by Dana Cameron
“So, when you said you’d marry me the other day, you lied about wanting kids?” He stared at her and couldn’t believe what she’d blurted out at the dinner table, and with his parents yet!
“I thought I’d talk you out of it later when you saw how much fun it was to travel and be rich and not have those kinds of responsibilities.”
That was enough to make Nick feel slightly ill. “We’ll discuss this later, Gwen.”
“Fine. Pass the champagne, Porter, and keep it coming,” Gwen snapped. “But don’t think we won’t.”
Porter rolled his eyes.
So much for the warm and lovely toast announcing their engagement. Nick took a swig of his own champagne. The cranberry floating in it got stuck in his throat. He gagged and coughed. Through his watery eyes he watched his parents pass knowing looks between them and clink their own glasses together, sipping at their champagne.
Porter made a round and refilled everyone, then disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Isn’t it time for the salad, Mother?” Nick struggled with his napkin, dropping it on the floor. He didn’t want to have a scene in front of his parents. It was Christmas Eve, for heaven sakes.
“Something must be holding it up. No matter, we still have our cranberry-pineapple tropical delight here.” She stabbed a chunk of pineapple and smiled at him.
His mother looked drunk.
“Remember when Holly came to dinner wearing tinsel in her hair and a light-up Christmas sweater? She just lit the entire room up, didn’t she?” His mother waved her fruit fork in the air, pineapple chunk and all.
Now Nick knew she must have hit the sherry before dinner. But instead of giving her a scowl, he laughed, suddenly remembering that night vividly. “Good grief, I was mortified. That was the night we split up, you know. What a stupid idiot I was to care about what she wore.”
“You certainly were a stupid idiot, son. You’ve never had a girlfriend since that could hold a candle to her,” his father blurted out. Nick stared at his father, who seemed as surprised as the rest of them at saying such a terrible thing in front of Gwen.
The white candles all along the dining table flared up and sparked. Everyone jumped, then laughed, except Gwen, who was tapping her fork on the table, glaring at Nick.
Nick felt strangely compelled to tell his parents what had happened to him today. Then it just sort of rolled out of his mouth before he could stop to think. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but all day long I’ve felt like Holly has been around. I keep smelling her perfume, and well, the cat sort of picked out this Christmas card and made sure I read it. It was from her friend in Carmel that wrote me about Holly’s death last year.
“Do you think Holly is trying to tell me something? Or is she just going to be the girlfriend of Christmas past forever?” Nick asked.
His mother raised her champagne glass in a toast. “Here’s to the ghost of Holly. Honestly, son, you should have married her and had beautiful little curly-headed children together. Gwen here certainly has no intention of bearing your offspring.” His mother actually had the grace to put her hand over her mouth and looked shocked at what she’d said. Her cornflower blue eyes went from complete surprise to complete amusement, much to Nick’s chagrin.
“Mother!” Nick laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh, it just popped out like a champagne bubble.
With that, Gwen’s hand slammed on the table. Her fork sprang up, did an odd triple salchow and toppled into her fruit-cocktail dish. The contents of that dish catapulted straight onto Gwen’s white blouse. Red cranberries and yellow pineapple wedges flew everywhere. She gasped and stood up quickly, batting at pieces of fruit.
“Oh, gosh, Gwen. Let me help you.” Nick stood up and reached in his pocket for the handkerchief he kept in all his jackets. Better that than his mother’s vintage white linen napkins. But what he pulled out wasn’t white, and it wasn’t a handkerchief. It was a pair of red lace thong underwear. He recognized them immediately after he held it out for careful examination. Holly’s.
Gwen screamed.
“Gwen, this isn’t what it looks like. I can explain. This is a very old jacket, and these were Holly’s. She was a very, very sexy woman.” Why the hell couldn’t he stop saying things like that? He heard tinkling wind chimes again and this time he knew perfectly well they weren’t hanging outside the window.
Gwen let the pineapple and cranberries fall on the floor. “You people are really something. Obviously we’ve made a huge mistake, Nick. We’re lucky to find out in time.”
“Obviously.” Nick shook his head and thudded into his chair, still staring at the red lace thong. Where the hell did those come from?
“Consider this night, and this engagement, over, Nick Fredericks. Porter, Porter” Gwen screamed. “Get me my coat and call me a cab.”
Porter came through a different door, the open pocket doors that led to the entry hall. In his arms he held her jacket and her black overcoat. He held her jacket out neatly for her to back into.
“You’re a cab,” Porter said.
“What did you say?” Gwen twisted around.
“Your cab, miss…” he said with a small gesture toward the outside, “is already here.”
“Goodbye, Nick.” Gwen glared at him.
Nick stood by his chair and waved. “Goodbye, Gwen. My apologies about your blouse. Have it cleaned and send me the bill.” He wondered how the cab had gotten here so fast. But then Porter was always a step ahead of the family. He also wondered how he’d been such an idiot as to not see what Gwen had up her sleeve. Stockbroker indeed. And no children? He wanted children! Several of them even.
Gwen paused, then twisted at her finger, pulled off her engagement ring, and threw it at Nick. Oddly, the ring traveled through the air so neatly he just reached out and caught it in his hand.
When he looked back at the doorway, she was gone.
“Good riddance,” his mother said cheerily.
“Mom, Dad, what the hell is going on?”
“Looks like you narrowly escaped a bad marital choice, son,” his dad replied in his matter-of-fact tone.
“What is this thing with me breaking up with women on Christmas Eve? That’s just got to stop.” Nick shook his head.
Porter had swiftly, quietly cleaned up after Gwen’s unfortunate incident and set the salad course out for everyone. He poured a dark red wine and removed the offending champagne glasses.
“Oh, Nicky, isn’t it obvious that Holly was trying to save you from a bad choice?” his mother said. “It is rather amusing that Holly picked Christmas Eve to enlighten you. Apparently ghosts have a sense of humor. Harold, isn’t it thrilling to have our own Christmas ghost?” She leaned over and touched her husband’s arm affectionately.
“I’ve seen your great-grandfather in the upstairs study several times. He’s rather possessive of the mahogany desk.” Harold Fredericks always kept a calm tone no matter how strange things got.
“Well, maybe now that I’ve become unengaged, she’ll leave me in peace.” Nick stuffed the red thong back in his pocket and resumed eating dinner. For some reason he didn’t feel the least bit disturbed that his fiancée had just unengaged herself from him.
He did, after all, want children quite badly. He wanted to keep this wonderful family of his going. His parents would be terrific grandparents, and he didn’t blame them for being impatient with him for taking such a long time to find a suitable wife. Or maybe what Holly had in mind was a less suitable wife: a wife that would fill his life with laughter and love. A strange image came to his mind. The painting of the woman and her child he’d left on his piano.
“I hope Holly has someone else in mind for me. I’m fresh out of prospects. I’ve dated the entire English department and half the art department.”
“There is someone out there for you, dear, I just know it. There’s always the social science department. Maybe a nice psychologist,” his mother rambled.
“Because I must
be crazy to believe the ghost of my old girlfriend is messing with my love life?” Nick added.
At that comment the candles flickered and flared again, and the chandelier above them gave a gentle shake and tinkled in the breeze, like music. Except there was no breeze.
“No dear, not crazy at all,” his mother answered.
———
When Nick unlocked the door to his apartment he did all his usual things, coat off, gloves in the hall basket, keys on their hook. But just over the partition wall he caught a sparkle of twinkling lights out of the corner of his eye. Had he left the stove light on? Was something on fire? He sniffed the air.
Nothing. Nothing but a huge whiff of Holly’s perfume so strong it gave him a chill down his spine. He coughed. He wasn’t meant for supernatural moments like these. He was a realist.
Two steps into his living room and he realized that he’d have to change the way he thought about the supernatural.
Although truly deranged, his living room had been given a Christmas trimming. The decoration box formerly in his hall closet had mysteriously spilled its contents and it looked as if Jingles had rolled himself in a light strand and gone berserk. There were bright red and green glass balls littering the floor, lights wrapped around the glass coffee table, and a crazy never-ending strand of silver tinsel garland around almost everything.
The cat lay calmly on the sofa licking his paw. He could almost explain this, except for the part where the lights were on—but not plugged in.
He sat down on his piano bench and stared at the festive mess around him.
“What is it you want from me, Holly?” he whispered.
Without so much as his elbow to blame, the piano played a few high, lovely notes. Nick jumped out of his skin and turned to stare at the black and white keys.
There on the piano was the Christmas card he’d received from that friend of Holly’s in Carmel. Carol Chandler.
He picked it up and stared at the hand-painted image again. The envelope fluttered to the floor. Jingles took this moment to leap from the sofa to the piano and walk across the keys. The weird part was it sounded a whole lot like “Silent Night.”
“Well if I’m supposed to be a wise man I guess I’d better get myself down to Carmel. Can it wait till after Christmas?” he asked out loud.
As if to answer him, the entire room went pitch-black, including the magical lights. The cat hissed and jumped off the piano.
Nick sighed. “The red-eye it is. That’s going to cost me a fortune, you know.”
The darkness became illuminated by the tangle of miniature Christmas lights that ran the length of the living room, one by one slowly re-igniting until they crackled like fire crackers.
“No one will ever believe this,” he mumbled. But he went to his computer on the side desk and booted it to life. The screen glowed blue in the dark room. When he opened up his browser screen the Alaska Airlines site stared back at him. How nice of his ghostly travel agent.
Ten P.M. flight. He could just make that. He better call his parents and let them know he was going on an insane wild-goose chase at the hands of a deceased and determined spirit.
“Can I please have some lights back so I can find the phone?” he said.
The lights surged to life. Nick shuddered. It was a trip to Carmel or be haunted by his crazy girlfriend for the rest of his life. He had no idea where he was going, or why. All he had was the address of Carol Chandler to guide him. And Holly, his friendly neighborhood ghost.
Chapter 3
Carol was cold, so cold. She pulled the quilts around her and tucked them in until she was a sausage of quilts. It had taken every ounce of her strength to finish up Joy’s gifts and set them out for their little Christmas morning. Sometimes living in a Carmel beach cottage wasn’t the best thing for staying warm and dry.
She lay on the single bed next to Joy’s crib and listened to the wind howl through the uninsulated walls and floor. A cough broke free even though Carol tried to suppress it. So much for all that over-the-counter voodoo she’d swallowed. She covered her mouth with her pillow and rolled into a ball, coughing until her ribs ached. A strange swirling dizziness overtook her and for a minute she imagined Holly standing over her.
“Holly,” she rasped. But then Holly was gone.
Carol knew she just needed to sleep. Sleep would help. She’d be better in the morning.
———
Nick wondered if Holly the obsessed ghost knew what a pain in the ass it was to get to Carmel from Seattle. First he flew into San Francisco then boarded a highly unstable shuttle flight, which took him to a miniature airport in Monterey, then he had to hunt up his rental car in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. It was like the twilight zone. Not a creature was stirring, not even a Zappo’s Rent a Wreck agent. He found the keys duct-taped to the window with a note saying, “Merry F**king Christmas, if this car is stolen it’s going on your credit card.”
Whatever. He had a car. He had a map. He sped down the curved highways toward his destination. Carol Chandler was getting a surprise visitor for Christmas and it wasn’t Santa Claus.
The fog crept in on little cat feet in the damp dawn of the earliest hours of Christmas Day. When he came to the turn-off road for the Carmel Cottages a strange glow illuminated the sign.
Hell, his entire life was a strange glow. He thought of what his blank page of a future looked like. He was no longer seeing a life with Gwen, not that their picture had ever been that clear. He had no idea what was in store for him. He was nowhere man.
He turned the corner and searched for Beachcomber Way, and then number seven. There were no Christmas lights up on the tiny house, which he found very odd considering this holiday adventure.
But just what had he been expecting? He was flying blind here. Nick got out of the rental car and walked through a very interesting driftwood, beach glass, and shell garden. It was so Holly, he knew he was in the right place. He pulled his jacket around his ears and shivered. Who knew what await him.
His knocks on the door brought no reply, so he peered in the paned windows. The cottage was dark inside.
He didn’t want to scare this woman to death, but he had flown down here to talk to her. He walked around the perimeter of the house hoping to see a glimmer of life.
They were all probably snug in their beds with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. Like he should be, back in Seattle.
He could go have coffee and come back in a few hours, then try again. “Hello there, Ms. Chandler, I’ve been sent here by my former girlfriend, who by the way is deceased, to stop her from haunting my every waking moment. Merry Christmas.”
Hell, he could have at least brought the woman a present. Maybe something for her little daughter. He was a bad Santa.
As he headed around the house back to the car something caught his attention. He listened hard, trying to figure out what he was hearing. He leaned his ear against the small exterior window. At this point he’d probably be arrested as a prowler and be thrown in jail for Christmas.
He did hear something. He listened again. It was a baby crying. It started out softly, but as he rounded the house it became much louder. He banged on the door. “Hello?” he yelled. Hello, there’s a lunatic at your door. His banging made the baby scream louder.
Now, why didn’t someone pick that poor child up? Nick twisted the door handle but it was locked. He ran around to the back door, which was also locked. But a good shove made the old wood on the French door splinter and the lock was freed. He stepped into the house. “Hello? Are you all right in there? I’m coming in.”
There was not a sound but the pitiful crying of that baby. Nick didn’t think twice after that moment, but barged right in and went toward the crying. The house was extremely cold. He flung open the bedroom door that the sound was coming from.
In her crib the baby sat hiccupping, tears streaming down her fat little cheeks. Nick had seen babies cry before and this little miss hadn’t been at
it too long, but long enough to make some red rims around those big blue eyes staring at him.
“Hi, honey, don’t be scared, I’m here to help,” he said softly. Her lower lip stuck out and she whimpered, but didn’t holler.
Beside the crib he could see a figure wrapped in blankets on a small bed. This had to be Carol.
“Carol?” He knelt down beside the bed and shook her shoulder gently. She didn’t move. Oh God, he was too late. Had he been sent here to save this woman’s little girl? He smoothed away her wispy pale blonde hair and put his hand on her neck to feel for a pulse. She was warm; her heartbeat was faintly thumping. She was still alive.
Nick let himself breathe again. The baby looked over the crib railing at him as he removed the woman’s hat and pulled back the quilt from around her face to take a look at her.
She was an absolutely beautiful woman. He was shocked to see how beautiful she was. It made him wonder what fool of a man got her pregnant and left her to raise her daughter alone. He’d like to punch the guy in the nose right about now. His insides twisted with concern for her.
Her skin was as pale as snow, but her forehead was burning so hot you could fry an egg on it. Her eyelids fluttered and her full, pale pink lips parted slightly.
“Joy,” she whispered. The she started to cough and pulled herself back into a ball. At least she was breathing. But Carol Chandler was way, way sick.
“Well, baby, we’re going to have to get your mommy some help, aren’t we?” Nick pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Please, Holly, if you have any magic left in you, give me a signal.” He saw one tiny bar light up on the display and called 911.
———
The emergency operator had instructed him to cool Carol down as much as possible so he peeled back the blankets and put a cold rag against her forehead. He figured little Joy was safe in her crib, and she’d stopped crying since he’d given her the stuffed dog that looked like it had dropped out of the crib.
The child still looked at him warily while he took some of the clothing off Carol. For cryin’ out loud, she had two sweaters, double sweatpants, a pair of gloves and a scarf around her neck. He unpeeled her down to her long underwear and bared Carol’s arms to wipe them down with cool water. Carol was limp as a rag doll and murmured words he couldn’t understand the entire time he was undressing her.
