If the Fates Allow

by Annie Harper

  Marcus untied the strings of his apron and ducked his head out of the neck strap. He flung the apron casually toward a hook on the wall beside the refrigerator. It landed on the hook, spun once, and settled against the wall with a rustle. Marcus nodded his head toward the apron and said, “Good boy. Stay.” He giggled as he danced toward the small dining table tucked into the bay window at the far end of the kitchen. As he approached, the flames of the bayberry candles in the centerpiece flickered and cast a slight shadow across the items on the tartan tablecloth. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and ticked his way down the to-do list lying on the table. “Almost done,” he said and drew a quick line through baked goods. “And it’s all thanks to you,” he said to the glossy cover of the magazine lying next to the list, “you glorious little guide to the perfect Christmas!”

  He stared at the picture on the cover and then glanced at the cake he had set on the counter. His version matched perfectly the beautiful cake displayed on the cover right under the deep-red lettering of Gracious Living: For Southern Homes with Taste. “If it weren’t for your help, I don’t think I ever could’ve finished this list in just two weeks.” Marcus gestured at the list of thirty-two items. He picked it up and ran his finger along the edge, double checking all that he had accomplished. “Everything is done except the last one!”

  He inspected the living room. Since he had inherited the cozy home from his grandmother six months ago, Marcus had not changed much about its décor. He had never met Eloise Sumter and was completely surprised when he found out that her home, money, and belongings were all suddenly his. A sense of not deserving the inheritance and a desire to try to know her better had led him to leave her things pretty much untouched. She had clearly been a no-nonsense woman, as every item in the house had a purpose and a place. Marcus saw no need to disrupt her logic. He had rearranged the kitchen cabinets so that they flowed better for his style of cooking and moved the few clothes he’d shoved in a duffle bag when he came to Marathon into the closet in the bedroom, but everything else in the house was hers and seemed right exactly where it was. Even the photos of the grandparents and father he had never known that were scattered across the back of the piano served to make him feel like part of the family. Though he was forever bumping into the piano and knocking the frames over, he refused to move them. Keeping with his grandmother’s family theme, he had added a picture of his best friend, Skeet Warner, and Hank into the honored row of smiling faces. In the center he had placed his favorite photo, a picture of him sitting in the corner booth of the diner surrounded by the Do-Nothings, who had become surrogate grandmothers for Marcus.

  But Christmas and the final item on his list demanded he make the place more his own and decorate to reflect the happiness of his new-found life.

  And decorate he had.

  An eight-foot Virginia pine Christmas tree stood next to the window that looked out on his front lawn. Just as the magazine had suggested, he’d chosen a tasteful color scheme of gold and silver for his ornaments and used simple white twinkle lights to avoid distracting from the beauty of the handmade decorations he had lovingly placed on each branch. Marcus walked to the tree and touched a few of the glass balls dangling from the limbs. He made them spin and send sparkles of light dancing across the blue-green needles of the tree. Tucked between the balls were the delicate, intricate filigrees of the snowflakes his grandmother had tatted and Helen had given him. He used his own hand-crafted ornaments to fill in the rest of the tree—a tow truck, a spatula, drama masks, a peach, a baseball. He had carved and painted these trinkets to represent the new people in his life.

  He used his foot to adjust the skirt around the base of the tree so that it swathed the stand in perfect, velvety, green pools. He gazed at the top of the tree, where an angel with hair as red as Marcus’s and all Sumters before him spread her stark white wings over the sparkling limbs below. Silk and satin robes billowed from her shoulders, and in her hands she held a rhinestone star-shaped brooch Marcus had found in his grandmother’s jewelry box. The angel’s face was eerily similar to the photograph of his grandmother that sat on the piano behind him as the angel smiled down at Marcus. Marcus winked at her and said, “You’ll have the best seat in the house when it happens!”

  He turned from the tree and opened the front door to look at the elaborate wreath he’d copied from page ninety-seven of the magazine. He had deftly wired bunches of broad, waxy magnolia leaves to a ring of straw bound together with tartan ribbon to match his tablecloth and the runner he’d placed along the back of the piano. He had tucked more of the golden glass balls from the Christmas tree between the leaves and topped the whole thing off with an enormous gold lamé bow. Thanks to the advice of Gracious Living, the abundance of magnolia leaves in his neighbor’s yard, and the wondrous tool called a hot glue gun, it had taken him mere minutes to whip up. Though the article had suggested a plaid or gingham bow, Inez had convinced him that the lamé would give the whole thing a bit of needed pizazz and “add some sparkle.”

  Marcus glanced from the wreath to the front yard and the soft blanket of glistening snow that covered the ground. “When did that happen?” he asked. “It was eighty degrees yesterday.” Before he could belabor the thought, he was distracted by a group of young children bundled in heavy coats, scarves, and mittens standing in the middle of his lawn. Each child stood shivering against the cold and holding a burning candle. Their high-pitched voices wafted across the yard carrying music toward Marcus. Though he made out an occasional reference to an angel or Mary or a sheep, he had no idea what carol the children were attempting to sing. He leaned against the doorframe, listened to their angelic voices, and smiled. “Well, it’s lovely anyway.” He pushed the door closed to keep the cold air out.

  He heard the crackling of a log in the fireplace on the opposite wall. Christmas cards of varying hues and sizes stood along the edge of the mantelpiece wishing happy holidays to any who paused to read them. Long garlands of evergreen branches and lengths of gold and silver ribbon swooped across and dangled from the edges of the mantel, bookended by two velvet stockings—one red and one green. Marcus had used his grandmother’s sewing machine to embroider an H on one and an M on the other yesterday. He crossed the room to admire the fine stitching and enjoy the warmth of the fire against his legs.

  “Strange. I don’t remember having a fireplace.” He stared at the flames and wrinkled his brow. He waved the thought away. “Doesn’t matter. It will be the perfect place for the final item on the list to take place.” He surveyed the decorations covering his living room again and crossed his arms on his chest in satisfaction. The magical fairyland he had created in his home looked like a page straight out of the magazine. “Everything is tasteful, gorgeous, and… well… perfect!”

  Marcus crossed to the dining table and picked up a crystal cup from beside his grandmother’s punch bowl. He ladled some spiced apple cider from the bowl into the delicate glass and took a careful sip, fearing the punch might still be hot from being mulled. He didn’t remember making the cider, but it was the perfect temperature and flavor, just as Gracious Living had said it would be.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” Marcus asked as he sat the cup beside the magazine. “Well, I guess you can’t do the last thing on the list. Have to rely on Mister Hudson for that one, won’t we?” Marcus took the piece of paper and read the last line of his list. Be proposed to by the man of my dreams.

  “Now where could he be?” Marcus said. “He was supposed to be here by—” The clanging chimes of the doorbell interrupted Marcus. He spun to the front door and broke out in a broad grin. “There he is!”

  “Marcus? Are you there?” Hank’s voice called through the front door.

  “Coming!” Marcus shouted. As he tried to take a second step, his left foot suddenly filled with lead. His leg would not move no matter how hard he tried. “I’m trying at least.” He grabbed his thigh and tried to pull his foot of
f the floor.

  “Marcus?” Hank called again, irritation creeping into his voice. “Open the door!”

  Marcus’s heart raced as he struggled to move to the door. “Hank, something is wrong! I can’t seem to…” Beads of sweat burst out across his forehead as he attempted to shift his weight. His right foot had revolted against him now as well, and he stood glued to the spot. A popping noise from the fireplace across the room caught his attention. The logs in the fireplace had shifted and sent a shower of sparks out onto the floor. Small flames began to flicker from the carpet, and the garland and ribbon along the mantel began to curl away from the growing heat of the fire. The two stockings suddenly burst into bright balls of flame. Marcus opened his mouth to scream, but the sound lodged in his throat, and he produced only a strangled croak.

  “Hank. Help. Oh, no!”

  Marcus’s eyes grew wide as the Christmas tree swayed forward and then back. It teetered again and yet again before plummeting to the floor with a crash, sending shards of broken glass ornaments flying across the room. The angel bounced off the top of the tree and landed in the middle of the fireplace; its feathery wings were instantly engulfed in flames.

  “Marcus, what was that sound? Is that smoke? Let me in!” Hank pounded on the door; each thud rang in Marcus’s ears and made his pulse quicken with fear. “Honey?” Hank screamed through the door. “What are you doing?”

  Marcus gagged as thick black smoke stung his eyes and throat. The door zoomed miles away; his knees grew weak. “Hank! Save me! Please, come save me!”

  “Marcus! Marcus!” Hank’s voice echoed from beyond the door.

  “Hank!” Marcus screamed as he jerked his head from the table and gasped in a deep breath of air. Bright morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, and Marcus squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden stab of light. He whipped his head about in confusion, as the lingering wisps of sleep and nightmare slipped from his head. A high-pitched alarm screaming from the hallway made his shoulders draw up around his ears, and a pounding noise from the front of the house echoed the beating of his heart in his ears. He shoved back from the table and stood. He gripped the table to steady himself and shook his head. His hand landed in a pie pan full of paint; its bright-red color was cold and thick as it squished between his fingers. “Dammit,” he muttered as he yanked back his hand back and wiped his palm down the front of his shirt.

  He whipped his head to the left to check the living room. Several bolts of tartan fabric lay draped across the sofa and chairs in the room; shopping bags spilled over with tinsel, ribbons, and sprigs of greenery. Boxes of hand-me-down decorations that the Do-Nothings had been dropping off at his house for the last few days were stacked behind the sofa. On the table in front of him were a pile of half-painted ornaments, a checklist with nothing marked off, and the mangled cover of a Gracious Living Magazine. While the room was decidedly messy, there was no decorated Christmas tree, no well-placed strands of garland or ribbon or lights, nor, thankfully, any tongues of flame leaping from his non-existent fireplace. However, a faint haze of smoke hung over the room.

  “Shit! My cake!” Marcus yelled as he stumbled to the oven and pulled the door open. Thick smoke poured into the room, and Marcus fanned it away from his face. He grabbed a towel from the counter and wrapped it around his hands. He yanked the burnt remains of a Bundt cake out of the oven, tossed it into the sink, and knocked the faucet handle on to soak the burnt mess. “Dammit.”

  “Fiat, are you in there?” Hank’s familiar voice called from the front door, followed by loud pounding. “Marcus!”

  “Hold on!” Marcus called over his shoulder as he hurried over to the hallway to wave the towel in front of the screaming smoke alarm in a desperate attempt to silence its harpy wail. After several fruitless waves of the towel, he dropped it on the floor. He ran to the front door, unlocked it, and jerked it open.

  Hank stood on the other side of the screen door with his dark brows knitted. “What the hell is going on in there? I’ve been banging on this door for five minutes.” He opened the screen door, stepped into the smoky house, and waved his hands in front of his face to clear the air. “I’m going to leave this open to let the smoke out!” he yelled over the screech of the smoke alarm.

  “No! You’ll let the cold air from the snow in!” Marcus yelled back as he tried to shove the door closed.

  “Snow? What are you talking about? It’s seventy-something degrees out there.” Hank pulled the door open as wide as it would swing.

  “I… never mind.” Marcus grimaced at the dead, brown grass in his front yard. He checked left and right to make sure no children were standing on the lawn singing.

  “If I had a key, I could’ve just let myself in!” Hank said as he walked into the kitchen and pulled out a folding step stool from beside the refrigerator. He dragged it into the hallway and opened it under the smoke alarm. He climbed on the stool and grabbed the alarm with both hands. With a harsh tug, he yanked the squealing unit from the ceiling and shook it until the batteries fell out. Silence fell across the room, and Hank hopped from the stool. “That’s better. What the hell is going on in here?” His eyes grew wide as he looked at Marcus. “Oh, my God. Are you bleeding?” Hank rushed over and grabbed Marcus’s face, then turned it to the side to look at the dark-red streak that ran from his eyebrow to his jaw.

  “What?” Marcus asked as he looked at his hands and laughed. “It’s just paint. I must’ve smeared some on my face. I was trying to work on some ornaments for the tree.” He nodded toward the table and the pile of arts and crafts supplies spread there.

  Hank took Marcus’s hand and lifted it. He kissed Marcus’s knuckles, then flipped his hand over to inspect the palm. “So I caught you red-handed!”

  “Har-har,” Marcus mumbled and gestured toward the sink. “I burnt my cake, which you probably figured out already.”

  “The bags under your eyes practically say Samsonite. Did you stay up all night?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and started working on some decorations. I figured I might as well start making my cakes, too. I guess I nodded off and lost track of the… time! Oh, my God, Hank. What time is it?”

  “Um,” Hank said as he peered into the sink and grimaced at the charred remains of the cake, “nine-thirty. That looks disgusting.”

  “Nine-thirty?” Marcus gasped. “Oh, no! We’re late!” Looking for his car keys, he began frantically pushing things around on the kitchen table. “We’ve got to go now. Help me find my keys!”

  “Hold on. Hold on.” Hank grabbed Marcus’s wrist to stop his shuffling. “I’m driving, remember? Also, I don’t think you want to go out there looking like this. Sweetheart, you’ve got paint and glitter all over your face. Looks like a kindergarten blew up all over you. Why don’t I clean the mess in the sink while you shower?”

  “No. No time. I’ll just throw on a hat. We’re going to get dirty cutting down a tree anyway.”

  “Fiat, you know I think you look hot no matter what,” Hank tucked his fingers under Marcus’s chin and lifted his face, “but the Do-Nothings will kill me if I let you go out in public looking like this. Ten minutes won’t make much difference. There will still be plenty of trees—”

  “But not a good one. They’ll be all picked over. The tree is the center­piece of the whole room.” Marcus picked an ornament off the table and twisted it in his hand. “My whole design is based around getting a very specific—”

  “You’re just being silly now. Did those old ladies put this idea in your head? I mean if that little tree we put in my lobby is good enough, then I don’t understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand, Hank,” Marcus said as he dropped the half-painted ornament onto the table. “For the first time in my life I get a real Christmas and I wanted it to be perfect!” He swept his arm across the table in a fit of anger, sending its contents flying. Several glass Christmas ball
s skittered across the table, slid off the edge, and shattered on the kitchen’s tile floor. Scraps of red velvet ribbon fluttered down amongst the shards as his copy of Gracious Living landed on the floor with a loud smack. The bayberry-scented candle burning in the center of the table toppled to one side in its candleholder and dribbled wax onto the ring of holly leaves around its base. “And I can’t paint a damned snowman to save my life!”

  “Look out, now,” Hank yelled as he pushed off the kitchen counter and grabbed for the candle. “You’re going to burn the whole damn house down.” He fumbled with the taper, dropped it onto the table, and jerked his hand back with a hiss of pain as wax splattered onto the back of his hand. “I don’t know why you’re burning all these things anyway. It’s broad daylight and seventy-five degrees out there.”

  Marcus jumped from his seat to take the candle; his hips bumped the table and sent more ornaments crashing onto the floor. “I’m trying to make the house feel more… I don’t know… festive?” He shrugged. “Nothing feels right. It shouldn’t be this hot at Christmas. No one seems to be in the spirit. And I just thought that if I had a good old-fashioned…” His voice trailed off as he shoved the candle back into the holder and noticed the pool of spilled wax on a pile of white feathers scattered on the green tablecloth. “And now you’ve ruined the wings for the angel on top of the tree.”

  “You don’t have a tree,” Hank mumbled as crossed his arms and drew his mouth into an irritated scowl.

  Marcus squinted and looked from the pile of feathers to Hank. “Because someone was late coming to cut one down.” He scooped the mess of wax and feathers into his arms and turned to the trash can behind him. He stomped on the pedal to make the top open and dropped the wings into the container with a grunt.

  “I’m twenty minutes late, Marcus.” Hank sat at the table and began picking at the purple wax on the tablecloth. “And you weren’t exactly ready when I got here. We can still go get one.”