The Christmas Keeper

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Two weeks is all it took,” Dad said. He shrugged and held out his hands like a blackjack dealer showing he had no hidden cards, chips, or cash.

  I clapped a hand to my forehead. “It takes more time to get a first paycheck on a new job than you’ve spent in this relationship. Is it even considered a relationship at the two-week mark?”

  “I know it’s a surprise, Chels, but when—” he began, but I interrupted him.

  “Dad, a bachelor auction is not the basis for a stable long-lasting relationship.”

  “You have to admit it makes a great story,” he said.

  “No, I don’t! What do you even know about Sheri? What’s her favorite color?”

  “Pink, duh.” He looked at me with a know-it-all expression more commonly seen on a teenager than a grown-ass man.

  “Who are you and what have you done with my father?” I wanted to check him for a fever; maybe he had the flu and he was hallucinating.

  “I’m still me, Chels,” he said. He gazed at me gently. “I’m just a happy me, for a change.”

  Was that it? Was that what was so different about him? He was happy? How could he be happy with a woman he hardly knew? Maybe . . . oh, dear. My dad hadn’t circulated much after my mom’s death. Maybe he was finally getting a little something something and he had it confused with love. Oh, god, how was I supposed to talk about this with him?

  I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. Parents did this all the time. Surely, I could manage it. Heck, it would be great practice if I ever popped out a kid. I opened my eyes. Three women were standing in the far corner in the ugliest chartreuse dresses I had ever seen. Clearly, they were the attendants of a bride who hated them. And that might be me in sparkly pink or gray if I didn’t put a stop to this madness.

  “Sit down, Dad,” I said. “I think we need to have a talk.”

  He took the seat beside mine and looked at me with same patience he had when he’d taught me to tie my shoes. I looked away. Ugh, this was more awkward than when my gynecologist told me to scoot down, repeatedly. It’s like they didn’t know a woman’s ass needs some purchase during an annual. Focus, Martin!

  “I know that you’ve been living alone for several years.” I cleared my throat. “And I imagine you’ve had some needs that have gone unmet.”

  “Chels, no,” he said. “It isn’t about that.”

  I ignored him, forging on while not making eye contact because, Lordy, if I had to have this conversation with him, I absolutely could not look at him.

  “And I understand that after such a long dry spell, you might be confused about what you feel, and that’s okay,” I said. Jeebus, this sounded like a sex talk by Mr. Rogers. “The thing is, you don’t have to marry the first person you sleep with after Mom.”

  There, I’d said it. And my wise advice and counsel was met with complete silence. I waited for him to express relief that he didn’t have to get married. And I waited. Finally, I glanced up at my father, who was looking at me with the same expression he’d worn when I found out that he was actually the tooth fairy. Chagrin.

  “Sheri is not the first,” he said.

  “She’s not?” I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you.

  “No.”

  “But you never told me about anyone before,” I said.

  “You didn’t need to know,” he said. “They were companions, not relationships.”

  “They?!” I shouted. I didn’t mean to. The seamstress sent me another critical look, and I coughed, trying to get it together.

  Dad shifted in his seat, sending me a small smile of understanding. “Maybe meeting here wasn’t the best idea. I thought you’d be excited to help plan the wedding, but perhaps you’re not ready.”

  “Of course I’m not ready,” I said. “But you’re not, either.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh, really? Answer me this: Does Sheri prefer dogs or cats?”

  “I don’t—” He blinked.

  “Yes, because it’s only been two weeks,” I said. “You remember that lump on your forehead? It took longer than two weeks to get that biopsied, but you’re prepared to marry a woman you haven’t even known long enough for a biopsy.”

  My voice was getting higher, and Dad put his hands out in an inside voice, please gesture. I would have tried, but I felt as if I was hitting my stride in making my point. I went for the crushing blow.

  “Dad, do you even know whether she is a pie or cake sort of person?”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  “Do you realize you’re contemplating spending the rest of your life with a person who might celebrate birthdays with pie?”

  “Chels, I know this is coming at you pretty fast,” he said. “I do, but I don’t think Sheri liking pie or cake is really that big of a deal. Who knows, she might be an ice cream person and ice cream goes with everything.”

  “Mom was a cake person,” I said. There. I’d done it. I’d brought in the biggest argument against this whole rushed matrimonial insanity. Mom.

  My father’s smile vanished as if I’d snuffed it out between my fingers like a match flame. I felt lousy about it, but not quite as lousy as I did at the thought of Sheri—oh, but no—becoming my stepmother.

  “Your mother’s been gone for seven years, Chels,” he said. “That’s a long time for a person to be alone.”

  “But you haven’t been alone . . . apparently,” I protested. “Besides, you have me and Annabelle, who is always in crisis, so I know she keeps you busy.”

  His smile flickered. “She does at that.”

  “So, why do you need to get married?” I pressed.

  Dad sighed. “Because I love Sheri and I want to make her my wife.”

  I gasped. I felt as if he’d slapped me across the face. Yes, I knew I was reacting badly, but this was my father. The man who had sworn to love my mother until death did them part. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Mom had died seven years ago, and Dad had been alone ever since, right up until he met Sheri Armstrong two weeks ago when she just kept raising her auction paddle for the marginally hot mathematician.

  I got it. Really, I did. I’d been known to have bidding fever when a mint pair of Jimmy Choos showed up on eBay. It was hard to let go of something when it was in your grasp, especially when another bidder kept raising the stakes. But this was my dad, not shoes.

  One of the bridal salon employees came by with a tray of mimosas. I grabbed two, double-fisting the sparkling beverage. Sweet baby Jesus, I hoped there was more fizz than pulp in them. The fizzing bubbles hit the roof of my mouth, and I wished they could wash away the taste of my father’s bad news, but they didn’t.

  “Listen, I know that being the object of desire by a crowd of single, horny women is heady stuff—”

  “Really, you know this?” Dad propped his chin in his hand as he studied me with his eyebrows raised and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Okay, not exactly, but my point—and I have one—is that you and Sheri aren’t operating in the real world here,” I said. “I understand that Sheri is feeling quite victorious having won you, but that doesn’t mean she gets to wed you. I mean, why do you have to marry her? Why can’t you just live in sin like other old people?”

  “Because we love each other and we want to be married.”

  “You can’t know this so soon,” I argued. “It’s not possible. Her representative hasn’t even left yet.”

  Her father frowned, clearly not understanding.

  “The first six months to a year, you’re not really dating a person,” I explained. “You’re dating their representative. The real person, the one who leaves the seat up and can’t find the ketchup in the fridge even when it’s right in front of him, doesn’t show up until months into the relationship. Trust me.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I’m dating a person. I can assure you, Sh
eri is very much a woman,” he said. “Boy howdy, is she.” The tips of his ears turned red and I felt my gag reflex kick in.

  “Dad, first ew,” I said. “And second, a person’s representative is their best self. After two weeks, you haven’t seen the real Sheri yet. The real Sheri is hiding behind the twenty-four-seven perfect hair and makeup, the placid temper, the woman who thinks your dad jokes are funny. They’re not.”

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen her without makeup. She’s still beautiful. And she does have a temper; just drive with her sometime. I’ve learned some new words. Very educational. And my dad jokes are too funny.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was going to have to give some tough love here. I was going to have to be blunt.

  “Dad, I hate to be rude, but you’re giving me no choice. She’s probably only marrying you for your money,” I said. I felt like a horrible person for pointing it out, but he needed protection from gold diggers like Sheri. It was a kindness, really.

  To my surprise, he actually laughed. “Sheri is more well off than I am by quite a lot. I’m the charity case in this relationship.”

  “Then why on earth does she want to marry you?” I asked.

  The words flew out before I had the brains to stifle them. It was a nasty thing to say. I knew that, but I was freaked out and frantic and not processing very well.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “Yes, you did.”

  He stood, retrieving his coat from a nearby coatrack. As he shrugged into it, the look of hurt on his face made my stomach ache. I loved my father. I wouldn’t inflict pain upon him for anything, and yet I had. I’d hurt him very much.

  “You did mean it and, sadly, I’m not even surprised. I mistakenly hoped you could find it in your heart to be happy for me,” he said. “I have mourned the loss of your mother every day since she passed and I will mourn her every day for the rest of my life, but I have found someone who makes me happy and I want to spend my life with her. That doesn’t take away what I had with your mother.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I argued. How could he not see that by replacing my mother he was absolutely diminishing what they’d had? “Sheri’s going to take your name, isn’t she? And she’s going to move into our house, right? So, everything thing that was once Mom’s—the title of Mrs. Glen Martin and the house where she loved and raised her family—you’re just giving to another woman. How is that not erasing Mom?”

  Dad stared down at me with his head to the side and his right eyebrow arched, a double whammy of parental disappointment. He wrapped his scarf about his neck and pulled on his gloves.

  “I don’t know if Sheri will take my name. We haven’t talked about it,” he said. “As for the house, I am planning to sell it so we can start our life together somewhere new.”

  I sucked in a breath. My childhood home. Gone? Sold? To strangers? I thought I might throw up. Instead, I polished off one of the mimosas.

  “Sheri and I are getting married in three months,” he said. “We’re planning a nice June wedding, and we very much want you to be a part of it.”

  “As a flower girl?” I scoffed. “Whose crazy idea was that?”

  “It was Sheri’s,” he said. His mouth tightened. “She’s never been married before, and she’s a little excited. It’s actually quite lovely to see.”

  “A thirty-year-old flower girl,” I repeated. I was like a dog with a bone. I just couldn’t let it go.

  “All right, I get it. Come as anything you want, then,” he said. “You can give me away, be my best man, be a bridesmaid, or officiate the damn thing. I don’t care. I just want you there. It would mean everything to Sheri and me to have your blessing.”

  I stared at him. The mild-mannered Harvard math professor who had taught me to throw a curveball, ride a bike, and knee a boy in the junk if he got too fresh had never looked so determined. He meant it. He was going to marry Sheri Armstrong, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “I don’t think I can be a part of . . . this.” I couldn’t even make myself say the word wedding.

  My father turned up his collar, bracing for the cold March air. He looked equal parts disappointed and frustrated. “Suit yourself.”

  He turned away, and I sat frozen. I hated this. I didn’t want us to part company like this, but I couldn’t change how I felt. I waited, feeling miserable, for him to walk away, but instead he turned back toward me. Rather than being furious with me, which would have allowed me to dig in my heels and push back, he looked sad.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “You used to be the girl with the big heart who was going to save the world.”

  I didn’t say anything. His disappointment and confusion washed over me like a bath of rank sludge.

  “I grew up,” I said. But even in my own ears I sounded defensive.

  He shook his head. “No, you didn’t. Quite the opposite. You stopped growing at all.”

  “Are you kidding me? In the past seven years, I have raised millions to help the fight against cancer—how can you say I haven’t grown?” I asked. I was working up a nice froth of indignation. “I’m trying to make a difference.”

  “That’s your career,” he said. “Being great at your profession doesn’t mean you’ve grown personally. Chels, look at your life. You work seven days a week. You never take time off. You don’t date. You have no friends. Heck, if we didn’t have a standing brunch date, I doubt I’d ever see you except on holidays. What kind of life is that?”

  I turned my head to stare out the window at Boylston Street. I couldn’t believe my father was belittling how hard I worked for the American Cancer Coalition. I had busted my butt to become the top corporate fund-raiser in the organization, and with the exception of one pesky coworker, my status was unquestioned.

  He sighed. I refused to look at him. “Chels, I’m not saying what you’ve accomplished isn’t important. It’s just that you’ve changed over the past few years. I can’t remember the last time you brought someone special home for me to meet. It’s as if you’ve sealed yourself off since your mother—”

  I whipped my head in his direction, daring him to talk about my mother in the same conversation where he announced he was remarrying.

  “Chels, you’re here!” A voice cried from the fitting-room entrance on the opposite side of the store. I glanced away from my dad to see my younger sister, Annabelle, standing there in an explosion of hot-pink satin and tulle trimmed with a wide swath of sparkling crystals.

  “What. Is. That?” I looked from Annabelle to our father and back. The crystals reflected the fluorescent light overhead, making me see spots—or perhaps I was having a stroke. Hard to say.

  “It’s our dress!” Annabelle squealed. Then she twirled. The long tulle skirt fanned out from the formfitting satin bodice, and Annabelle’s long dark curls streamed out around her. She looked like a demented fairy princess. “Do you love it or do you love it?”

  “No, I don’t love it. It’s hideous!” I cried. The seamstress glared at me, looking as if she was going to take some of the pins out of the pincushion strapped to her wrist and come stab me a few hundred times. I lowered my voice, a little. “Have you both gone insane? Seriously, what the hell is happening?”

  Annabelle staggered to a stop. She reeled a little bit as she walked toward us, looking more like a drunk princess than a fey one.

  “How can you be happy about this?” I snapped at her. I gestured to the dress. “Have you not known me for all of your twenty-seven years? How could you possibly think I would be okay with this?”

  Annabelle grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. “By this, do you mean the dress or the whole wedding thing?”

  “Of course, I mean the whole wedding thing,” I growled. “Dad is clearly having some middle-aged
crisis and there’s you just going along with it for a sparkly dress. Damn it, Annabelle, couldn’t you for once get your head out of your ass and think about someone other than yourself?”

  “Chelsea.” Dad’s voice was low with warning. “Don’t speak to your sister that way.”

  Annabelle blinked at me, looking surprised and a little hurt. “I am thinking about someone. I’m thinking about Dad. I kind of feel like I have a vested interest given that it was my auction that brought Dad and Sheri together.”

  “Because you, like Dad, have gone completely mental!” I snapped. “Two weeks is not long enough to determine whether you should marry someone or not. My god, it takes longer to get a passport. What are you thinking, supporting this insanity?”

  “Chels, that’s not fair and you know it,” Dad said.

  My expression must have been full-on angry bear, because he changed tack immediately, his expression softening.

  “When did you stop letting love into your heart?” he asked. His voice was gentler, full of parental concern, which rolled off my back like water off a duck. He didn’t get to judge me when he was remarrying a person he barely knew. “Is this really how you want to live your life, Chels, with no one special to share it with? Because I don’t.”

  I turned back to the window, refusing to answer. With a sigh weighty with disappointment, he left. I watched his reflection in the glass grow smaller and smaller as he departed. I couldn’t remember the last time we had argued, leaving harsh words between us festering like a canker sore. Ever since mom had died, the awareness of how precious life was remained ever present, and we always, always said I love you at the end of a conversation, even when we weren’t getting along.

  I thought about running after him and saying I was sorry, that I was happy for him and Sheri, but it would be a lie, and I knew I wasn’t a good enough actress to pull it off. I just couldn’t make myself do it. Instead, I tossed back my second mimosa, because mimosas, unlike family, were always reliable.