Secret Santa

by Cynthia Reese

  When she did, the words came out calm and careful, in a way that Charli knew meant Violet was steaming.

  “I left a message. I could have sworn I told you where I’d be staying, but perhaps I didn’t. In any case, I apologize for making you worry. But what I don’t appreciate is you immediately assuming I’m bingeing.”

  “Aren’t you? Isn’t this you, Mom?” Charli swept her hand around the elegantly appointed dining room. “And I can see from the shopping bags you’ve been burning up that credit card. Or is it more than one card?”

  A muscle twitched in her mother’s cheek. Charli could see her draw in a breath. “I’m not staying here, Charli. We came to see the gingerbread exhibit. I’m staying—with Brenda—at Pauline’s. Whom I would have introduced you to if you hadn’t been slinging such an almighty hissy fit.”

  “Pauline’s?” For the first time, doubt crept into Charli’s certainty. “You’re―”

  “Pauline lives in Savannah. She’s on our online support group. We’ve been making this Christmas trip a tradition now for about three years. It’s a fun, inexpensive way to enjoy the holidays. We do all the free stuff. And yes, a little shopping—with a budget of a hundred dollars.”

  “But...but why didn’t you answer your phone? Or return my messages? I must have called you fifty times.” Charli wanted to believe her mother, but her dad had bought into her lies before, too, to his sorrow.

  “Oh, Charli.” Her mother’s anger faded into sheepishness. “I forgot my charger. I—I guess I thought I’d left you Pauline’s number, and so I didn’t worry that you’d worry. You must have been out of your mind.”

  “I was. At first, I thought you’d realized I knew about you asking Lige for a loan to get you out of debt, and you’d turn up eventually, but then you didn’t come home, and I couldn’t find you—”

  “Wait. Wait. What’s this about Lige, and me needing to get out of debt?” Her mother’s confusion was either real or of Oscar-winning caliber. “I’m not in debt.”

  “But he told me...” Charli put her hand to her face. “Oh, no. I can’t believe I was so stupid. So gullible.”

  “What? What did he tell you? That I talked to him about a small-business loan? Well, I did. I want to start my own business—wedding cakes. I could do it. You know how I love to bake and decorate. It didn’t occur to me until Beattie Trilby told me I could get big bucks for the cake I made for the Christmas bazaar, but it got me to wondering. I’ve never had a job, Charli. And I could start out small, see how it went. I was just in the bank, and there was Lige, and I asked. But...you thought—”

  “No. No. Lige told me. And I believed it.” Charli wanted to cry. Lige had played her. No. She couldn’t blame Lige completely. She’d been ready to believe the worst.

  Charli’s mother extended a slim hand to grip Charli’s fingers. “Honey, you look all done in. What on earth is the matter?”

  “You...you haven’t heard? You haven’t seen the news?” Charli shook her head in disbelief. Had her mother been under a rock the entire time she’d been in Savannah? She had to have been. Her mother would have called her if she’d heard half the accusations the state and national news media were slinging at Charli.

  “About what? What does this have to do with Lige? I haven’t watched television—we’ve been too busy, and Pauline hasn’t even turned it on.”

  How to explain the mess Charli had found herself in if her mother hadn’t seen the wall-to-wall coverage of Charli’s horrible mistake? She was almost glad her mother hadn’t been watching the television. The last straw had been when Charli had heard Lige’s thirty-second sound bite on CNN disavowing any knowledge of Charli treating the migrants.

  After that, she had turned the television off and avoided newspapers. She had her own hands full with the medical board’s inquiry and finding her mother.

  Her mother. Who hadn’t needed tracking down at all.

  Charli began a stumbling explanation of all that had transpired, stopping and starting, having to go back and tell bits and pieces of it so that she could fill in gaps. But all the while, her mother sat, patient, still, intent on Charli’s every word.

  It was only after Charli had told her about the money and the notebooks and the donation, about Lige and the migrants and Julianne’s little granddaughter, that her mother spoke.

  “Sweetie. You’ve been through such torment. And I’ve been here, having a rollicking good time. I am so sorry. So sorry that in the midst of all this, you were worried about me. I am so sorry that you doubted me.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Mom. I guess I’ve got to learn to trust you.”

  “Trust doesn’t come easy to you, does it? And I deserve some of that doubt. Still, Charli, you have to let people grow. And change. We’re not always going to be the way you left us.”

  “Did you know, Mom? About Dad? And Lige? Or was Lige lying about that, too?”

  Her mother stared down at the table. “I didn’t know your father still had the money. Honestly, I figured he’d spent it all trying to get me out of debt years ago. But I knew that Lige had made some sort of arrangement Chuck wasn’t very happy about. He didn’t tell me the details, just enough. When he finally told me—the bare bones—I made up my mind I’d never put him in that situation again. That’s when I got serious about the counseling and the support groups. It changed my life. It changed your father’s. We...we had some very happy years. Very happy.”

  Charli dropped her head in shame. If she’d just come clean to her mother from the get-go, if she hadn’t been so certain that her mother was too fragile to face the truth, none of this would have happened.

  “What about you, Charli? What are you going to do? Is there any way I can help you?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’ve blown it. I may lose my license. And I’ve lost Neil, too. I really screwed up, Mom.”

  “You’re acknowledging it. That’s a start. Are you working with the medical board? I mean, it sounds like, even though you dragged your feet about it, you ultimately did the right thing. And you saved that little girl. Whatever you have to face, I’ll be there for you. I’ll do whatever I can, whatever you need.”

  “How can you be so willing to support me, when I’ve made a complete royal screwup?” Charli couldn’t wrap her head around how her mother was not the one in trouble, but was instead supporting her.

  “Because there have been times when I screwed up. Royally. And if your father hadn’t been willing to help me, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “What do I do, Mom?”

  Her mom’s hands strayed to the strand of pearls at her neck, pearls Charli’s father had given her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. “I say, don’t hold back. Go ahead. Shout it from the rooftops. Give the whole story to Neil, let him print it in the paper. The world should know what a slimy piece of work Lige Whitaker is. Even if it makes your father look bad. It can’t hurt him. Not anymore. And people will understand why you did what you did.”

  Charli didn’t want to think about the paper. Correction, she didn’t want to think about Neil. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe it would be better if she did leave Brevis. Brevis to her would always mean the men she’d lost—her father, through death, and Neil, through her own stupid stubbornness and fear.

  She couldn’t think what the right words were to say to her mother. She found herself staring at her hands as though they could give her the magic answer. Lamely, she said, “People understand about addiction, Mom. But they’re not going to understand—or forgive—what I’ve done.”

  “Maybe. I’m sure there will be consequences you have to face, Charli. I hope they’re not permanent. But if they are, I have no doubt you’ll find your wings again. And don’t give up hope. Anything’s possible.” Rueful laughter shook her mother’s slight frame. “After all, I would have never thought I could routinely get up i
n front of a crowd of strangers and say, ‘Hi, I’m Violet Prescott, and I’m a compulsive shopper.’”

  Their waiter swooped in, refilled their glasses and, when he found no takers on anything else, swept off to another table.

  “I don’t think it would do any good to try to talk to Neil,” Charli started.

  Her mother wagged a finger. “No. No cowardice. You never were a coward, Charlotte, and I won’t let you start now. Begin with the hardest part, and everything will be easier from then on. It’s Neil that’s the worst of this, isn’t it? Oh, the rest of it’s no picnic, I know, but it’s Neil you look as though you’re ready to weep over.” Before Charli could protest, her mother added, “So...promise me. No more secrets. No more skeletons rattling around in the Prescott closets, okay?”

  Charli’s stomach knotted at the prospect of seeing Neil. He’d been so cold and unforgiving the last time they’d talked. And the article he’d written—the last one she’d read—had skewered her inaction, squarely placing the blame of Bethie’s illness and several other community members’ sickness on Charli.

  That’s fair enough, she thought. It was my fault. She met her mother’s eyes, saw a strong woman who had risen from the ashes of her life. If she could face her mistakes and rise above her past, Charli could, as well. “I promise, Mom.”

  Charli’s cell phone buzzed, immediately testing her new resolve. She glanced down and saw that it was the state medical board.

  Here was her future. It had to be faced.

  * * *

  NEIL HUNG UP the phone, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He sat at his desk at the paper, his email program open, seeing the dozen unanswered emails he’d sent to the one contact he’d developed at the state medical board.

  No reply. Not even an automated response.

  The guy had been helpful at first. He’d been delighted to get all of Neil’s early reports, told Neil that he’d been doing the right thing forwarding an account of what had transpired at the migrant settlement.

  Back then, when Bethie had first gotten sick and Neil was certain that the migrant workers had given it to her, he’d been glad someone in authority had agreed with him.

  Even so, he’d never thought they’d take Charli’s license—not until his medical board contact had speculated that Charli might be used as an example for the many, many doctors who flouted the reporting rules.

  Then, Neil had felt a twinge of doubt—a twinge that had morphed into a full spasm now that he knew that it wasn’t the workers’ illness but Lige’s contaminated well that had spread the bacteria to the general population.

  Neil had wanted to be sure the review board had all the facts—not just the ones Neil had put in his first tell-all article, the one that skewered Charli. He’d sent emails and links and even overnighted a copy of the Bugle with its follow-up article. But his contact had gone radio silent.

  “No luck?” Dawn asked, breaking him out of his reverie.

  He hadn’t even heard her come around the divider, but apparently she’d been making plenty of noise in preparing to leave for the day. She had her purse on her shoulder, her nylon lunch bag in hand.

  “No. I called the board, hoping to get some sort of official word at least, spent half my time either on hold or punching buttons on automated menus.”

  “But you did get somebody?”

  “Yeah. A public-information type.” He consulted his reporter’s notebook. “She said, and I quote, ‘We cannot comment on an ongoing investigation, and no statement will be made until the investigation is complete and the board has met.’”

  “So when will the board meet? Did they at least say they’d gotten all the information?”

  “Sometime next month. And I asked. The woman said they’d received lots of public input on the case and they were... What were her words?” He flipped up the notebook again. “Oh, yeah. They’re ‘reviewing all relevant material.’”

  “I’m sorry, Neil.”

  “Why are you sorry? I was the one who went all editorial on Charli.”

  “You reported the facts. As you knew them.”

  “Right. And we all know that facts can’t exist in a vacuum. I was angry. And I felt betrayed. And...I crossed the line. You know I did.”

  Dawn pursed her lips, pausing before she nodded her head. “It wasn’t your usual impartial balanced reporting, that’s for sure. And I was surprised when you put it on the wire and helped out the big papers and CNN. It was like...you were on a crusade.”

  “I was a self-righteous, arrogant jerk.” He reached over and clicked the send/receive icon on his email. It refreshed and showed no new emails.

  “And what about Charli?” Dawn’s question was hesitant. “Have you heard from her?”

  “No. But is that surprising? I threw her to the wolves. I’ve probably cost Charli her medical license.”

  “You didn’t do anything. Charli made her own bed.”

  Neil shook his head. He’d had this same argument with Dawn the day before. How could he explain the deep guilt he felt at what he’d done? Sure, he’d stuck to the facts, but he’d made sure those facts were hard to miss. He’d used every trick in his writer’s arsenal to put a bull’s-eye on Charli.

  “Yeah, Dawn, she didn’t report the outbreak according to state regulations. But that guy at the medical board told me lots of doctors don’t bother to report small outbreaks and that the DPH was steamed about the regulations being flouted. That’s why he thought the state might make an example out of Charli. Because she’d generated so much media coverage. And she generated so much media coverage because I made sure that first article was as sensational as possible. I could have waited. I should have waited.”

  Dawn shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve learned your lesson, crossing over from reporting to the dark side of editorializing. You won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “No.” But that promise was shutting the barn door after the horse was gone. It didn’t bring Charli back to him, so he could at least...

  What? Apologize for taking away her livelihood and the career she’d indebted herself to have?

  Dawn shifted the lunch bag to her other hand and began to fish in her purse for her keys. “It’s half past five. You can’t do anything else tonight. Go home, Neil. Get some sleep. And try not to kick yourself, okay?”

  He heard the front door jangle behind Dawn, but he sat there, alone in the office. Spreading out the current issue of the paper, he read the six-column headline: DPH Links Contaminated Well to Outbreak.

  The subhead, in smaller typeface, was his personal apology to Charli: Local Doctor Not at Fault in E. coli Spread.

  But, like his contact at the medical board, Charli had remained missing in action. She hadn’t replied to his voice mails. She hadn’t been at home. He couldn’t find her anywhere. She must have taken her mom and fled town, away from the reporters and the satellite vans and the polished on-the-scene TV reporters armed with microphones and supersize cans of hairspray and bronzer.

  TV reporters. He’d helped TV reporters.

  One headline did cheer him—in a sidebar, he’d written a short story about Bethie’s progress. The little girl was off dialysis and mending well.

  If only a doctor could heal his broken heart the same as those Atlanta doctors had healed Bethie.

  Wait. One doctor could. Only he’d hung Charli out to dry, cost Charli her license...and blown any chance with her.

  He folded the paper and pushed back his chair. Maybe Dawn was right. Maybe he should just go home.

  At home, though, his Christmas lights mocked him. They looked too cheery in the darkening evening light. Especially the Santa on the roof who, to Neil at least, had a leer instead of the benevolent grin he was supposed to have.

  He noticed that Rudolph’s no
se had burned out, again, and walked over to the decoration to check it out. Sure enough, the bulb was blown. Maybe it was defective wiring, but this was the third bulb in as many days.

  Maybe it had a short from its tumble off the roof.

  Neil remembered that night, when Charli had first taken in his lights. He recalled another night, too, the night under the mistletoe when they’d kissed. He’d been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt then...so what had changed? What had made it so easy for him to forget the heart of the woman he’d come to know?

  As he unscrewed Rudolph’s nose bulb, the sound of tires crunching on gravel caught his ears. He looked up, saw Charli’s car pulling up into her drive.

  Charli.

  Here. In Brevis.

  Neil stared as she got out of the car, slowly, as though she’d been driving all day. She came around the end of the carport and stood there.

  Staring back.

  For a long moment, they just locked eyes. Her chin went up, the way it did when she was determined to tough something out. She gave him the smallest and coolest of smiles. Then she turned on her heel and went inside.

  The sound of the door slamming shut made him jerk.

  Neil would have to face her. He at least needed to make some sort of amends. But if a six-column mea culpa on page 1A didn’t do the trick, what would?

  Well, buddy, you are the one who started the media circus and made her such a handy whipping boy for the state medical board.

  His feet seemed cemented to the ground, staked as well as Ruldoph was. He couldn’t seem to pick them up and make the distance across the lawn.

  Charli’s door opened.

  Neil watched as she headed for the gap in the hedge, her back straight, her head high, her expression resolute.

  She didn’t appear to have the same hesitation he’d had. But then again, maybe she just wanted to cuss him out for writing first and thinking later.

  “Charli—” he started, then stopped. What had he wanted to say? He’d been desperate to give her his side of the story, to apologize, to try to make things right. And now all of those words were gone.