Lakeshore Christmas (3 page)

His face confirmed it.

“More than once constitutes a lot,” she said.

“I wish they hadn’t been so rude to you,” he said.

She was surprised he’d noticed.

“I should have spoken up,” he told her. “I should have pointed out they were being rude.”

“Thank heaven you didn’t,” Maureen said. “That would have been flat-out embarrassing.”

“And you don’t like being embarrassed,” he observed.

“Do you? Does anybody?”

“I’ve been a performer all my life, and like it or not, being embarrassed on a regular basis comes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
Thank goodness.
“But don’t be embarrassed. They called you adorable.”

“Hell, I was adorable,” he said with a curious lack of vanity.

“I know. I’ve seen
The Christmas Caper.
” Maureen paused. It was strange, knowing more about him than he knew about her. Generally speaking, that was the librarian’s role, to be the woman behind the desk. The woman no one wondered about or speculated about.

As for Eddie’s movie, she’d not only seen it. She watched it every year with rapt attention. She had already bought the just-released commemorative edition DVD and had played and replayed all the special features, paying particular attention to the interviews with the grown-up Eddie. She’d memorized every frame, every word of every song in the film. She loved that movie so much it was ridiculous. “Would it make you feel old if I said I saw it when I was in the second grade?”

“Nah, because I was six at the time of the theatrical release.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, I peaked at age six and it’s been downhill ever since.”

There was something about his smile. Something that made Maureen understand why grown women would approach him for a picture, giggling like schoolgirls. The other thing about his smile was that when she looked at him, she could see the precious little boy who had captured the hearts of America more than two decades ago.

He had played little Jimmy Kringle in
The Christmas Caper,
which was universally acknowledged to be one of the most sentimental Christmas movies ever made. Yet he’d transcended the stigma, taking a character who was trite and absurd and transforming him into a little boy everyone could believe in. And did, for years to come, thanks to the wonders of digital remastering, DVD extra features and the unending routine of round-the-clock cable.

“It can’t have been easy, being made a star at such a young age,” she observed.

“Wasn’t so bad, back in the day. But nobody saw the Internet coming. Or cable TV on this scale.”

Maureen was getting much too interested in him on a personal level. “We should finish up,” she suggested.

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, eh?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but—” Flustered. She was getting flustered, talking to this guy. Which was ridiculous. She was an established professional in her field. Still, she couldn’t help getting unnerved over Eddie Haven, with his sexy attitude, his earring and his too-pretty face. He must think she was a total loser. She didn’t like being around people who thought she was a loser. She liked
people who propped her up. Her family. Library patrons. Children.

“I have a lot to tell you about this production,” she said. “For starters, it’s going to be filmed for a PBS special.” It still excited her, just saying it. “A production company from the city is coming up to cover it as part of a story about small-town Christmas celebrations.”

“Cool,” he said, but he didn’t look thrilled.

“It doesn’t really change our plans, but I wanted you to be aware of it.” She handed him a printed document. “Here’s the program I’m planning. You can take a look at it tonight.” She’d spent weeks finding the perfect combination of story and song for the traditional Christmas Eve celebration at Heart of the Mountains Church. It was a wonderful program, designed to bring the magic of Christmas to life. She had envisioned the ideal pageant for a long time, ever since she was small. She conjured up images of an evening aglow with candlelight, the air infused with incense and alive with song. It would be the quintessential celebration, one that would soften even the most jaded of hearts and remind people that the joys of the season could be felt all year.

He took a cursory look at the script and song list. “Sure, whatever. But it doesn’t lead with the angels,” he said. “When Mrs. Bickham was in charge, we always led with the angels.”

Ah, the ghosts of Christmas pageants past, thought Maureen, clasping her clipboard to her chest. She was going to be haunted by them for a long time. “Not this year.”

“It’s your show,” he said. “Hell, I don’t even like Christmas.”

He was so obnoxious, she thought. But so ridiculously good-looking, in a shaggy-haired, skinny-jeans, tight-
T-shirt way. A lethal combination. “Nonsense. Everyone likes Christmas.”

He laughed. “Right. Okay, I guess I didn’t explain this very well.”

“Explain what?” In spite of herself, she was intrigued, and found herself leaning toward him, hanging on his every word like the most hopeless sort of Fan-girl.

“This whole Christmas thing.”

“What about it?”

“This is probably going to throw you for a loop, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a big fan of the holiday.”

Maybe, she thought, he appealed to her because he challenged her. It had been a long time since anyone over the age of five had challenged her. “Don’t be silly. Everybody loves Christmas.”

“You slay me, Maureen. You really do. News flash—everybody does
not
love Christmas.” Then his gaze slipped down the list of songs. “I’m not seeing a lot of variety here. Nothing new.”

“We could always add ‘The Runaway Reindeer’ from your hit movie. Your fan club would love it. Would that make you happy?”

“That would make me gag.”

The meeting was going so badly. She wished she knew how to bring it back on track. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for auditions.”

“Ought to be interesting. Everybody wants to be a star.”

“So it seems. We’ll try to be as inclusive as possible. We should remind everyone that there are no small actors—”

“Only small parts,” he finished for her. “And everybody knows that’s bullshit.”

She winced, wondering why he felt compelled to antagonize her. Her friend Olivia would say it was because he liked her. The notion intrigued Maureen far too much. She busied herself with her printouts, hoping to disguise her nerves. “And then we’ll go right into rehearsals. Here’s a schedule.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Are you patronizing me?”

“I’m trying to, yeah.”

“It’s not working. I won’t be patronized. Let’s not lose sight of our goal. This program isn’t for us or about us. It’s for the children, and for everyone who wants to celebrate the holidays.” The more nervous she got, the more cranky she sounded.

“Honey, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Honoring Christmas should not be taken lightly.” Oh, Maureen, she thought. When did you turn into such a dork? Olivia was always telling her to relax and have fun. But Olivia was pregnant, and hormones made her completely unreliable these days.

“Got it,” Eddie said again. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re done.” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage, struggling to conquer her nerves. They’d had a rough start. Maybe, she thought, they could fix things over dinner. “Listen, Eddie, let’s try not to start off on the wrong foot together. The bakery is about to close, but I was thinking, maybe we could go somewhere else, get some dinner and talk about this some more. I’d like to hear your ideas.”

There. She’d said it. She had blurted out an invitation to the best-looking guy ever to sit across a table from her. Putting herself out there like this was so contrary to her nature that she nearly hyperventilated, waiting for his reply.

To his credit, he didn’t smirk or anything. He simply rejected her in the most straightforward manner possible: “Maureen, thanks for the invitation, but I can’t. I have to be somewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I better go, or I’ll be late. Maybe some other time.”

She wanted to die. Right there, right then, she wanted to curl up and die, turn to ashes and blow away on a cold winter wind. What had she been thinking, inviting him to dinner? Of course he didn’t want to have dinner with her. He was Eddie Haven, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t have dinner with people like Maureen Davenport. Nor would she want to, even if he’d asked. He was crude and deliberately provocative, so far from being her type that it was laughable. The next several weeks were going to be excruciating.

Somehow, she kept a lame smile on her face as he practically bolted for the door. She pictured him heading home to get cleaned up, probably for a date with a woman who didn’t know a library from a lobotomy, but who knew how to fill the gaps in a conversation as well as she could fill a sweater. Maureen pictured the two of them on their dinner date, gazing across the table at each other at a candlelit restaurant, whispering “Cheers” and clinking their goblets of fine wine together.

“H
i, my name is Eddie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Eddie.” The people in the group spoke in unison, their voices warm and quiet in the small meeting room in the basement of the church. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he was. The greeting was part of the ritual of recovery, and the unvarying repetition held a certain comfort for the participants. Whenever he was in Avalon, he came to this group, and they all knew him. Everybody in the group knew who everybody else was because they’d all been coming here regularly, some of them for many years. There were sometimes a couple of new faces, yet the core membership was fairly stable. He recognized a red-haired college kid named Logan, a high school teacher named Tony, and an older guy, Terry D., who had helped Eddie a lot through the rough years.

When Maureen Davenport had asked Eddie if he was a churchgoing man, he’d answered in the affirmative. It wasn’t a lie—the building was a church. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He hadn’t started going to church thanks to some divine inspiration. Following a spectacular screwup on Eddie’s part, he’d been ordered by a judge to
attend 12-step meetings. He hadn’t expected to like it. He hadn’t expected to discover the deepest truths about himself in a group of strangers. But something had happened. He hadn’t found salvation the way most people did. He’d found it in the shared fellowship of people like him, renewing their commitment every day to stay sober.

On many levels, he told himself, the night of his DUI had been a blessing in disguise. For Eddie, it had been the start of a new way of living. A new way to spend Christmas, too. He still couldn’t stand the holiday, but at least he could get through it with clear-eyed sobriety instead of through an alcoholic haze.

He’d started the journey—very much against his will—one snowy Christmas Eve. He was no longer that lost, desperate man who had shown up with a chip on his shoulder and his arm in a sling. But whether he was at his place in the city or here in Avalon, he still came to meetings for the support, the friendship, the chance to serve others. And sometimes, like tonight, he came to think about things that were bugging him.

Like Maureen Davenport. He could tell she was not going to be a picnic. She had that whole prim-and-proper librarian thing going on, which only made him want to tease her, undo her hair, remove her glasses and say, “Why Ms. Davenport, you’re beautiful!”

That was the way it might happen in the movies, anyway. He doubted Maureen would play her role, though. She’d probably just tap a pencil on her clipboard and insist on getting back to work. She promised to be weeks of Christmas pageant hell.

He missed Mrs. Bickham already. Mrs. Bickham had made his community service obligation bearable, because she’d been so easygoing. Eddie had barely had to lift a finger for the pageant. However, this Maureen chick was
no pushover. She might actually make him do some work. Eddie didn’t really mind doing work, but he’d never been fond of taking orders from bossy females.

The people around the room came in all sizes and shapes, all ages and all walks of life. They sipped coffee and waited for Eddie to speak.

“The topic of tonight’s meeting is perspective,” he told them. “Yeah, that’s a good one for me at the moment. I need to remind myself to keep things in perspective. I first started coming to these meetings as a result of a judge’s mandate. I thought I didn’t belong here. The fact was, I didn’t
want
to belong here. I didn’t want to be a member of any club where you couldn’t drink your face off every single night.”

Sympathetic murmurings circulated through the group.

“The judge knew me better than I knew myself. She knew the value of strong medicine—in my case, a lifetime membership in this fine fellowship right here.”

Sometimes when he closed his eyes and thought about that night, those moments of terror, Eddie believed he was remembering it all exactly as it happened. He could still feel the glass neck of the bottle in his hand—Dom Perignon, of course. Nothing but the best on the night he would propose to the woman he loved. It was Natalie’s favorite and nothing else would do. Natalie Sweet. She was the perfect woman—a few years older, a lot more sophisticated, a journalist. What’s more, she’d been sending out “ask me” signals for weeks, he was sure of it.

He’d planned the evening out. Avalon was the perfect location, between New York City and Albany, where Natalie’s family lived. She thought he was taking her to her folks’ for Christmas, never guessing the surprise he had
in store. He wanted to get engaged on Christmas Eve. He had issues with the holiday, thanks to the way he’d spent all his Christmases growing up, his parents dragging him from town to town with their Yule-themed road show. So to overcome those issues, he would supplant the bad memories with something good. He would transform the holiday from a time filled with painful associations to something joyful—getting engaged to be married.

He knew about the town of Avalon thanks to his family. The town was the home of Camp Kioga, where his folks used to park him each summer when he was a kid, while they traveled from place to place, performing at Renaissance fairs. Through the years, the town had come to feel like home to him, as much as any place had. He’d even pictured himself and Natalie getting a weekend place here one day. That night, he’d booked the best table at the Apple Tree Inn, the one overlooking the Schuyler River. In winter, the rocks were encased in ice and the banks crusted with snow, sparkling in the light streaming down from the restaurant windows. He’d requested all their favorites for the menu and even gave the restaurant manager a list of songs to play throughout the evening.

He remembered the expression on her face when she tasted her dessert—a silky eggnog crème brûlée—because it was the same face she made in bed sometimes. In fact, her dreamy look had been his signal that the time had come.

Although they’d already polished off a bottle of wine, he ordered champagne, noting the lift of her eyebrows and taking it as a good sign.

In retrospect, maybe it was apprehension.

Pleasantly buzzed from the wine, Eddie forged ahead with his plan. Natalie was almost secondary, a bit player to his starring role. That perception in itself should have
been a clue. When the moment stopped being about Natalie or even the two of them as a couple, it could only mean trouble.

The sommelier poured two glasses. Eddie offered a toast—something about their future, about a lifetime of happiness. The time had come.

He was a traditionalist at heart. Unabashed by other Christmas-Eve guests, he went down on one knee and took her hand. At that moment, the theme song of
The Christmas Caper
came on the stereo. Maybe he should have recognized it as a bad sign.

The song had definitely not been on Eddie’s playlist. The manager might have thought Eddie would like hearing the sweet, sentimental tune. Eddie would never know. Many people assumed that such a beloved movie must be loved by him, as well. All he knew was that the hated song intruded on the moment like a choking spell in the middle of a gourmet meal.

And to top off the moment, this was the most heinous version in existence—the one recorded by an a cappella group known as the Christmas Belles, which had become a sensation on the Internet. The rendition was so sticky-sweet, he thought he might gag, just listening to it.

But he was down on one knee. He was committed. He had to go through with this. There was no turning back now.

He had carefully scripted the words, then memorized them so they wouldn’t sound scripted: “I love you. I want to be with you forever. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

That was her cue to weep for joy, perhaps to be so overcome she couldn’t speak, could only nod vigorously:
Yes, yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you.
All around the restaurant, people would sigh over his performance.

Then he would lift the lid of the small velvet jewel box, and a fresh wave of emotion would wash over her.

It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was going to turn Christmas into the happiest time of his life.

There was one problem. Natalie didn’t follow the script. There were no joyful tears. No reciprocal declaration of love. Only a stricken expression of horror on her face.

“Magic can happen, if only you belieeeeeeeeve,”
sang the Christmas Belles in the background.

Natalie didn’t nod. She looked nauseous, shook her head no. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, getting up from the table and making a dash for the cloakroom.

Eddie had dropped a too-big wad of cash on the table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and left, despite knowing it was illegal to leave an establishment with an open container.

Not caring.

She was walking as fast as she could toward the train station.

“Can we at least talk about this?” he asked.

She kept walking. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’d be open to a proposal.”

“Hell, you were sending out signals like Western Union,” he said. “What was I supposed to think?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, excuse me all to hell for thinking you meant it when you said you loved me.”

“I did,” she protested. “I
do.
But I’m not ready to marry anybody, and neither are you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”

“Fine, I won’t. But here’s what I think. I think you don’t want to be married so much as you don’t want to be alone.”

“Hey, it’s one thing to turn me down. Don’t psychoanalyze me on top of everything else.”

From there, the argument devolved into a rehashing of each other’s faults, and after she boarded the Albany-bound train alone, he was ready to concede that yes, he had probably been hasty in proposing marriage.

By the time he returned to the restaurant parking lot for his van, he’d already made the transition from feeling hurt to feeling pissed. At her but even more at himself. Why had he made some big public production out of it? Why had he set himself up for failure like that?

As he drove through the streets of Avalon, the small town looked deserted, a ghost town. Most people had headed home early to be with their families on Christmas Eve. Others were at church, filling the night with song and worship.

Eddie planned to spend the rest of the evening with a man of the cloth. Specifically, a monk named Dom Perignon. Since the bottle had already been opened at the restaurant, he started drinking as he drove. Hell, it was Christmas Eve and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He’d just been dumped and he was desperate to numb the hurt and blunt the anger. And he was driving slowly, anyway. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. His parents had invited him home to their place on Long Island as they did every year, but Natalie had given him the perfect excuse to decline the invitation. Now he was out of excuses.

The snowstorm began in a lively flurry, feathering across the windshield. Within minutes, driven by a lake effect, the flurries blossomed into thick, relentless flakes that were strangely mesmerizing as they hurled themselves toward him. He decided to swing by the Hilltop Tavern, see if anybody was still around. He had a few old friends in Avalon who went way back to his days at
summer camp. The small town never changed. He passed cozy-looking houses with their windows aglow, businesses that were closed up tight, the country club that crowned the top of a hill. The most impressive light display belonged to the Heart of the Mountains Church at a bend in the lakeshore road.

The oblong building twinkled with lights along the roofline. An elaborate, life-size nativity scene occupied the broad, snow-covered grounds. He rolled down the driver’s side window to feel the icy air. Big snowflakes whipped into the van through the gap.

The faint, distant tolling of bells drifted in through the window, and it was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard. He chased away the mournful noise by turning up the radio, which was playing Black Sabbath’s “Never Say Die.”

For Eddie, music was more than just sound. It was a place he went, familiar and safe. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of his childhood, music had been his retreat and solace. Over the years, his affinity had only deepened. When he was a teenager, it became a way to sort out the confusion, almost as calming as drinking a stolen six-pack from his parents’ fridge. Later, when he was a student at Juilliard, it was a form of expression that finally made sense to him, the perfect accompaniment to the wine he loved to drink before, during and after performances.

He heard music in his head, all the time. It surprised him to realize this was not the case for other people. Maybe it was a form of insanity.

Years later, when he reviewed the events of that night, he could never separate the sounds and images in his mind from those that had actually existed. He recalled a curious rhythmic beating noise, like the rotors of a helicopter, and a deepening of the already-dark sky. And
then something—an animal? A tree limb?—crossing his path.

Operating on pure reflex, he swerved to avoid it.

Mission accomplished.

But in the next moment, everything was ripped from his control. The van hit a patch of black ice and careened off the road, exploding through a snowbank and jolting down a steep slope. The brakes and steering were useless as he cut a swath through the churchyard. Everything in the van—sound equipment, CDs, gear, the empty champagne bottle—was swept up in a tempest.

As the speeding vehicle smashed through the nativity scene and barreled toward the church, only one coherent thought slipped out.
Please, God, don’t let me hurt anybody.

“That night changed everything for me,” he told the people in the room. “And for that, I’m grateful. I’ll remind myself of this in the weeks to come. Because something tells me I’m going to face some challenges. I always do, this time of year.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” the chorus murmured, and they went on to the next speaker.

His life had really begun the night it had almost ended. That was when he finally had to admit that drinking wasn’t working for him. He’d had to transform himself entirely. Music was still his life, but now he worked behind the scenes, a composer and producer, and he also volunteered for an after-school music program for at-risk kids in Lower Manhattan. Life was good enough for him, under the radar like that.