The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  “You awake?” I asked softly.

  “Mmm.”

  I turned off the light and slipped under the red plaid quilt. My side of the bed was cold, and I eased closer to Nate and nudged my chilly feet into the warm aura surrounding his body. It was a ritual of ours in winter, one of those patterns couples fall into when they’ve been together a while: I always prodded him with cold toes and he always withdrew, grousing, “Get those icy feet away from me, you witch.”

  Not wanting to wake him, I moved tentatively, trying to steal warmth.

  To my surprise, he reached down and pulled my feet to him. “Come here, you.” He tucked my feet between his thighs, folding them into furry warmth. Sweet heaven.

  I sighed, loving the feeling, charmed by the implications.

  It was more than a gesture, more than a small exception. I knew it was a sign that something had changed. He was opening himself to me, accepting me wholly—cold feet and all. Nate wanted to be my protector, my champion against the cold.

  A sign? I could only hope that my wish was beginning to take hold.

  “So how did your evening go?” Lola asked the next morning when she and Ben appeared with three coffees and the morning papers.

  “It sort of didn’t,” I said sheepishly, biding time as Ben slipped over to the rocking chair by the fire and settled into his usual spot to read. That was the problem with living on a small peninsula where everyone knew everyone else’s business. When I’d stopped into Miller’s to pick up a salad last night, I’d told Lola about my plans, and now it was good manners for her to follow up. “The next time I try to stage something with Nate, remind me to let him know in advance.”

  Perching on a stool by my worktable, Lola seemed to get the picture quickly. “Do you want to talk about it? And what’s that you’re working on?”

  “An emergency costume for tonight’s pageant. Turns out they’re short one elf.”

  “It’s so nice of you to do that for the school,” Lola said. “And you don’t even have a kid in the show.”

  “I enjoy it,” I admitted as I traced a holly-leaf pattern onto green felt. “Though I’m stretched a little thin this year.” With my work on the school pageant and decorating the town, I was falling behind on mail orders, but there was still time before I had to use rush shipping.

  “So what did you end up doing last night?” Lola pressed.

  As I gave her the nutshell version the door bells jingled and a carload of customers streamed in. “Merry Christmas!” I called, then lowered my voice for Lola. “By the time I reached him on his cell, it was too late. So he drove to Avon, and I sipped soup in front of the TV and watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  “Isn’t that just the way things happen sometimes?” Lola said. “My kids love that movie. Corey always feels sorry for the elf who wants to be a dentist.”

  “So do I,” Ben called from behind his paper. “It’s no fun to be trapped in the wrong profession.”

  Sometimes I forgot Ben was there, like a loyal hound by the fire, until he added the occasional thoughtful remark.

  Lola crossed her arms and tilted her head toward him. “Ben, it’s a good thing you managed to get out of your mistake before it was too late,” she teased. “A lot of people don’t have the guts to make a major change in their lives.”

  “Is it guts or sheer idiocy?” Ben lowered his Washington Post. “That’s a matter of some debate. Some of my old friends think I threw away the best part of my life. A solid job.”

  “Wow, do I hear my mother’s voice!” Lola cupped a hand around one ear. “When I married Tito he was working in a pizza place, and my mother tried to stop the wedding. She kept asking me, ‘Why would you want a man who doesn’t have a solid job?’ For Mama, it was all about job security.”

  I squeezed the scissors, cutting through the felt with satisfying precision. “I’ve always been lucky in that area. Since I minored in education, I knew I could teach. I just never needed to.”

  Ben folded the paper in his lap. “My job security is about fifty yards that way,” he said, pointing toward the door. “The Atlantic never shuts down. Yeah, I’ve got a few boards to recondition now, but once the weather warms up, the people come, and they need boards and wet suits and surf shirts and sunglasses.”

  “You own the surf shop next door?” asked one of the customers, a thin man with wispy gray hair and gangly arms. When Ben nodded, the man introduced himself and mentioned that his nephew ran a shop down in Key West.

  “Paul Gaber?” Ben smiled. “Pleasure to meet you. I used to rent sail kites from your son.” While Paul Gaber’s wife browsed, Paul and Ben settled into the chairs to chat by the fire.

  Lola reached into her pocket for her tarot deck, her newest New Age preoccupation. Lola was a student of astrology and tarot, always seeking wisdom through the movements of the planets and the symbols in the cards. Although I’d studied the tarot deck years ago, I gave it up. The cards were too addictive back then, and sometimes I found their vivid symbols dark and intimidating. “Busy today?” Lola asked.

  “Nonstop. I’ve got mail orders coming out my ear, plus all the foot traffic here,” I said, realizing that I had another school group coming in and a busload of teachers from Raleigh, as well as the women from Georgia’s quilting bee. “Then there’s the school pageant tonight, and tomorrow is the first Saturday in December: my Shopfest. Which reminds me, can you put a few gallons of eggnog and vanilla ice cream on hold for me? I have to serve eggnog tomorrow.”

  “No problem.” Lola fanned the cards over the table and shuffled. “When things settle down, you have to let me throw some cards for you. Looking at your chart, I see a crossroad coming up for you. A turning point. Any idea what that’s about?”

  “A crossroad? Does that mean choices?” I asked, intrigued and wary. “Hey, when did you do my chart and what else did you see? I mean, what’s in my future?”

  Lola smiled, gathering up her cards. “Listen to the song.”

  The carolers on the CD sang: “Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.”

  “Comfort and joy,” Lola repeated. “The very thing you give, you shall receive.”

  “That’s so sweet.” I trimmed the holly leaf, pleased with the sharp points and curves. Lola’s prediction was a lot better than I’d expected, but I wanted to hear more. “So what else is in my chart? Do you see Nate? Any kids down the road?”

  She touched the puka shells at her neck. “Of course you’ll have kids. Every woman needs her children.”

  Good news, I thought, though it wasn’t clear whether Lola was thinking of my astrological chart or simply spouting off edicts of the world according to Lola. I wanted to ask her, but then the doorbell jingled again and a new group of customers appeared and I was lost in the act of juggling conversation, creativity, and commerce.

  That afternoon I was juggling a shop full of customers—mostly my busload of teachers—while working through the list of e-mail orders when the door bells jingled and Georgia appeared, greeting all the shoppers as if they were family. Georgia is such a social creature; always so cheerful and silly. I secretly harbored plans to steal her away from Miller’s in the next year, if The Christmas Elf could afford another full-timer.

  “How’s it going, honey?” Georgia called to me. “Your candy-cane curb has been lined with cars all day, so I know you’ve been busy. Brought you some hot chicken tenders. Martha’s on the fryer today, and she always does them just right.” She took out a cardboard box and waved it under my nose.

  “Thanks.” I dropped a Santa tablecloth into one of the mail packs and snatched the chicken from her hand. “What time is it? After three already? The day goes so fast when I’m busy. I promised Mrs. Joel I’d be over at the school by seven and . . . Thanks for the food, honey! If it weren’t for you, I’d be fainting in the tinsel.”

  “My pleasure,” Georgia said, pushing me back onto a stool. “Now you just take a break and I’ll help you out here for awhile. What were you doing, fill
ing orders? And I know how to run the register, too. Lord knows, I do it all day at Miller’s.”

  “Just for a minute,” I conceded, sitting and balling up a napkin. “Don’t want to get chicken grease on any of the merchandise.”

  “Oh, I love this song!” Georgia said. “All I want for Christmas is you!” she sang as she sashayed up the step stool to reach an ornament from one of the top bins. “Hey, how are you?” she asked a couple browsing through the trees, except when Georgia spoke it came out: “Haryew?”

  Confident that she had things under control, I moved to the computer chair and logged on. “Eighteen new orders?”

  “Good for you!” Georgia said.

  “That’s just in the last ten minutes.” I stared at the screen. “This is phenomenal! Fantastic. What am I saying?” I smacked my hands against my cheeks. “I’m going to be up all night.”

  “I’ll help you,” Georgia offered. “I can stop by after the pageant if you want. I’ll even bring Daniel. Maybe the Christmas mood here will soften his old Grinchy heart a little.” Daniel was Georgia’s boyfriend, a good-looking artist who shared Nate’s malady: Failure to Commit. The greater difference being that Daniel was homegrown; his parents owned hammock shops here in Nag’s Head and in Avon, and, as Daniel liked to say, he was “easing” into the family business.

  “And I’ll give you a hand,” Ben called from the CD section. “You know my business is slow. No problem closing up for a few days, and my surfers can reach me by cell if they need me.”

  “You’ve already helped me so much,” I said, blinking as two more orders came in. “I really appreciate it. This is just . . . really exciting and a little scary.”

  A few minutes later Cracker appeared with three spools of packing tape. “I was over at the hardware store and thought you could use some extra,” he said, “before people buy it up to send off their Christmas gifts.”

  I threw my arms wide in amazement. “I was just running out! You’re an angel!”

  “Honey, I’m no angel, but I’m happy to propagate the myth,” Cracker said as he attacked a stack of brown boxes.

  Just then the door bells jingled and as I looked up my pulse quickened. Nate. He didn’t stop by here too often, but I was happy to see him amidst this seasonal insanity.

  “Hey, honey!” I waved him over past the glittering trees and the bins of cranberry and pinecone garland to the small computer station. Once he saw me Nate plunged his hands into the pockets of his cashmere coat and averted his eyes, not a good sign. Little alarm bells rang in my head as he made his way through the crowded shop. Something was wrong. Nate was not happy.

  “What happened? You look so sad.”

  He raked his hair back with one hand. “How soon can you get away from here? You need to get packed. We’re hitting the road in the morning.”

  I squinted at him, trying to figure out what I’d missed. “Is there a hurricane coming? Why would we leave?”

  “Providence,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I’ve got to meet with the mediator Monday morning, and I figure I might as well spend Sunday with the girls. Molly has a basketball game Sunday night, and I told her I’d be there.”

  I picked up a decorative pen and pressed the faceted star into my palm. Nate had always been inconsiderate, but he wasn’t usually so oblivious to my world. “Nate, I can’t go to Providence now.”

  “Why not? Why wouldn’t you want to go?”

  “This shop!” I sputtered, a little too loudly.

  I noticed the people around me suddenly turning away, trying to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping, and Georgia started singing, “Star of wonder, star of light . . .” in her hoarse, off-key voice. But Nate didn’t seem to care that we were making a scene. He just stuck me with that cold, dark stare, implying that I’d lost my mind.

  “Come on, Ricki. You’re the boss. Go over to that door and hang up the closed sign. Or put your assistant in charge for the weekend. That’s why you hired her, isn’t it?”

  “Nate, she’s a college student,” I said, feeling defensive. “And she’s part-time. And in case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow is the Shopfest, my biggest weekend of the year. People drive in from out of state for this weekend. You promised to play Santa again, remember? Honey, we just can’t go this weekend.” I checked my watch. “It’s not five yet. You can still probably reach the mediator and reschedule for later in the week.”

  “No, I can’t,” he snapped.

  I sat back in the chair, jarred by his anger. “Maybe we should talk about this in the back—”

  “How would it look for me to postpone after I’ve pushed this thing along for the past year?” he said. “Do you want Gina to think I’m losing my resolve?”

  That comment hit me in a vulnerable spot. “This is not about . . . her,” I said, realizing that we were segueing into a full-scale argument in front of an audience. “It seems to me that since you’re an equal party in this negotiation and you live out of state, the meeting can be set at a time that’s convenient for you.”

  “Forget it. We’re going.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” My face flushed hot with anger and embarrassment. I hated Nate for springing this on me, hated him more for playing it out in front of my friends and customers. My pulse thudded with a sickening intensity, hammering away at me with the same indifference I saw in Nate’s eyes. He refused to accept the weight of my commitments here, my investment in this business, my emotional ties to this community. “Open your eyes, Nate. I’ve got a shop full of people here, a show tonight, a huge weekend planned, and I can’t drop it all to be your buddy while you rush home to fight with Gina.”

  “Don’t you see I’m doing this for you?” he asked indignantly.

  I pressed the starry pen deeper into my palm, wishing its sharp facets were the only pain I felt. “Actually, I’m not getting that part, why I’m supposed to be thrilled about dropping everything for the horrendous drive up to Providence.” I lowered my voice. “And after all this time, don’t push your divorce on me, Nate. It’s not about doing a big ‘favor’ for me; it should be about putting an end to a relationship that didn’t work out for you.”

  “Semantics.” He waved me off. “Fine.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Do you want to meet me at the school or should I pick you up at home?”

  He squinted at me, his face so puckered it lost its appeal. “You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll probably just start driving tonight.”

  He turned and, with a swirl of his glamourous coat, he was striding toward the door.

  “Nate?” I stood up, calling after him. I wanted to push past the customers, run to him, take his hand and beg him not to go. Please, just stay, honey. You can fly up on Sunday night. You can change the appointment. Would you try to be flexible, just this once, for me?

  But I didn’t chase after him, didn’t beg or grovel, didn’t make another attempt to reason with him. Instead, I returned to the computer and gripped the edge of the table, trying to pretend that the information on the monitor held me in fascination while scattered thoughts raced through my mind like storm clouds. Nate was leaving. I had to get ready for the Christmas show. Nate blamed me for his unhappiness. Tomorrow was Shopfest and I had no Santa.

  “Hey, honey.” Georgia massaged my shoulders. “You okay?”

  “On a scale of one to ten? I feel like a big fat zero.” It was difficult to breathe. “I’m so embarrassed,” I whispered.

  “Why should you be? You didn’t do anything wrong, and no one’s holding you responsible for Nate’s bad behavior.”

  Although I knew that was true, I couldn’t shake the gloom that hung over me.

  “If you need me tomorrow, I’d be happy to come. I bet Miller will give me the day off if I ask him.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “But can you play Santa?”

  “I’m good, but not that good.” Georgia folded her arms and shot a look around the store. “I’ll bet we can find a tall, stout
man who can fill that Santa suit. Uhm, Cracker? Stop hiding in the garland there.”

  Cracker peered out from behind a lavender Victorian tree. “Just who are you calling stout?”

  “See?” Georgia gestured toward him grandly. “What did I tell you? A volunteer!”

  Smoothing down his sweater, Cracker turned to the two women behind him. “Do you think red makes me look fat? I’ve always avoided plaids for that reason. Oh, God, I should have paid attention when Serge was on that South Beach Diet. Is it lots of fruit—or no fruit at all?”

  “I’ll be Santa,” Ben said nonchalantly as he stretched packing tape around the seam of a box. “I’ve already got the hair and I’m a pretty good listener. Though I may need to borrow a few pillows to fill out the suit.”

  “Not to worry!” Cracker rubbed his hands together delightedly. “We’ll stuff you full of Christmas goodies at the pageant tonight. My man Ben gets first dibs on a big slab of gingerbread.”

  “How about you, Cracker?” Georgia asked. “You’re not off the hook.”

  “I can’t play Santy Claus, but I make a mean batch of eggnog, which is a must for the Shopfest. I’ll whomp up a big bowl of it and keep it coming all weekend,” Cracker promised.

  “Super!” Georgia beamed, reaching over to take a basket of ornaments from a woman waiting at the register. “I’ll tell Miller I need the day off. We’re going to have a great time tomorrow.”

  I blinked, intrigued and a little awed at the activities swirling around me. Did I just recruit a staff for tomorrow without saying a word? The prospect of seeing Ben in the Santa suit brought a smile to my face, despite my bad mood over Nate, damn him. He’d struck a blow to a vulnerable spot, but right now, with the customers and the pageant and a few customized wreaths to assemble, I didn’t have the time or energy to plumb the pain.