Authors: Dee Willson
“You’re on
your own. It takes everything in my power to find a gift my husband won’t
forget by New Year’s Eve.” A memory makes her scowl.
“I’ll find
something, I hope.”
“Take
Thomas shopping. He’ll help you find something good for your brother, something
manly and masculine.” Mischief pulls tiny wrinkles at the sides of her mouth.
For some
reason Bryce comes to mind. When Mrs. Maples arrived to babysit tonight,
eyebrows drawn on lopsided, she told me to call Bryce Waters. No reason, no
explanation, I was just to call him. Tonight, I was to call him tonight. I
studied her, confused. I wasn’t even aware she knew Bryce. And what would I
call him for? Like many of my chats with Mrs. Maples, it was an odd
conversation without segue. And as usual, she waved away my questions, smiling,
swatting me out the door with her cane.
I shake my
head clear. “See you tomorrow, Karen.” I grab my stuff and leave.
What is it
with friends and their need to hook me up with men?
The car is
cold, slow, and by the time I stand on his doorstep about to knock, my
confidence has waned. What the hell am I doing? This is a bad idea. I can’t
drag some guy from his house to go to the mall with me. I should just go by
myself. Pulling my coat tight, I turn around and walk back to my car.
“Tess? Is
everything okay? What’s wrong?”
I turn
around to see Thomas standing in his doorway, obviously concerned. He’s naked,
but for shorts and a tiny towel slung around his neck. I quickly divert my
stare. Now I know what all the fuss was about. The man looks quite nice all
sweaty and ripped.
“Nothing
has happened, Thomas, don’t worry. Sofia is fine. I phoned Mrs. Maples and the
kids are sound asleep.”
When I
asked Mrs. Maples if she minded staying another hour or two, she said she’d
raised a brood the size of a wolf pack and two itty-bitty girls wouldn’t pose a
break in her stride.
“You
okay?” Thomas says, his voice coming closer.
“You must
be freezing, go back inside. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“No
bother, what’s up?”
“I’m thinking
about heading to the mall,” I say to my car.
“Okay,” he
says, drawing the word out slowly.
“I need a
Christmas gift for my brother and could use a guy’s opinion.”
Thomas
chuckles. “I’m a guy.”
I think of
him holding Abby in his arms. “Um hmm.” Somewhere in my subconscious a proper
invitation prances, just slightly out of reach.
“Give me
twenty minutes to—”
“I don’t
want to interrupt. Tonight is your free night.”
“Right,”
he says, “my night, my choice, and I’d like to be with you. I was working out,
but I’m done. It’ll only take a few minutes to shower and get dressed.”
I’m
wondering if this is such a good idea when Thomas grunts. I hear him head back
to the house and when I spin to see if he’s ditched me, he throws me a set of
keys from the doorway.
“Either
come inside or wait in my truck,” he says then chuckles. “I won’t fit in that
miniature shit-box of yours.”
I pretend
to be shocked. “Don’t dis the Magic Carpet,” I yell, making my way to Thomas’s
truck. “Ignore him,” I mumble to my car in passing. Magic Carpet is the beat-up
Volkswagen Bug I inherited from my mother. She’s sunflower yellow and qualified
for the seniors discount at Jiffy Lube fourteen years ago when my mother and I
drove her to the Grand Canyon. I love her, but she is a shit-box.
Unlocking
the doors to Thomas’s truck, I shimmy into the passenger seat and make myself
comfortable. It’s a nice truck, new and fully loaded from the looks of it. The
smell of pine is overwhelming. I shake my coat off. Fatigue hits me, the dark
insisting it’s bedtime, but I can’t get the damn seat to recline so I toss my
jacket over the console and climb onto the back bench, spreading out. I’ve got
twenty minutes to catch a quick catnap.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
. . .
I hear a
faint tapping but my body doesn’t respond as I float in a blissful state of
sleep.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
. . .
I move in
slow motion, the dim dashboard light confusing my retinas. My skin is toasty
warm, muscles placid. I tilt my head, a slight shift toward the tapping sound.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
. . .
A dark
shadow appears in the window and for an instant fear raises the hair on my
scalp.
“Thomas!”
I reach to unlock the door.
Thomas
climbs in the back, all teeth, rumbling laugh vibrating his throat. “You sleep
like the dead,” he says, grabbing the headrest to turn around. “It’s all right,
don’t get up.” He lifts my feet and sits, placing my feet in his lap.
I plop
into my original spot and attempt to pull my feet in, but Thomas holds tight.
He smells like soap and cologne. It dawns on me how intimate this is. We’re in
tight quarters, alone. Being surrounded by tall, thick trees doesn’t help
either. I steal a glance at Thomas; the words
now what
hang in the air
like the smoke from a sparkler.
“Well,
this is weird,” I whisper.
“Are you
still tired? You were out of it when I knocked on the window.”
“I’m awake
now.” And my heart’s pumping at full throttle, like the Titanic plowing through
mountains of ice.
Thomas
looks at me, gathering the sleeves of his snug sweater. “You’re still half
asleep.”
I close my
eyes. “No. I’m here.” But I shouldn’t be. We should go.
“Can I
kiss you?”
I look at
Thomas. He’s puffed up, holding his breath. My head feels thick and I can’t
think clearly. Do I want him to kiss me? Will there be sparks?
“I . . .
guess.”
Thomas
looks as stunned as I feel. He expels a full chest of air with a long whoosh
and then goes rigid, his eyes piercing mine. I wait, thinking he’s changed his
mind.
“Maybe we
should go,” I murmur, questioning my use of the word maybe.
The man
decides quickly. His arm slides over my chest and he threads his fingers
through my hair, cradling my head. Our body’s touch, blood heating my face and
neck. I wet my lips, mimicking him. His lips touch mine, warm, and we both
freeze.
It isn’t
happening.
“Let’s try
this again,” mumbles Thomas.
He kisses
me, slow, careful, lips cautious. My eyes close and I’m able to melt into the
kiss.
The pace
quickens, his grasp tightening in my hair. I match his vigor, my fingers
plunging into his thick curls. Thomas groans a deep growl trapped in his
throat. The sound releases heat that spreads throughout my limbs, burning
extremities. His torso presses into me, pinning my arm under its weight. The
sound of wet lips and heavy breathing fills the air and my head swims in heat.
Is this
wrong?
His lips
rush over my jaw and down my throat. His fingers slide under my shirt and I
shiver. My back arches in response to his touch. The echoes of hungry moans
ricochet off the windows. My previously pinned hand shimmies beneath his
sweater, groping strong muscles in his side. Man, he feels good. But what the
hell am I doing?
His muscles contract as he pulls me closer, tighter,
our clothes inconvenient. His thigh slips between my legs, and heat surges into
aching parts, wanting parts, parts barren too long. Soft fingertips slip under
my bra, and I gasp. Thomas moans. This feels good. Really good.
Holy shit,
this feels like Meyer.
Thomas
stops, his entire body falling motionless. His mouth hovers on my neck, over
the spot where my beating heart confesses to his swollen lips. Nothing but the
sound of labored breathing pierces the silence.
“You don’t
bite, do you?”
“I might.”
His lips form a smile on my neck. “We should save this for somewhere other than
the back of my truck.”
Panic
provokes the butterflies in my stomach. Save this? As in do it again? I can’t
do this again. I shouldn’t have let this happen this time. What is wrong with
me?
Thomas
places soft kisses on my ear. “Do you want to go inside?”
A part of
me screams
yes
. Not the most rational part, but the part supposed to be
dating BOB. I ignore it. I stare at the window. Moisture plummets in suicidal
streaks. How appropriate.
Thomas
wants love. He wants a wife. And I’m not volunteering.
Thomas
feels my resolve without me having to say a word, which I’m grateful for, since
I’m currently not capable of articulating a thing. He carefully untangles his
hand from my hair and gathers my arm from under his sweater. We maneuver into
sitting, sets of arms and legs finding ways to fit.
“To the
mall,” he says, gripping my hand.
It’s a
simple statement. With so much meaning.
I
navigate
the church parking lot, slowly, begging Abby to keep the door closed until I
park. Her tiny fingers are jammed into the door handle, and I’ve got her dress
held in a vice-grip while I beep and buzz, pretending to be a car alarm, a
computerized voice suggesting she
keep all limbs inside until the vehicle
has come to a complete stop
.
What I
really need is a battery-operated advisor who counsels regarding life. One that
says,
do not kiss men who should remain friends
. Or,
stay away from
men who have you questioning your sanity.
For a
while, after fooling around with Thomas, I felt like a teenager, like a touch
could set me on fire. But these feelings of lust came with other not-so-nice
feelings. Like guilt. And by the time we arrived at the mall, the spark, if I
hadn’t imagined it, was gone. Thomas fell back into our routine of comfy
friendship, walls thin, but up, we didn’t hold hands, didn’t kiss. Intimacy
didn’t change our relationship into something more. Why not? It should have,
shouldn’t it?
And then
there is Bryce. I haven’t even figured out why he enters into the equation, but
he does. Reality is, I barely know the man. Yet there is something about him I
can’t shake. Do I let these lingering feelings lead to something? Or do I stay
away and pretend they don’t exist?
Being with
Meyer taught me a lot about myself, my wants and needs, but I am no longer the
reckless teen I once was, and I’m no longer alone. I have Abby to think about.
As I ponder
this, a more rational thought enters my mind. I really miss Grams. Florida is
too far.
“All
right, kiddo, now you can open the door.”
We leave
our coats in the car and shuffle between parked cars. I escort Abby through the
stage door and tuck my purse into its usual spot behind the velvet curtain
while Sofia dances toward us in her camel costume.
“Okay, my
little birds,” I say, drawing Abby and Sofia in for a mommy-sandwich hug. “You
two go out there, be the best shepherd and camel you can be, smile, and have
fun.” My attempt to plant a kiss on Abby’s head is thwarted as she runs off
with Sofia, giggling.
Time to
find my seat for the show.
Standing
on the bottom stair, I attempt a head count. Bodies bop every which way, the
air thick with perfume and cologne. It looks as though our entire town’s
population has packed into the main hall of the church. This is an enlightening
phenomenon, seeing Carlisle is dusted with a potpourri of faiths. I lose count
when I see Thomas and Bryce making their way toward me from opposite
directions.
“Great
turn out, huh?” says Karen, embracing me with a hug. She’s come out of nowhere.
“Full
house.”
I look
over Karen’s shoulder. Thomas has stopped dead in his tracks.
“Good
evening, ladies.”
Bryce’s
voice slides up my spine like silk. I turn around.
Ah, those
eyes. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him, the flesh and blood him that is, and
my daydreams don’t do him justice. He’s traversed somewhere tropical, bronzing
his skin, making him even more beautiful than I remember.
“Glad you
made it,” says Karen, pulling his gaze from mine.
Bryce
plants a kiss on Karen’s cheek, first the right and then the left. “Wouldn’t
miss it for the world,” he says.
Karen hugs
Bryce, lingering in his arms, and I’m shocked by my instinctual urge to pull
them apart.
“How was
your trip?” My mouth delivers the words but my head wants to know where my
hello kisses are?
Bryce
sways toward me, stopping mid step.
“Productive,”
he says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He looks great in a suit and
tie, debonair. “I was at a conference in Athens, presenting bone flutes from a
site in
Jiahu
, China.”
Karen taps
her watch. “Almost show time.” She blows kisses and disappears into the crowd.
“Bone
flutes, huh, made of animal bone?”
“Some
animal, some human. Most musical instruments of the time were crafted from
degradable materials like leather or wood,” he says, “but flutes made of bone
have survived years of elemental abuse, and these examples, while dated
slightly later than 8000 BC, were still playable.”
“Fascinating,”
I say, truly intrigued. “I’ve been reading about Atlantis. I can see why
you’re—”
“Drivel,”
says Thomas, surprising me from behind. “Atlantis is nothing but myth, a legend
touted by decaying minds.”
“Thomas,
this is Bryce. Bryce, this is Thomas.”
Neither
man moves to shake or exchange greetings. No one even cracks a smile.
“Troy was
myth until 1871, when a German archaeologist discovered it under layers of
mountain in Turkey, proving the legendary Trojan War to be historical fact,”
says Bryce.
“Fact is
subjective,” says Thomas.
“Results
are subjective. Fact is theory proven. The Ice Age theory was born when geology
was in its infancy and technology primitive. Today, facts show the obvious
flaws in the theory, disproving it.”
“Sure . . .
and we didn’t evolve from apes,” Thomas says, sardonic.
“Evolution.
Also a theory.”
The two of
them argue without emotion, the effect disturbing, yet I sense I’ve been here
before, like the three of us have had this same discussion.
“Freaky,”
I mumble.
“I agree,”
says Thomas, glaring at Bryce.
“I mean
the déjà vu. I just felt like I’d heard this before.”
“Déjà vu
is your soul recalling a snippet from a past incarnation,” says Bryce. “It’s
your—”
“It’s time
we had a seat,” says Thomas, attempting to take my hand.
I pull
away and step back to view the two of them standing a few feet apart, glowering
at each other.
Bryce
sighs, turning to me. “I saved you a seat if you wish to join me.”
“Tess is
sitting with me.”
Bryce
stares past me at Thomas. “Tess can sit wherever—”
“She sits
with me.”
“Enough!”
I regard them both. “What is it with you two?” Thomas’s possessiveness has me
pissed, and Bryce . . . I point to the right of the stage. “I’ll
be sitting over there. Alone. I’m responsible for the light switches during the
performance. Lucky me.”
I inhale
deeply, about to give Thomas a piece of my mind, but he stomps off, swiftly
vanishing into the throng.
“I guess
I’ll see you later,” says Bryce, shifting uncomfortably. He endeavors to pull
together a smile but falls short.
I wave and
walk away, already devising a plan to avoid them both after the show.
The music
starts and my brooding fades as I rush to my seat and focus on the curtains
that have opened to reveal three boys walking through a desert setting. The boy
in the blue velvet robe I painstakingly sewed steps forward to speak his lines.
“I am Melchior, and I am wealthy. My entire life I’ve watched the stars and I
know them all by sight. Tonight, there is a new star that dazzles my eyes as it
outshines, by far, all the others in the sky.”
The second
boy jumps forward to stand next to Melchior. He says, “My name is Caspar, and I
believe I know the story this star tells. Soon there will be a birth; the birth
of a prince, a king, our ruler!”
The third
child raises his hands, displaying a large perfume bottle. Stepping to stand
beside the other two, he belts, “I, Balthazar, will bring myrrh to the new
babe. We shall follow the star that will lead us to our savior.” His exuberance
prompts a rumble of laughter from the audience.
Another
boy steps out from behind the curtain dressed in the outfit that took me over
four hours to make. It has gold buttons and gold-sequin trim, giving him the
royal air due to his character. He searches for his spot on the floor marked
with masking tape and a red dot and when he locates it he pounces like a lion,
coming to stand tall and proud. Again the crowd erupts. “I am Herod, the king,”
he says, pointing a finger. “You three men, you shall go forth and find this
babe!”
The boys
flee the stage, ducking their heads to run under a raised section of curtain.
Herod is the only one left on stage and this is my cue. I flick all three sets
of switches, bringing the house into complete darkness. One spotlight
highlights Herod, casting a villainous shadow as he announces, “There shall be
no other ruler but me. I will find this babe, and he will cease to be.” He
laughs a menacing laugh, the kind you hear in horror movies, but it sounds so
strange coming from a child with a high-pitched voice that the crowd laughs
again.
The
curtain closes and people take the opportunity to chat. Comments are hurled
across aisles to friends and family, mingling with the noise of skidding shoes,
and the squeal of the piano as its pushed center stage.
When the
curtains open I immediately search for Abby. She’s at the far end of the front
row, holding tight to Sofia. Her patent leather Mary Janes tap in anxious
spurts. I’m so proud I could scream, and it takes a conscious effort to keep my
ass in the chair. I reach to adjust the lighting, and Mrs. Johnson pounds the
piano keys, cueing the kids. The kids sing off key and slow but they try really
hard. I fumble for my cell. Abby looks adorable in her holiday dress, and my
view through the lens is so distorted I have to swipe tears to take the
picture.
What I
would give to have Meyer here right now . . .
The choir
sings their last song, the curtain closes, and the noise resumes. I sense
someone staring. I pivot and locate Thomas two rows in, sporting the forced
grin of the guilty.
“Sorry,”
he mouths.
I keep my
response to myself, determined to keep my attention on the show, which has
resumed, to Abby as a shepherd standing center stage with the three wise men.
Melchior
says, “The route is clear, the light is strong, I hardly think we can go
wrong.” He points to the paper-
mache
star hanging
above the stable by a skinny wire. It glows from within, utterly magical, and I
steal a glance at the audience, delighted to witness their rapture in my
handmade miracle. I should ask Karen if I can keep the star. I hate the thought
of it collecting dust in the church storage room, and it would make a cool
light fixture in Abby’s room.
The three
boys pass the camel reins (one attached to Sofia) to Abby. She says her first
line, “Inside the stable a wonderful . . . oops, I mean
wondrous . . . a wondrous sight that filled their hearts with
great delight. A baby lay in a wooden manger yet smiled upon these three rich
strangers.” Abby beams, sticking the end of her tongue out from between her
teeth, and I clap with extraordinary enthusiasm, trying to keep my hovering
rear in the seat.
A distant
part of my brain registers laughter so I scan the audience for the source only
to find all eyes on me. Heat flushes my face and I drop to my chair.
The wise
men present their gifts to baby Jesus. Mary lifts the baby from the manger,
pulling a cord, and he cries over the audience’s collective
ah
. The
camels spit, the donkey heehaws, and my daughter speaks her last line with
perfect clarity. An angel appears on the roof of the manger, having climbed a
ladder unseen, and when the last word is spoken the audience rises, hooting and
hollering their endorsement.
The show
was a resounding success.
A moment
later my baby girl is tightly wound around my legs.
“You were
wonderful!” I say, swinging her around.
“Did you
see me, Mom? Did you see me?”
“Are you
kidding? I watched your every move. Totally cool.” I plant a mushy kiss on her
cheek then chuckle as she wipes my saliva off her face, annoyed. “I’m so proud
of you!”
“The
lights were bright. I couldn’t see you, Mama.”
“I was
here the whole time.” I show her the yellow chair that had difficulty
containing me for the performance.
Bryce
walks over and tickles Abby. “Good job, young lady,” he says as Abby squeals,
almost falling from my arms. He looks at me. “What a wonderful show. I heard
you made the beautiful costumes.”
“Yes, a
comical sight. You should’ve seen me work the old sewing machine.”
“Lots of
laughs,” says Thomas, having snuck up beside me. “We were a great team.”
I take a deep
breath. I’m pleased the two of them are behaving, but I’m too tired to maintain
a pretense. “Fun had by all. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I should
congratulate Karen before I go.”
“You’re
not going to the bistro?” Thomas says.
The
families involved in the pageant made plans to celebrate at the bistro after
the show. I hadn’t decided if Abby and I were going. “I think we’ll pass,
Thomas.” I peek at my tiny shepherd, noting her slight wobble. “I’m beat and
Abby’s had a busy weekend.”