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Authors: Carly Alexander

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles
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14
T
he next morning, at the dawn of Christmas Eve, I left the coffee brewing beside a note for Ricki telling her that I'd be back from the office by lunchtime. I hadn't planned to go in—any sane person would hammer out her work in bed and e-mail it to the office—but I had been composing and revising Zachary Khan's profile in my head all night, and I wanted to block out the noise of life from the comfort of my square, bland cubicle and focus on Zachary.
Through the night he had haunted me, though not in a creepy way; his intense, dark eyes had soldered our connection and his mission to escape the confines of his body tugged at my heart. I had prayed for his good death—imagine me, praying. To whom was I appealing? I wasn't exactly sure. God almighty, Baby Jesus, Mary the Virgin Mother, Tacitus's Goddess of Lysol—I sent Zachary's request up there for any deity with the power to make it happen.
On days like this the paper operated on a skeleton crew, and I was grateful for the quiet office. Logging onto the computer, I saw that a few of my file pieces had run over the weekend: Felix Kaspar, a figure skater known for his jumps, TV-actress Madlyn Rhue, and John Dreves, a master crystal maker who had designed the olive bowl for Steuben Glass. Were they at peace when they died? Mr. Dreves had been ninety; was age a function of accepting the end of this journey? All this time spent writing obits and I now had more questions than answers.
I settled in quickly and started shaping Zachary's profile. As I filled in anecdotes from his time in art school, I thought of Marty's criticism of the old draft—that it could be the profile of any artist dying of AIDS. I wanted to make Zachary come through; I wanted readers to celebrate his beautiful soul. There was his art—those compelling layers of color that had captured my interest. Could we run a color photo of a painting? The obit pages rarely were treated to color ink; I'd have to rethink that one.
But color was a crucial element in Zachary's work. I pressed my coffee cup to my cheek, thinking of how my mother had fallen in love with color after two decades of white walls with my father. Those ruby reds, sapphires, purples. “The gem-tones,” she called them. The day my mother died, as I paced beside her big hospital bed in the apartment, I realized how much the paint had faded, the bold pigments succumbing to sun and time and occasional scrubbing, their hues now chalky and garish. But the morning sun cut a path through the floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing through the stained-glass piece that hung there. A swatch of color touched the white sheet over my mothers toes—red and gold and purple and green.
“Look, Mom,” I said, running a hand over the image. I went to her and squeezed her hand. “You're getting colored sheets.”
Her eyes opened, strained and distant, but she peered down at the colors. Talking was nearly impossible over the respirator, but she squeezed my hand. Such a small gesture, but I was glad for the acknowledgment, relieved to know that she'd seen the colors that made her happy before she died.
 
 
I was approaching the end of a relatively inspired draft when I sensed movement on the floor.
“Jane? What are you doing here?” Marty asked, stopping at my cubicle.
“Right back at ya, boss.” My fingers were still flying over the keyboard as I glanced up and soaked in the healthy pink of his complexion set off by a burgundy shirt and a ridiculous dancing-Santa necktie. There's something so appealing about a man who makes an attempt to dress well but desperately needs a woman's assistance. I pulled back my fingers before they plucked out total gibberish and wondered if I could really have a crush on Marty.
The boss man. Martin Baker, editor in chief. I'd never let myself get involved with a coworker before, but then, this seemed to be the appropriate time in my life to start breaking some of my own damned rules.
“I didn't expect you in today,” Marty said, taking the seat that I usually rested my feet on. “For God's sake, Bob Cratchit, it's Christmas Eve.”
“I wanted to get this done today. I had a great interview with Zachary Khan yesterday and I wanted to write it up while it was fresh in my mind.”
“Excellent.” He put a folder on my desk. “I was just going to put these in your in-box. Some of your recent pieces.”
I flipped through the profiles, relieved to find them clean. No edits. No giant “SEE ME” written in the margins.
“You've done some fine work lately. I like the new dimension in Antoinette Lucas's profile, and the rewrite of the violin prodigy gave me goosebumps. How did you put it? ‘The child's performance brims over with insight, and yet she has not had a chance to experience life beyond her schoolbooks, hotel rooms, and rehearsal halls.' You really captured something there.”
I nodded. “Good. So I'm back on track?”
“Absolutely. I don't know how you managed to respond to my criticisms, but you have quickly evolved as a writer. You found humanity. You make the reader care about your subject.”
“Well, finally! What's a girl got to do to make a reader care.”
Marty smiled, his green eyes alight with something I couldn't read. “What did I tell you, kid? Compassion.”
I swear, at that moment Marty was the most attractive man on the planet, bald head, ridiculous tie and all. Smart, intellectual, low-key Marty. He positively glowed amid this pedestrian office of oversized desks and overused PCs. I wanted him naked now, in the copy room, but somehow I sensed that proposition would scare him off before we'd had a chance to forge a real relationship.
A real relationship. I had evolved.
From outside came the chime of a church bell, and it summoned the image of a funeral in my mind. Zachary's funeral. Zachary's ashes nurturing a bed of luscious tulips in bold reds, crisp yellows, regal purples.
“Are you still interested in becoming our next restaurant critic?” Marty asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
I scratched my head, realizing that it would be hard to make a move now. I wanted to learn more about people, meet more of my subjects. I had a major surgery coming up, which wouldn't make this the best time for a career shift. I wanted a chance to use the tools Marty had revealed to me. “I don't know that crème brûlée would hold my interest now,” I admitted. “That is, don't know if it's interesting enough to write about. Definitely interesting enough to eat.”
“I was just about to pack up and head out,” he said, glancing up at the wall clock. “Can I coerce you into a cup of Christmas cheer? I know a friendly little place down the block that serves a great egg-free eggnog.”
“Sounds great. I've never understood how raw eggs could be part of an American tradition. Isn't that salmonella feed?”
He nodded, helping me with my coat. I liked the way he touched my shoulder: firmly but gently.
“Remind me to tell you about the Christmas party that almost took out our entire editorial department one year,” he said. “After that, I switched to the pasteurized variety.”
As we walked together to the elevator I grinned, hoping the light in his eyes was for me. It had to be, right?
I had my answer when the elevator doors closed on the two of us, and Marty leaned forward and touched my shoulder again. “Merry Christmas, Jane,” he whispered. His face hovered near mine but he held back, polite, restrained.
I leaned closer, longing to kiss him, wishing he'd kiss me. “Are you holding back for the security cameras? Afraid of a workplace harassment suit? Or just reluctant to give security a show?” I waved to the camera in the corner. “Hey, guys! José, how's the little one?”
Marty let out a laugh and the mood vanished, but I wasn't going to let my opportunity escape. I linked my arm through his, surprised by the smoothness of his overcoat and the solid feel of his biceps.
He drew in a breath, then placed his hand over mine, firmly, intently. It was a start. And who knew what would happen after a glass or two of eggnog? After all, it was Christmas Eve.
SIGNS AND SYMBOLS
DECEMBER, 2004
RICKI
15
“A
way in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head . . .” I sang along with my friends as we strolled down one of the more charming streets in town. A crisp wind blew in from the ocean side, but we weren't going in that direction, especially since most of the oceanfront homes were empty this time of year. By the time December's jetstream brought Arctic air dipping down over North Carolina, most vacationers had long abandoned us, leaving Nag's Head to the locals: a spicy mix of homegrown residents, expatriates, transplants, and retirees.
A light breeze feathered the fringe of my scarf. No, we weren't expecting even a single flake of snow, but I felt Christmasy nonetheless, surrounded by friends spreading holiday cheer in a tradition that predated Charles Dickens and Samuel Clemens through a quaint coastal town strung with electric lights.
“Sing it, ladies. Sing it like ya mean it,” Cracker teased in an exaggerated southern twang. Hailing from Atlanta, Georgia, Cracker wore his southern charms like a boater in the Easter Parade. He was thin and tall, unabashedly sarcastic and catty, and was rarely seen wearing anything but casually worn jeans and loose cotton shirts. When someone asked him if he minded being bald, he replied: “I like to think of it as taking a hiatus from hair.” A former chef, Cracker had come to this island for a summer job, which turned into a year-round hobby—a typical scenario for the castaways here on OBX, the Outer Banks. Cracker was in a committed, long-distance relationship, which left him free to play Will to my Grace.
Our group paused in front of the police station, which was decked with a wreath blinking in red and white. My assistant, Adena, and I had installed the wreath earlier that day, and I was glad to see that someone in the station house had remembered to plug in the lights.
As we sang, two officers emerged without jackets, acknowledging us with stiff smiles.
Beside me, Cracker waved. “There's something about a man in a uniform,” he told me under his breath. “That's what I want under my tree this year.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I'll just tie one up with a cranberry bow.”
“Love the image,” Cracker growled in his crocodile voice. “Be generous, and I'll let you keep the short one with the mustache.”
“Thanks, but I don't think either of us will be at a loss for pretty packages under our trees.” Cracker had Serge Montoyez, an accountant who was still a few years away from retirement and could only afford to spend summers and holidays here at the beach, and I had Nate, who was tied up at a business dinner tonight. Although it annoyed me that he was missing this, I knew he'd be waiting for me at home when the caroling ended. Maybe he would have a fire lit and amber sherry sparkling in the little cordial glass. Yes, Nate was every girl's Christmas dream . . . but my stray thoughts were pulling me way off key. I nudged Cracker with my elbow, then moved closer to Georgia, hoping to blend in with her sparkling voice.
Georgia Brooks swung her waist-length blond hair behind her to lean close to me. “See the blazing yule before us, fa-la-la-la-la . . .” she sang, holding a pretend microphone out to me. Georgia was one of those natural beauties—a true blond with slender legs and a Miss America smile, which she shared avidly. Sometimes a chatterbox, occasionally an astute people-watcher, always a pip, Georgia was good to have around.
We'd been caroling for an hour—my idea—and the whole time it was clear that Georgia was carrying us since she was the only one who both knew all the words and could almost carry a tune. Cracker and Ben knew two songs, Lola and her husband Tito knew the tunes but none of the words; and though I knew the lyrics to every Christmas carol ever penned, I had trouble staying on key.
“Merry Christmas!” we called to the cops when the song was finished.
“Have a good one,” they called back. “Stay warm, now.”
“Forget about warm . . . I'm feeling downright hot,” Cracker muttered as he flapped the lapel of his jacket.
I smacked his shoulder and skipped ahead to a stop sign twined with glittery garland—another bit of trimming from my shop. This year when I'd offered to replace the town's weathered Christmas decorations, the mayor had been a tad skeptical at first. “I'm not quite sure we can afford you,” he'd said, rubbing his creased forehead. Then I'd told him I planned to do the job free—my small way to give back to the community that had helped me build an embarrassingly successful business—and I think Mayor Treemore had begun to see me as more than some fast-talking entrepreneur from up north. “Where to next? Miller's One-Stop or back for hot cider and cookies?”
“Not Miller's,” Georgia said, and Lola agreed emphatically. Probably because they both worked at the small general store on Highway 12.
“Please, let us sojourn to Ricki's place,” Cracker said dramatically.
“I wouldn't mind going back to the senior center,” Tito said. “It was nice and warm there.”
“All these years and you can't take the cold,” Lola teased her husband, wagging a nail studded with a rhinestone at him. Tito Hammond had moved to North Carolina from Hawaii after a visit to his grandmother had led him to meet Lola. “He didn't have a shape like the Pillsbury Dough Boy back then,” Lola often teased him now, but it was clear that there was still magic between the two of them. Lola's family is from these parts—Lumbee Indians. She's in her forties and, a mother herself, Lola often feels compelled to mother me, but with her wild red-tinted hair, exotic nails, and New Age pursuits, she is nothing like my own mother, God rest Alice's poetic New York soul.
The senior center had been our first stop; it was also part of my usual rounds on Wednesday nights when I dropped off fruit punch and leftover cookies from Bitsy's Bakery. One of the seniors had invited me there to teach crafts last year during the slow January season, and the weekly session had become habit partly because Mr. Winslow reminded me of my Dad, who'd died before his time, and I found it reassuring to hear him talk about air and water currents, high and low tide, and birds indigenous to the North Carolina coastline. Mr. and Mrs. Tafuri, Jasper Hendricks, and Dinah and Sara Ellery were used to seeing me, but their faces had lit up when the rest of the crew filed in tonight.
“Let's go back and sing for the seniors,” Tito said.
“They did seem to appreciate us,” Ben added.
“That's because half the people are tone-deaf,” Cracker said. “And the other half are just plain hard of hearing.”
“Why don't we head back to the shop and warm up?” I suggested. By the shop, I meant The Christmas Elf, the boutique I'd opened up two years ago, after Nate and I had landed in this salty wilderness. “We can go back to the senior center next week.”
“Next week?” Cracker moaned. “You mean we have to do this again?”
“Oh, listen to you, Cracker,” Lola said, dismissing him with a wave of her spangled mitten. “You seemed to enjoy doling out the punch to the ladies at the center.”
“Can I help it if Mrs. Tafuri reminds me of my dear old granny?” Cracker dug his hands in the pocket of his suede jacket and trudged on into the wind.
Lagging behind a bit, I watched their outlines as they traipsed beneath the glimmering lights of a landscaper's shop, the cape-style roof framing them against a purple sky overlaid by fast-moving black lace clouds. Cool but no precipitation, that was my forecast, though it never got too cold here. Temperatures stayed moderate—though for the locals anything below seventy was considered downright chilly.
Here in the Outer Banks, the sky sometimes reaches out and grabs you. Like the October dawn when I woke up on the deck bathed in orange light, the sky awash with fiery red and the amber striations of aurora borealis reflected in the calm ocean. Or the time Nate and I saw a waterspout out on the bay hurl gray plumes into the massive ceiling of clouds like an angry fire hose. Nate ran downstairs to call the police, but I stayed out on the balcony to watch, somehow confident that I was a spectator of this event and not a potential victim. We'd fought over that one; I called Nate a chicken, he called me a nut job. Come to think of it, that waterspout had stirred up a good amount of trouble between us.
That time it was my friend Lola who smoothed things over, telling me that Geminis like Nate could be difficult to live with. “You know,” she told me then, “Gemini is the sign of the twins—often two sides of one personality. Some people think it's positive and negative polarity at the same time.” Talk about torn. She had reminded me that, while Geminis could be witty, logical, and spontaneous, they also tended to be nervous, restless, and superficial at times. That was Nate: she couldn't have described him better if she'd hired a copywriter from the Lands' End catalogue.
Lately Nate had tended more toward edgy and restless. When I told Lola I thought it was the stress of his pending divorce, she agreed. “The ex-wife is trying to trap him,” she'd said sagely, “but she has no idea how elusive a Gemini can be. The metal of Gemini is quicksilver; it's shapeless. Try to hold it and it flows through your fingers.”
The image of a silvery Nate dripping through Gina's manicured hands made me smile. As I strolled, collar up against the wind, I wondered if quicksilver burned.
Yes, Gina was a bitch, which you might expect me, the other woman to say. Fortunately, Gina was hundreds of miles away now, and I had friends who would defend me against her to the end. As Lola's tinkling version of “Silent Night” drifted back, I lifted my face to the velvet sky and counted my blessings. Despite my holiday state of mind, I wasn't naive enough to think that good things could be earned. I was damned lucky to have found a man I wanted to get home to and a calling that brought me satisfaction and exponential profits. Taking inventory, I had to admit, life was good.
I gasped as a flare shot through a distant corner of the sky—a glimmering burst of light.
Ahead of me, a few friends reacted with “oohs” and “aahs.”
“A shooting star!” Tito exclaimed.
“Did you see that?” I pressed a hand to my heart, reeling from adrenaline. “We have to make a wish! Everyone, quick!”
“A wish?” Cracker scoffed. “Damn, Ricki, you're more superstitious than my ninety-year-old granny.”
“Don't knock it,” Georgia said. “If there's a tiny chance that it'll work, I say go for it.”
“Right.” I clenched my hands and eyes and searched for my heart's desire. My life was fine, really, but Nate could use a little help. He'd been so moody lately, impatient, sometimes uncooperative. Like scheduling this business dinner on the same night that I'd organized the caroling party, then telling me that he didn't think it was appropriate for a grown man to attend such an event.
“Wait a minute,” I'd said. “Is that one of those New Age affirmations, like ‘real men don't eat quiche'?”
“It's just not a guy thing, okay?”
“But Cracker and Ben will be there.”
Nate had snickered at that. “I rest my case.”
“No, the case is not closed. This isn't an isolated incident, Nate. I sense that you're pulling away. Is something wrong? I mean, besides crazy Gina and the divorce and all that.”
“Nothing is wrong,” he'd said testily. “At least, nothing that won't be solved once this mediation is over. I told you, I'm trying hard to make the divorce final by Christmas. Now would you stop taking things so personally and accept the fact that we can have different interests in life?”
Which had made sense at the time. It made all the more sense when Nate moved close behind me and slipped a hand under my sweater. Nothing could drive a point home like a hard, swift passion.
I really did love him. So I made a wish for Nate to find himself. If he could weather this rough patch he was going through, things between us would be better than ever. With all the wild sizzle of that careening star I sent my wish up for Nate. I wished so hard that I fell off the curb, my ankle twisting inside my new hiking boots.
“That must be some wish,” Ben said, steadying me as I pitched toward the pavement.
“No doubt thinking about Mr. High Maintenance,” Cracker growled, shaking his head. “Tell me you didn't waste your wish on him, Ricki. All the stars in the heavens couldn't set that man on track.” He has never liked Nate, and although Nate never complained I sensed that he didn't appreciate Cracker's sensibilities: his rawhide-dry wit, buttery warmth, and inner strength tougher than year-old beef jerky.
“Thanks.” I squeezed the sleeve of Ben's denim jacket, trying to maintain equilibrium. Strong, quiet Ben to the rescue. Maybe he would help me change the subject. “So Ben, what do you know about stars? You used to be a scientist, right? Was that shooting star really a giant sun that was burning out, or what?”
Ben grinned. “You mean, similar to the way I burned out in my career?” Rumor had it that Ben had left a successful career behind to open his surf shop here in the Outer Banks, but this was the first time he'd ever come close to mentioning it. I blinked, afraid I might miss this revelation from the enigmatic Ben. We'd all speculated about his age and his background. With a thick head of silver hair, olive skin that tanned beautifully but didn't seem to crease, and a musical frame of reference that spanned from the Rolling Stones to Good Charlotte, Ben was ageless—a man out of time. “And actually, I was an engineer, though I can pick out a few constellations.” He pointed up toward the sky. “See over there, sort of above the line of the tower on the firehouse? That's the North Star. That brings you to the line of the Big Dipper.” He drew a short diagonal line with his finger.

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