The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  “Ben used to work with Habitats, and we figured his engineering experience might be helpful,” Reverend Forest added with a smile. “But honestly, Ricki, we will take any volunteers we can get. We’re always in need of helpers.”

  I sat in one of the desk chairs. “Is there anything that can be done? I mean, about their home?”

  “I’ve been in touch with Amy Salem, and I think there’s a great deal we can do,” George said. “Right now we’re trying to get financing for Mrs. Salem, so that we can purchase the materials to complete the renovations on their home. I think the outlook is excellent, but I do worry about their living conditions in the interim.”

  Diane shook her head. “I had no idea Joey was living in such poor conditions, but it does explain a few things, some of his behavior.”

  “I wasn’t invited inside their trailer,” I said, “but it looks rustic. They’re roughing it.”

  “No water or electrical hookup?” Ben winced. “We’ve got to change that.”

  “Perhaps there’s a member of our congregation who would take them in for the next six months or so,” Reverend Forest suggested. “Just until the renovation is completed.”

  I would have liked to offer, but I had to remember my new homeless status. As the others talked about possibilities, an idea formed. The cottage would be empty. Nate held the lease through June.

  “You know,” I interrupted Forest, “there’s a furnished cottage opening up for a sublet and it just might be perfect.”

  Diane shook her head skeptically. “This time of year?”

  “Trust me, it’s perfect.” Already I was picturing Joey and Lila opening Christmas gifts by the fireplace, the winter sun shining through the glass bricks and illuminating the blue glass collection. “And I’ll be happy to contribute toward the rent, as long as someone else deals with the realtor.”

  Ben’s eyes connected with mine as he caught my idea. “Not bad,” he said, nodding. “I think it might work.”

  26

  The bells jingled as Ben cracked the door open and shouldered his way in, his hands full with a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries. “What, no customers yet?”

  I laughed, tying an apron behind my waist. “It might even be a quiet week, with the regular shipping deadlines over. At this point, most people will just be shopping for small gifts and ornaments to add to their collections.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” Ben said as he handed me a cup of coffee.

  I nodded at the full tray. “You feeling extra thirsty this morning?”

  “I ran into Cracker at Miller’s. He said he’s coming over. And then there’s Georgia.”

  “Oh, right!” I’d nearly forgotten that Georgia was coming in early to talk about possible employment. Although the rush had slacked off, The Christmas Elf now had more than enough year-round business to warrant a full-time employee, and with her creative ideas and personal charm, Georgia would be perfect. I tucked holly-printed tissue around a large wreath, then put the gold lid on the gift box. “I could use Georgia’s help right now. This is going out by FedEx, along with five other special orders. And this one’s going to Chicago.” I tucked a fat stream of brocade red ribbon under the box and started to assemble a bow.

  “I’ll help you with that,” Ben said, pressing down the ribbon with one thumb. “You tie, I’ll hold.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for all your help this weekend. It was great of you to play Santa again.”

  “As I said, I’ve got the hair.”

  I snipped the end of ribbon and shook my head. “Santa has snow white hair. Yours is more silver.”

  “Premature gray. I worried too much in my younger days.”

  “And do you worry now?” I asked.

  “Only about things that matter. About making sure children are warm and well-fed.”

  “You really are Santa Claus.”

  “About a certain girl who found herself stranded on an island.”

  That gave me pause. Partly because most people were too politically correct to use the term “girl,” partly because it took a moment to realize he meant me. “You worry about me? That’s so sweet.” My heart was beating a little faster than usual, and the potpourri spices seemed sharp and heady in the air. “I’m not stranded. Not really. I’m happy to be here, and Roxanne thinks she’ll be able to find me a condo in January. ’Til then, Lola’s stuck with me. Except when I’m in New York.” I shot a look at the calendar. “Holy Christmas! I have to make plane reservations. Or maybe I should drive. I don’t know.”

  “You could stay here,” Ben said, picking up a cluster of berries from my worktable. “We could have a small party. Cracker and Serge will be here. Georgia and Daniel.”

  I looked up at him, my heart beating painfully in my ribs. More than anything, I wanted to spend Christmas with Ben, and it wasn’t until this precise moment that I put that together in my mind. Mysterious, quiet Ben. Benjamin Slater, who sat by the fire and read his newspapers and brought me coffee and helped to entertain the customers. Ben whose deep, soft voice soothed everyone’s worries.

  “Ben . . .” I reached out and put my hand over his. “I can’t spend Christmas with you.” He glanced away, disappointed. “Even though I’d love to! There’s nothing I’d love more, but I promised my sister I’d go to New York, and she had this major health scare last year so I can’t really get out of it. But . . . I’ve got a suite booked at the Waldorf and. . . .”

  What was I suggesting? Here Ben was holding out an olive branch and I was snatching it up and jumping his bones.

  “I mean . . . you can have it. The suite. I mean, if you want to come to New York.” His fingers curled under mine, his touch warm and soothing, maybe a little arousing, unless that was just wishful thinking.

  “Why would I take it?” he said softly, lifting my hand and stepping around my work table to close the distance between us. “A suite at the Waldorf would be no fun without you in it.”

  I was worried that he’d feel my heart thumping as he pulled me against him, but then it didn’t seem to matter. Because we were kissing and his breathing was heavy, too, and the way his hands moved over my shoulders and back, massaging and melting, and our lips pressed together, the soft texture of his mouth with sweet coffee taste, the soapy smell of his skin, the thick, silky feel of his hair. . . .

  We kissed and cuddled, and I wanted to cry over my own idiocy, over the way that time unravels certain mysteries that simply cannot be revealed until destiny allows. Ben had been here all along, right before my eyes, but then, I’d been suffering from cloudy vision.

  The bell at the door jingled, and Ben ended the series of kisses with a sigh. “Jingle bells. Sounds like an angel just got her wings.”

  I smiled and pressed my head against his chest, unable to let go just yet. “That’s a beautiful symbol,” I said.

  He touched my chin and lifted my head. “To hell with symbols; I think it’s true.”

  And he let me go with a squeeze of my hand, then went to his chair by the fire as Cracker sauntered up to my work table, grabbed a coffee and mouthed: YOU AND BEN?

  I nodded, then laughed as I fell back on a stool, pretending to start a new wreath, though mostly I was just fingering beads and sorting out tiny ornaments, my mind consumed by overwhelming joy.

  “Well, sugar,” Cracker drawled, cocking an eyebrow, “score one for Voodoo Eggnog.”

  A CHRISTMAS SKY

  DECEMBER, 2004

  EMMA

  27

  My timing is way off; I know that.

  Right now my apartment is full of people—friends and coworkers, sipping champagne and spiked eggnog and talking about their Christmas plans—while the hostess of the party is holed up in the master bathroom. Not the most hostessy thing to do, but I can’t wait any longer. I bought the pregnancy test this morning and planned to take it right away, but then Randy surprised me by taking me out to brunch. And then our afternoon was cluttered with party errands: chilling the champagne, mixin
g the eggnog, picking up the salads from Dean & Deluca and the bagels from Zabar’s. The only window of time would have been while I was taking a shower, but then Randy suggested that we soap up together and I didn’t want to set the pee test up in front of him since I wasn’t ready to tell him that I might be pregnant with someone else’s baby.

  Yes, my timing is totally off.

  So I’m sitting here on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, watching the little stick that I peed on to see if a cross appears. A cross—that would mean I’m pregnant. Funny that the laboratory people would choose a cross: the symbol of crucifixion. Which is what I’ll do to my little brain if I am, in fact, pregnant right now. How ironic that would be: the Christmas gift I’d always dreamed of, the ultimate gift of a baby, a new life. I have always dreamed of becoming a mother, and over the past few months with Randy I’ve been able to visualize that dream clearly.

  But under very different circumstances.

  In the scenario of my dreams, my baby has a loving father: a capable, kind man who fills out the perfect triangle of my loving, nuclear family.

  That man is not Jonathan Thompson.

  Randy, however, would be the perfect father. He wants to be a father, and I want to be the mother of his child. In fact, we’ve been trying to get pregnant for the past six months. The bitter irony: if I’m pregnant right now, it’s not Randy’s baby.

  I turn to the towel rack beside me and bury my face in a fluffy maroon towel. It smells of fabric softener and freshly bathed baby. Sweet. If I’m pregnant I’m going to need special baby soaps, along with Vaseline for diaper rash and a truckload of Pampers. I know my fair share about babies from my nieces and nephews—seven of them, two in New Jersey and five in Maryland. They won’t believe their Aunt Emma is pregnant. That is, if I am. At the moment the little stick isn’t forming any color patterns at all, which throws me into a bit of panic. What if I did it wrong? Fifteen bucks for this kit, what if I didn’t hit the right spot? And how stupid would that be?

  Through the wall I hear laughter; I withdraw from the towel and listen carefully. It must be coming from the main bathroom, which butts up against this room. I recognize Jane’s voice.

  “Well, hurry up and get your ass in here before everyone at the party sees.”

  The thump of a shutting door.

  “Are you planning to take advantage of me, young lady?” That’s Marty, Jane’s guy. “Here and now? I have to question the wisdom of—”

  “Just shut up and kiss me,” Jane tells him, and I go back to the fluffy towel and press my face into the sweet scent and shudder.

  And then there’s excruciating silence during which I have to wonder and worry what might be transpiring next door. I flush the toilet then run the cold water to create a shield of noise. I know it’s a crime to waste clean water that way, but Jane’s my best friend in the world and I can’t stand feeling like I’m hiding in her pocket while she makes love to Marty.

  Jane and Marty are a great couple. I think Randy and I make a good couple, too, which is why I don’t understand how I could have botched things up like this.

  I press my face against the cool tile and look over to the shower stall where Randy and I made love this afternoon. When I’m with Randy, it’s as if we belong together. The feeling is diametrically opposed to the tangled, angry passion that used to burn between Jonathan and me. Damn him.

  I flash back to that night nearly a month ago: Thanksgiving weekend. Randy flew out on Wednesday morning, heading off to Oregon to spend the holiday with his mother and siblings, nieces and nephews. It was early—before work—but I cried when he said good-bye, not wanting to see him go. I had spent the past few months trying to pinpoint when I was ovulating, and as luck would have it I was going to be ripe that weekend while Randy was gone, so add hormonal anguish to the whole separation thing. I walked him down to the lobby and told him I was worried about him flying during the holidays. He seemed moved by my rush of emotion, and down in the lobby, in front of the window leading out to Amsterdam Avenue, he pulled me close and whispered: “This is the last Thanksgiving we’ll spend apart.” Watching his yellow cab head off toward LaGuardia, I worried that he would never come back—a prescient flash of doom. At the time I didn’t realize that the bad luck would fall in my path, not his.

  That was the weekend Jonathan stopped by. It was Friday night, and I’d just gotten off the phone with Jane to beg off dinner, having been at work since eight o’clock that morning trying to learn the mechanics of a large Manhattan branch of Mainline Bank; trying to hold my ground as a supervisor though I was mostly feeling lost; trying to adhere to corporate policy among employees who despised the corporation; trying to stave off a headache . . . without success on any of these fronts. Stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of cold edamame beside me and a Lean Cuisine Mac ’n’ Cheese under my chin, I groaned when the intercom buzzed.

  “There’s a Mr. Jonathan Thompson here to see you, Ms. Dombrowski,” Steve the Doorman said.

  Ugh! The last person I wanted to see.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve corrected himself. “That’s Officer Thompson.”

  “Like that makes him any better than the rest of us,” I said with the intercom off. Jonathan had always been quick to use his police ID for preferential treatment: to get us into clubs, to get a reduced bill at a restaurant, to summon instant respect. Well, it wasn’t going to work on me anymore. “Tell him I’m on my way out,” I said into the intercom, then went into the kitchen to rummage for a bottle of wine. As I popped the cork, I wondered how I could have thought I was in love with Jonathan Thompson. Maybe part of the allure was his last name. Marriage would have made me Emma Thompson, like the actress who could do no wrong in my book. Last-name fantasies are the big hazard of being born with a name like Emma Dombrowski. Nothing against my Polish grandparents, but couldn’t someone along the line have shortened the name to Donner or something? Instead, I get saddled with this wonker of a last name, which puts me on the perennial husband hunt for something better. Randy’s last name is Walker. Could the man be more perfectly suited to me? Emma Walker . . . I loved the sound of my future self.

  I was pouring chardonnay into a glass when the doorbell chimed. That bastard! I thought, slamming the bottle on the counter.

  I threw open the door, annoyed by the irreverent gleam in his pale blue eyes. I said: “You’re not supposed to be up here.”

  “I came to pick up my stuff. Stuff that’s rightfully mine. How come that guy doesn’t know me? I used to live here.”

  “That was more than a year ago, Jonathan. Now you have no right to be here.”

  “Oh, I have rights.” He stepped inside, walked right past me, surveyed the living room. “I’ve got MasterShield,” he said, flipping his badge at me with a flourish.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Did you pull a gun on Steve? Or just tell him that you’re ‘on the job,’ that big insider code.”

  “You gotta know how to talk to people,” Jonathan said. “Put your time in the NYPD, you learn how to talk to people.”

  “How long’s it been now, four years?”

  “Five.” He grinned, pausing to look me up and down. “You’re still looking hot, Emma.” He held out his arms.

  “And I haven’t put on the pork yet. Actually, I’ve been working out.” He flexed an arm and moved closer to show me a blip of biceps. “Feel that.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I joined a gym. After I appeared on Guiding Light I realized that maybe modeling was the thing. I mean, acting is the ultimate prize, but modeling is a good start. You know the guy who plays Ryan on All My Children? He got his start as an underwear model.” He pressed a hand to the crotch of his jeans. “You’ve seen the package, Em. What do you think?”

  “I wish you and your package luck,” I said. The last five minutes were an instant reminder of the many reasons Jonathan and I had broken up, and I figured the best way to get rid of him was a quick pat on the back, then a boot in
the butt.

  But Jonathan had other ideas, as he sank down into Randy’s leather chair and stared up at the ceiling. “You painted the ceiling blue? Ceilings are supposed to be white.”

  “It’s cerulean,” I said, glad that I no longer had to take decorating advice from a cop. It had been Randy’s idea to bring color to the room through the cathedral ceiling, and we’d both been enchanted by the result, sometimes snuggling on the couch and staring up hopefully, as if gazing into our future. “The color of the sky.”

  He surveyed the room. “What is all this crap? That painting. . . Is that a bunch of stars or alien eyeballs?”

  It was Randy’s work, entitled “Country Sky.”

  “And that mess in the corner?”

  Randy’s paintbox.

  “And what, you got a bike up here?” He eyed me suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you ride a bike now, Em.”

  “It’s my boyfriend’s stuff. He lives here now.”

  Jonathan’s jaw dropped. “I’m crushed!”

  “Yeah, right. Will you leave now?”

  As he took a deep breath and glanced back at the painting, I could see that my words had hit him like a physical blow. “Christ . . . I can’t believe you hooked up with someone else.”

  “Jonathan, it’s been more than a year, and you moved in with Lindsay.” That would be the Lindsay Green, “Weather Watcher” on Eyewitness News 6. I’d been devastated when Jonathan took up with her. Inside, I knew he was pursuing her partly because of her showbiz connections—the limo ride to fame—but it hurt to be replaced by someone so perky, so blond. A gentle, mild weatherfront. “You moved on,” I said. “So did I.”

  He sighed. “And where’s the boyfriend now?”

  “Not here at the moment,” I said cautiously. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll find the key to the basement locker. We moved your things down there.”

  “Had to get me out of sight, huh? Does he feel threatened by me?”

  Not in the least, I thought.

  Jonathan looked back at Randy’s painting, sucked in a breath, then let out a sob. “Oh, shit, Emma! My life is shit!” Much to my amazement, he pressed his face into his hands and began to cry. Wail. A major meltdown.