Forever Christmas

by Christine Lynxwiler

  I pull into Dad and Mother’s and punch in the security code. When the gate opens, I drive through and park in front of the huge house. Technically I grew up in this house, but it’s never been home like Jingle Bells is. Maybe that’s why my mother hates Jingle Bells so badly. But that would indicate that she cared about where I gave my affections and that’s probably overestimating her emotions.

  I ring the doorbell and pray. Visiting my parents is never easy and this command invitation has all the earmarks of a showdown.

  The maid that opens the door is not one I’ve seen before. “I’m Kristianna.”

  “Come in,” she says and takes my coat. “Your parents are in the living room.”

  When I walk in, Mother raises her martini glass. “Hello, Kristianna.”

  I nod. “Mother.”

  “Jared, fix Kristianna a drink.”

  “Kristianna, martini?” Dad holds up the ice tongs.

  I can’t hold back a wry smile. They know I don’t drink. I guess that idea is so foreign to them they just can’t wrap their minds around it, so they always offer. “Ginger ale will be great. Thanks.”

  I sit on the loveseat across from Mother. Dad fills a glass with ice, pours in the fizzing liquid and passes it to me. He comes around to sit in the chair beside me. “Did you have a nice drive over?”

  The cell phone conversations about my bills flit through my mind. Nice drive? “It was fine.”

  The gas logs behind us hiss slightly. My ice shifts, clinking against the glass. Dad clears his throat and looks at Mother. She looks at me. My fingers squeeze around the glass. Here it comes.

  “We might as well get straight to the point.” Mother says.

  Dad nods. “I always say if there’s going to be unpleasantness, get it out of the way before the meal. That way we won’t have any digestion problems.”

  “Don’t be crass, Jared.”

  “Is there going to be unpleasantness?” I ask, praying my voice sounds calm.

  “That depends on you.” Mother’s smile doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. She sets her drink on the end table. “We’re ready to get you back in law school where you belong.”

  This is such a familiar argument, I can’t muster up the enthusiasm for it anymore. I look down at my fingers, white around the glass. But I still react. I can’t help that. “I don’t belong in law school.”

  “You think you belong in that little hick town you’re in?”

  She wants a scene. And I’m not going to give her what she wants. I list the periodic table in my mind, like Meg from A Wrinkle in Time. Hydrogen. Helium. “Jingle Bells is the perfect place for me, actually.”

  “You think that simply because your grandmother ran away to there, after your grandfather died. She didn’t have to do that. The Harringtons would have been glad to take her in.”

  I barely remember my great grandparents, but the thought of Gran living with those sour stuffy people makes me shiver. Lithium. Beryllium. My memory of Madeleine L’Engle’s wonderful story is fuzzy. Did this work for Meg when she was resisting IT?

  “But no,” Mother continues. “She took their only grandchild and moved to Jingle Bells to open a store.”

  Forget the periodic table. I think I’d do better with the twenty-third Psalm. “You make it sound like she spirited Dad halfway across the world. She moved forty-five minutes away. And she made sure they saw him often.”

  Dad runs his finger around the neck of his shirt collar. He clears his throat. “Emily, we agreed earlier that this isn’t about Mama. It’s about us wanting what’s best for our daughter.”

  “What’s best for our daughter is a good dose of reality.” She presses her palms to her temples, fingers splaying through her hair. “We agreed on that too.”

  Maybe I can end this. Probably not. But it’s worth a try. “Would it help if I tell you that there’s no way I’m going back to law school?”

  Mother stands. She always stands for cross-examination. “What if you have to sell the store? Or worse, what if you can’t? Then what?”

  “Then I’ll find a job. In Little Rock if I have to. And commute from Jingle Bells.” I remember what Shawn told me the first day at North Pole Café. “Seventy-five percent less in living expenses.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “Last time I was at Starbucks, I saw a Help Wanted sign in the window.” This is my life, isn’t it? I’m twenty-six-years-old and have been making my own way totally for the last six months. Even in college and law school, I only let them pay the actual tuition. Against their protests, I worked a part-time job to pay the rest of my bills.

  “Kristianna.” Dad’s disappointed tone still has the power to cut me like a knife. Who knew? “You’d throw your life away to spite us?”

  “And this is what we’re supposed to tell our friends?” Mother steps to the side like she’s playing the part of a “friend.” “What’s your brilliant daughter doing these days, Emily?” She steps over to the other side. “Why she’s living in a dead little town north of here driving into the city to work at a coffeeshop.” She shakes her head. “Even now I don’t know what to tell them.”

  I rest my head against the firm sofa back. Even their furniture isn’t comfortable. My eyes scan the walls. “Where’s the painting I did for you?”

  They exchange a look I can’t read. “We haven’t decided where to hang it yet,” Dad says softly.

  “You should hang it over the fireplace. Then when people ask, you can say, ‘Our daughter is an artist. And a good one.’ That’s what normal people would do.”

  The maid appears in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

  Dad stands. “Shall we eat?”

  I follow my parents into the dining room, where our salads await. Mother sits at one end of the long table and Dad at the other. I take my place on the side and say a silent blessing for my food. But I’ve barely finished before my mother starts again.

  So much for not wanting to cause digestion problems with “unpleasantness.”

  “If you’re waiting around for us to start viewing your hobby as a career, you’ll be waiting a long time.” She takes a bite of her salad.

  “Mother, I don’t really care how you view my ‘hobby’ as you put it. I am an artist, maybe not just like I’ve always dreamed of being, but I’m getting there. And I’m also a storekeeper. I’m proud of what I do. But you don’t have to be.”

  “You’re a Harrington,” she says, as if that automatically refutes what I’ve said.

  “Yes, I am. And thanks to Gran, I’m proud to be a Harrington in Jingle Bells.”

  Mother looks at my dad. “You talk to her, Jared. Can’t you make her see that it’s time for her to take her place in society and quit playing store?”

  While my dad silently prepares his closing arguments, I take a quick inventory of the room we’re in.

  Noritake china. Worth more than I spent on my whole dining room suite.

  Real silver silverware. Three years’ electricity bill.

  Gold candlesticks. Enough to feed five hundred hungry children in Africa for a year.

  Air. Priceless. But conspicuously absent. This house I lived in as a child has always felt like someone pulled up to the front door with a giant vacuum every day and sucked the life right out of it and its inhabitants.

  When I was young, I told Gran one day that my soul couldn’t breathe here. But I didn’t know why. After I got older, I could plainly see the difference in this place and my grandmother’s apartment, where she sang while she worked and read the Bible to me every night. She showed Jesus through her actions. I wish I could do that half as well as she did.

  My dad still hasn’t spoken when the maid shows up with our main dishes and takes my salad away untouched. It’s the Emily Harrington diet, folks. Guaranteed results.

  “Jared?” Mother says.

  “I think she knows how we feel.” He cuts his salmon.

  “What about law school?” she prods.

 
He looks up at me. “You have one month to make up your mind about law school. At that time, we are withdrawing our offer to pay for the remainder of your schooling.”

  I blink at him. Do they think threatening not to pay for something I don’t want is going to make me want it? “I’ve made up my mind, Dad. But thank you again for your generosity in paying for college and law school. I really appreciated it.”

  “You have a month.” He pops a bite of asparagus in his mouth.

  And I think even my mother gets the point that the matter is closed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So it was awful?” Ami asks.

  I lift a cucumber from my eye and look over at her. “What?”

  “Supper at your folks’ house.”

  “Awful would have been a step up,” I say.

  “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Then, when I got home I had two hand-delivered envelopes waiting for me. These gift certificates and the notice from Uncle Gus about the special city council meeting next Tuesday night.”

  “Oh, no, you’ll miss the last night of bowling.”

  “Yep. Sorry. You’ll have to get someone to take my place.”

  “Bummer.”

  Yes, bummer. Because I have no doubt who they will get. And I don’t want to even examine why the thought of Lila filling in for me makes me feel sick.

  “Do you feel guilty about using the gift certificates?” Ami asks.

  “Not one bit.” After we spent the morning knocking doors in our campaign to save Jingle Bells, it’s poetic justice that Summer Valley Outdoors pay for an afternoon at the spa for the two of us.

  She grins, her face stretching the shiny clear masque. “Good.”

  “I’m just glad the one business in Little Rock that remotely resembles something to do with summer is Sunny Day Spa.” I put my cucumber back and close my eyes. “Wouldn’t it have been awful if I’d gotten gift certificates to the Sun Street Hospital?”

  “Or even worse, Summer Rest Funeral Home.” Ami giggles and I hear footsteps.

  “You two making it okay over here?” Julie, our attendant, asks in her soft drawl.

  I nod and my cucumbers slip. I push them back up with my plastic covered paraffin-dipped hand. “Fine.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes to get you ready for your massages.”

  Ami utters a low groan. “On our next honeymoon, I’m going to make Mark take me to a spa.”

  I prop up on my elbows and let the cuke slices fall where they may. “Do you think Shawn really thought a trip to the day spa for me and a friend—”

  “I have to admit it was nice of him to include me.” Still lying flat, Ami tries to scratch her face with her plastic-encased hand but her finger sticks to the masque.

  I smile. “He probably knew I wouldn’t come without you. But do you really think that he believes that an afternoon of pampering will change my mind about the name change?”

  “I know it’s hopeless. But I sure am glad he tried.”

  Enough to clue him in to my weakness for a relaxing massage? Before I can voice my thought, Julie reappears and escorts us to our massage rooms. All the stress of the past few months falls away. But when we meet back for the manicures and pedicures, I pick up where we left off.

  “Ames?” I glance over at her. “Have you been telling Shawn things about me so he could do all these gifts?”

  She jerks and her manicurist frowns at me. “No!”

  “Sorry.” I knew she’d be a little hurt, but I had to ask. “Do you think Mark has?”

  She shakes her head. “Definitely not.”

  I sigh. “It just feels like he knows me so well.”

  “Yes, but how could he go wrong giving you an afternoon here, especially with a friend along?”

  “True. The other gifts, though. . . Oh, maybe I’m just paranoid.”

  “Maybe. He’s certainly found a way to get your interest, hasn’t he?”

  I look over at her. “When we’re together, the connection isn’t really all that strong. But this whole anonymous gift thing. . .I don’t know why that fascinates me so much.”

  “You like puzzles, and this is a puzzle,” Ami says. “Have you ever asked him about the gifts?”

  “No. For some reason, I don’t want to.” I want to keep them to myself. The thrill. Even the irritation. It is like a puzzle. Or a challenge. And I’m flattered that he cares enough about my opinion to single me out for gifts. Unless he’s sending them to Dottie and Scott too. Then that would be just plain creepy.

  My manicurist, Ginny, lifts my left hand from the soaking dish and wipes it on a cloth. “Every woman loves the idea of a secret admirer.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that this is a secret admirer with a not-so-hidden agenda, but she’s right. “True.”

  “As long as he’s not a stalker,” Ami’s manicurist says.

  Ginny launches into a story about her last boyfriend. She keeps us entertained until Julie comes by and frowns. “We’re not supposed to talk to clients about our personal lives,” Ginny whispers and finishes my nails quickly.

  “What was your favorite part?” Ami asks on the way home.

  I shrug. “The rainshower massage?”

  She laughs. “I loved it all.” She hits the dash. “I meant to talk to you. Now that you have a secret admirer, we’ve got to find somebody for Garrett. He and Lila seemed to get along okay at the New Year’s Eve party. What do you think?”

  I glance over at her then lock my gaze on the highway. How can I explain to her how irritated I feel when I think of Garrett with Lila? I can’t. Especially considering I didn’t even tell her about the kiss. I’ve wanted to ever since she got back from her honeymoon a few days ago, but I couldn’t find the words. Now it feels like I’m making a big deal out of the simple kiss by putting off telling her.

  “Kristianna?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked you what you think about Lila.”

  “Oh.” I clench my hands on the steering wheel. “She’s a good bowler.”

  “Yeah. Hey, we could get her to fill in for you Tuesday night. How did they get along when she filled in for me before?”

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  She sighs. “You’re a lot of help.”

  I just keep my eyes on the road. For some reason the idea of fixing Garrett up with someone doesn’t appeal to me right now.

  ~~~~~

  “As members of the city leadership, it’s imperative that we work together in our efforts to grow our fair town. Remember, united we stand, divided we fall.” One thing I can say for Uncle Gus, he usually comes up with off-the-wall quotes. But tonight he’s resorting to the tried and true. He drones on. “Summer Valley will mean more money and more jobs.” My mind wanders to the bowling alley. Is Lila there with Garrett? Images of them laughing with their heads close together keep popping up in my mind. I shake my head slightly and force my attention back to Uncle Gus. “Scott, think of all the new customers you’d have if Summer Valley comes in.”

  “I don’t think customers would make up for losing my self-respect by caving to pressure from you, Gus.” Go Scott!

  Uncle Gus frowns. “You need to think long and hard about that.” He turns to me. “Kristianna, I know you like to think you’re above the pursuit of the almighty dollar, but you’d be much busier, too. Plus, we’d be able to spend more money on the arts. Maybe even open a small art museum. Surely you can recognize the merit in that.”

  What I recognize is a line of bull when I hear it. I give a ladylike snort.

  He quickly switches his focus to Dottie. “And the library. We could add a children’s wing. And bring back story hour. We’d have to hire an assistant for you, Dottie, and make sure you had all the help you need.”

  Oh, that’s a low blow. How can he sleep at night and still tempt little old ladies like that?

  I glance at the remaining council member, John. The Little Rock businessman who comes home to Jingle Bells every night i
s strangely silent. Or rather, Uncle Gus is strangely silent to him. No specially chosen persuasions for Councilmember Stone? Why not?

  The answer comes to me clearly. Because he’s already in the bag. I look over at Jack Feeney, who is scribbling furiously in his notebook a few feet away. I think I’ll at least give the “impartial press” something to report.

  “Mayor Harding.” Calling the man “Uncle Gus” these days seems to give genuine uncles everywhere a bad name and tonight I can’t do it. “You own the building that Summer Valley wants to purchase, is that right?”

  He tucks his hand between his middle two buttons in his vest. “That’s right.”

  “But the sale of that building is contingent on the name change, is that correct?”

  “If I’m being cross-examined, I think I have the right to call an attorney,” he says jovially. Then looks around the room. “And I don’t see a judge here either.”

  “John, what about you?”

  John’s going to need a visit to the chiropractor considering how fast he snaps his neck turning his head to look at me. “What about me?”

  “Were you a potential investor for Summer Valley Outdoors before you became a City Council member?”

  His eyes widen. “No.”

  “So you were already a council member when you decided to invest in Summer Valley Outdoors?”

  “Ye—”

  “Kristianna! This is unacceptable.” Uncle Gus has lost his jovial attitude. He slaps his notebook shut and looks at all of us. “As representatives of the constituents of Jingle Bells it is your responsibility to encourage everyone to vote for the name change. There is no question as to whether it will be on the ballot.” Uncle Gus clears his throat. “Unless.”

  Something sounds so ominous about that word.

  “Unless what?” I ask.

  “I was looking through the town statutes last week and found an interesting law from several years ago. I have an attorney looking at it, but he believes, and so do I, that a unanimous town council vote on anything pertaining to the town is sufficient for a change.”