The Perfect Love Song (4 page)

“Missing him will become part of every day, and it gets better. I promise.”

Charlotte rolled dough onto the countertop. “I hope so. I really hope.”

Yes, hope. What the holidays are all about.

C
hristmas Day arrived as most days do: while we sleep. Yet Charlotte awoke at midnight, for no real reason at all (that she knows about anyway). She sat up in bed and then walked across the hardwood floor to the window. She stared into the dark night where the neighbors’ multicolored Christmas lights blinked like frantic eyes. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered to herself, to the world. She pictured Jimmy’s bus moving
down Highway 16 toward Palmetto Pointe, toward her, toward Christmas Day.

This was the only present she wanted that day—to see Jimmy. Little did she know that his present to her was more than anything she could have asked for. Charlotte crawled back into bed with a smile.

W
ith family gathered in the warm Larson living room, there was a lull—a beautiful, syncopated beat between notes—after everyone had opened gifts and before dinner, and this is when Jack proposed to Kara in front of the family and the Christmas tree. Jimmy knew this would happen, and he’d waited all day, hoping for Jack to hurry so Jimmy could sneak off and sing Charlotte her song, so Charlotte would know Jimmy did have a gift for her, just not one she could unwrap.

After the hugs and tears, Kara lifted her glass. “I know it is love that brought us together, but I might not have had the courage to go looking for Jack Sullivan if Maeve Mahoney hadn’t reminded me how authentic love feels, if she hadn’t asked me this one question: ‘Would you wait for him if you knew, if you really knew, he’d return to you?’ When she asked me that, I knew, before I knew I knew, that of course I’d wait a lifetime if he were really returning. So instead of
waiting, what did I do? I went to find him. So here’s to Maeve Mahoney, her stories and her questions.”

Overlapping voices shouted, “Hear! Hear!” as the glasses clanged together like heaven’s wind chimes. The wedding talk began. Rosie and Charlotte talked one over the other with Kara and Deidre until the men—Porter, Brian, Jack, and Jimmy—slipped into the kitchen to collect appetizers and more champagne.

When they returned to the living room, Kara smiled. “Okay we think we have the best idea ever.”

“And?” Jack took her hand.

“Ireland. Let’s get married in Ireland at Maeve’s church—that chapel she always talked about in Claddagh. Next year. This time. Christmas Day.”

Jack smiled. “Perfect. Seriously perfect.”

And as the details filled the warm conversation, Jimmy motioned for Charlotte to follow him to the back hall. He wanted to sing her his love song. He took her onto the back porch—the place love had grabbed his heart. He brought his guitar out of the case, strummed until he felt it was in tune. “Charlotte,” he said, “someday I hope to buy you the most beautiful gift in the world, but today all I have for you is a song. I wrote it at Thanksgiving.” There was a nervous edge to his words that Charlotte had never heard before.

She leaned forward and took his hand. “A song? Are you serious?”

He nodded. “There was this moment when you walked across the room and I was completely overwhelmed with love. Words filled my head, and I went down to the old footbridge at the end of the road. That’s where I was when I disappeared for a while.”

“I just thought you were exhausted of us.” She smiled, trying not to cry before she even heard the words.

“So,” he said, “this is my song to you.” He played a few notes.

She put her hand on his to stop him for a moment. “What is it called?”

“‘Undeserved.’”

And he sang. I believe the angels sang with him. No, I know the angels sang with him. And Charlotte cried silent tears that were the good kind of tears—ones of filling, not emptying. The family, who had snuck up and been listening the whole time, now burst through the door, and their private moment became a shared moment. And for the first time in Jimmy’s life, he believed that Christmas just might be different from any other day.

I
’m not the biggest fan of New Year’s Eve parties. It seems to be a night made for disappointment. All those songs and poems and parties about the new year, that big crystal ball falling in New York City and smaller balls falling all over other cities and other places, and people go putting so much stock into the night, as if the clock turning from 11:59 to 12:00 can change everything. This entire ruckus raises expectations to a level that just can’t be fulfilled in anything but movies and books. I know, I know, it’s the symbolism of a new year, a new start, and more than anyone you know, I believe in symbols, but it has become an extreme sport, this New Year’s Eve-party thing.

All that getting drunk and finding someone to kiss and putting all that importance on resolutions and goals is just enough to make anyone depressed. And from what I can tell, this is mostly what happens on New Year’s Eve—getting drunk and depressed. Ah, but maybe that’s why everyone does all that silly drinking—to NOT think about the kissing and love and resolutions and goals. In my humble opinion (okay, so it’s not so humble), New Year’s Eve should arrive in humble quiet and glory. But that’s just me.

On this particular New Year’s Eve, Jimmy and Charlotte, along with Jack and Kara, went to a concert in Savannah. The Unknown Souls were part of a “Country Music
New Year” concert featuring all the up-and-coming country artists. And this is where it all began—where Jimmy’s fame and therefore Jimmy’s downfall began.

The Lowcountry coast during the holidays is one of the most tender and heart-opening scenes in the world. The lights set against the hanging Spanish moss and whitewashed porches look like angels gathered to sing. That year December arrived in a warm, moist nuzzle. The fancy scarves and hats, they were of no use. Soon January would come in with a freeze that broke all records, but for now there was a reprieve.

The holidays are beautiful anywhere they are celebrated, but they are extraordinary when celebrated in a place that honors the story. Not only the story of Christmas, but the story itself for just what it is.

What I also know—the stories change every year. The people who tell the stories don’t know they change the details a bit every year until the story becomes a living, evolving thing. But here is the beautiful part: It is still the same story even if it sounds a little bit different each time it is told. The important part remains the important part. The essence stays. And this is what happened as Kara, Jack, Jimmy, and Charlotte drove to Savannah on New Year’s Eve. Charlotte drove her convertible because they believed the warm weather would allow them to put the top down, but
after twenty minutes on Highway 16 they decided it wasn’t such a great idea. Charlotte’s heart felt as if it were piled so high and sweet with love that it might burst.

She pulled the car to the side of the road, and Jimmy jumped out to pull the top up. Charlotte turned to the backseat and looked at Kara. “Remember that night your mama took us to see the Christmas lights in Savannah and she got a flat tire?”

Kara’s eyes flashed with tears. “Yes. Oh, my gosh, yes. How do you remember that? We were like eight years old.”

“And you wore a red taffeta dress with this huge green bow, and I wore this silly scratchy wool dress my grandma made for me that Mama forced me to wear so Grandma could see the pictures. And it was just the three of us—me, you, and your mama.”

Kara leaned forward in the seat so she was in between the two front seats, her left leg and arm draped over Jack’s leg. He didn’t mind much. It seemed that every few minutes he was amazed again and again into realizing that this was his love. His Kara. Here was all he’d dreamt of during those years alone, during those years on the road. It was moments—common moments—like these that stunned him the most. Like waking up in the middle of a dream and realizing you didn’t wake up but that it is your life. Just like that.

“And,” Kara said, “Mama got out to change the tire. Remember? And it was freezing, and Christmas carols were on the radio.”

“Yes.” Charlotte raised her hands in the air. “And we were singing them so loudly that your mama came back to the window and asked if we were crying. She thought we were upset.”

Kara laughed in that pure, deep way, and she looked at Jack. “Yeah, you know that and love me anyway, right? You know I can’t sing.”

Jack smiled but didn’t answer. He just wanted to bask in this memory he hadn’t lived but now got to relive.

Charlotte stopped, stared out the window. “And then that car stopped and helped us. It was an old man who didn’t look like he could change his coat much less change a tire.”

The top was up by now, and Jimmy climbed back into the car. Charlotte smiled at him. “We just remembered a time when Mrs. Larson took us to Savannah to see the Christmas lights and she got a flat tire.”

Jimmy smiled. “God, I remember her in this hazy way where I swear I see a halo around her head.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.” Kara looked up to the roof of the car for a moment and then back to Charlotte. “So that old
man changed the tire. Mama told him she could do it—that she knew how. But she was wearing this long black skirt and silver high heels. It was cold out. I remember the heat pumping in the car. But the old man said there was no way he would allow her to change that tire on the left front side because she would be standing up next to the traffic. He changed it in like one minute. It was weird. And then he just drove off without letting us pay or thank him.”

Charlotte nodded as she started the engine. “We had the best night in Savannah. We saw every light and every house and even went on that carriage ride after we’d begged and begged. We drank so much hot chocolate that you got sick on the way home.” She exhaled into the memory.

The car was silent as they—all four of them—slipped into that place of remembrance.

Yes, the essence of that story is true. Margarite Larson was a beautiful woman, but the facts? Well, they are all mixed up. Kara wore silver. Charlotte didn’t even own that scratchy dress yet (she got it for Christmas that year). What is true—the old man. What they don’t know is that he was sent to help. Even in hindsight we don’t always see all the unseen forces at work in our lives. We aren’t always meant to, I suppose. Sometimes help isn’t given for recognition; it’s just given.

Kara, Jack, Charlotte, and Jimmy arrived at the concert safely after passing an accident miles ahead of them, which had been caused by a drunk driver. They would have been involved in this wreck if they hadn’t decided to put up the convertible top. Or maybe if they hadn’t decided to put it down in the first place. Or we could go back even further—if they hadn’t had to wait for Kara to run inside and grab her purse. There are so many things that work themselves into “chance.”

The concert was beautiful. If you ever wonder what an angel sings like, listen to Alison Krauss. An angel’s voice exactly.