A Very Merry Christmas: WITH Do You Hear What I Hear AND Bah Humbug, Ba

by Lori Foster

  Lee and Allison waited for a group to pass and then walked single file to the sidewalk. Only it wasn’t a sidewalk, Allison discovered, when she reached the end of the tunnel and stepped onto a wooden deck. It was more like a boardwalk, like one of those towns from the Old West.

  “I hope this isn’t going to be one of those places where everything is theme related,” said Lee.

  “You mean like the Buffalo Burger?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Prospector’s Pastrami on Rye.’ Look up there.” He pointed to the mountains that rose straight up from behind the wooden buildings.

  “What?”

  “See those black squares? They’re mines.”

  “Gold?”

  Lee laughed. “Got your interest, huh?”

  She gave him a shove. “I just didn’t know that miners still had to crawl down in those gas-riddled shafts.”

  “They’re probably closed up. Left over from another era.” Lee took off the lens cap of his camera and as he shot, a rapid whirr filled the air. Then he turned the camera on Allison. “Smile.”

  Before she could protest, he clicked the picture and turned to capture two men maneuvering a trolley loaded with kegs through a narrow doorway. And then an old man walking toward them, with a snow shovel balanced on his shoulder.

  Lee was certainly a cheap date, thought Allison. Everything and anything interested him. And most of what interested him was captured on film. There were quite a few shots of her somewhere in the boxes of prints on file in his Los Angeles apartment.

  Unless he’d tossed them, burned them or shredded them into little pieces after the last breakup.

  She stopped in front of a plate glass window. It seemed to be an old-fashioned toy-and-candy store. Licorice sticks, jaw breakers and a variety of other rot-your-teeth delights were contained in glass jars lined up on shelves along the far wall. In the window, stuffed animals and dolls vied for space with Lincoln Logs and fire engines. An electric train ran on an oval track around them. Little houses with picket fences and fake trees and stores were lined up along the rails, and everything was covered with flakes of sparkling plastic snow.

  A doll, dressed like a Victorian girl with bustled skirt and her hair piled up on the top of her head, stood in one corner next to a black-iron toy stove. It was probably one of those American Girl dolls that all her nieces collected. Now there was a good setup, thought Allison. She’d kill for an account like this. Expensive, high-end toys, well made, historically accurate within reason, even a little history lesson to go with them. An ad exec’s dream come true.

  She’d never been a doll person herself, but she could appreciate the fine craftsmanship of this one. And she felt a pang of disappointment when the shopkeeper reached over the backdrop, lifted out the doll and carried it to the counter.

  “Hey, Tiny Tim, give us a smile,” said Lee in an execrable British accent. Allison rolled her eyes at him, just as he snapped a picture.

  “You are such a tourist,” she said and walked past him down the boardwalk.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” Lee said, catching up to her. He let his camera fall to his chest and squeezed her around the shoulders. “I’m also feeling a little Ho-Ho-Ho and those turquoise boots are turning me on.”

  “Shh,” she hissed back at him and looked around to make sure none of the citizens of Good Cheer had heard him.

  Lee just stood there grinning, then started walking again. A few minutes later, they had traversed the entire two blocks of town and had come to a field of snow. At the far side, a framed building that must be the town hall or library, belched smoke from its chimney. A crew of men were digging their way toward the center of the field to where a wooden band shell nestled in the snow like a frosted gingerbread house. Garlands of pine festooned the eaves and were caught up with giant red bows.

  It was perfectly hokey. Obviously the decorations were, one: real, and two: made by the local lady’s club, because each bow was a different size and shape, some better than others, and every few feet, the stem of a pine bow stuck out from the rest like a fork in the road.

  Quaint, thought Allison, not at all missing the perfectly designed decorations of the city.

  Off to one side, a row of Christmas trees leaned against an ancient, green-paneled truck. A sign with a big ANY TREE $10 printed on it was propped up in front of one of the back tires.

  They crossed the street again and began walking up the other side, back toward their bungalow. There was a tea shop, a hardware store and a store named Cal’s General Merchandise.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Lee and dragged her through the door of Cal’s. “Oh, wow,” he said, sounding like a kid. Three old men right out of a Norman Rockwell painting were sitting around a wood-burning stove.

  Allison had to give them credit. The early-twentieth-century theme really worked. It was so Americana. So Christmas Spirit. She knew it was a gimmick. She might have even come up with something like this for one of her ad campaigns. Even so, it began to work its spell and when Lee said, “Oh, wow” for the second time, she hurried over to see what he’d found.

  An array of antique lead soldiers were lined up on a shelf behind the counter. The shopkeeper, who introduced himself as Cal, was dressed in obligatory overalls and red-flannel shirt. He took a cannon down from the shelf and placed it on the counter in front of Lee.

  They both gazed raptly at it. Allison rolled her eyes and moved down the counter, past boxes of Christmas decorations to where bolts of material were stacked up on a cutting board. There were ginghams, wools and something that looked suspiciously like hand-tatted lace. Not a piece of polyester in sight. She had to hand it to them, they were authentic. They must be making a fortune.

  She glanced around the store; she and Lee were the only tourists there. Surely other people had been caught in the storm. They were probably out skiing. Wait. No ski resort.

  Marcie must have been confused. Just like her ditsy sister, to go off half-cocked and rent a place without researching the location. They were lucky to have ended up in Christmas Village Land. They could be stuck in the wilderness without heat or electricity.

  Still, all the cuteness was beginning to cloy. She’d had enough. But Lee and the proprietor were bent over the counter, engaged in what appeared to be a full-scaled battle.

  Allison sighed and moved on to a freestanding wooden shelf that held an assortment of kitchen implements.

  Implements was the only word she could come up with. There was a hand-turned eggbeater, a rectangular grater, butter molds and cheese wires. She picked up a metal flour sifter with a green wooden handle and looked at the cardboard price tag. Then looked at the price of the grater. They were incredibly inexpensive, hardly more than wholesale.

  Tourism must be down in the Rockies. Too bad. It was a great concept. It didn’t feel like a theme park on its last legs. It seemed to her that the store, the whole town, exuded longevity, and she found herself thinking that she could stay here forever.

  She shook herself. Whoa. Imagine her succumbing to a marketing ploy. Maybe this week wouldn’t be a waste after all. She might pick up a few finer points of product immersion while she was here.

  She might also lose her heart to Lee all over again. And that would be a disaster. She didn’t think she could take another breakup. It was just too damn painful.

  She felt two hands come around her waist and looked over her shoulder to see Lee standing behind her.

  “Feeling domestic?” he asked on a smile, then immediately released her. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Allison knew he had caught his mistake the moment he’d uttered the word “domestic.” That she would never be. And that was one of the major gulfs that separated them. Lee wanted a wife to be waiting for him when he deigned to return home between adventures. He didn’t get that this was the twenty-first century and women had their own lives to lead.

  He reached over her to pick up an eggcup. “Look at this.”

  “An eggcup
.”

  “Eggs and soldiers.”

  Allison sighed. She supposed it was only natural that a photojournalist would be obsessed by war. Why couldn’t he be a nature photographer? Or take artistic shots of skyscrapers and subway tunnels. Then they could…

  “My mother used to make them.”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  “Eggs and soldiers. Soft-boiled eggs and strips of toast that you stuck into the yolk.”

  Allison stared at him. He never talked about his family. She knew there was bad blood there, but he’d never volunteered any information and she’d never pressed him to talk about what was obviously a painful subject. If this is what American Redux did, she wasn’t sure she was ready for it. Maybe Cal sold snowshoes. How far would they have to trek to find an IHOP and a pay phone?

  Lee turned the eggcup in his hand, then put it back on the shelf. “What do you say we stop by the Watering Hole and have a coffee and Kahlua?”

  “I’d say it’s still morning.”

  “Wrong,” said Lee and turned his wrist so that she could see his watch.

  It was three o’clock. Jesus, they must have slept until noon. “Sounds like happy hour to me,” she said and took his arm without thinking.

  They stopped at the counter to say good-bye to Cal.

  A gust of frigid air swept in from the back of the store.

  “Close that door,” said Cal.

  The puppy that they’d seen earlier galloped past them, the bell around his neck jingling like crazy. He skidded to a stop before turning around and jumping at the two children who’d followed him inside.

  “My holy terrors,” said Cal proudly. “Jen and Jamie.”

  Together Jen and Jamie let out a treble, “Hi.”

  The dog barked, setting off another round of jingling. And Allison wondered how long it would be before somebody throttled the poor creature.

  “This is Spanky. He’s a puppy,” said Jamie.

  Lee knelt down and ruffled the dog’s ears.

  “All right, you two, get on home now.”

  The two children ran toward the front door; the puppy took off after them. The door slammed closed.

  “Gotta love ’em,” Cal said. “Little rascals.”

  Lee and Allison said good-bye and followed the children out.

  Cal nodded. “Come back anytime,” and he began returning the soldiers to the shelf.

  A few stores down, a sandwich board stood in the middle of the sidewalk. A green hand-painted arrow pointed to double doors, and the words The Watering Hole were spelled out in crude letters. They went inside.

  The interior was dark, with unpainted wooden walls and a wooden floor covered in straw. Several men in mountain wear stood at the bar, their booted feet resting on a brass foot rail. Behind the bar, a short, round man with an improbable beard was handing out mugs of draft beer.

  “There’s Chris,” said Lee and strode over to join the other men.

  “Please don’t tell me his last name is Kringle,” whispered Allison, squeezing in beside him.

  “Olsen,” said the bartender. Allison blushed. No way he could have overheard her crack. She smiled at him, feeling foolish. “It’s the beard,” she said meekly.

  Chris pulled at the tip. “Yeah, we’re old friends.” He winked at her. “And I have been known to hand out a present or two at the Christmas Eve Revels. You folks are invited. Starts with carols at the band shell and moves into the town hall on the other side of the square. Got hot cider and donuts, a pageant that the kids put on and plenty of mistletoe for you young people. And a visit from Santa, of course.” He tugged at his beard. “Six o’clock. Rain, sleet or snow.”

  He poured out two mugs of dark, rich coffee. He didn’t stock Kahlua, but he gave them a sampling of his homebrewed Christmas cordial, which at first brought tears to Allison’s eyes, then went down in a smooth medley of blackberry, lime and fire.

  “Mr. Olsen,” said Allison when she got her breath back.

  “Chris.”

  “Chris. My sister said there was a ski resort nearby. Was she mistaken?”

  “Well, there was this fellow decided to open a lodge for skiing. But it didn’t draw much business. Most folks around here cross-country when they need to get anywhere. Went belly-up after a couple of years. No, we depend on mining mostly. Or did until a while back.”

  “And tourism,” added Allison.

  “We get our share of visitors,” said Chris and winked again.

  Allison smiled back at him in spite of herself. She was falling under his spell, and she had no doubt if he showed up on her roof in a red suit, she’d ask him in. Maybe even sit on his knee.

  “What are you smirking about?” asked Lee.

  Allison heard him through a fog of blackberry cordial. She turned her smile on him. “I’m happy.” Her eyes widened. Her smile vanished and she saw it transferred to Lee. What a stupid admission. How had she let her guard down like that? And worse, how had she let herself feel something so stupid? It must be the liquor. She pushed her glass away. “Let’s go.”

  Lee’s smile widened.

  She wanted to stop him right there. Tell him not to read too much into her words. She didn’t mean that they should hurry home to make love, but she knew that was what he thought she meant. And she couldn’t correct his misconception. Everybody in the bar had ceased their own conversations to tune into theirs.

  Lee shoved his hand in his pocket.

  “On the house,” said Chris.

  Lee thanked him and they gathered up coats and hats and put them on as they crossed toward the door. Allison could swear she heard Chris chuckling as the door closed behind them.

  Four

  The cold hit her hard, but instead of sobering her up, it only increased that damn rosy glow she was feeling from Chris’s home brew. Lee took her hand and was striding down the walk, away from their bungalow, not toward it. So much for love in the afternoon.

  When they reached Cal’s, he said, “Wait here.” And rushed inside.

  He came back a few minutes later with two bulging paper bags. “Come on,” he said and headed down the boardwalk.

  She hurried after him. And her mouth fell open when he stopped before the row of Christmas trees.

  She cringed. She refused to be beguiled into playing Happy Families. Even though it was the season.

  “Hold these,” said Lee and shoved the bags at her. “And don’t peek,” he said, as he went over to the teenage boy who was warming his hands at a barrel fire.

  He and Lee walked along the row of trees while Allison watched, helpless. Finally the boy pulled one away from the truck. Lee turned to her, grinning like a kid. “How’s this one?”

  His enthusiasm was infectious, damn him. Allison grinned back at him. “Perfect.” Perfectly ridiculous.

  Lee handed over his ten dollars. The boy wrapped several loops of cord around the branches and Lee hefted it to his shoulder.

  It wasn’t until they had hauled the tree over the snow mound to the cottage, laughed as they tumbled down the other side, dragged it up the icy steps, slipping and sliding and falling into each other, and deposited it at a safe distance from the fireplace, that they realized they didn’t have a tree stand.

  “I’ll think of something,” said Lee, his excitement undimmed. He began rummaging in cabinets and cupboards.

  It was Allison who found the funnel-shaped holder, with its three curved, supporting prongs.

  Lee looked incredulous when she handed it to him. “It looks like some torture device from an old Flash Gordon movie,” he said. But he set it on the floor and together they managed to balance the tree upright. Allison filled the cone with water and they stepped cautiously back and regarded it like two proud parents looking at their firstborn.

  “And now,” said Lee, and made a drum roll with his tongue, “the pièce de résistance.” He opened the paper bags and began lifting out boxes of shiny colored glass balls, painted tin bells, a big papier-mâché star with
glittered tips and a rectangle of cardboard wrapped with furry, and slightly mangy looking gold garland. He lined these up on the sofa cushions and looked to Allison for her reaction.

  She could only shake her head. He was forever surprising her. Calling on a portable radio phone with machine gunfire in the background one day and making brownies the next. But, she thought with a pang of tenderness, she had never seen him so openly boyish. And she felt a little heart stab, that soon they would have to return to the fast lanes of their lives—their separate lives.

  She ignored the little voice that said, “Why? Why can’t it always be like this?” Because she knew it couldn’t be, and though it was a bittersweet feeling, she appreciated it for being able to finally end their relationship with good memories instead of bad.

  It was consolation they both deserved.

  “What?” Lee asked when she suddenly ran from the room and started up the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, just wait a sec.” She came back down a minute later, holding her hands behind her back. She flipped open her lap top and inserted the disco CD. She turned up the speaker and the room was filled with the sounds of a “Frosty The Snowman” hustle.

  She danced back to him and opened the box of Christmas balls, while Lee laughed and tried to grab her butt.

  Soon the tree, which Allison noticed listed a little to one side, was filled with bright decorations. She was reaching up to place the last red bell on one of the higher branches, when a strand of garland was looped over her head. Lee tightened it around her shoulders and pulled her back into his chest. She let her head fall back against his shoulder. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, then moved down to nuzzle her neck.

  Allison sighed and stretched her neck to give him more room. The garland drooped when Lee put his arms around her waist. She could feel his erection against her lower back. She swung her hips from side to side in rhythm with “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” mirror-ball style. She sang, “You better watch out,” and Lee released her long enough to pull her sweater over her head.