Christmas in Cactus Flats and Other Holiday Romances

by Laura Briggs

  "I thought you had decorations," she said. "There were two boxes on your table in the restaurant."

  "Those are just the basic necessities," he replied. "Here, for a real Texas Christmas, you have to do things special. You don't just throw up some lights inside and hope folks are too busy chowing down to notice. Round here, everybody likes a little spirit in the season."

  "You mean, like ... holly wreaths and choir concerts?" suggested Drew. "I'm not following your train of thought." She clung to the door as the truck bounced over a pothole in the pavement, the metal frame rattling in the direction of flat fields of sage and rock ledges peering over the landscape.

  J.P.'s gaze shifted from the road to face her. "Don't you have any big traditions in —" he trailed off.

  "Boston," she supplied. "I'm from Boston. And yes, we have traditions. I just can't imagine any of them here." No white snow, no lights twinkling in frigid air, no street corner performers — for a moment, she felt lost in the vast landscape of brown and grey.

  "You'd be surprised," answered J.P. He whistled softly under his breath, the first few notes of a Christmas song. "Your folks don't care that you're not home for Christmas?" he asked, a moment later. "Not everybody goes home for the holidays like the song claims, but most people don't pick this time of year for business."

  "No 'folks' at home," she answered. "I don't have a big family." Any family, she started to say, before catching herself. Although that part was true despite the name on the slip of paper Priscilla tucked away for her someday.

  He didn't comment on the subject any further, she noticed; no attempt to pry into her personal affairs beyond this query. As they drove, she glanced in the rear view mirror to watch the town's buildings become miniatures in the distance, the road curving like a long tan snake. J.P. veered off to one side of the road, pulling to a parked position alongside the open terrain.

  "We're here," he said, popping open the driver's door. She fumbled with the handle on her side, but not in time to keep him from moving around the front of the truck and pulling it open from the outside.

  "There you go," he said. She climbed out, a sense of discomfit washing over her at the way he casually assumed this was his responsibility. He seemed not to notice her reddened cheeks as he closed it behind her and reached into the back of the truck.

  He handed her a heavy pair of clippers and a handsaw; two unfamiliar items which she studied in her grip as if he had given her antique flatirons or musical instruments instead. He pulled a large box over the side and hoisted it against him.

  "That way." He nodded in the direction of the dry field, striding across it as she followed.

  "Are we ... cutting down a Christmas tree?" she ventured. There was no sign of anything that remotely resembled a blue spruce or a Douglas fir anywhere around in this landscape of scrubby saplings and tall grass.

  "The desert version," he answered. He grinned over his shoulder. Setting the box down, he took the clippers from her and snipped off some of the long grasses and tangled sage plants.

  "These are for garlands," he said. "Make a nice centerpiece, too, if you bundle them up together. Some people put little lights around 'em, but I think they're prettier plain." She noticed the prickly tips on the plants, something which he didn't seem to feel through his leather work gloves. No worse than holly leaves, she knew, but somehow it seemed more primitive.

  "These ones here," he said, holding up one freshly-cut from the main stalk, "they make real pretty lanterns if you string 'em up together on a line. But the big ones..." He trailed off, eyeing a large, almost conical weed whose small branches were intertwined like a net.

  "Now that's our Christmas tree," he said. Exchanging the clippers for the saw, he bent down and began cutting away at the base.

  "A Christmas tree," repeated Drew. "Um, don't you think it's a little ... small? Maybe a little dry?" She envisioned it sagging beneath the weight of glass ornaments, imploding beneath paper chains and popcorn strings like a pile of twigs.

  "Yup," he said. "This one's a little bigger than last year's. It'll look nice in that big terracotta pot by the door. Spruce it up a little, move it to the corner by the windows." His gloved hand gripped the base, tilting it as the last strands of woody stem snapped free.

  "There are trees in Texas, right?" she asked. A stupid question, since she'd driven past countless ones in fields and manicured neighborhoods, in farming groves where nuts and crops were produced. Here in this bare bones landscape, however, the trees seemed like shrunken versions of themselves, wizened and thinned by the heat.

  "You don't like brush?" J.P. answered, pretending to sound surprised. "Come on, give it a chance, Miss Lorman..."

  Until now, she had forgotten that they'd never addressed each other by name. Something seemed odd about hearing him call her by the title reserved for her stricter professors and the financial advisor who phoned her periodically about annuities and cds. Somehow, she had imagined them on a first-name basis without any reason to do so — and without any feeling of closeness between them to explain the desire to make it so.

  "Drew is fine," she said. He paused for a moment in the act of bundling together the scraggly purple-grey branches and the dried stalks of weeds.

  "Drew it is," he answered. "Call me J.P., then, instead of Mr. Marsh." He hoisted the box and moved further on. "Don't worry about those plants," he called over his shoulder. "We'll get 'em on the way back." She gave the pile of brush and the desert "Christmas tree" another glance of doubt. To her, they looked exactly like tumbleweeds from late-night western movies.

  "What does it stand for?" she asked. "The J.P., I mean." She trotted to catch up with him, wishing she had worn her new boots instead of these canvas flats, even if it meant the new leather would be scratched up by rough grass and rocks.

  "Justin Petersen," he answered. "My dad's name, my mom's maiden name. Got shortened after awhile to keep Ma from having to explain which one she was yellin' for every time."

  She watched as he dropped the box by a cactus bed, seeing the green prickly pincushions up close for the first time, without a windshield and moving scenery to distance her. In the distance, she could see the buildings of main street, the scattered residences. The Dry Street Barbecue visible with its tin roof glinting in the sun.

  From the box, J.P. withdrew a tangled strand of solar lights, clear white bulbs spaced apart from one end to the solar stake at the bottom. Carefully, he wound them around the surface of the cactus, avoiding the pricklier needles wherever possible.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, as he pulled a second strand from the box, this one with colored bulbs.

  "Lighting up the cactus," he answered. "Little tradition I have every year. You can see it from the windows when you look out at night. Like the stars have come down to hover over the plains."

  "Doesn't anyone steal them?" she asked. "Your lights — I mean, anyone could come up here and remove them or—or vandalize them."

  "Why would they want to do that?" he asked. "Doesn't make any sense. Just lights, cheap enough to buy anyplace. Besides, most people think it's real nice. Kids leave it alone I expect, since their parents and the sheriff are fond of them." He staked one end near a patch of sunshine, then another. Continuing to decorate the clusters of cacti looking down on the buildings below.

  "Arlene lives back that way," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the distant rocks. Drew followed the movement, feeling a sharp jab in her chest at the mention of her birth mother's name so suddenly.

  "Really," she answered. Her fingers were supposed to be untangling a strand of colored lights, but had ceased to unravel the knots. "How well do you know her?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

  "Everybody knows Arlene," he answered, with the same cryptic phrase as before. "She's quite a character. Her place is a little trailer on a lot 'bout two miles from town, carved smack-dab in the middle of ranch lands."

  "What does she do for a living?" Drew fumbled with the stran
d of lights, feeling it slip away as J.P. drew the solar end from her grasp.

  "Used to be a nurse at one of the hospitals," he said. "Retired a few years back." He was winding the lights loosely around the bunched form of the cactus, although his eyes shifted towards Drew with a glance that seemed curious.

  She turned her attention to the next strand of lights, aware that asking those questions opened the door for him to ask a few: such as why she was here at Christmastime to meet a stranger. She was silent as she handed the remaining lights to him, watching him decorate another cactus a few feet away.

  The rows of cactus plants beneath black cords and unlit bulbs looked more like a bizarre accident than a Christmas lawn ornament. Drew glanced at it one last time over her shoulder as she followed J.P. in the direction of the truck again. She was carrying the empty box and tools; he hoisted the bundles of sage brush and native grasses, the bizarre "tree" with its woody stem sawed off at the bottom.

  She imagined it being rattled to pieces in the back of the truck en route to town. She tried to imagine it covered in twinkling lights and tinsel, but found it was difficult to follow along with the description of the Christmas Eve festivities which J.P. offered. This was nothing like any Christmas she could picture, even in the wildest imaginings from spaghetti westerns.

  Chapter Six

  Drew piled her wing bones on the plate, wiping her fingers on a napkin. They were sweet and spicy with a hint of garlic — hardly a Christmas Eve dinner, but she had to admit, very good.

  J.P. was true to his word that the sagebrush would be transformed. Around her, the walls were strung with clear lights and tumbleweeds like delicate wire cages encasing each glowing bulb. Clusters of purple-grey branches like feathers on twigs filled clay pots on the tables, with silver stars along the wooden beams.

  All around her were the natives of Cactus Flats, in boots and denim, sequined sweaters and satin skirts, dancing to the lively strains of the local Texas swing group, The White Hats. They twirled around the floor to a high fiddle leading "Jingle Bells", while the rest of the guests savored bread bowls of spicy chili and smoked ribs and wings in heating trays positioned between clear jars of Christmas lights like fireflies captured in the summer.

  Even the tumbleweed Christmas tree was lovely. A cluster of clear lights tapering upwards in a weather-crazed pot before the darkened windows.

  She licked her fingers despite her better manners, tasting the spices with relish even in her isolation at this table. A few glanced curiously at her as they two-stepped past, but others merely offered a kindly smile; apparently, word was passing around town that she was a guest of Arlene's. Which seemed to pacify them without any further explanation.

  A plate of fries was shoved in front of her, the golden surface sprinkled with the strong scent of chili spices.

  "Have a little something." J.P. sank into the chair across from her. He had changed his shirt, she noticed, for a dark red one patterned with the silhouettes of horses across the front. How very western, she thought; at the same time, noticing the tanned arms below the rolled-up sleeves, the curve of muscles very different from the boys who populated Panama Beach's shores a few summers ago.

  "I've had a little something, thanks," she said, motioning towards the plate of bones at her elbow. "I should save something for the real guests."

  He hid a smile at this reply. "You're a real guest, too," he said. "I invited you, didn't I? I'll bet your bill here includes lodging and food in exchange for a hard day's work."

  Drew laughed. "I didn't know you were preparing a formal bill. I thought our agreement was just a handshake and a promise." She glanced around at the crowd of guests, as if hoping to see someone. Maybe a little of herself in the face of one of the female guests, for instance.

  "Arlene might show up, you know," said J.P. "She came to last year's party — arrived an hour early and helped serve the ribs, actually." He rested his elbows on the table and made himself more comfortable. "Nice hat, by the way." His gaze flickered towards the white cowboy hat tilted back on her head.

  "Thanks," she answered, with a blush. "I saw it in a tourist shop after I crossed the border — couldn't resist." She hadn't touched the plate of fries, her fingers still toying with her rumpled napkin. She felt his gaze studying her across the lighted sagebrush centerpiece.

  "It's none of my business," he said, gently, "but I can't help but wonder. What made you show up to see Arlene right now?"

  She shrugged. "I just wanted to meet her. She and I ... knew each other a long time ago."

  "How long ago?" he asked, with a laugh. Something in her face made him grow serious again, as if the truth wasn't quite hidden. To her surprise, he reached out to touch her arm.

  "Look, it's Christmas," he said. "I hate to see somebody alone for it, spending it out on the road. If you don't have anyone else, is Arlene some kind of family to you?"

  She hesitated; then answered him. "She's my mother." Her voice sounded far away, as if another person was speaking. It was a split-second later before she realized she had spoken the truth aloud.

  "Your mother?" He frowned. "I didn't know ... Arlene had a daughter."

  Drew let out a weak laugh. "She gave me up," she answered, softly. "For adoption. When I was a baby. I never knew she existed until now." She shrugged, as if this was an everyday topic of conversation, instead of an emotional confession.

  J.P. drew a sharp breath. "Well," he said, his voice taking on a surprised tone. "That's something. And of all the times for her not to be here." He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, as if picturing something as he spoke these words.

  Drew bit her lip. "Don't tell anyone," she said. "I should have written. Or called. But it was Christmas and I didn't want to be alone for the first time in my life."

  He stared intently at the lights twinkling in the centerpiece. "You should stick around until she comes back. This is something she should hear about in person, not over the phone. Not after you've come all this way."

  "I can't keep waiting here," she answered. "For one thing, I'd max out my credit cards staying at a hotel. There's food, there's my future employment wherever I decide to move..."

  "Stay at Arlene's place," he said. "I've got a key and since you're her family, I could let you in."

  "Let a stranger stay in her house?" Drew raised her eyebrows. "Don't you think that's a little inappropriate? I mean, for all you know, I made this whole story up."

  J.P. chuckled. "It won't be the first time Arlene's let a stranger in her house. Once she knows, she won't mind." A twinge of dismay passed through her with these words. What did he mean by "strangers"? Did he mean that in a charitable sense — or something more sinister?

  He cleared his throat. "So what do you say?" he asked. "Tomorrow, after breakfast, I'll take you over. You can have the run of the place and wait 'til Arlene's home. Then you can meet her." He drew a ring of keys from his pocket and held it up, dangling it before her.

  Her voice was incredulous. "You would do that?" she asked, amazed.

  "Tell you what," he said, softly. "You show me proof and there's no reason why I would say no. I got Arlene's permission to take care of her business when she's out of town. Drop off her mail, look after her place, and let friends in if they come by. Sides, there's nothin' worth stealing there anyway." This he added with a friendly wink.

  For a moment, the room around Drew seemed frozen despite the dancers twirling past. She gazed at J.P. as if he were some sort of saint or guardian angel, instead of an ordinary guy in a cowboy shirt. It seemed impossible for someone to be so trusting towards a stranger. To be so kind to someone whom he'd only met the previous day.

  His eye was drawn to a passing couple who slowed as they neared the table. "Merry Christmas, J.P.," said a woman in a bandanna-print dress, her partner's cowboy hat decorated with a holly sprig.

  "Merry Christmas, Nancy, Ted," answered J.P., with a friendly nod. He gestured towards Drew. "This here's Drew Lorman. Friend of Arlene's
in town for Christmas."

  "Oh, Arlene," breathed Nancy. "Well, isn't that nice. She must be gettin' back soon?"

  "I have no idea," Drew smiled weakly. The couple surveyed her with polite smiles for a moment before they were carried away in the dance floor's tide. J.P. offered her a lopsided grin.

  "Why do I feel like they all want to ask me lots of questions?" asked Drew.

  "Because it's part of the south," he answered. "And because you're friends with Arlene." He rose from the table, not noticing her sigh of exasperation over this remark.

  "Care to dance?" he asked.

  Her eyes widened with surprise. "No thanks," she answered, somewhat hastily. "All those wings. I should ... get some sleep, probably." It was barely ten o' clock — the party was probably just underway by Christmas Eve estimates in Cactus Flats — but it was impossible for her to bury the ache gnawing at her heart. The knowledge that in Christmas’ past she had been sipping cocoa at home with Priscilla, gazing at their Douglas fir dripping with the same ornaments as always.

  Even as the first tears gathered in her eyes, she felt J.P.'s hand touch hers; lightly, gently drawing her towards the window by the tumbleweed Christmas tree.

  "What?" she asked, tempted to withdraw her fingers from his grip, a loose hold that could be broken easily if she chose. He turned her towards the darkness, the faint reflection of the two of them visible at first from the dimly lit dining room's lights.

  "Look out there," he said. "You have to see the cactus before you get some sleep."

  She gazed through the glass until the darkness on the other side became apparent. The faint streetlight from main street was nothing compared to the stars blazing above in the rural sky. In the distance, the faint twinkling of lights both clear and colored. It was the tiny solar lights strung across the cacti, turned into the "stars dipping low" that J.P. had described.