Remembering Christmas (5 page)

Rick smiled. Got an A minus. Teacher wrote a little note: “This could have been an A plus if you’d checked your spelling.”

Now those same riverfront homes were owned by doctors and lawyers and commercial real estate developers who could live in them all year long, cool as can be. And whenever they pleased, they could shove off the dock in their big sailboats and cruise up and down the river, mocking the rest of mankind.

Suddenly, the guy behind him honked his horn. Rick jumped like someone had smacked him in the head. He looked up. The bridge was down. Cars were moving again. “All right, all right,” he said, gave a brief wave.

The bridge dumped the traffic onto the old downtown section of Seabreeze. If you took away the sun and palm trees, threw in some snow and old-timey cars, it looked just like the streets George Bailey ran down in
It’s a Wonderful Life
. What was the name of that town . . . Bedrock something.
No, you idiot, that’s the Flintstones
. What was it? Bedford Falls. That was it. He turned left at the second light.

Right up ahead was St. Luke’s. Same as it ever was. He could see the familiar little sign in the corner sticking out over the sidewalk: The Book Nook. He drove past McAlister’s, then a liquor store, a lamp store, a closed-down shoe repair shop, and a women’s apparel store, which brought him to the intersection across from St. Luke’s. He wondered how many of these stores would be here six months from now when the mall opened up out by the highway.

He’d seen what the mall phenomenon was doing all across the country. He thought it was a wonderful thing.

Rick walked down a handful of steps and through the front door. An attractive brunette looked up from the counter and smiled. She had thick, wavy hair tied back with barrettes. She wore a white, Christmassy sweater and blue jeans. “You must be Andrea,” Rick said.

“I am.” She smiled even wider at the mention of her name. “You must be Rick.” She stepped toward him, holding out her hand.

It was soft. Some jewelry but no wedding ring.

“So sorry to hear about your father,” she said, her face shifting to instant concern. “Any word this morning? I wanted to visit before I came in, but your mom said they weren’t allowing any visitors.”

Rick chafed at the father remark. He’d have to clear that up in a little while. “Nothing new that I’m aware of.” Of course, there might be. He hadn’t called his mother yet today. He brushed away a guilty thought, reminding himself of how rushed he’d been that morning.

“I was so shocked,” she said. “It came out of nowhere. He seemed fine on Wednesday.”

“Strokes are like that,” Rick said.

“You haven’t heard? They don’t think he had a stroke now. They’re saying he had a brain aneurysm. That’s what your mom said this morning.” She walked back behind the counter.

His mom did say something about that, he thought. “She was crying so much last night, I couldn’t catch all the details.” He hung his jacket up on a coatrack in the corner. “Say, what’s with Columbo out there?”

“Excuse me?”

“The guy in the wrinkled raincoat, hanging around the stairway.”

Andrea laughed.

Rick did too, then said, “He asked me if I’m the one. I said, ‘What do you mean, am I the one?’ Then he says, the one that’s bringing his Egg McMuffin from now on.”

Andrea laughed harder and put her hand up over her mouth in a cute sort of way. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to beat it before I call the cops.”

Her face showed concern. “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that.” She hurried past him toward the door. “That was JD. He’s this homeless guy, really harmless. Your dad’s been buying him an Egg McMuffin every morning, for over a year now.”

Your dad
.

“JD’s the one who found him and called 911.” She walked outside, calling JD’s name. Rick began to follow her, but she turned and came back. “He’s gone.”

“I didn’t know,” Rick said. She walked past him and went behind the counter.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow. He might even be back in a little while for coffee. That’s the routine. He gets an Egg McMuffin and a cup of coffee, then he’s on his way.”

Or, Rick thought, you tell him to beat it or you’ll call the cops.

A better routine.

The morning had started off slow. Just a handful of customers by 10:30. Andrea had used the time to help Rick get familiar with the cash register. About the fourth time through, things began to click. Rick had every confidence he’d eventually master this thing, given that he had a master’s degree in accounting. He didn’t mention this achievement to Andrea, although the urge had presented itself several times.

He knew he’d better figure out the register, because he had no business helping customers. He didn’t know where anything was, hadn’t read any of the books or listened to any of the albums, and, honestly, didn’t care about any of the religious gifts the store sold. What puzzled Rick the most was that the store had any customers at all.

He’d been to the Book Nook a few times back in high school but had never paid attention to how bad it looked. Starting with the uneven steps leading down from the sidewalk. No, back up . . . starting with the store’s location. Stuck in the basement of an old church building in the dying, downtown section of Seabreeze. An area that had become a gathering place for transients and the homeless more than tourists and shoppers.

Like that JD guy, who did come back a few minutes after Rick chased him off. “I forgot to get my coffee,” he’d said. Andrea had poured him a cup, seemed to know exactly how he liked it. Then he was gone. Who needed riffraff like that hanging around the store?

Rick sat on a stool behind the counter. Andrea sat next to him writing something furiously on a pad. She lifted the first page then a sheet of carbon paper and started on a second page. When she finished that, she began cutting the pages with scissors. “What are you doing?”

“A little project for your mom,” she said without looking up. “All our customers love your folks. Everyone who hears what happened will want to rush right out to the hospital. I thought I’d write out what happened then cut them up in little notes to give to everyone who comes in.”

Rick picked up one of the squares:

Art is very sick in the hospital—an aneurysm.

The doctor said no visitors or phone calls.

Please pray for a miracle.

She was writing this out by hand, over and over. “How many of these you going to make?”

“I don’t know. I figured I’d start with fifty, then see if I need more later. While I’m in the aisles helping customers, can you make sure everyone who comes to the register gets one?”

“Sure.” He watched her a moment then looked up, did a slow pan of the store. What a dump. The paint was peeling on three walls. The back wall was covered with cheap beige paneling. Bright green Astroturf brought some color into the room. In the main aisle, two seams were joined by duct tape. None of the bookshelves matched. The store was empty.

“Does it ever get any busier than this?” he asked.

Andrea looked up. “It will. About a half hour from now, it’ll probably be nonstop until we close. That’s why I’m doing this now. Saturdays get pretty busy, usually just before lunch. But today we’ll probably be swamped because of the Thanksgiving sales. You think you can handle the cash register now?”

“I think so.” Rick looked down at the keys, tried to mentally repeat the steps she’d shown him. He’d been a little distracted with her standing right next to him. It was more than her looks or even her light perfume. She gave off something he used to call “good vibes.”

“With the next few customers I’ll stand beside you but let you ring them up.”

“I’d like that.” Not what he meant to say
.
“That’ll work,” he said. She didn’t seem to notice his slip about liking to stand beside her.

“Oh my gosh!” Andrea stood straight up. “Your mom would shoot me.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I forgot the music.” She hurried toward the back of the store.

“The music?”

“Your folks always have music playing through the store,” she yelled out. “One of them puts it on, usually your mom.”

Your folks
. He looked at the front door. Still no customers. He heard a scratching sound above and behind him. He turned and saw a little white speaker on a wooden shelf in the corner. A few moments later, music began to play. A group of male singers he didn’t recognize began to sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Not his cup of tea, but the harmonies weren’t half bad.

“That too loud?” Andrea asked. “It’s the new Christmas album by the Imperials.”

“Maybe a little.”

“How’s that?”

“Maybe you better come back. I don’t know what you’re used to.”

“Be right there.”

She came out of the little corner office and walked down the center aisle. She really was an attractive woman, and he loved the brightness in her eyes. When she reached the counter, her expression changed.

“What’s wrong?”

She came behind the counter and reached for a tissue. “They should be here now . . . your parents. I’m so worried about Art. And your mom must be so scared, poor thing. Never met anyone who trusts God more than her, but—” She wiped tears from her eyes.

He wanted to comfort her somehow but felt a tad hypocritical. He hadn’t thought of either one of them since he’d come into the store. Except to get annoyed every time she talked as if Art was his father. “Have they told you much about me?”

“What?”

“My mom and Art, they ever talk about me?”

“Sometimes. I know they’re very proud of you.”

“How do you know that?”

“When they talk about you, about your job there in . . . where is it?”

“Charlotte.”

“Right, at that big CPA firm.”

He found this hard to believe. “You said
they
. Art too?”

She nodded. “I think he’s your biggest fan.”

“You’re kidding.” Clearly, she wasn’t.

“That surprises you?”

“I guess it does. We’ve never really been that close, Art and me.”

“You call your father Art?”

“He’s not my father.” He tried to say it politely, restraining his annoyance.

“He’s not? I had no idea.”

“My mom and real dad split up when I was ten. She married Art a few years later.”

She paused, seemed puzzled. “Did you go live with your dad?”

“No.”

“It’s none of my business, I’m just wondering why you and Art aren’t close. I mean, if you didn’t live with your dad, you must have lived with your mom and Art quite a while.”

“I did, up through high school.” Now he wanted this conversation to end.

“It’s just, Art is such a wonderful man. But I guess it must have been hard to get close to him with your real dad around. I can see how that would be difficult for a little boy to sort out. Art has helped me so much. I kinda treat him like a father figure. Hope you don’t mind me saying it.”

“I don’t mind. Actually, my real dad
wasn’t
around. I haven’t seen him since . . . well, since he and my mom split up.”

“I’m sorry.” Now she seemed totally confused.

“It’s a long story,” Rick said, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Well, one thing you said makes perfect sense now. I understand why your mom gets me so well. I’ve never met anyone like her. When I talk, it’s like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Even if I get tripped up trying to explain myself. She’ll say, ‘You mean this?’ and it will be exactly what I was trying to say. I never knew she’d been a single mom before.”

Rick didn’t get how this connected. His confusion must have shown.

“I’m a single mom too,” Andrea said. “I have a six-year-old daughter named Amy.”

“Oh,” he said.

“I love her to bits, but sometimes it gets really hard raising her on my own. Half the time I feel like I’m doing it wrong. I’ll make some decision, try to be firm, then Amy will get so upset, like I’ve broken her heart. I try to hold the line, but inside I’m thinking:
Just let her do it
. Last week I was talking to your mom about an argument I had with Amy on the way to school, where once again she’s asking me to let her do something, and I had to say no. Amy left the car and gave me this look, like she hated me. You know what your mom said?”