Christmas Jars Reunion

by Jason F. Wright

  “And if I can help, I’d love to.”

  Hope remained still a minute longer.

  “I apologize, I didn’t mean to overstep—”

  “Not at all.” Hope called Gayle back from the kitchen. “Good news,” she said when Gayle appeared.

  “What’s that?”

  “We have an angel among us.”

  “Do we?” Gayle smiled at Al.

  “Al’s offered to help. Shall we put him to work?”

  “Yes,” Gayle answered. “Yes, we should.”

  Hope explained that she and Gayle were leaving to make a presentation at a middle school and would be gone for several hours. But sometime that afternoon a pastor would be passing through town; he’d called at the last minute to request 150 empty jars for his congregation. He promised to encourage as many members of his flock as possible to bring their full jars back in time for Christmas delivery in order to boost their total toward the goal of 1,001.

  “Here’s the dilemma. Eva’s busy, Randall is cooking alone, Gayle’s boys are in a meeting at the bank, and all our other normally helpful hands are tied up this afternoon.”

  “What do I do?” Al was asking Hope, but he was looking at Gayle.

  “Can you put stickers on jars and the instruction notes inside each one? Then repack them in the cases?”

  “Done.”

  “And if you have any suggestions, like about the wording on the instructions, pipe up. Please.”

  “I certainly will!” Al couldn’t believe how excited he sounded—and felt.

  “Great. I’ll set you up at one of the tables, or here if you think that works better, and put everything within reach. And if you need to leave before the guy from the church gets here . . . What’s his name again, Gayle?”

  “It’s a woman,” Gayle said. “Pastor Creasy.”

  “If the jars are ready but you need to leave before Pastor Creasy gets here, Eva could probably handle the handoff.”

  “Done. I’m happy to help the cause.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Hope brought Al cases of jars, rolls of stickers, a stack of paper, a paper cutter, and a baggie full of five-inch, pre-cut strands of yarn. She demonstrated the assembly process and within minutes, Hope and Gayle were loading their own batch of jars into Gayle’s car and speeding off to an assembly at a school two towns away.

  Al surveyed the mountain of work he thought he’d be doing alongside Hope and Gayle. The reality of doing it alone was improved substantially when Eva whispered in his ear that Gayle had insisted lunch and refills were on the house.

  Al thanked her, asked for another lemonade, hobbled to the bathroom and back, took a look at the number on the Board—378—and then spent three hours preparing Christmas Jars with intense precision and care. Each sticker perfectly centered. Each scroll of instructions cut in a perfect line. Each string tied in an immaculate bow.

  They’ve never looked so perfect, he thought.

  The only break he took was to call Queen. “You’ll never believe what I’m doing right now.”

  Actually, she had no trouble believing at all.

  ~~~

  It has been a difficult Christmas with our finances, but I have maintained my faith that God will provide. We were so moved to know someone considered us worthy of a Christmas Jar.

  —Tina

  Eighteen

  ~~~

  Sometime since Al’s first visit to Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits, someone had drawn a “Days Left” box in the upper right-hand corner of the Board once dedicated only to counting the number of growing jars.

  It now read Days Left Until Christmas: 8

  Al had spent nearly every day at Chuck’s since his first volunteer effort to Hope’s unofficial Christmas Jars ministry. He’d also changed his credit card on file at the hotel twice and applied for credit line increases on two other cards.

  Tracy the cab driver often carted him back and forth in exchange for a free meal at Chuck’s, something Gayle was happy to provide. Though Tracy maintained he would do it for free as his meager contribution to the mission.

  When Tracy was busy hauling actual paying customers, either Hope, Gayle, or Eva would fetch Al from his hotel or return him home at night. He was grateful for any ride, and though he enjoyed Hope’s energy, he appreciated Gayle’s sweet grace the most.

  Al’s phone calls with Queen had become a part of the evening routine every few nights. They always began with Queen answering with her now-customary, “Ross residence, Queen speaking.” They’d chat briefly, then her mother would take the phone, leave the room, and report on some piece of official-looking mail or apartment-complex gossip.

  Then Al always asked the question. “How is she?”

  The answers varied.

  “OK . . . Fighting . . . Not bad today . . . Nauseous . . . A little blue . . . Typical Queen . . . Realistic.”

  There was also her most recent answer: “Fading.”

  Queen’s mother enjoyed talking to Al about her daughter because he was the only one who simply listened and didn’t press for more information, give advice, fall apart emotionally, or somehow find a way to make Queen’s deteriorating condition about themselves. She also enjoyed the minor distraction of keeping an eye on Al’s apartment and car in the parking lot.

  After the updates, Queen would take the phone back and swamp him with questions and information. “How are the Christmas Jars people doing? Tell me what jars you collected today. Did I tell you we got another jar yesterday? It’s our second one this year and it’s not even Christmas yet! Mom says people are watching over me. Mom says my job is to count the money. Her job is to pay the bills. Mom says the people at the bank hide when they see us coming with all our coins. Why would they hide?”

  Inevitably Queen would run out of steam and either quietly say good-bye or simply hand the phone off to her mother.

  “Thanks for being her friend,” Laura liked to say. “She loves your calls because you’re the only one who doesn’t patronize her. Please call again.”

  He did. And soon the calls went from every few days to every other day to every single night.

  The longer Al lingered around Chuck’s, the more he found other questions to answer as well. And he’d learned to answer the why’s, when’s and what-are-you-doing-here’s like a seasoned sales vet.

  “What brings you to our small town?”

  “Warmer weather, a change of pace, being part of something great.”

  “Why here?”

  “Why not? You’ve got a slice of heaven here. Plus this is the home of the Christmas Jars, right?”

  “Why not rent an apartment, or buy a home and put down roots?”

  “I’ll see how things feel after Christmas. I have options.”

  “Are you looking for a job? Can we help?”

  “No, thanks. I used to trade in cattle and repped some of the largest ranches in the west. And I got embarrassingly lucky with investments.”

  “Do you have family nearby?”

  “Not yet, but I feel more like family every day.”

  One day Al noticed Gayle’s sons, Joel and Mike, sitting in a booth with an out-of-towner in the kind of suit Al used to wear, discussing the possibility of franchising Chuck’s into other cities. When the man—probably an attorney, Al reasoned—finally left the restaurant, Al rode his crutches to their table and invited himself to sit.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Hey, Al, not at all.”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear a touch of your meeting just now. You’re thinking of franchising?”

  Joel and Mike looked at each other quickly and then back at Al. “Maybe,” Joel said.

  “I have some experience with that. A few careers ago I helped some colleagues turn a very, very successful New York-style deli in California into a franchise model. They’ve got nine locations now. It’s tough, but can really pay off if done right.”

  “I thought you were in livestock or somethin
g like that,” Mike said.

  “Like I said, it was a few careers ago.” Al kept eye contact with Mike. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, I think it’s a great idea. You’ve got proprietary recipes people love—especially the chicken, obviously—and a very unique homegrown appeal. Plus the more the Christmas Jars thing spreads, the more your brand gets out there. I could see it working. I really could.”

  “Thanks, Al,” Joel said.

  “Think about it—every new location could be like a regional hub for our Christmas Jars work. A thousand jars here, a thousand more at the other locations . . . one helps the other, I figure, right? And if we get on one of the big shows, not radio but TV? Forget about it, you’ll be bigger than Colonel Sanders.”

  “Huh,” Joel said. “Worth a thought.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Mike added. “Maybe we’ll hit you up for some advice sometime.”

  “Anytime, guys. Anytime.” With that, Al stood and crutched his way back to his own table, wondering if it might be time to start pitching the idea of a TV interview to all the morning shows.

  Hope and Clark were spending much more time together than ever before. They often saw each other twice a day, and often those days ended over dinner or along the many paths that followed the river on the south side of the county.

  Clark kept his promise to volunteer collecting jars and Hope had him running everywhere in the Cluck Truck. “A deal’s a deal,” he told her when she offered to let him off the hook. And so Hope had also kept her word, filling Clark’s head with anecdotes about her nearly four years of living in the Maxwell’s world and spending many hours in the shop.

  But their working arrangement was little more than a farce. It was true—they didn’t need excuses to spend time together anymore, and they knew it. Something was happening that Hope always thought possible if they stayed in the same zip code long enough. And while it scared her, it also made her feel like what she imagined Lauren and Marianne must have felt during their courtships.

  Lauren couldn’t have been happier for the budding couple. She reminded Hope constantly that she and Adam knew the altar was their ultimate destination after just their first date. One evening, she went so far as to suggest she would move out of the home and sell it to Clark if he and Hope were to marry and take over the shop together.

  “Lauren Maxwell!”

  “Please, honey, you’ve spent more time with him the last few weeks than most courting couples do in year. And it’s not like you haven’t tested his waters before.”

  “I don’t even know what that means!” But Hope couldn’t argue the point. They’d been skiing and hiking; they’d made a kitchen table together; she’d showed him off at the newspaper. They had driven 150 miles together to pick up five jars containing cash and change totaling $4,360 from a high school that dedicated an entire semester to the project after Hope spoke to their journalism class and inspired them to the challenge. They’d even been to the batting cages, which would have been closed for the winter except the owner was Chuck and Gayle’s longtime neighbor. Clark stood close to Hope and taught her the mechanics of the swing and she pretended not to understand, over and over again.

  What they hadn’t done was kiss. Hope gave Clark a monologue at Andie O’s Steakhouse about not rushing into anything and taking any steps that would force what should be an “organic issue,” as she called it. Hope meant a far more serious intimacy than a simple good-night kiss, but Clark chose the safest path and decided to test Hope’s independent streak.

  When she’s ready, he told himself, she’ll kiss me.

  But Hope’s independent personality didn’t extend to matters of love, and she remained a traditionalist in the mold of her mother. The thought of initiating a first kiss with a boy would have turned Louise Jensen’s cheeks Cherry ChapStick red. So he waited, she waited, and the consequence of not having a physical relationship resulted in a layered friendship Hope had never experienced with a man.

  As for the kiss, Marianne would have been much more approving; and as each new and evolving emotion for Clark surfaced, Hope regretted—if only slightly—being so supportive of Marianne and Nick’s holiday trip to Israel. They’d spoken by phone a few times and Hope had received dozens of pictures of the honeymooners at historical and religious sites. But the phone and e-mail wasn’t the same as staying up all night at the diner and eating Three Musketeers pie while talking about boys.

  Gayle was still mourning the loss of her husband, but with the holidays, the Christmas Jars work, and her sons deciding what to do with the diner, she hadn’t had time to slow down quite as much as she might have wanted. Instead she smiled her way through the days, keeping busy and appreciating the extra help and attention. And after all, her husband had made her promise no tears and no languishing in grief. So her tears were saved for the early hours of the morning when her defenses were not yet mounted and the reminder of an empty bed was still very fresh.

  The extra attention at the diner came from all angles. Eva had always been a trusted friend and member of the family, but their friendship had grown even closer since the funeral, and Gayle was saddened that Eva was leaving for the holidays so soon. Eva had offered to cancel her trip to visit family, but Gayle refused and promised her that Chuck would have wanted her to take the break. “The other three waitresses can pick up the slack, Eva. You trained them so well.”

  Eva relented and bid farewell for the holidays.

  Hannah and Dustin were becoming excited about the prospect of Clark taking over Restored. Sensing it was nearly a sure thing, Dustin had started researching teaching opportunities and had already garnered some interest from the same community college Hope attended. A part-time slot, they told him, could be open as soon as mid-January.

  Teaching had been Dustin’s dream since his first year of college, but after falling in love with Hannah and the rest of the Maxwell brood, he decided he could love taking over the family business just as much. What he discovered was that as much as he honored and respected his father-in-law’s passion and successful business, he’d rather mold young minds than old wood.

  Hannah was in Hope’s rearview mirror constantly asking for updates about the fledgling romance with Clark.

  “Hope Jensen, you still haven’t kissed? That’s just wrong, girl. What is he waiting for?”

  “Hope, Hope, Hope, you know how rare a love letter is? Dustin hasn’t written me a letter in years!”

  “Clark took you to the batting cages? In winter? He was totally showing off, right? Gosh, I love that about boys.”

  “Flutter-flutter. Dustin did the breakfast in the park date once, too. And look where it got us!”

  “He bought you tulips? So sweet! You realize why he bought them, right? Tu-lips—get it?”

  She didn’t. And the closer Christmas came, the busier she was. Too busy, she thought, to decipher every nuance of Clark’s brand of humor.

  Lauren, too, was busier than she’d ever been. To deal with her own annual sadness of having lost her husband and best friend, Adam—also at Christmastime—Lauren filled her days with grandchildren and volunteering at the school and hospital. With what little time she had left, she nurtured Clark’s interest in taking over the family business and dropped gratuitous hints of her approval of his budding relationship with Hope.

  And like everyone else, Lauren spent her fair share of time at Chuck’s, working alongside Hope, Al, and the rest of the team in pursuit of their lofty goal. She also spent quiet hours at night buried in journals and photo albums, pondering what Adam would think of it all.

  ~~~

  We handed her our jar and she couldn’t stop hugging and thanking us. She said that we were her angels.

  I will cherish the memories from our trip today, forever.

  —Christie

  Nineteen

  ~~~

  Is Hope here?” A man asked as the waitress pushed two tables together for his wife and four children.

  “She might still be in the back, I’ll ch
eck.” The waitress passed through the swinging door as the family settled in for dinner at Chuck’s. The happy couple tried to keep their three boys and one girl from fighting over two menus.

  “Dale!” Hope yelped as she spotted her old friend.

  “Hey, stranger,” Dale said. He stood and they embraced. “You remember my wife, Mary Ann.”

  “Of course. That’s a name I can’t forget.” Hope smiled broadly as Dale introduced the children.

  Clark, who had been in the back kitchen, came out to check on the buzz.

  “We’ve got a surprise for you, Hope.”

  “Jars? You brought me jars?” Hope’s voice rose.

  “Not exactly,” Dale replied. “But we did give away our first one tonight.”

  “Actually four!” One of the boys yelled much louder than his parents approved of.

  “Four?” Hope said.

  “Yes. I know you take jars here, too. I’ve been reading your columns in the paper. But we had an idea to deliver them ourselves to a family we knew had a very unique need. It’s been a really tragic month for them.”

  “Tell us about it,” Hope said, trying not to glance at the Board to check the number.

  “It should have been Mission Possible,” Dale began. “Except it turned out to be Mission Impossible. After arriving at the house we’d picked and carefully reviewing the escape route with the two oldest over there—they were making the actual delivery—it was go time. Right, boys?” Dale smiled at his sons before turning back to Hope. “The boys had to go it alone because I recently had knee surgery—”

  “I hadn’t heard that, you OK now?”

  “Better, but I still can’t outrun a fat snail.”

  Dale’s children chirped at the joke.

  “So Mary Ann here drove the getaway minivan. I rode shotgun. We dropped the boys off and quickly drove around the corner to the rendezvous point. After a few minutes, we saw them approaching in the darkness. My wife fired up the car for the getaway, but as far as stealth getaways go, this one was a total disaster. The boys were not running as planned and actually seemed to be limping. As they slowly, and I mean slowly, got to the car, we realized both of them were crying. With zeal!”