“It’s not very meaningful, is it?” I asked, holding up the casserole dish. “I mean, she’ll know exactly what she’s getting before she even opens her gifts.”
Thomas shrugged. “She’s always done it. I prefer it, honestly. It’s a hell of a lot easier than rooting around in a store for something thoughtful.”
I shook my head at him. “Christmas should be about thoughtful gifts. What kind of stuff does she enjoy?”
He pointed at the dish. “She likes having expensive cookery.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But you better not ever employ that practical BS when it comes to shopping for me.”
He wrapped an arm around me. “That is not something you’ll ever have to worry about.”
“Okay, your parents, your brother, and Mary are taken care of. What about Bryony?”
“I’m going to give Bryony a hundred quid, and she’ll be the happiest person in the room.” When I opened my mouth to argue he went on. “And that is a thoughtful gift. She’s totally broke right now. She’ll be thrilled to get a hundred quid.”
“Okay. You’re a nice brother. I’m getting her something just a bit better, though.”
“What are you getting her?”
I grinned. “I asked Heidi to arrange for Darrin Duke to sign a poster for her. It’s personalized and everything.”
He sighed loudly. “You are so going to be her favorite.”
“I’m her favorite anyhow.”
He looked own at me, the sudden tenderness in his eyes taking me off guard. “You are.”
We walked around for a while more, trying to get ideas for my family with little luck. I wanted something special for my mom. The closer we got to the holiday the worse I felt for not seeing her in so long. Maybe after the New Year we could fly her out to L.A. or something. I hated the idea of going back to London when the movie was over and going God knew how long until I was back in the States. I clenched my fists in my pockets. Why couldn’t my dad just stop being so stubborn? Did he even miss me at all?
“You’ll find something,” Thomas said as we made our way out to the car. “Don’t let it get you stressed.”
I tried to smile at him, not bothering to mention that finding a gift was the least of the things that was making me feel stressed.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, once we’d reached the car. “I have an idea. We should go to Olvera Street.”
I looked at him as he opened my car door. “What’s that?”
“Lucia, who does my hair on set, she was telling me about it. She said I should take you, and it totally slipped my mind until right now. Apparently it’s a Hispanic cultural center. I guess it’s, like, an outdoor market? With some shops and museums, I think. The details are fuzzy. But I wonder if we could find something cool for your mum there?”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I bet I could find it on my phone,” he said, heading around the car to his side and pulling out his phone as he walked. I climbed into the car and he joined me, already scrolling through the screen. “It’s in L.A. Pretty close. You up for it?”
“I’m always up for exploring something different.”
Olvera street was actually really cool. It was packed with people milling about, shopping, and eating. The sound of Spanish was prevalent, as was the traditional Mexican music. But it was a bit more touristy than I would have wanted. A lot of the goods we found were cheap reproductions, many of which were made in China, rather than Mexico. But there were some gems hidden amongst the fake stuff, and the heady smell of Mexican food made me ache for my mother’s kitchen.
“These are beautiful,” I said, pausing in front of a small stand featuring wood carvings. The carvings were mostly religious in nature, statues of the Virgin Mary, intricate crucifixes, elaborate rosaries in various designs.
“Gracias, Señora,” the proprietor said, nodding at me. He was a middle-aged man with a dark bushy mustache that reminded me of my Uncle Rick. In front of him on the ground was a half-completed statue of the Virgin. As I watched, he bent forward with a chisel and continued to work.
“You made all of these?” I asked.
“Yes, these are my designs.” He spoke in heavily accented English.
“De donde eras?” I asked. Where are you from?
He smiled at my Spanish. “Yo soy de Toluca.”
I gasped.
“What?” Thomas asked. “What are you saying?”
“He’s from the same town as my father,” I told him before turning back to the man and explaining the same in Spanish. The man’s face lit up as he quickly told me about his home and the family that still lived there. Thomas stood next to me, clearly lost, but smiling slightly at my reaction. I couldn’t believe that I had found an artist from Toluca right here in the middle of L.A. My parents were going to love this story.
I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I had been searching for something meaningful for my mother, wanting her to know how much I missed her through this whole mess. But what if I extended that gesture my dad, too? Maybe if he could see how much I loved them both, how much I thought about them, he would be able to put his anger behind him.
I explained to the man that I needed a Christmas gift for my parents, and he showed me a few of his pieces. In the end, I decided on a rough wooden carving of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, explaining to Thomas the importance she played in Mexican Catholics’ beliefs. “My mother’s middle name, her baptismal name, is Guadalupe.”
“So this gift has connections to both of your parents.”
“Exactly.”
The artist, who I had learned was named Cristobel, wrapped the gift in butchers’ paper, then plucked one of his business cards from a rack by the register. He scribbled his signature on the card and tucked it in with the paper.
“So you can show your father the name of the man from Toluca that you met in Los Angeles,” he explained, winking at me.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I hadn’t asked for the price. “Uh…cuanta cuesta?”
“Veinte.”
“Veinte?” There was no way a piece of art like that cost twenty dollars. I peered down at one of the smaller pieces. Sure enough, its tag read one hundred and fifty dollars. I crossed my arms and looked at the man. “No es veinte.”
“For your father,” he said, pushing the package at me. “For Toluca.”
I shook my head. “I want to pay you a fair price.” I pulled out my wallet. I had gotten money out for our shopping trip—the sum total of which was about two hundred dollars. It would wipe out my spending money pretty much for the rest of the month, but it was worth it. I pulled out the bills and pressed them into his hands. “Please.”
He looked at me for a long moment before finally smiling. “Gracias, Señora.” He paused. “Ah. Here. For you.” He pulled something from the rack beside his chair and placed it on top of my package. “Bless you.”
It was a miniature wooden wind chime, tiny carved beads hanging from a central dome. I would hang it on the deck and listen to those beads chime in the ocean breeze. “Precioso,” I whispered, holding it to my chest. “Gracias.”
“De nada,” he said, waving me away. “Feliz Navidad.”
I walked away arm in arm with Thomas, my throat swollen. “It’s strange,” I said, leaning my head against his shoulder. “The way you can find bits of home scattered around the world like that.”
“You know something, Lizzie,” he said, pressing a kiss into my hair. “You were right back at the mall. Thoughtful presents are much better.”
Chapter Nine
“You’re here!”
Mrs. Harper had thrown the door open before we even reached the front steps. “You’re so tan! Come in, come in!”
I reached the steps first and found myself enveloped in her arms. “Happy Christmas, Lizzie dear. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Harper.” I hugged her back, slightly overwhelmed by the ferocity of her welcome. She usually stru
ck me as pretty low key.
“‘Anne,’ dear,” she reminded me, kissing my cheek before releasing me and reaching for Thomas. She didn’t even let him get in the door before she had her arms around him. She only came up to his chin, and I smiled watching him hug her back. I don’t think I could have loved him so much if he wasn’t good to his mother.
“It’s freezing out here,” she finally said, letting him go with a little laugh. She rubbed at her eyes, and I realized with a start that she was crying. “Come in, come in.”
She ushered us into the foyer where we were greeted by Thomas’s dad, Gilbert. “Welcome, Lizzie!” he called as he approached. “Thomas, my boy, you look great.”
He hugged us both before throwing an arm around his wife. “Don’t mind her, she’s been sniffling all day.”
“Are you okay, Mum?” Thomas asked, looking concerned.
She waved him away. “I’m fine, fine. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to have you on the other side of the ocean for so long.”
“It’s very good to be back,” I said. “And it smells amazing in here.”
She beamed at me. “You both must be starving. Let’s go get you some food.”
We sat down at the scrubbed pine kitchen table, and Anne stuffed us full with turkey sandwiches, hot onion soup, and apple crumble. I moaned when she tried to tempt me with seconds. “I’m never going to be able to move again.”
“So tell us about Los Angeles,” Anne said. “Have you seen that sexy George Clooney yet?”
“Nice, dear,” Gilbert said.
She patted his hand soothingly. “I still love you best, dearest, but you can’t argue that he’s quite sexy.”
“We have not seen George Clooney,” Thomas said. “And please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop saying the word ‘sexy.’”
“I did see Dustin Hoffman at the grocery store,” I said. “He was buying apples.”
Her face lit up. “That’s amazing!”
“It’s more amazing that you knew who he was,” Thomas muttered, earning a kick under the table from me.
“And how are you adjusting, Lizzie?” Anne asked, her face more concerned now as her eyes met mine.
I wondered, briefly, if Thomas had told her anything about our recent tensions but pushed it out of my mind. He wasn’t one to gossip about the inner workings of our relationship.
“I like having Imogen right there in the house with me most of the day,” I said. “And I like being on the beach. But it’s hard to be away from friends.”
She nodded. “That’s what I figured. You’re so brave, Lizzie, going all that way.” I realized, with horror, that tears were coming to her eyes again. “And you did it to be with Thomas. You’re so…just such a lovely girl.”
“Mum,” Thomas asked. “What the—”
She had full-on burst into tears now, burying her face in her hands.
“Sorry, Lizzie,” Gilbert said, scooting his chair over to rub Anne’s back. “There, there, old girl. Buck up, now.” He looked up at us, his face suddenly seeming much older and sadder than I had ever seen it. “Your brother and Mary are splitting up.”
I gasped. “What?” I’d had no idea that they were having any kind of trouble. Anne sobbed harder.
“What happened?” Thomas asked, sounding as shocked as I felt.
“Apparently, she’s been, uh, running around with another young man.”
I slapped my hands over my mouth.
“She’s cheating on him?” Thomas asked, his face flushed.
“From what we gather. Paul hasn’t been very forthcoming.”
“Well, shit,” Thomas said. I took his hand.
“Don’t curse in front of your mother,” Gilbert said, but Anne finally looked up from her hands and gave us a watery smile.
“I think ‘shit’ just about covers it, actually.”
I smiled at her, grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and handing it to her. “I’m so sorry. And for it to happen at Christmas.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” she said. “How could she do this to him at the holidays?”
“Where is he? Is he still coming home?” Thomas asked.
She shrugged. “He said he wasn’t sure. He just…he sounded so desolate.”
I could tell another crying jag was imminent. “Should you go see him?” I asked Thomas.
“I don’t want to leave you here. We’ve only just arrived.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m absolutely fine here with your folks. At least call him and see if he wants company.”
He gave me a relieved look and pulled out his phone before standing. As he passed his mother on the way to the living room, he patted her arm comfortingly.
“He’s a good lad, our Thomas,” Gilbert said, sounding a bit gruff himself.
“He most definitely is.” I watched him go, feeling a surge of affection for him. Then I turned to Anne. “So what needs doing here? What can I help with, to get our mind off things?”
She sniffled again. “Such a lovely girl,” she said agian. “And you’re right. I should get busy.” She placed a shaking hand over her heart. “It’s just so hard, Lizzie, when your children are hurting and you can’t help them.”
“Thomas will help,” I assured her, feeling a pang of homesickness at her words.
“Well.” She straightened up, as if taking control of herself. “What would you say to helping me make some cookies? I usually do a few varieties at Christmas.”
“That sounds great. I’m just going to call my mom real quick, and let her know I’m here safe.”
“Give her my love, Lizzie, dear,” she said, standing. That was so like Anne. Giving her love to a woman she had never met, merely because of her connection to someone that she cared about.
I went to the sitting room to call my mom. It was a bit early in Detroit, but I knew she would be up, preparing for her own Christmas feast.
“Hello?” The sound of her voice hit me right in the chest.
“Feliz Navidad, Mama.”
“Oh, Lizzie.” She said, her voice heavy with emotion. “Merry Christmas, dear. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mama. We’ve just arrived at the Harpers’.”
“Your flight was okay? You must be exhausted.”
“I’m pretty tired,” I said. “But today we’ll mostly relax, I think. Their big celebration is on Christmas Day.”
“Make sure you go to church tonight or tomorrow, dear,” she said.
I was torn between a rush of affection and the desire to roll my eyes. No matter where I was on the planet, my mother had her priorities. “I will, Mama. The whole family goes on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said, sounding satisfied.
“What about you? Are you wearing yourself out with preparations?”
“No, no, I’m fine. And your sisters are here to help, and Sofie and your aunts.” I heard a strangled kind of sob on the other end of the phone and I closed my eyes.
“Don’t, Mama, please.”
“What dear?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I was coughing, that’s all.”
Yeah, right. “I miss you, Mama. I really do.” Afraid we were both going to get emotional, I quickly changed the subject. “I sent a package to the house. Has it arrived yet?”
“It did, just yesterday. I assumed we weren’t to open it until Christmas?”
“Yes, please. It’s your gifts.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
We chatted for a few more minutes about her holiday preparations. I knew, from years of experience, that there was going to be endless amounts of cooking and baking happening in her kitchen over the next few days. The more I listened to her, the more I got the sense that she was, in fact, worn down.
“You do sound tired, Mama,” I said, frowning. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Of course. It’s just a busy time of year, Lizzie.”
“Make sure you rest, okay? You
need to take good care of yourself.”
Her familiar laugh made my chest ache. “That’s supposed to be my line.”
After we hung up, I found Thomas back in the kitchen, alone. “How was he?” I asked, wrapping my arms around him.
“He sounded bad, Lizzie.” Thomas hugged me back. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him like that.”
“Are you going over there?”
“I thought I might. Are you sure you’re okay here?”
I pulled back so I could look up into his face. “You know I love your parents. I’m fine.”
“Mum says Bryony will be home in a few hours.”
“Even better. Go take care of your brother.”
He bent down to kiss me. “I love you, Lizzie.”
“I love you too.”
He held me close for much longer than a simple goodbye. “Are you okay?” I finally asked into his sweater.
“Yeah. I just…I just can’t imagine, you know? Losing you.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I said fiercely. “I would never do something like—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know that, Lizzie. But there are all different ways people lose each other.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said, hating the sound of it. “Seriously. Just don’t.”
He squeezed me one last time before heading back out into the cold Scottish afternoon. I looked around the empty kitchen, wondering if Anne was having a rough time again. Her recipe book was out, standing upright on the counter, opened to a page for gingerbread. Well, I thought, rolling up my sleeves. No sense standing around waiting for her. I washed my hands, grabbed an apron from a peg by the door, and got to work.
***
Christmas Eve at the Harpers was a much more subdued affair than I was used to, but that really wasn’t saying much, considering the mass chaos that was any family gathering back home.
I spent most of the time Thomas was gone baking with Anne. She seemed to cheer up considerably once she knew that her younger son had gone off to be with his big brother. “It was the idea of him being alone, dear,” she said to me over a bowl of cookie batter. “At this time of year. He said he didn’t want to see me or Gil, but I just couldn’t bear it.”
Lovestruck in Los Angeles Page 9
