The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  Joey squinted at her. “That was my old house. It had a chimney.”

  “Finish up your work,” Diane said. “And you can ask your mom to bring you here on Saturday if you want to meet Santa in person.”

  I winced as I pressed down a row of gumdrops. “That reminds me, Adena,” I called to her. “If the S-A-N-T-A suit doesn’t come today, one of us will have to drive into Raleigh-Durham to pick it up tomorrow.” I needed that thing by the weekend so that Nate could charm the local kids into a few more weeks of good behavior. When he’d suggested wearing the Santa suit last year, it had successfully lured families into the shop. Although I no longer needed to draw more business, the appearance of Santa had become one of the seasonal highlights of The Christmas Elf: “As much a part of Christmas as stockings and eggnog!” said the Nag’s Head Herald.

  “I’ll be bringing my grandchildren,” one of the women in Ben’s group told me. She wore a white turtleneck with a glittering holly pin that I recognized from last year’s inventory. “They thoroughly enjoyed last year.”

  “Will you serve eggnog again?” her friend asked, this one decked in a charming sweater embroidered with Santa’s reindeer flying up the lapel. “My husband loved your recipe. He must have had three cups.”

  “Eggnog,” I said aloud, more as a reminder to myself to pull together the details for this weekend’s Shopfest. “Absolutely. It’s funny, most people don’t care for eggnog, but that recipe changes their mind.”

  “What’s your secret, darlin’?” Holly Pin asked.

  I smiled as I pushed back a strand of hair with one shoulder. “Vanilla ice cream. Got that recipe from my friend over at The Crusty Captain, only I leave out the rum so the kids can enjoy it.”

  Just then there were shouts from the kids. I turned to see what the commotion was about and managed to jab Bitsy’s sleeve with a smear of icing.

  “Sorry,” I said, handing her a paper towel as Diane explained that it was okay, the kids could pick up the spilled container of beads together. Diane and Ben corralled the kids, and Adena answered the phone while I washed my hands so that I could take care of the ladies’ purchases.

  I waved and smiled at the kids as Diane had them recite a big “thank you.” She led them to the door, then paused. “Joey, where is your coat?”

  The boy held out his arms, where a light navy sweatshirt hung unzipped. “This is my coat.”

  Diane kneeled down to zip him up. “Honey, you’ve got to wear something heavier next time. It’s windy out there.”

  “Wait,” I called, rummaging through one of the bins. “Here. This might help.” I unrolled an acrylic scarf, red background with a white snowflake. “Would you like to wear this, Joey?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “Don’t you have one with a snowman?”

  “Joey . . .” Diane moaned, but I quickly searched through the bin.

  “A blue snowman.” I leaned down to wrap the scarf around the boy’s neck, trying to cover his ears. “How’s that?”

  “Cushiony,” he said. I smiled.

  Diane touched my arm. “Ricki, I’m not sure you’ll see that again.”

  “That’s okay. Joey can keep it, as long as he promises to stay warm.” I patted Joey’s shoulder. “Just remember your coat next time, okay?”

  Pleased with himself, Joey grinned then muttered, “Thank you, Ms. Wicki.” Yes, he really said “Wicki,” and I felt my heart melt like honey in hot tea.

  “You’re very welcome,” I called as Diane led the group out the door in a big daisy chain of mittened hands.

  “My goodness, everything does happen at once, doesn’t it?” one of the women said.

  “I love it that way,” I admitted as I punched in the price for her wooden nativity scene. “People are part of the magic of Christmas.”

  The woman leaned over the counter and nodded knowingly. “People are the magic of Christmas. The people you love,” she said. “Your family. I do hope you count your blessings.”

  “I do,” I assured her, trying not to acknowledge the catch in my throat. My family. I hadn’t much thought about it, but my friends here in Nag’s Head had really become that. Aside from my sister, whom I thought of as my lovable evil twin at times, I had felt no real connection to the world until I’d come here. It was easy to be anonymous in New York, easy to be another bobbing face on campus, another student ID number on the lists of grades. But not here.

  “We’re not really related,” Bitsy pointed out to the ladies. “But maybe that’s why Ricki puts up with so much from us.”

  “It’s true,” Ben said. “I keep dreading the day Ricki tosses us all out the door so she can get some work done.”

  “That’ll never happen,” I teased. “I can’t work without background noise.” I handed the holly pin woman her change, and she reached across the counter and grasped my hand.

  “I am serious, dear. It’s rare to find such a family in this world.”

  Sincerity gleamed in her watery blue eyes, and I found myself covering her hand with mine, squeezing it gently, listening to the voice inside me that said: Take a moment. Make the connection. Seize the day.

  As the ladies made their way out, calling their good-byes, I thought about the wonders of Christmas spirit. That was what kept this place running—the whirling, swirling pixies that warmed hearts with their cinnamon breath and merry carols. My little Christmas shop had acquired its own personality, something bigger and better than I’d ever envisioned. Go figure.

  The shop was quiet that evening when Cracker stopped by to check in, crank the cuckoo clocks, and snag some free cider before he had to go next door and open up the Crusty Captain. When he saw the newly constructed gingerbread village, his jaw dropped.

  “Sugar, I think you’ve outdone yourself this time. If that isn’t the most charming little cookie town. Pure munchkin euphoria.”

  I smiled up from the bin of old decorations I was using to decorate the fragrant, fresh-cut spruce Ben had brought me late this afternoon, and I was rushing a little to add some homemade ornaments so it wouldn’t look so bare. “The village was mostly Bitsy’s creation,” I said. “She showed me how to make these trees out of candy canes and Hershey’s kisses. Clever, isn’t it?”

  “Smart ’n’ tasty.” Cracker inched his fingers toward the chocolate paved sidewalk, but I smacked his hand away.

  “Don’t touch. It’s for the school pageant.” I tossed him two kisses from a bowl on the counter.

  Cracker caught them in one fist and smiled. “That’s right. The pageant is tomorrow night, isn’t it? I don’t usually attend, but for this mouth-watering wonderland I just might make an appearance. Show some community support.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said. “Nate and I will be there.”

  “Oh, dear.” Cracker folded his arms. “Does that mean I should reconsider?”

  “You don’t have to sit with us. Nobody says you have to like Nate, though I’d love it if the two men in my life could just be civil.”

  “Talk to Mr. Nathan Graham about civility. I saw him at the Texaco this morning and I swear I had to work him over to get out a greeting. The man was glued to his cell phone, ignoring everyone in sight, pacing like a maniac, arguing like a she-devil. I do believe he would have driven off with the hose still in his gas tank if Hank hadn’t come out to take command of the situation.”

  I winced. “Poor Nate.”

  “Poor Nate? Don’t you have pity on the rest of us—the innocent bystanders who must tolerate his lack of civility?”

  “Nate’s feeling down about his divorce right now.”

  “Yes, but must he inflict his agitation on others?” Cracker asked. “I’m only telling you this because you love the man, Ricki. God knows you’re not responsible for his behavior, but his lack of civility is off-putting at times.”

  “He’s just in a bad place right now.” I bit my lower lip, not sure how much to reveal to Cracker. He was a close friend, the kind of friend you could dump on, but it�
��s hard to express your feelings when you’re not entirely sure of them.

  Cracker unwrapped a kiss and popped it into his mouth with a knowing, “Mm-hmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, honey, you can tell old Cracker. Do you know how long I’ve been mending the world’s problems from across the bar? I am the Dr. Phil of the lovelorn.”

  “Lovelorn?” I squinted at him. “Have you been reading historical romances again?”

  “Tell Cracker. What’s the problem?”

  I stepped up on a stool to hang a clear glass icicle on a high branch. “It’s not that big a deal. Just that he keeps picking arguments at home.” I stepped down, sighing. “And me, fool that I am, I argue right back. And the weird thing is, we’re not arguing about details of his divorce or custody of his kids or anything like that. We’re arguing about Nate’s attitude toward the divorce. His inability to push it through. That passive-aggressive bullshit.”

  Cracker rolled his eyes. “Nothing new about that.”

  “But somehow it’s beginning to seem like a new problem, like my problem.” I hung a glittering pine cone on the tree—one of the first ornaments I’d made before the shop had opened, and it made me feel a twinge of nostalgia for that sweeter, simpler time. “Sometimes I worry that he’s losing interest. That the thrill is gone.”

  “I thought you two had a sizzle goin’ in the fry pan.”

  “We do,” I said, a little freaked that I was following his metaphors. “But it still doesn’t mean he isn’t straying. What if he’s having an affair, Cracker?”

  He pushed down an arm of the spruce to shoot me a look. “Who would fool around with him?”

  “Well, I did, back in college,” I admitted. “Don’t you think Nate’s attractive?”

  “Good looks got nothing to do with it, sugarlamb. You fell for Nate because he was forbidden fruit. Another man’s wife.”

  “Well, not quite. I mean, they were separated and getting a divorce and everything.” That much was true. Had I thought Nate was truly involved with his wife, I would not have gone near him. Scout’s honor. A home wrecker I am not, partly because of scruples, partly because I figure if a man is willing to be stolen away, then no woman will ever have a secure hold on his heart. “The legal matters weren’t supposed to take so long, though. Whoever heard of a nice, friendly divorce that lasted four years?”

  Four years. Had Nate and I really been together that long? Four years. When we’d met, his youngest daughter Molly had been a freckly nine-year-old, still playing with dolls and holding hands with her dad. Now she was a basketball player with a fierce hook shot, a shape that made boys gape, and a strong loathing for spending summers in the Outer Banks with her dad. Poor Nate. He tried to be a good father, but his ex-wife wasn’t very supportive of his efforts, dishing the dirt to Molly and Kaitie whenever she had the chance. For my part, I tried to keep my distance from Gina; tried to give the girls space and time alone with their father. I did my best, though there was no getting around the fact that I was the intruder—the unwanted future “step.” With these obstacles, it was amazing Nate and I had made it this long.

  I thought of the first time we’d met, at a college job fair, how Nate had seemed more seasoned and laid-back than the eager rugby types at Brown who wanted to plumb more than my mind before we’d even shared a cup of coffee. After years of fending off requests for meaningless sex, I’d found it entirely refreshing when Nate had asked me out for a weekend afternoon, inviting me to accompany him to an exhibit of Fabergé eggs scheduled to leave Providence the following week.

  An afternoon of art, tea, and stimulating conversation.

  So began my first adult relationship, a connection based on mutual interests, social interaction, and (much later) great sex. At the time, Nate had been deeply involved in commercial real estate in Providence, so he knew most of the tony restaurants and cafés. He had been instrumental in finding space for the proprietors in Little Italy and Fox Point, and consequently had a standing reservation (and a discount, I think) at the city’s hot spots. I’d been impressed by the way he had a finger on the pulse of Providence—a social reference so different from my student colleagues, whose expertise didn’t reach beyond the list of pubs that had two-for-one drinks at happy hour—and by the fact that he knew the city so well, knew its rich history and its stately buildings.

  Our first few outings were purely platonic. Nate took me on a walking tour of Providence’s historic East Side, showing me the excellent examples of restored eighteenth-century mansions and homes. Another time we walked the “Mile of History,” a concentration of original Colonial homes along Benefit Street, splendid sites of early Federal and nineteenth-century architecture. Nate seemed so at home in those neighborhoods that I drew a sort of psychological connection, envisioning him as the master of one of those fine city estates. In my mind, he was one of Providence’s favorite sons, and I felt special to be strolling along the river with him, catching the ArTrolley on Gallery Night, or dining out in a Portuguese restaurant where the staff treated us like royalty. Nate seemed thrilled to be with me—he admitted that he had been lonely since he’d parted with his wife—and he acted as if I were the most amazing woman on the planet. He started naming things after me: a “Ricki smile,” or a “Ricki look,” or “that Ricki sigh.” In Nate’s world, I was the “It” girl, and honestly, I loved being the feminine center of his universe.

  Not that such euphoria came without its price.

  More than once I’d stumbled over Nate’s baggage—his guilt over the emotional withdrawal of his two kids. There were Nate’s financial woes, the prospect of losing his million-dollar home to Gina, the divorce lawyers’ fees, the cost of financing two households.

  But when you’re falling in love, your sweetie’s torturous troubles compel you to love him more, to defend him from his adversaries, to buoy him up from the depths of sorrow and buffet him against the winds. I couldn’t fight Gina, but I could offer Nate half of my bed and a drawer in my bedroom dresser in my apartment, which was a million times better than the bachelor pad he’d signed the lease on. By the time I was starting my final year of grad school, Nate and I were a couple.

  “Mm-hmm?” Cracker’s suspicious hum brought me back to reality. “Do you think there’s ever such a thing as a nice, neat divorce?”

  I waggled a glittery pinecone at him. “They hadn’t slept together in two years.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Don’t you believe that?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe, Ricki. Let’s focus on the situation at hand, which is the fledging interest of your man. When is the last time you had sex?”

  I gasped with mock exaggeration. “You want me to kiss and tell?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Hello? I’m the one who knows about your marathon in that vacated beach house in Rodanthe. The horizontal tango for, what, two days was it?”

  I laughed. “It would have been three if that agent hadn’t shown up unexpectedly to scope out the place.”

  “Mm-hmm. But we digress. The point is, you’re worrying about all the wrong things, sugar. You think his eye is straying, but let me remind you, we’re talking about Mr. High Maintenance here. Mr. Loud-Talking, Cell Phone-walking, Highway-Passing, Sports Car-Revving . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Stop holding back and tell me how you really feel.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t get me started or I’ll be hissing and tearing up your upholstery.”

  “Minus the claws and the hissy fit, please.”

  “That man is just preening for some extra coddling and attention. So why don’t you head on home now? Adena is coming in soon, isn’t that right?”

  I checked the clock that had a different colored ornament on each number. The small hand was creeping toward the purple “six” ornament. “She’ll be here in a half hour or so.”

  “So when she gets here, give yourself the night off. Light some candles so you can set the mood,
feed him a nice warm meal and, you know . . . butter his beans.”

  “Ugh, dinner! My cupboard is bare. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, you know?”

  “I could send you home with some of my famous corn chowder,” Cracker said. “But then, soup isn’t enough of a meal for Mr. High Maintenance, is it?”

  I sighed. “Now, see that? Prissy. And we were on such a nice track for a while.”

  “Prissy?” Cracker folded his arms. “I may be dramatic, occasionally catty, but never prissy. Now if we can keep this all dignified, I’ll help you. But you can’t make me like him.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Leave the liking to me. You just hang around and spout off great advice.”

  “My specialty. Is that a yes or a no on the soup?” Cracker asked. “Because Miller’s has some nice-looking salad fixings that would go well with the chowder.”

  “Yes, please,” I said, thinking that it would be a marvel if I could actually get out of here before six o’clock tonight. Leaving early during the busy season . . . It was absolutely decadent, but Cracker was right in his backhanded way. I’d been so focused on spreading Christmas cheer, I hadn’t really been sharing myself with the person I loved most.

  Well, that was about to change.

  18

  The worst thing about resolutions is that when you can’t follow one through, you feel like a failure. That night when I got home, the cottage was dark. I kept calling Nate’s cell but he didn’t pick up until the soup was hot, the salad dressed.

  “I’m home early!” I told him. “I’ve got dinner ready.”

  “You’re kidding? I’m on my way to Avon.” A good hour south of us. “I just assumed you’d be working late, so I decided to drive down to this site.”

  So my big evening fizzled into a big “Oh, well.”

  By the time Nate came in, I was asleep on the couch. I remember Dave Letterman saying: “I don’t know what that means,” and the audience roaring as I clicked the remote and stumbled through the living room. The bathroom floor was ice-cold, but I forced myself to brush my teeth and rinse my face, knowing the activity would be enough to wake me up just enough to ruin my sleep. I hate when that happens, but I was too tired to stay up, and Nate was already in bed, possibly asleep if the sound of his steady breathing was any gauge.