made a half-circle, and collapsed languidly in front of him, completely at ease.

  Zina emerged from the bedroom in a vintage burgundy wool coat, hopelessly old-fashioned, that somehow suited her. Taking in the scene, she said simply, "She likes you."

  It's a start, Dave thought.

  He smiled and said, "Are you ready? We'll take it slow."

  *****

  "I guess I got carried away," Wendy said, rubbing her nose with a sticky, balsamy finger.

  "I guess you did," Zack agreed. He stepped back to assess his work, eyeing the tree for a minute before he said wryly, "Yep. She's straight, all right."

  And then some. The top branches looked as if they were holding up the ceiling. The bottom branches were poking through the drapes on one side and threatening to catch on fire at the other.

  Warily eyeing the nearby dancing flames in the new fireplace, Wendy said, "Maybe we can exchange the tree for a smaller one?"

  Tyler rolled his eyes. "Mom, nobody takes back a Christmas tree."

  She backed up to the doorway and took in the entire room, charmed all over again by its warm and simple furnishings: the cotton-covered red sofabed; her father's old armchair, now reupholstered; a pair of yard-sale chairs that were an engagement gift from Zina, who had covered their cushions with needlepoint versions of the before-and-after houses; the Pottery Barn Persian that anchored the furnishings. The room was her favorite—warm, cozy, and welcoming.

  But not especially large.

  "The space seemed so much bigger this morning," she said with a sigh. "Well, this won't work. We've got to get a smaller tree."

  "Mom! You can't get rid of something just because you feel like it!" her son said in a voice cracking with emotion.

  Wendy turned in surprise to him. "Where did that come from, Ty? Whom do you know who's more traditional than I am?"

  Tyler's eyelashes fluttered down and he said without looking at her, "I just think we should keep this tree."

  "And so do I," Zack said, placing himself firmly in the line of fire. "Let's see if a little tweaking won't help."

  He began by cutting down the base and removing the lower rim of branches. After that he nipped, cut, and grafted until finally they had a tree that the room could call its own.

  The three of them stood back to admire the transf
ormation. Tyler was obviously satisfied. "See? It was right there, right in front of your eyes, Mom."

  Wendy slipped her arm around Zack and said, "Mmm-hmm. All it took was a wizard to make me see it."

  Tyler saw the gesture in a sideways glance, and Zack immediately moved away to pick up the discarded branches. "Okay, that's done. Lights next," he said. "Ty? You going to do the honors?"

  Looking tentative, Tyler said, "I don't do the lights. I just check to see if they're working or not. And then, after my—" He stopped in confusion, then mumbled, "I do the ornaments, after."

  It was his father who had always strung the lights; you could see that so clearly in Ty's sad face. Wendy didn't know whether to say so or not to Zack, but he cut through her hesitation and said to Tyler, "Well, this might be a good year to start."

  He spread the wood stepladder next to the tree. "So which box has the lights?" he asked the boy quietly.

  Tyler gave his mother a quick can-I glance and Wendy gave him back a smiling why-not shrug.

  "This box here," said Ty, carrying it over to Zack. "You can plug them in to check if they work. And also," he added with an uncertain look, "you get to untangle them."

  Instinctively, Wendy relocated to the kitchen and began preparing a tray of tree-trimming treats: eggnog, fancy mixed nuts, Hershey's Christmas Kisses, fruit that would no doubt lie uneaten. She minced a couple of cocktail shrimp and arranged them on a little red dish for Walter, because she wanted everyone, including the cat, to be of good cheer.

  It was going to be hard, this first Christmas after Jim. She and Zack had purposely put off their wedding until late January so that Tyler would have a chance to miss and to mourn his father. The postponement had been Zack's idea; the last thing he'd wanted was to seem to be usurping Jim's place in a family tradition.

  So they were in transition, an uneasy place to be. Wendy strained to hear the sound of laughter or easy chatter coming from the living room, but she was disappointed. Their scattered exchanges were quiet, almost businesslike.

  And yet, would she rather hear Zack forcing merriment on them both? Definitely not. Zack was content to let things progress at a natural pace, whereas Wendy—well, she wanted Ty to love Zack as wildly as she did. Now. Today.

  He was so much the better man.

  She walked with her laden brass tray into the living room and caught them at their tasks: Tyler, a look of fierce concentration on his face as he balanced on the ladder and threaded the light-string carefully around the upper branches; and Zack, standing nearby, the look of concentration on his face just as fierce as he struggled to untangle a hopeless jumble of lights.

  "Oh, ma-an" Zack muttered, frustrated.

  Tyler looked down at him and laughed—a quick, guilty, but wonderfully spontaneous laugh. "She always does that, every year, wraps them in a ball like that. I never can understand it."

  "Okay, smart guy," a smiling Wendy told her son. "You put them away this year."

  "I will," he vowed. "I'll wrap them like an electric cord, right, Zack? Wouldn't that be better?"

  Zack sighed and said, "Anything would be better."

  "Hey, we're not even playing Christmas carols," Tyler suddenly realized.

  The family's CDs were all in his room, where he'd been playing them to himself. Wendy hadn't wanted to ask that he bring them downstairs, but she risked it now and found that her son was willing to oblige.

  The boy clumped enthusiastically up the stairs, sheer jingle bells to Wendy's ears. She set the tray on the coffee table, and Zack came over and picked the apple over the Kisses, a first. He took a big bite, squirting juice, and said as he looked around, "The house looks good."

  "The house feels good, Mr. Tompkins," she amended, kissing his flannel sleeve at the shoulder. "Thank you for that."

  He turned back to her with his quiet, square-jawed smile. "My pleasure, ma'am."

  His brow suddenly furrowed, which surprised Wendy; he had seemed so pleased with the moment. "What?" she asked.

  "Ty's present. Maybe I should've gone with a video game. What kid wants a wood-burning set anymore?"

  "He'll love it," Wendy said, touched by his concern. "It's not like anything he has."

  "Next year, I'm definitely getting him chisels. He's a natural at sculpting. I made my mother a nut dish when I was about his age, you know; I think Zina still has it somewhere. Unless you think—"

  "Shh," she said, touching her fingers to his lips. "Trust me on this. He'll love it."

  Down came Tyler, like a thundering herd of reindeer, clutching a dozen CDs to his chest. "Here they are! What do you want to hear first?"

  "You start," said Zack, smiling. "And I'll take it from there."

  The doorbell rang, a merry sound, and Wendy went to answer it. Standing before her were a giggling couple who were obviously more at ease with one another than she'd ever seen them. "Where did you park?" she said, surprised. "You're covered in snow!"

  "Right out in front," Zina answered. "Before the snowball fight."

  "She started it," Dave said.

  "He asked for it," Zina countered.

  "Come in and dry your hair, you silly things." Wendy shooed them inside before her, feeling motherly and ridiculously overjoyed for them.

  Dave handed over his sodden jacket, then said, "Wait!" and grabbed it back. Fishing in one of the pockets, he pulled out a sprig of greenery. "I have mistletoe," he said, casting a sideways glance at Zina. "And I'm not afraid to use it."

  More for your Nook by Antoinette Stockenberg

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