by Noelle Adams
And if someone—anyone—had driven through a snow storm just to be with him, Cyrus would have been awed and gratified too.
He was glad he’d decided to come.
***
“So I’m told you were unwise this afternoon and ventured out into the snow,” Drake Owen said from over the crown roast he was carving.
They had all dressed appropriately for their traditional Christmas Eve dinner—Cyrus and his father both in jackets and Helen in a dark red dress. They’d just finished the soup course.
“Yes,” Helen said, looking unabashed at the cool comment. “I went to my retreat to read. I didn’t know it would get so bad. If you were worried, I’m surprised you didn’t rush to my rescue like Cyrus did.”
Cyrus shifted slightly in his chair, wishing Helen hadn’t drawn attention to his concern for her earlier.
His dad slanted Cyrus a sardonic look but didn’t say anything to him. Instead, he turned back to Helen. “You’ve heard of the Ligurian tribes?”
“Ye-es,” she replied, stretching the word out as if she were wracking her memory. She didn’t seem startled by the abrupt change of subject. “They’re connected to the Roman Empire somehow, aren’t they? I’m sure you’ve told me about them before.”
“They were alpine tribes, mostly barbaric. But they were brave and stubborn, and they were successful for a long time at fighting off Roman rule. In the first century BC, Donnus, king of the united tribes, managed to make a peace with Julius Caesar and negotiate autonomy for his people, but the grandson of Donnus failed, and Nero ended up annexing their province after all.”
“Really?” Helen asked, her eyes wide and her voice breathless. “How interesting!”
Her voice was too breathless and her eyes were too wide. Suddenly Cyrus realized her interest wasn’t genuine. He tried to keep his amusement from reflecting on his face.
“A small band of Ligurian warriors refused to submit to Roman authority and vowed vengeance. So they set out over the Alps to infiltrate the heart of the Empire and assassinate Nero himself. They were tough, weathered, and experienced, but they got caught in a freak snow storm as they were passing through the Alps.”
“Did they freeze to death?” She slanted Cyrus a look, and he thought he caught a discreet wink.
“All but one of them did, but there was something noteworthy about that one who survived.”
Helen’s forehead wrinkled, and Cyrus suspected she might really be a little bit interested in the story now.
“She was a woman,” Cyrus put in. He didn’t actually know this anecdote, but he thought it was a good guess.
His father looked faintly displeased by the interruption, but he recovered quickly and nodded solemnly. “She was a woman. Why do you suppose she survived when the rugged male warriors couldn’t?”
Helen thought about this for a moment. “Can women withstand the cold better than men?”
“Exactly. They tend to have more fat for insulation,” his father drawled, pausing to check Helen’s reaction, which was a scowl, “And they have a higher gradient of temperature from skin to body core, which means they can maintain their core temperature longer than men.”
“Well, good for her,” Helen said, “The Ligurian woman, I mean. Obviously, she didn’t succeed in assassinating Nero, but, still, A for effort.”
His father almost smiled. “Indeed. She lost several fingers and toes to frostbite, but was hailed as a hero by all of her fellow tribesman. Her spear was preserved as a memorial to her valor.”
“I would love to have that spear. Do you think you could find it? It would be the perfect Christmas gift for me next year!”
Cyrus stared at Helen for a long time until he realized she was actually teasing his father.
His dad seemed to realize it too. His eyebrows went sky high. “Are you humoring me, child?”
She snickered. “Of course not. I love it when you tell me about ancient history, and with that spear and my Renaissance dagger I could have a whole collection of old weapons.”
Cyrus thought he caught a flash of amusement in his father’s eyes, but all the man said was, “Hmm.”
***
Cyrus had gotten White Christmas cued up, and Jenny had brought in cider and sugar cookies, but Helen still hadn’t arrived.
He had no idea what she was doing.
After dinner, Cyrus had found his father and mentioned to him privately that someone really needed to keep a better eye on Helen when her nanny wasn’t around, since she could have been seriously hurt out in the blizzard by herself with a twisted ankle.
He should have known better than to think such a comment would produce positive results. His father had just arched his eyebrows. “Despite your white-knight complex, the child is not in need of rescuing.”
“I don’t have a white-knight complex,” Cyrus argued, already knowing he’d made a mistake in bringing the subject up at all. “But she’s your responsibility—both legally and morally.”
“Quite true. And that means she’s not your responsibility.”
Cyrus had just given up.
He was still brooding over the conversation, though, and it was making him increasingly bored and impatient in waiting for Helen. He was just about to go looking for her when she finally came jogging into the room, rather wobbly on her twisted ankle, with a wrapped box in her hands.
“This is for you!” she declared, placing the box on Cyrus’s lap and climbing up onto the couch beside him.
Cyrus stared down at the present. Helen must have wrapped it herself, since the bow was off-center, the seams weren’t perfectly straight, and the tape was applied with extraordinary abundance. “Shouldn’t I wait until tomorrow morning?”
“I’ve got other presents for you tomorrow. This one is for tonight. It’s for you to wear tomorrow!” She grinned at him brightly.
Cyrus swallowed hard and felt a clench of dread in his gut. He could only imagine what Helen had picked out for him to wear.
“I got one for your dad too,” she said.
Well, that helped a little. He carefully unwrapped the box, instinctively avoiding ripping the paper. It was a sweater box, and his imaginings were realized when he lifted the lid to reveal a gaudy red, green, and gold sweater with a giant appliqué of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer on the front, complete with jingle bells hanging off the antlers.
Helen clapped her hands in delight.
“Uh, wow,” Cyrus said. He darted a look over at Helen and saw that she was holding back hilarity, so he relaxed and shared his true thoughts. “You can’t really think this is my kind of sweater.”
“Of course it’s not. That’s why you need it. You and your dad both need to get into the Christmas spirit more, so I got you these sweaters. His is sort of like this one, but his Rudolph has a nose that lights up instead of jingle bells on the antlers.”
Cyrus almost choked at the vision of his father in such a sweater.
“And I have to wear this tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“All day?”
“All day.”
“I thought you liked me.”
She giggled helplessly. “I do like you. That’s why I got you a pretty sweater to wear.”
Cyrus sighed and smiled at her, mentally calculating how little time he could manage to wear the sweater without hurting her feelings.
“I guess that means you like my dad too.”
Her expression changed a little. “I like him most of the time. He’s okay. He’s not as bad as he pretends to be.”
Cyrus didn’t believe that for a minute, but he was happy that Helen was able to hold onto the delusion. “He seems to like you too,” he said, realizing as he said the words that they were true. His father would never openly show affection, but there had been genuine amusement in his eyes when he’d interacted with the girl.
“He does. Most of the time he forgets about me, but when he remembers he likes me.”
The words were strangely poignant b
ecause they were so matter-of-fact and good-natured. Helen had grown out of the unnatural composure of the ten-year-old he’d first encountered on the side of the road two years ago, but she was still too isolated. Too self-sufficient. She was fearless and interacted well with other people, but she always held the deepest parts of herself back, as if she couldn’t trust anyone to really love and care for her.
Realizing that she was expecting a response, Cyrus said quickly, “Well, that’s something, since he doesn’t like very many people.”
She peered at him strangely. Finally, she said, “You think he doesn’t like you?”
Cyrus was taken aback by her insight. That had been precisely what he’d been ironically reflecting on. He didn’t answer, but Helen didn’t seem to need him to.
“He can like me because he doesn’t love me,” she said.
His chest hurt for a moment as he thought about her words, but he shaped his mouth into a wry smile. “I suppose you think there’s some sense in that remark.”
“You know what I mean. That’s the way he is. He can’t like the people he loves.”
Cyrus took a deep breath. Couldn’t speak for a minute. Wondered—hoped—it was true, that his father loved him despite all evidence to the contrary.
After a long stretch of silence, Helen said in a small voice, “My dad used to love me.”
He turned to look at her, feeling a sharp stab of pity. “Do you remember him?”
She nodded. “He loved me. So did my mom.” She stared at the blank television with something deep and aching in her eyes. “At least I know someone did once.”
He wanted to say something comforting, something to reassure her, but all the words he could think of seemed empty.
So he didn’t say anything. He just sat with her on the couch. After a minute or two, he gave her a little punch on the arm and said lightly, “Thanks for the sweater. I’ve never had one quite so incredibly garish.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, her sober mood lifting like a fog. “I know that’s not a compliment. Now you’ll have to wear your sweater next year too.”
Cyrus laughed, feeling strangely lighter, as if talking to someone honestly—even if it was just a little girl—had helped somehow. “As long as you make my dad wear his too.”
They started the movie then and ate their sugar cookies with the cider.
It was a movie he’d seen too often, and he was watching it with a kid instead of going clubbing with a very desirable date. He’d been caught in a blizzard twice today—once in a car and once in the backyard. Nothing had changed with his father, and nothing seemed likely to change.
And he was going to have to wear the ugliest Christmas sweater imaginable tomorrow.
Despite all of that, it was a pretty good Christmas Eve after all.
Third Christmas Eve
seven years ago
The most notorious party at Clarksburg High School was held every Christmas Eve at the house of Doug Wilson, captain of the football team.
His mother had walked out when he’d been just four, and his father always worked the night shift in the emergency room of the hospital on Christmas Eve, so Doug had no parental supervision until his father got home at six o’clock the following morning.
Naturally, this meant a party.
The party had built up a lot of cachet over the last three years, since most teenagers couldn’t get out of family time at Christmas. So only the coolest and most enterprising of them could manage to sneak out of their houses after their families went to bed. To be invited to this party was a social stamp of approval. To actually attend was a claim to popularity that simply couldn’t be beat.
Helen wasn’t even in high school yet, but she was invited this year, and she was damned well going to attend.
She didn’t want to spend the evening with Cyrus anyway. She hadn’t spoken to him for months—not since his last visit over the summer. She didn’t even like to think about him anymore, but occasionally she just couldn’t help it.
She’d been stupid for liking him, for trusting him. She’d been a naïve girl who’d thought he was something special. It embarrassed her now to think of how much she’d looked up to him. She cringed when she remembered all the emails she’d sent him—sometimes daily—rambling on about her day, her thoughts, her feelings, everything in her world. She’d always been thrilled when he replied and ecstatic when he came to visit Clarksburg.
She’d sometimes cried after he left.
She’d always thought he liked her well enough—ever since the first Christmas when he found her on the side of the road. He’d never said so, of course, but she’d instinctively believed it. He’d emailed her back sometimes and asked questions like he was interested. It always sounded like he was smiling when he talked to her on the phone. He’d made a point of visiting Clarksburg a few times a year, and he’d always seemed happy to see her.
She’d been a little idiot. He’d never really cared about her at all.
She wasn’t an idiot anymore.
She might have to suffer through dinner with him this evening, but she was not—not—going to watch White Christmas and have hot cider and sugar cookies with him as they’d done for the last four years.
She was fourteen years old this year. She felt grown-up, sometimes ancient.
She was no longer a kid.
Helen didn’t come down from her room until dinner, even though she knew Cyrus had arrived an hour or so earlier. From her bedroom window, she’d seen him drive up in a flashy new sports car. He’d called down her hall, saying he was here, but she hadn’t come out of her room and he didn’t knock.
She did put on something decent for dinner—a soft green sweater and a long gray skirt—since she didn’t want to make Drake angry. Drake was a fine guardian, and he was easy to get along with. He left her alone unless she caused some sort of ruckus or openly defied him. Sometimes she kind of liked him. Sometimes he made her laugh. Mostly they just did their own thing and were satisfied with that.
Not dressing appropriately for Christmas Eve dinner was a sure way to annoy Drake, however, so Helen changed out of her jeans and sweatshirt.
Cyrus pretended to be nice at dinner. He smiled at her with apparent sincerity and asked questions about how she was doing. Helen knew it was fake, though.
She wanted to ignore him completely, but that would rouse Drake’s curiosity, so she managed to answer Cyrus’s questions as briefly as she could and just didn’t look him in the eyes.
She thought she was strong, guarded like a warrior who had to steel himself for battle. It had been months since she’d realized who and what Cyrus was, and she’d had plenty of time to get over her previous affection for him.
It hurt, though. To see him like this. He wasn’t handsome like Doug Wilson. By the afternoon, Cyrus always needed to shave again, so he usually looked kind of scruffy. She’d never thought he was good-looking. But she’d always liked his face and how he looked at her as if he were really seeing her.
She hadn’t known it was all a lie.
Over dinner, Drake talked about the long, war-torn provenance of a Persian scepter he’d just acquired, and he asked Cyrus about how he was doing in his MBA program.
Helen focused on her food and only spoke when she had to. For a moment, over the cheese course, she thought she might start to cry, but she managed to steel herself well enough and didn’t.
She was relieved when dinner was over. She got up quickly and started to hurry up the stairs to her room.
Cyrus caught her as she reached the first landing, grabbing her arm to keep her from escaping. “Helen, don’t run away.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes burned with anger. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having upset her, though, so she kept her eyes down. “I’m not running away.”
“I know you were angry with me when I visited in August, but I thought you would have gotten over it by now. I was just trying to look out for you.” His voice was a little hoars
e. He sounded frustrated, impatient, slightly bewildered. Completely sincere.
But it was fake. All of it was fake.
“You don’t need to look out for me,” she said, biting her lower lip so he wouldn’t see it wobble a little. “I do fine on my own, and I don’t need your help.”
He sighed deeply. She still hadn’t looked up at him, so she couldn’t see his expression. She could smell him, though—the clean, warm scent that was so familiar. She could somehow feel him too, intensity radiating off him. “Someone has to look out for you, Helen. I just don’t understand why you’re so angry.”
Something inside her started to shake, and it didn’t help when Cyrus reached out to tilt her chin up so her hair wouldn’t hide her face. Feelings swallowed her up, but screaming and raging at him would give him the victory. She wasn’t going to do that.
“I don’t like that you’re still so angry with me, Helen,” he said, softer now.
She swallowed and raised her eyes to glare at him, trying to look and sound cool. “And I don’t like that you won’t just leave me alone, but we can’t always get what we want.”
“Tell me why it was such a big deal. What was so important about that trip that you still can’t forgive me?”
Helen snorted bitterly. In August, she’d had a trip planned with one of her few friends—Maria, who was sixteen and whose father lived in Paris. Helen had been going to France with Maria for two weeks until Cyrus stuck his nose into the situation and suggested to Drake that there wouldn’t be enough parental supervision, since Maria’s father would be at work all day and the girls would be left to their own devices.
Helen’s trip to Paris had been canceled.
She’d been furious with Cyrus for that at the time, but it wasn’t what had pulled the blinders off. It wasn’t what she couldn’t forget.
Afraid she might cry after all, she jerked her arm out of his grip and muttered, “You don’t understand. Just leave me alone.” Then she whirled around and hurried up the stairs to her room.
She slammed the door and waited for a minute, but Cyrus didn’t follow her.
