by Dana Cameron
He couldn’t believe she’d been so foolish as to drive that damned vintage VW bug of hers around some foggy curvy highway in the middle of the night anyway. No airbags, no protection at all. He felt a terrible sadness for her loss sweep over him. He’d been such an idiot cutting her out of his life. Two years without Holly and his holidays had never been the same.
But now he had Gwen. Good old Gwen, she’d be a very suitable wife. She’d never wear tinsel in her hair.
Nick finished drying off and slid into his knit boxers and gray flannel pants. This dinner with his parents to tell them about the engagement was an important evening for him and Gwen.
He stepped out of his walk-in closet as he buttoned his white shirt and looked around his bare but well-appointed flat. Would Gwen put a woman’s touch on it and decorate it for the holidays? He remembered how Holly had gone hog wild and dragged a full-sized tree into his small living room, or more accurately, made him drag it in.
He’d truly never seen anyone as creative as Holly. She’d used every odd thing imaginable to decorate that tree; a tinfoil star, tiny birds she folded out of colored paper, snowflakes she cut out herself, cookies she baked herself. She’d made him buy scads of twinkling white lights and strung them all around the entire flat. Then she’d turned all the house lights down and slowly unzipped her red velvet dress and made him understand what made the holidays jolly.
Jingles, the cat she’d left behind, startled and patched out like a demon possessed when Nick came into the living room. A stack of unopened Christmas cards scattered every which way as Jingles streaked over the coffee table to the piano, then back to the sofa. Then Jingles twisted his ears back like a madman, eyes blazing like hot coals, and shot into the open kitchen, his claws clicking against the tile floor.
“What the hell is the matter with you, cat?” Nick rounded the kitchen counter and looked down at Jingles, who was now licking his paw in a very nonchalant manner.
“I suppose it’s all about food, isn’t it buddy?”
Nick didn’t have the heart to tell Jingles his days in this house were numbered. Gwen wasn’t too keen on having the cat of an old girlfriend around. Besides, she had allergies. It didn’t help that Jingles tended to climb all over her, then go in for a sharp bite every time Gwen visited.
He put extra kibble in Jingles’s bowl. “I’ll be back later, bud. Don’t do anything crazy. No parties.” Nick scratched the top of Jingles’s head. He really hated to part with him.
Nick went over to the side table in the living room and gathered Christmas cards off the floor. One had really taken a claw-full. Jingles had practically shredded the envelope. Impulsively, Nick opened it. It was a beautiful card, hand-painted and hand-lettered. The picture was a watercolor of a mother and her child. The mother held a star ornament in her hand and the child reached for it with a smile. Very heartwarming.
He tipped his head and stared at the picture. There was something so familiar about them. He opened the card and read, “May the Joy of Christmas Keep Your Spirit Bright. Best Wishes, Carol and Joy Chandler.”
Carol Chandler. He flipped the clawed-up envelope over and saw the address was Carmel, California. Now, why would Holly’s friend from Carmel send him a Christmas card?
On the back of the card she’d signed Carol Chandler, artist. He looked long and hard at the painting again. She was a very talented woman. She had a lovely smile, or at least she painted herself that way.
Nick set the card up on the piano and checked his watch. He better get going. Gwen wouldn’t appreciate him being late tonight, of all nights.
His new blue blazer had a strange blotch on it. Damn it, the cleaners must have screwed it up. He re-hung it neatly on its wooden hanger and thumbed to the back of the closet until he found his old blue blazer. It was still fine and would have to do. After all, he had his gray slacks on already. He heard the tinkling chimes again. He’d have to get outside when the rain let up this weekend and take those things down.
———
Good old Jingles. Score one for the cat.
Holly had been listening to what was rolling around Nick’s head. He certainly hadn’t forgotten what a great time they had together, and she was quite pleased to hear that he regretted their terrible breakup.
Who dumps their lover on Christmas Eve? And for what? His inability to accept her outfit? His stick-up-his-butt attitude about their dinner with his parents? Like the Fredericks cared if she wore a battery-operated Christmas tree sweater that twinkled in the dark or tinsel in her hair. It was all about appearances for Nick.
He was even planning to dump the cat they rescued together so that this Gwen person could keep her black, scary power suits cat-hair free. I mean, really.
And marry Gwen? That was just completely wrong. She knew this for a cosmic, written in the stars, fact. If Nick married Gwen he would be one miserable, lonely man for the rest of his earthly life. She couldn’t let him be such a dope again!
Holly noticed her burst of anger made the candle Nick had on the glass dining table burn brighter. Interesting. His mother had put that fat red candle with fake holly circling it there, she just knew it. It was the only holiday decoration in the entire place.
Nick had a neat and tidy collection of rooms with their gray and beige and putty color schemes safely in place. Silly man. Where was a burst of red when you needed it? Where was his tree? The fake ficus didn’t count.
She darted around the apartment remembering their time together. Remembering that she had forgiven him for being a foolish, frightened mortal of a man and breaking her heart on Christmas Eve two years ago. She also remembered she was on a mission. She had to get Nick down to Carmel to her beloved friend Carol. And to Joy. So very much depended upon that.
Jingles, her cat, looked up at her and meowed. Holly had heard from others that sometimes animals could see you and even feel your touch. Now what other naughty but necessary things could Jingles help her do? Of course getting a cat to help you was about as easy as trying to get her to behave when she was mortal. She’d been a high-spirited, headstrong girl, for sure. Poor Nick.
The honest truth was she’d been a foolish mortal herself, and now she had to make up for it. Driving her old VW Bug that foggy night had been the death of her. The only blessing was that she’d been completely alone in that car. Sure she’d had last-minute Christmas shopping to do, and well, she was a girl that took her holiday seriously, but she should have never taken such a risk when there were others depending on her.
That’s why she needed to send Nick down to Carmel. Nick could fix the mess she’d made. He was the only one who could put things right. Underneath that gray-flannel, blue-blazered exterior, Nick had an amazingly loving heart.
Holly had promises to keep—and to break—before she could travel on.
Chapter 2
Carol Chandler struggled not to cough and wake little Joy. It was bad enough she’d come down with this never-ending cold; she certainly didn’t want Joy to catch it.
She set down The Night Before Christmas storybook and tucked the sleeping child into her crib under the antique quilts she and Holly had found in Carmel’s Seaside Antiques. At least Joy would be warm. Carol just couldn’t shake the chill she’d developed.
The single bed beside the crib beckoned her to crawl under the covers and sleep. But first she had to make some magic for Joy. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. Their last Christmas in this little house. It was sad, but maybe she’d find a nice warm apartment with modern plumbing and wiring. That’s if she could save up the first and last month’s rent to move. Well, she just had to, because old Mr. Meanypants the landlord had given her an eviction notice for Christmas. Out by New Year’s Day.
The two-foot-high Charlie Brown tree she’d basically stolen from the side of the highway looked pretty pathetic, even with Holly’s collection of crazy, clanking Christmas junk, as they used to call it. But Joy didn’t seem to mind. The twinkling lights and pipe-cleaner snowflakes fascinated her.
God, how she missed her best friend, Holly. How she wished Holly were here to put the magic back in this season. They’d helped each other out in so many ways.
It was the best of days when Holly had come to find her in Carmel. The bond they’d formed in high school had lasted a lifetime.
She’d known the minute Holly strung a garland of firecrackers and paper dragons across the top of the front window at the Carmel Espresso and Art Gallery for Chinese New Year, she was still a special soul.
Both of them had been dumped by their long-time boyfriends, both of them without family, they’d found strength in each other. Two creative spirits serving up lattes in the morning and painting at night. How she wished Holly was here now to give her that strength back. She needed strength.
Thank God for the woodstove. Honestly, the frame wood, meant for stretching and mounting canvas for her paintings, made a pretty cheery fire. Carol pulled on a second pair of sweatpants, a second sweater, an old stocking cap, and the fingerless gloves she used to paint in when the weather turned cold. She wrapped a muffler around her neck and looked in the mirror.
Her eyes were blurry, but she could see a very padded Carol Chandler looking back at her. What a mess she was with her fever-induced rosy cheeks and chapped lips. Wisps of stringy blonde hair stuck out from under her red stocking cap. Carol set the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea later. Maybe it would help her brighten up.
She slid on her boots to go out to the shed. She needed to play Santa’s helper for just a little while longer. She’d found a used toy kitchen for Joy and it just needed a few more repairs.
The kitchen was a little old for her, but Joy loved pretending to cook, and Carol just loved the thing, period. Joy loved to sit beside Carol in the real kitchen, stirring her pretend oatmeal in an old pot with a spoon while Carol made the real stuff. She’d probably be cooking for both of them by the time she was seven.
Carol knew she should have finished this sooner, of course, but she just hadn’t had the energy. At least she’d sold enough hand-painted Christmas cards to add a new set of play pots and pans and a great bag of fake plastic food to the under-tree pile. Holly would have loved it.
She stepped outside to the back shed and uncovered the little kitchen. It sure felt heavier than she remembered. The effort of trying to pick it up made her coughing start up again. She felt a flush of heat rush over her. At least she was warmer. But then the evening chill sent a bone-cold wind through her that made her teeth rattle. Hot, cold, could she just pick one?
Somehow she managed to drag the toy kitchen inside. Holly had shown her just how strong and resourceful single women could be, and she drew on that strength now. She always wished she felt as confident as Holly had. Things just hadn’t gone very well since Holly died.
If she could only sell a few more paintings and get the landlord off her back. Maybe when the weather got better and the ocean settled down a bit, she would feel better and start painting again.
She’d paint Holly’s seashell garden when the spring grape hyacinth and daffodils bloomed between the drifts of sand and shells that Holly had created in their front yard. She’d paint beautiful red-haired Joy sitting on her tiny blue chair in the sunlight.
Carol got to her knees and worked on the toy with stiff, cold fingers. She fastened the little red gingham curtain she’d made over the pretend window with its cheerful scene of birds and spring flowers. She’d repainted them a bit brighter. Boy, she could use a little spring right now.
The kettle finally hissed at her from its perch on the woodstove. She rose to get it, but a wave of dizziness knocked her back to the floor. Crouching on her knees, she waited for it to pass. Slowly, she reached the counter above her and pulled herself upright.
She must be sicker than she thought.
It wouldn’t do for her to pass out and have Joy wake up and be frightened if she couldn’t get to her. No, it wouldn’t do at all. She steeled herself as she sat down hard on the old white painted kitchen chair. What was she going to do? She sure as hell wasn’t going to call her nasty landlord next door.
She pulled down the receiver from the kitchen phone and stretched the coiled cord down. Maybe Sylvia Belltower was home. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Surely she was home. She always closed up the gallery early on Christmas Eve. Unless she went to her daughter’s for the night.
———
Jingles was a good bad cat. After Nick had rushed out the door to his Gwen, Holly had coaxed Jingles into all sorts of mischief with promises of the butter Nick left out and a catnip mouse stuck under the couch long forgotten. Jingles was amazed and purred when Holly stroked him with her invisible, wispy hands.
He seemed to understand her much more clearly than when she was alive, or maybe he just liked to pretend he didn’t understand her when she was alive, the big orange-striped tabby devil.
She looked into his eyes and he meowed at her. She was tickled pink with his kitty idea. What a twisted plan! They seemed to be able to communicate on a deeply feline/female cat-to-ghost kind of way, and Jingles understood what she needed to accomplish in a very cat kind of way.
An open closet here, a box of decorations dumped out there, strands of lights all over the place, and in the blink of an eye Jingles had made a very creative holiday mess. He’d also batted quite a few glass balls around the room. All that was left was a kitty concerto when Nick returned to get her point across.
Jingles was reunited with his catnip mouse and directed toward the cube of butter Nick had neatly placed in the butter dish but forgotten to put the lid on. Bon appétit, Jingles!
It served Nick right for thinking of parting with Jingles, who was now sitting on the counter making kitty tongue marks across the butter’s top. Nick would freak and throw the whole thing out. She would have just scraped off the top and smiled.
Holly closed her eyes and thought of Nick. In a quick flash of spirit-speed she found herself hovering over his parents’ long formal dining room table. The room was aglow with candles and silvery holiday decorations with pale mint green accents and white berries sprinkled among the frosted blue spruce and pine. It was so upscale and elegant. Nick’s mother was a whiz at decorating.
There was Gwen, tightly bunned brown hair, a black suit as usual, with a white high-necked blouse. This is what you wear to your Christmas Eve engagement party with the folks? Oh please, a nice red silk flouncy thing or maybe a full Scottish Highland tartan skirt with a black velvet weskit. Not bank teller wear.
Okay, it was no good giving fashion advice to Gwen from the afterlife. Gwen was hopeless, on many levels. She was a selfish, uptight woman who was deceiving Nick. It was about time he figured that out.
Holly floated above the silver candelabras and got a feel for what was on everyone’s mind. In her own mind she felt an anxiety pluck at her. She was running out of time.
She blew a kiss to Nick, mingled with love and forgiveness and a nagging sort of pinch. He sniffed the air as if he’d been touched by her breath. What these people needed was a bit of truth mixed in with their cranberry-and-pineapple compote. Or better yet, in their champagne.
Holly dipped her finger in each glass of champagne as the Fredericks’ faithful butler poured one after the other. Porter had always liked her. He looked up in the air and winked, the old devil. Maybe he could feel her somehow. Maybe the two of them could mingle up some magic. Holly stirred some cosmic truth serum into each and every glass of bubbly. Each glowed pink for a moment then paled down to champagne with a steady stream of bubbles.
Nick was practically overwhelmed with the scent of Holly’s perfume again. “Good grief, Mother, are you wearing Obsession? I can smell it from here.”
“Why no, son, I’m not. I prefer not to mingle my scents. It’s prime rib and champagne for me tonight.” His mother looked at him oddly. Then she looked at Gwen. “You look a bit warm, dear. Would you like Porter to take your jacket?”
Gwen took the glass of champagne off the table a
nd took a sizeable gulp. “I guess so.” Gwen pulled her jacket off and handed it to Porter, who nodded without smiling.
Nick wondered why Gwen was so nervous. He sipped his own champagne and smiled at her.
Gwen hiccupped. Nick thought she looked like she’d swallowed a bug. She’d been extremely uptight all night and he’d hoped a little champagne would loosen her up. He hoped she wasn’t still dwelling on that offer her father had made him. Nick was no stockbroker. He was a teacher.
“Are you all right, dear?” Nick asked.
Gwen gave him an odd smile. Then in a rather loud voice, she addressed the family. “Has Nick told you about the offer my father made him? He’d be a fool not to take it. He can’t languish in the economics department of Seattle State forever. He doesn’t really have what it takes to cut it as a stockbroker, but Daddy is willing to give him a chance, for my sake.”
Nick’s neck actually snapped as he twisted to face her. “What the… ? I thought you were fine with my being a professor. I thought you liked the faculty parties. You fit in so nicely. We discussed this offer of your father’s last week, and I told you very clearly I wasn’t interested.” Nick looked at his parents and felt a rush of embarrassment. “This isn’t really the time to bring it up, Gwen, after all.”
“Well, why not? Maybe your parents can talk some sense into you. After all, it’s not like I want to lower myself into the leafher-elbow-patch-on-the-tweed-jacket set at my age. What are you thinking, that I’d live in a little cottage near campus with you and have three or four kids? I’m a career woman. I have goals. I have no intention of ruining my life with a pack of snot-nosed brats.” Gwen paused. “Oh my gosh, Nick, I didn’t mean to say all that. I must be drunk. What’s in this champagne anyway?” She sipped it again then put her champagne glass down. Porter, standing behind her, calmly refilled the glass.
