The Eggnog Chronicles (23 page)

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Authors: Carly Alexander

BOOK: The Eggnog Chronicles
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25
I
was over the loss of the cottage in about ten minutes. If that was the price I had to pay to scrape Nate out of my life, I figured I could well afford it.
I marched past Nate, who was flipping through channels, flaked out on the sofa with a major case of bed head. “You'll get my key in a few days.” You worm. With a carload of suitcases and duffel bags, I sped away from the cottage, gravel flying under my tires. Ha! I'd always wanted to make an exit like that.
When I pulled up outside The Christmas Elf, Ben was coming out of Miller's with a cardboard tray of coffee and a paper bag. “Lola sent us bagels this morning,” he called, nodding toward the bag. “She said you two had a late night. Something about a sleepover party?”
“Something like that.” I unlocked the door, pulled off my coat, and went through my morning routine of turning on lights, checking the thermostat, winding clocks, and setting up a series of Christmas CDs for the day. This shop had been a great escape for me—my real home—and for a moment I wished I could move in here, though that would never work. I sighed.
“What's up?” Ben asked, handing me a cup of coffee. “You look like Santa cancelled Christmas.”
“I'm going to need a place to stay,” I said, curling my fingers around the warm paper cup. “Wow. I guess I'd better call a realtor.”
“What about Nate? And Munchin Realty?”
“I won't be calling Munchin,” I said. “Nate and I split up, and he's not going to want to help me.”
Ben nodded, untucking the navy blue scarf at his neck. He slid his rawhide jacket off and sat on a stool beside my worktable. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. Actually, better than fine. I feel lighter. Liberated.” I shrugged. “Hey, I just got rid of some excess baggage and it feels great.”
Ben's smile lit his eyes and made the corners crinkle in sort of a cowboy way, and I knew he understood it all—the feelings of hurt and failure and liberation, the chance for a “do over.” “Good for you,” he said.
As we sipped our coffee together, I sat down on the stool beside Ben and thanked God for this colorful scene that was my life; this was just a shared moment with Ben in the shop, but it reminded me that I did have a life. It might seem silly, but I was grateful that I branched out here with the shop and my friends and the folks at the senior center and the kids from Diane's day care center. All this time, in the years that I'd been here with Nate, I thought I was biding my time—waiting for his divorce, waiting for a proposal, waiting for our lives to begin—when all along, I was weaving my own dreams in the fabric of this community. I was one of the small squares in the quilts from Georgia's quilting bee: a compact image, and yet an integral part of the exquisite grid of signs and symbols.
A second later the quiet moment was gone when the door bells jingled and Cracker popped in. “I just spoke to Serge and he's coming next week—the eighteenth. Will you still be here, Ricki?”
I nodded. “That's the last weekend that the shop is open, so I'll get to see him.”
“I'll still be here,” Ben added as he moved over to one of the chairs by the fire.
“You're always here,” Cracker said, turning to me. “Is it true about Nate? You two are . . .” He made a chopping gesture at his neck.
“Something like that. He's heading back to Providence this weekend.”
Cracker pursed his lip. “Mm-hmm. The worm turns.”
“How's Serge doing?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Did you tell him we miss him around here?”
“He's fine. He got some more information on the history of eggnog. Says I should change the name of the bar to ‘Grog and Fog,' but I think that's taking it a little bit too far.”
“So what's the new nog source?” I asked, always up for Christmas trivia.
“Well, some people think the ‘nog' in eggnog comes from the word ‘noggin,' which was an old European term for a small wooden mug used to serve milk and egg punches.”
“That would be a cute item to sell,” I said. “Little carved noggins to serve your eggnog in? It could come in sets of—”
“Wait, there's more,” Cracker interrupted. “You see, Colonial Americans called rum ‘grog,' and when they made this egg beverage in the colonies they added rum instead of wine, which is what the Europeans used. Hence, people began to call the drink ‘egg and grog,' which might have simply been shortened to eggnog.”
“Serge is a wealth of information,” Ben said.
Cracker rubbed his hands together deviously. “Yes, but he has yet to come upon any reference to Voodoo Eggnog, so I must believe that my drink is an original. If I were a man of ego, I'd submit it to some contest or bartender's journal, but I prefer to maintain the secret recipe in relative obscurity here in these Outer Banks.”
“Well, Voodoo Eggnog is certainly delicious, but it didn't work on Nate,” I said. “In fact, it sent him running.”
“Um-hmm.” Cracker folded his arms. “I rest my case.”
 
 
Later that day, I left Adena in charge of the shop and I headed over to the church to meet with Reverend Forest. He'd called to say that things were developing with the Salems' housing situation, perhaps I would like to join an informal meeting there? Although I wasn't sure that I could contribute, I figured it was worth a shot.
In the church parking lot I unloaded the gift boxes that Adena and I had wrapped in cheerful Christmas prints and tied off with bows containing tiny ornaments. I went to the door that Reverend Forest had directed me to, the building behind the church where Sunday school classes were usually held. I heard a woman's voice floating down the hall—a familiar voice, so I followed the voice and the light spilling out from a classroom. Inside, Diane—Joey's teacher—was speaking with two men. The reverend stood up and welcomed me, and as I went to put my packages down I caught a look at the other man . . . Ben.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Now that's a fine welcome. I might act as the general contractor on this project.”
“Ben used to work with Habitats, and we figured his engineering experience might be helpful,” Reverend Forest added with a smile. “But honestly, Ricki, we will take any volunteers we can get. We're always in need of helpers.”
I sat in one of the desk chairs. “Is there anything that can be done? I mean, about their home?”
“I've been in touch with Amy Salem, and I think there's a great deal we can do,” George said. “Right now we're trying to get financing for Mrs. Salem, so that we can purchase the materials to complete the renovations on their home. I think the outlook is excellent, but I do worry about their living conditions in the interim.”
Diane shook her head. “I had no idea Joey was living in such poor conditions, but it does explain a few things, some of his behavior.”
“I wasn't invited inside their trailer,” I said, “but it looks rustic. They're roughing it.”
“No water or electrical hookup?” Ben winced. “We've got to change that.”
“Perhaps there's a member of our congregation who would take them in for the next six months or so,” Reverend Forest suggested. “Just until the renovation is completed.”
I would have liked to offer, but I had to remember my new homeless status. As the others talked about possibilities, an idea formed. The cottage would be empty. Nate held the lease through June.
“You know,” I interrupted Forest, “there's a furnished cottage opening up for a sublet and it just might be perfect.”
Diane shook her head skeptically. “This time of year?”
“Trust me, it's perfect.” Already I was picturing Joey and Lila opening Christmas gifts by the fireplace, the winter sun shining through the glass bricks and illuminating the blue glass collection. “And I'll be happy to contribute toward the rent, as long as someone else deals with the realtor.”
Ben's eyes connected with mine as he caught my idea. “Not bad,” he said, nodding. “I think it might work.”
26
T
he bells jingled as Ben cracked the door open and shouldered his way in, his hands full with a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries. “What, no customers yet?”
I laughed, tying an apron behind my waist. “It might even be a quiet week, with the regular shipping deadlines over. At this point, most people will just be shopping for small gifts and ornaments to add to their collections.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Ben said as he handed me a cup of coffee.
I nodded at the full tray. “You feeling extra thirsty this morning?”
“I ran into Cracker at Miller's. He said he's coming over. And then there's Georgia.”
“Oh, right!” I'd nearly forgotten that Georgia was coming in early to talk about possible employment. Although the rush had slacked off, The Christmas Elf now had more than enough year-round business to warrant a full-time employee, and with her creative ideas and personal charm, Georgia would be perfect. I tucked holly-printed tissue around a large wreath, then put the gold lid on the gift box. “I could use Georgia's help right now. This is going out by FedEx, along with five other special orders. And this one's going to Chicago.” I tucked a fat stream of brocade red ribbon under the box and started to assemble a bow.
“I'll help you with that,” Ben said, pressing down the ribbon with one thumb. “You tie, I'll hold.”
“Thanks. And thanks for all your help this weekend. It was great of you to play Santa again.”
“As I said, I've got the hair.”
I snipped the end of ribbon and shook my head. “Santa has snow white hair. Yours is more silver.”
“Premature gray. I worried too much in my younger days.”
“And do you worry now?” I asked.
“Only about things that matter. About making sure children are warm and well-fed.”
“You really
are
Santa Claus.”
“About a certain girl who found herself stranded on an island.”
That gave me pause. Partly because most people were too politically correct to use the term “girl,” partly because it took a moment to realize he meant me. “You worry about me? That's so sweet.” My heart was beating a little faster than usual, and the potpourri spices seemed sharp and heady in the air. “I'm not stranded. Not really. I'm happy to be here, and Roxanne thinks she'll be able to find me a condo in January. 'Til then, Lola's stuck with me. Except when I'm in New York.” I shot a look at the calendar. “Holy Christmas! I have to make plane reservations. Or maybe I should drive. I don't know.”
“You could stay here,” Ben said, picking up a cluster of berries from my worktable. “We could have a small party. Cracker and Serge will be here. Georgia and Daniel.”
I looked up at him, my heart beating painfully in my ribs. More than anything, I wanted to spend Christmas with Ben, and it wasn't until this precise moment that I put that together in my mind. Mysterious, quiet Ben. Benjamin Slater, who sat by the fire and read his newspapers and brought me coffee and helped to entertain the customers. Ben whose deep, soft voice soothed everyone's worries.
“Ben . . .” I reached out and put my hand over his. “I can't spend Christmas with you.” He glanced away, disappointed. “Even though I'd love to! There's nothing I'd love more, but I promised my sister I'd go to New York, and she had this major health scare last year so I can't really get out of it. But . . . I've got a suite booked at the Waldorf and. . . .”
What was I suggesting? Here Ben was holding out an olive branch and I was snatching it up and jumping his bones.
“I mean . . . you can have it. The suite. I mean, if you want to come to New York.” His fingers curled under mine, his touch warm and soothing, maybe a little arousing, unless that was just wishful thinking.
“Why would I take it?” he said softly, lifting my hand and stepping around my work table to close the distance between us. “A suite at the Waldorf would be no fun without you in it.”
I was worried that he'd feel my heart thumping as he pulled me against him, but then it didn't seem to matter. Because we were kissing and his breathing was heavy, too, and the way his hands moved over my shoulders and back, massaging and melting, and our lips pressed together, the soft texture of his mouth with sweet coffee taste, the soapy smell of his skin, the thick, silky feel of his hair. . . .
We kissed and cuddled, and I wanted to cry over my own idiocy, over the way that time unravels certain mysteries that simply cannot be revealed until destiny allows. Ben had been here all along, right before my eyes, but then, I'd been suffering from cloudy vision.
The bell at the door jingled, and Ben ended the series of kisses with a sigh. “Jingle bells. Sounds like an angel just got her wings.”
I smiled and pressed my head against his chest, unable to let go just yet. “That's a beautiful symbol,” I said.
He touched my chin and lifted my head. “To hell with symbols; I think it's true.”
And he let me go with a squeeze of my hand, then went to his chair by the fire as Cracker sauntered up to my work table, grabbed a coffee and mouthed: YOU AND BEN?
I nodded, then laughed as I fell back on a stool, pretending to start a new wreath, though mostly I was just fingering beads and sorting out tiny ornaments, my mind consumed by overwhelming joy.
“Well, sugar,” Cracker drawled, cocking an eyebrow, “score one for Voodoo Eggnog.”

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