Chapter 5 Cleo #2
“Uh, no. Those are actually my props. I…came from work.”
“Joel!” Josephine softly calls out to a very impressive-looking gentleman in a beautiful suit who’s smoking a cigar and chatting with two other men. “Joel! Come meet someone!”
Joel also does a very good job of almost not staring at me like I’m a total weirdo.
“This is Miss Cleo!” Paxton says. “She’s not a real elf. She’s Dad’s date. Remember I told you that you don’t have to worry about him?”
“Well, what do you know?” He shakes my hand too, puts his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and holds my hand with both of his. “Fantastic. Glad to meet you.”
“Very glad to meet you too. You have a really wonderful grandson. And son!” I just have no idea who your son is.
He removes the cigar from his mouth and says, “You want me to call the valet to drag your wagon somewhere?” No acknowledgment of how wonderful his grandson is.
“Um? I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.”
“Oh, nonsense, dear—you just got here!” Josephine says, patting her husband’s arm. “Joel, get a valet to take care of her wagon!”
“She doesn’t want me to.”
“She just doesn’t want to bother you!”
“Oh, but you do, huh?”
“You can finish your cigar while you go for a little walk—just grab her sweet wagon and take it out front. Oh never mind, I’ll do it!”
“For crying out loud, I’ll do it,” Joel mumbles.
Josephine takes the handle from me. “Miss Cleo, we’re taking your adorable wagon out front.”
There are so many important things of mine in there, but I really don’t want to get between two arguing married people and also I want them to stop talking about my wagon. “That’s very kind of both of you—thank you so much.”
Off they go, bickering about which one of them should drag my wagon.
The man who was giving a toast wraps things up. There’s applause. I look down at Paxton. “Is this where you live, Paxton?
“Half the time, yeah. My mom moved in with Barry this year. They just got married.”
“Tonight, huh?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t a big deal thing,” he says. “Because they’ve both been married before. So they decided to have a holiday party too.”
“Well, that sounds nice and low-key. Mazel tov. Are you happy?”
“Uh-huh.” He finishes his cookie and wipes his fingers on his suit jacket. “Oh, here’s your money.” He reaches into a pocket and holds up a small envelope that has his name crossed out and MIS KLEEEEO written under it in red felt pen. “It’s two hundred dollars. Is that enough?”
“Oh, Paxton. I don’t think I should take your money. I think there’s been a big misunderstanding. I thought you were hiring me to entertain kids tonight!”
“Well, you can do that too,” he says, very earnestly. “But I need you to meet my dad first. He’s a nice dad.”
“Well, I’m very happy to hear that.”
“For his job, he makes movies happen.”
“Oh yeah?” As I scan the guests, I’d say most of them make movies happen to some degree or other. I recognize almost every face.
Paxton’s face suddenly lights up. “Have you ever seen the movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs?!”
“Oh my gosh, yes! I love that movie. Did your dad make that movie happen?”
“No, I just really like that one. I love the weird monkey.”
“That monkey is so weird.”
“Yeah.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. He’s probably thinking about the cartoon monkey, but I like that we already have comfortable silences. Aside from the fairly large misunderstanding between us yesterday, I really like talking to this boy.
Paxton looks over toward where the man was giving a speech when I got here. “Oh, it looks like my dad is going to raise the roof.”
There’s a four-piece band now, and a man in a very fine suit with a very fine behind is picking up the microphone.
I think I recognize that behind.
And then he turns around and I see his front.
I definitely recognize his front.
Oh God.
Is that?
“Wait, that’s your dad? The man in the suit holding the microphone?”
“Yeah. That’s my dad. His name is Elijah.”
Oh, holy night shits.
Oh no.
Ohhhh noooooo.
I mean. He looks infuriatingly hot now, but oh shit. Paxton is Elijah’s son, and this is so intense.
“Okay. Umm…” I am screaming the words I HAVE TO GO NOW in my head, but no one else can hear me yet.
Paxton pouts and reaches out to hold my hand.
Dammit.
Well played, adorable child. Well played.
“Don’t be scared,” he says. “He doesn’t remember how to smile, but he’s not mean or anything. Well, he won’t be with you anyway.”
We’ll just have to see about that, Paxton. We’ll see. It looks to me like his dad has been drinking, and when that guy drinks he is either a big ol’ meanie or a huge flirt. And I can’t decide which side of him I hope to see tonight.
Neither of them.
I can’t see either of them.
I have to go.
I start to lower myself down to Paxton’s level, still holding his hand, to explain why he’s about to see a woman’s head explode as she sprints out the back gate.
But then the band starts to play a jazzy nightclub version of a Christmas song, and Elijah Abrams raises the microphone to his lips. “Let’s have ourselves a groovy, old-fashioned kind of Christmas now, shall we?”
Well.
I will obviously be postponing my leave until after I have observed this delightful act of holiday merriment.
Oh my lord, he’s snapping his fingers. Not in a ring-a-ding-ding laid-back swinging rhythm Rat Pack style.
More like he’s scolding a dog to stop eating a steak that fell on the floor or impatiently hailing a cab in New York during a hail storm.
The party guests all seem to know him, though, so they don’t appear to be horrified by his aggressively joyful performance.
“Hey! Hark! The herald angels sing!
Glory to the newborn king.
Sing it with me now!
Peace on Earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled
Are we, though?
Joyful all ye nations wide
Join the triumph of the skies
Let’s hear some angelic hosts proclaim
Come on.
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
Yeah he was!
All right—stop, stop, stop.” He waves a hand at the band. “Arresté fideles—get it?”
Amused groans from the crowd.
“That was hilarious, and you loved it, Shane Miller, you loved it! How do you get your hair to stand up like that, Shane Miller? This fucking guy. Shit, this is a family show. Happy holidays—you didn’t hear me say that!
Now it’s time for me to sing you a festive family-friendly story about gambling and a little something I made out of clay… ”
There are cheers from at least half of the guests.
The band strikes up the dreidel song, and although I am standing here next to Paxton, I am mentally making myself popcorn and settling into a comfy chair.
“He doesn’t usually sing unless it’s my birthday,” Paxton tells me, sighing, as he lets go of my hand and rests his little fists on his little hips like an old man. “I can’t tell if he’s happy or if he’s going kind of crazy.”
“Well, I have a little dreidel
I made it out of clay
And when it’s dry and ready
Then dreidel I will…”
And then he spots me, from across the patio. We lock eyes. He stops singing. The band keeps playing. Other guests continue singing and dancing around. “You…” he says into the microphone, and then he literally drops the mic and makes a beeline for me.
He doesn’t even weave in and out of the crowd, he walks straight toward me, eyes on me, and everyone else gets out of his way.
It’s a little bit terrifying and also kind of baller.
I wouldn’t be able to move even if I wanted to.
I wouldn’t be able to look away even if I wanted to.
I have never seen a pair of nostrils flare so sexily.
“Oh, also!” Paxton tugs at my arm, so I lower myself, and he holds his hand up to whisper into my ear. “My dad still believes in Santa, so you have to go along with it, okay?”
“Roger that!” I rise to find Elijah Christmas-hating theatre-loathing millionaire hot-as-fuck single daddy Abrams standing five feet away from me, staring at my boots. The ones I bought eight years ago to bewitch him.
Now he’s looking back and forth between me and Paxton.
Then he takes a few steps with his long, evil legs toward me, his magnetic blue eyes wide, like he’s trying to determine if I’m a hologram or not. He reaches out to squeeze my arms. Staring at my mouth now, he says, “What the fuck is happening, Curly? How are you here?”