It was scheduled to end at midnight, but I had my doubts I’d be able to make it until then without throwing in the towel. About the time I was going to call it a night, the door opened. Holly walked in with a bottle wine in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other.
“Becky finally called me back. She’s staying with the kids until whenever.” She raised the wine. “Do you have an opener?”
“I have everything. Well, everything except for people.” I handed her the opener. “Let’s get drunk.”
She set the champagne aside and then tore at the foil covering. “Amen, sista.”
She had ditched the plaid for the night, and was wearing red dress that fit her quite well. Her massive boobs boiled out of the low-cut top, leaving little to the imagination. Had Viktor stayed, it may have been an interesting night for her.
She poured a glass and handed it to me. “Four more days.”
“It’s been a weird year. It doesn’t seem like Christmas.”
“We can’t afford to go visit,” she said, pouring her a glass of wine as she spoke. “Maybe next year.”
“It ought to be a good one for the kids this year. I got the little fuckers some pretty good stuff.”
She shot me a glare. “They’re not little fuckers.”
“They are. But, it’s okay.”
“Where’s Baker?”
“He should have been here by now.” I sipped my wine. “I don’t know.”
“Christmas never seems like Christmas here. It’s never cold. I like the weather here, but I like the Christmases back home.”
I did, too, but I’d never admit it. California had become my home. The beaches, palm trees, and warm weather lured me there. During eleven months of the year, I was satisfied I’d made the right decision. December left me feeling void of the joy that seemed to come with the cold weather, snow, and homes that were littered with ridiculous amounts of multi-colored lights.
Knock, knock...knock.
I turned toward the door. “Come in, Baker.”
He pushed the door open and stood there, grinning. Wearing black skinny jeans, black Chucks, a bright red blazer, and a red felt pimp hat with white fuzzy trim, he looked ridiculously cute.
“Hi, Holly,” he said with a tip of his hat. “Merry almost Christmas.”
He faced me and rolled the brim of his hat through his fingers, and then flipped it onto his head. “My dear.”
I raised my wine glass. “I like your outfit.”
He looked at Holly. “Coming, or going?”
She gulped her wine. “Just got here.”
“How long had you planned to stay?”
“Depends on how drunk I get.” She reached for the wine. “My babysitter can stay until tomorrow. Why?”
He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim a little lower. “Care to accompany us?”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He gave me a playful glare, and then looked at Holly. His brows raised. “Well?”
I looked him over. Dressed in his little red outfit, he looked adorable. What I was missing about Christmas wasn’t fixed, but seeing him sure helped. As he waited for Holly to respond, I fell a little more in love with the man who cared enough about Christmas to make a fool of himself.
There were times when I found it extremely difficult to believe Baker was a biker. He was different than any other biker I’d ever meet, that much I was sure of. I wouldn’t want him to be any other way, though. He was perfect just the way he was.
Holly drank half her glass in one gulp, fearing commitment. It was just like her. She was sheepishly afraid of everything that wasn’t etched in stone.
“She’ll come,” I said. “Where are we going?”
He looked at me. “For a ride.” He looked at her. “Care for company?”
She looked at me, and then at him. She downed what remained in her glass and coughed as she tried to swallow it. “One of your friends?”
“The Goose,” he said with a nod.
“Is he nice?”
Baker grinned. “He is this time of year.”
“Is he cute?”
Baker looked at me.
I nodded. “He is.”
She nodded eagerly. “I’ll go.”
Her hair was twisted into a cute bun, leaving its lack of body and box-color dye job a mystery. I didn’t know Goose well, but my guess was that he’d be pleased with how she presented herself.
“Expecting any more tenants?” he asked.
“Nope.”
He tipped his hat, turned around, and hooked his thumb against his belt. “Shall we?”
With my arm hooked through his, and Holly at our side, we walked to his parking garage. A white minivan with fuzzy reindeer antlers mounted above the doors waited by elevator.
Leaning against it, dressed in a top had and long-tailed tuxedo, Goose smoked a cigarette. I burst into laughter. “What’s going on?”
“Christmas lights,” Baker said.
“There’s no good Christmas lights in San Diego,” I said sadly.
Baker turned to face me. “You just need to know where to look.”
He waved his hand toward the van’s side door. Automatically, it opened. I gawked at it in awe.
“Cadillac of minivans,” Goose said.
Baker helped me get in, and then turned to Holly. “Holly, Goose. Goose, this is Andy’s cousin, Holly.”
He tipped his hat. “Pleasure is mine, ma’am.”
“Sit up front,” Baker said.
He pushed a button and the door closed.
“Pretty awesome automatic doors on your sleigh, mister.”
“Only the best for my lover,” he said, relaxing into the passenger side seat.
Nestled in a bucket of ice, a carton of eggnog sat on the floor between us. On the seat, two thin booklets marked Let’s Go Caroling.
I picked up one of the books. “Are we--”
He gave a nod. “We are.”
I loved Caroling. My parents went every year. Holly’s mother took us, too, and I went every Christmas until I left to go to college. Some people grow out of Christmas, but I wasn’t one of them. In my mind, the spirit of Santa Claus was real.
I filled with nervous anticipation as I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It included all my favorites.
“This is awesome,” I said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
“I do it every year,” he said.
I looked at him in disbelief. “Really?”
“He’s not kidding,” Goose said as he pulled out of the garage. “Has since he was a kid.”
If doing so was even possible, my heart melted a little more for Baker. I laughed to myself that we’d gone about everything all wrong, fucking before we dated, and admitting our love with each other the night a man got murdered.
No matter, I wouldn’t change it if I could.
We drove to La Jolla, through an area I had no idea existed. The homes were mansions, and they were covered with the craziest displays of lights, decorations, and mechanical displays. It put Syracuse to shame.
Their wrought iron gates were open, inviting season onlookers the ability to come in and enjoy their displays of festive spirit.
The first home was complete with a fountain in front, and had a grand entrance that looked like something even the Kardashians couldn’t afford. After parking the van, we walked to the door, booklets in hand.
Baker knocked with the knocker. In a moment, the door opened.
A handsome man in his early forties stood pencil straight. He gave a nod to each of us. “Good evening. Happy Holidays.”
We burst into song, singing one of my all-time favorites, Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. Halfway through the song, a man, a woman I assumed was his wife, and two small children came to listen.
After singing O Little Town Of Bethlehem, Baker tipped his hat. “A Merry Christmas to you.”
“Thank you,” they said in unison.
We went house to hou
se, visiting the last home just before midnight. No one complained, and no one refused our offerings. After we finished singing at the last home, for an elderly couple that I feared we woke from a night’s sleep, the man – dressed in red pajamas – stepped onto the porch.
He cupped his shaking hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you!” he shouted. “We look forward to this, every year. Last few years, a tattooed boy has come buy. Haven’t seen him yet this year, though.”
I realized Baker was wearing a long-sleeved blazer.
Baker patted him on the shoulder, and then gave a nod. “Have a Merry Christmas. Maybe he’ll be by in the next day or so.”
The man gave a nod and yelled his response. “Sure hope so! He’s got a set of pipes!”
It was the first Christmas since my arrival that I felt festive. The caroling gave me a sense of holiday spirit that I’d been missing for years. I couldn’t help but admire Baker for doing it, and wondered what drove him to do so year after year.
On the way to the van, Baker turned to me and grinned. “Come back day after tomorrow?”
“Day after tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
He stroked his beard. “Makes it that much better, doesn’t it?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The man in the pajamas was still standing on the porch, waving.
“Yes,” I said, hooking my arm through his. “I’d love to.”
Epilogue
We put up the tree on Christmas Eve, which was a tradition of Baker’s. Although there weren’t any gifts under it when we went to bed, I enjoyed decorating it immensely, and hanging the lights together was a memorable experience. Spending the night with him – and waking up at his side Christmas morning – was going to be gift enough.
We woke the next morning, and showered together. Eager to give him the gifts I’d bought, I begged him to go into the living room and look under the tree. After he’d fallen asleep, I got up and placed his presents under the tree, and I was giddy to have him see them.
Hand in hand, we walked into the room. Much to my surprise, the tree was surrounded by gifts.
“Oh wow,” I gasped.
“Looks like Santa Claus was bored.” He turned toward the kitchen, “Let’s make a pot of coffee.”
I wanted to rush to the tree and see what, if anything, was mine. Heck, for all I knew, the gifts were for – or from – his five brothers.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, we sat beside each other, cross-legged on the floor. He handed out the gifts, and I ended up with four and him three.
I never viewed the amount of the gifts as important. One gift, if selected with love, was plenty. I pointed to a two-foot square box that sat at his side. “That one first, please.”
He agreed, and opened it. Inside, the gift itself was wrapped in another paper. He picked up the thin package and smiled. “I wonder what this is.”
After unwrapping it, he clutched it to his chest and laughed. “Don’t have this one.”
“Well, you do now.”
It was Amos Lee’s Supply and Demand, on vinyl. It wasn’t an easy record to locate, but eventually I found it. I looked at The Wind as our song, and I suspected I always would.
He pointed to a small box. “That one.”
I picked it up the eighteen-inch-long box and shook it.
“Be careful,” he said.
Carefully, I took the tape from the paper, peeled the paper away, and looked at the top of the box.
My heart raced at the familiar sight of the manufacturer’s label, written in cursive on the top of the box.
“Is it?”
He shrugged. “Open it.”
I lifted the edge of the top and peered inside. Upon seeing the shoes, I flipped the top to the side and pulled them out.
“A pair of Louboutin’s,” I said. “I’m in love.”
I stood up and slipped the shoes on my feet.
He looked at them and smiled. “Fit?”
“Perfect,” I said.
The black heels with the signature red bottoms were a staple in the closets of the rich and famous. They weren’t anything I could ever afford, but I’d surely wear them on special occasions.
Giddy, I sat down and admired them.
He cleared his throat. “Ahem.”
I looked up. “Oh. The big red one.”
He pulled off the bow, peeled off the paper, and opened the box. Immediately, he laughed out loud. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I love it when you wear hats.”
Carefully, he removed the felt porkpie, and lifted it to his head. The black hat looked sexy on his head, and gave him a distinguished look.
“I like it.”
He tipped it toward me. “As do I.”
He pointed to a little blue box. “I think that one next. This is going to be weird in a minute.”
“Why?”
“Just open it.”
After carefully unwrapping the three-inch square box, I peeled back the top. Inside, a key to his car.
“My own key?” I asked, lifting it from the box. “In case I want to go racing?”
“You own car,” he said. “There’s another one on there, too. It’s a key to this house.”
My heart went aflutter. “It says Por-Shah,” I said, pronouncing it the way he had when we met. “Are you serious?”
“It’s not just like mine, but it’s close.”
“It’s mine?”
“Registration and title are in the bedroom. It’s yours.”
“Holy crap. Oh. My God. I have a car.” I jumped to my feet. “When can I see it?”
He smiled. “In a few minutes. When we’re done.”
I kissed him and sat. I pointing to his last box. “Last one.”
He opened it and lifted the book from the box and read the cover. “Thug Kitchen: Eat Like You Give a Fuck”
“It sounded perfect for you. You can learn to cook, now.”
He opened the book and flipped through the pages. “Thank you.”
He pointed to a large box. “That one now, and then the other.”
I opened the bigger of the two boxes, and laughed out loud when I saw what was inside. No differently than the album I’d wrapped for him, a thin square sat inside the box, wrapped in a different paper.
Eager to see what he’d chosen, I unwrapped it.
My heart swelled. “We can keep one for when we get old.”
It was a copy of Amos Lee’s Supply and Demand. It was affirmation that great minds think alike.
He gestured to the last box and stood. “Open it.”
Carefully, I opened it. And then, I opened the one inside of it. And then, another. After the fourth box was opened, I looked inside. The air shot from my lungs. Eager with anticipation, but uncertain of what was inside, I opened the felt box.
I nearly fainted. The biggest round diamond I’d ever seen was fitted to a white gold band. On each side of the band, diamonds were inset along the edges. I stared at in awe, and tried to hold the box steady.
“I want to say something.” He walked in front of me and reached for my hand.
Teary-eyed, I stood.
“I want that to be my commitment to you,” he said with a shaky voice. “I don’t know how to do this.” He paused, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked me in the eyes. “I love you, Andy. I truly do. That’s not an engagement ring, and this isn’t a proposal. I guess you can call it a promise ring. Me giving it to you is my promise that if you come home at night, I’ll be here loving you, and you alone. For as long as you choose to wear it, I’ll never leave you. Ever. This can last forever if you let it. It’s the best I can do.”
He lifted the ring from the box, slipped it on my finger, and gave me a kiss. “Merry Christmas.”
And, at that moment, on Christmas morning, our forever began.
Also by Scott Hildreth
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BAKER Page 20
