Chapter 8
Eight
I ’m sure you can imagine what happens next.
No, not that!
I mean yes, that happens too, of course. But after that—after I tease my wife through another climax and she happily returns the favor, after we collapse at last in a sweaty, satiated, salty heap, all our responsibilities forgotten?—
We oversleep; that’s what happens. On Christmas morning, of all days!
We miss the alarm that I also, perhaps, may have forgotten to set. We sleep straight through the flurry of texts that briefly light up our family chat group shortly after sunrise. And we only return to consciousness when a commotion coming from inside the house—something my cop senses are primed to respond to—and my son’s high-pitched voice calling loudly for us both, shocks us awake.
“Oh, shit,” I grumble, after a quick glance at the clock reveals the lateness of the hour. “They’re already here? How is that fair?”
“Oh, no!” Scout wails as she fumbles into her robe. “This is terrible! How’d we sleep so late?”
“You know exactly how,” I tell her, just as?—
Still shouting, “Mommy! Daddy!” Cole bursts into the room, making a bee-line for Scout and throwing himself into her arms. Good instincts—like I said. “Santa was here! Come down and see!”
Ho-ly shit. I clap a hand to my mouth and mutter, “Crap!” just as Kate follows her brother into our room looking uncharacteristically annoyed—which strikes me as odd for Christmas morning, until I remember that she’s probably already seen our lack of prep work. “Sorry,” she sighs, sounding not all that sorry. “He’s just too fast. I couldn’t keep him out. But why are you guys still in bed? Do you even know what time it is?”
Scout’s gaze meets mine over Cole’s head. “We forgot about Santa!” she mouths in dismay.
“I know!” I mouth back. Then I wave Kate over and whisper, “Look, can you keep him occupied until we can get downstairs and hang the stockings, and put a few presents under the tree?”
Kate frowns. “What are you talking about? Everything is set up.”
“Everything’s set up where?”
“Where do you think? Under the tree, hanging from the mantel. Did you forget you already did it?” She shakes her head. “Bruh. Is this ’cause you’re old? You’d better start doubling up on the gingko, or something. I’m too young to be an orphan.”
Mystified, I look at Scout. “Did you…?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the staircase.
She points at her chest and shakes her head. “I didn’t. You?”
“When would I have done that?” I snort, meaning: where would I have gotten the strength to move ? “After everything else?” I gaze at her meaningfully. “No. Of course not.”
I can’t help smirking at the blush that heats Scout’s cheeks. Yeah, she caught the subtext just fine.
Luckily, however, my daughter did not. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she says. “Maybe one of you’s a sleepwalker now. Because there was nothing set up yesterday when I stopped by to grab our stuff, and now there is.”
Then, still shaking her head and muttering about old people, Kate reaches for her brother and lifts him off the bed. “C’mon, Cole. Let’s you and me go back downstairs and see what Santa brought us.” Then she favors us both with another disapproving look. “Everyone’s already starting to arrive. So, you should probably hurry.”
“You know,” I say after the kids have departed. “Someday—hopefully not too soon—that kid’s going to make a great parent. Assuming she can lighten up a little. Because, damn…”
I don’t think Scout’s listening, however. Face buried in her hands, she’s shaking her head and chanting repeatedly, “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”
“Are you sure about that?” I have to ask.
Scout drops her hands and scowls at me. “Sure?” she demands in strangled tones. “No, Nick. I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything at the moment.”
“Well, I am,” I tell her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I’m still sure of you and me. Team Greco, remember?”
“Team Patterson-Greco, if you don’t mind,” she corrects, but then she smiles. “You’re right. We’ll get through this, won’t we?”
“We will.,” I assure her. “Just as soon as we figure out what ‘this’ even is. But there’s one more thing I’m sure of—and that’s scaring the crap out of me. If we don’t hurry up and get our butts downstairs STAT, I’m absolutely certain we’re gonna have the whole family barging in here, asking us why not.”
Scout nods. “Yeah. I love your family, but let’s not do that.”
“Our family,” I remind her. “They’re yours now, too. And if you think I’m gonna let you stick me with the whole lot of them all on my own? Well, you can just think again.”
“Coward,” she teases as she climbs out of bed.
“Let me at ’em, let me at ’em,” I tease right back, doing my best Cowardly Lion impression—complete with circling fists. I continue the act as I mock-chase her across the room, and into our bathroom, where I end by giving her butt a satisfying slap. Which is followed by an even more satisfying squeal from her. After that, one thing leads to another and…yeah, you get the picture.
Several minutes later finds us both downstairs, in front of the tree, gazing in confusion at the room around us. Kate had been telling the truth—not that I really thought otherwise, of course. It’s just that I don’t like things that I can’t understand. And this is definitely one of them.
The stockings have been hung, with all due care, by person or persons unknown. They’ve been filled with goodies and, in Cole’s case, already partially decimated.
Piles of brightly wrapped presents are laid out beneath the tree. Everything looking exactly as it should, exactly as it would have looked had Scout and I not forgotten to take care of it the night before, had we kept to the plan and not gotten carried away and fallen asleep instead.
Even the gift bag and the boxes that we’d opened together in bed are here; having been removed from the bedroom and inexpertly re-wrapped, at some point. Apparently while we were asleep. And that’s not creepy at all.
“You don’t think we’ve maybe got some kind of phrogger situation on our hands, do you?” I whisper to my wife.
“Why ask me?” she replies, eyes widening, lips quirking in amusement. “You’re the cop, aren’t you? Unless you’re still talking retirement? I don’t think we ever did finish that discussion, did we?”
“No, we didn’t.” I think about that idea for about as long as it deserves. Not very long. Then I shake my head. “I think we’ll put a pin in that, as well.”
“Mm-hm,” Scout murmurs, the quirk turning into a smirk. “I thought as much. But, getting back to the Santa vs phrogger question, for a moment; do you really want to hear my inexpert opinion on the subject?”
“Honey, I’ll always want to hear your opinion, expert or not, on any given subject, bar none. Is that clear enough?”
“Fine, then. I don’t think it’s either.”
“Really? There’s a door number three? Cool! What am I missing?”
“C’mere. Look at this.” Taking hold of my arm, she turns me around so I’m facing the tree.
“What am I looking at? I don’t see any—? Oh.” There’s a new ornament hanging on the tree; an angel, flying across a starry sky, carrying a little brass bell that dangles from one hand. Scout taps the bell with one finger, eliciting the tiniest of chimes.
“Ah,” I say in response. “So that’s what you mean. You think it’s angels?”
Scout’s smile turns rueful “I do,” she says as she grabs my hand and drags us into the dining room where Christmas magic seems to have taken hold as well. It’s not anything specific. Nothing you can point to. Just a hint of sparkle in the air. An extra layer of bright-and-shiny laid over the entire room.
The floor and the furniture look a little more polished than usual. The poinsettias that grace the sideboard seem to glow more lustrously than they had the day before. And set between them, in pride of place, sits the gingerbread house.
Okay, so maybe it is specific, after all.
When last seen, the house had been unassembled, tucked safely in boxes stacked on the table. It’s assembled now, however, and it somehow looks even more majestic (and more delicious in some indefinable fashion) than ever before. Which seems really unfair. I mean, no one likes a show-off.
Speaking of the table, remember that vase of half-dead roses that I’d also forgotten to throw out last night? Well, that hasn’t moved. The flowers are still there—right where Scout set them, on a mat in the center—only now they’re somehow…not dying?
“Did we get new flowers from somewhere?” I ask. “Or more flowers?” Because the roses are blooming both literally and figuratively; by which I mean they seem to have increased in number as well as in health.
“You would think so,” Scout replies. “Wouldn’t you? And I did ask, but no one seems to know anything about them either.”
“And…what do you think?”
“Well, I think they’re lovely, of course. Did I not already thank you for them?”
“I can’t remember. That’s not why I asked.”
“They’re my favorite flower. They smell nice and they’re not dead—even though it’s December, which I’ve been told is unusual. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”
“Yeah, but…”
“No, I’m serious. That’s it. Don’t overthink it, Nick. They’re just a plot device. Let it go.”
“They…what?”
Scout shrugs. “That’s what I heard, that’s what I’m sticking to.”
Before I can convince her to expound a little on the subject (because context is good, and heaven knows I could use some right about now) Kate walks in—still scowling. “Hey,” I greet her. “What’s up with you today?” We haven’t had a chance to give Kate her gift yet, so that can’t be what she’s annoyed about—not that she doesn’t have plenty of other presents. And who would be upset about something like that anyway? “Did you not sleep all right? Are you and Mandy fighting again?”
“What’s up with me ?” my daughter repeats, looking, if possible, even more pissed. “Really, Dad? I had to hear about this from Mandy ? From my cousin ? Who, no, by the way; I’m not ‘fighting’ with—what are we twelve?”
“No, but…”
“That’s all you have to say to me?”
“What am I supposed to say?” I snap in response. “Hear about what? Why is everyone suddenly being so vague?” I’m starting to feel annoyed—which could be due to a lack of caffeine, but which is probably also due to the fact that I’m barely out of bed and already the day is slipping sideways, out of control.
Luckily, Scout’s a little quicker on the uptake. “We’re not pregnant,” she explains to Kate. “Is that what you heard?”
“Yes! And I wish I would’ve known about it sooner because then I—” Kate stops mid-sentence. “Wait. Not pregnant? Not? Are you sure?”
Scout nods. “Absolutely. It’s a completely baseless rumor. But I promise, if that’s ever not the case, you’ll be the first person we tell.”
“Well, good. Thank you. That’s— Oh, shit!” Kate turns suddenly and runs from the room calling over her shoulder, “No, no, no! That’s not good! Fuck! I gotta catch hold of Seth before he takes her back!”
“Language!” I shout after her. Then I turn to Scout. “What was that about? Do you know?”
“No idea. Deirdre, maybe?”
“I sure as hell hope not, because that didn’t sound too positive.”
“No, it didn’t.
“Shit. This is crazy.”
“I told you it would be,” she replies looking irritatingly smug. “And you know it’s only gonna get worse the longer it goes on. So we need to find a way to shut this down—fast.”
Luckily, at that point, Lucy breezes in from the kitchen. “Oh, good; you’re up. It’s about fucking time. Listen, do you guys need help in the kitchen, or something? Because, as far as I can tell, you haven’t even started cooking yet!”
“Hey, cuz,” I say, giving her a quick side hug. “Merry Christmas to you, too. You’re just the person I was looking for.”
“Oh?” She eyes me warily. “Why’s that?”
“Well, as it turns out, Scout and I have some news that we’d like to share with you.”
“With me? Really?” Lucy asks, quickly assuming an innocent expression that wouldn’t have fooled a toddler. “Well, this is exciting. What is it? I can’t wait to hear!”
“I’m not pregnant,” Scout tells her—or tries to. Because, yet again…
“Pregnant! How wonderfu— Wait. Not?”
Scout slants an exasperated glance in my direction. “I swear I’m going to get that printed on a T-shirt. Or do you think we oughta put up a billboard, instead?”
“I think shirts will be fine,” I tell her. “Order one for me too, while you’re at it.”
I turn back to Lucy, who’s also grinning smugly. “See?” she says in an unwarrantedly superior tone. “And you were so worried. I told you it would all work out, didn’t I?”
“Did you?” I reply dryly. “I think I musta missed that part. Also, for the record, if I was worried—which I’m not saying was the case?—”
“It so was.”
“Then it was mostly because of all the imaginary scenarios that you dreamed up.”
Lucy pats me on the arm. “Okay cuz, if that’s how you want to remember it; you do you.”
“We still need to stop the rumors from spreading,” Scout points out. “Lucy, why don’t you take care of that?”
“Rumors?” Lucy asks, looking honestly confused. “What rumors?”
“Apparently, someone’s been spreading the story that we’re expecting,” I tell her. “Any idea how that may have happened?”
Lucy’s cheeks flush, but she holds her ground. In fact, she might even lean into her insulted innocence a little bit more. “I certainly hope you’re not suggesting that that’s my fault,” she grouses. “I can’t help it if a few people jumped to conclusions just because I was a little excited at the prospect of being an aunt again.”
“Except that it is your fault,” I tell her. “Same as it was last time. And look, that was bad enough, but at least there actually was a baby for people to get excited about. Now, if we can’t get the word out quickly enough, people are gonna start doing what they did last time—dropping off baby clothes and buying us diapers and asking if we’ve picked out names yet. And then where will we be?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Lucy agrees. “And I’ll take care of it. But oh, my Lord. Dan’s going to be twice as insufferable now.”
“Why’s that?” Scout asks.
“Because he called it,” Lucy replies. “That’s why. Ever since he ran into you out at the nursery, he’s been insisting that you didn’t look pregnant to him.”
“Well, tell him thanks for me,” Scout says, shooting a pointed, and totally unfair, look in my direction. “That’s nice to hear. From someone.”
“And tell him I said he oughta keep his eyes to himself,” I grumble, feeling suddenly very hard put upon. I’m not the one who started the pregnancy rumor. And at absolutely no point had I ever suggested to Scout that she was putting on weight—or whatever she’s pissed about. Not this time—I learn from my mistakes. But somehow, I just know it, this will all get twisted around into being my fault.
Both women slant me identical, pitying looks. “Dan’s here, you know. He’s just in the other room. Why don’t you tell him yourself?” my cousin suggests, once again patting me on the arm condescendingly. “That’ll be fun.”
While Lucy goes off to do damage control, Scout and I take a minute to check in with Cole who’s being so spoiled and loved on by his older relatives—my aunt and uncle in particular—that he doesn’t even notice when we step away. Next, we spend a few moments greeting latecomers, and the friends who we hadn’t already seen the night before at Lucy’s. Eventually, we reconvene in the kitchen.
While I get the coffee started—something that’s long overdue—and pour us each a glass of eggnog (straight up, this time; no chasers.) Scout feeds the cats and starts assembling all the pots and pans we’ll be using, along with some miscellaneous bowls and plates and chafing dishes.
At one point, there’s a pause in the rattling of cookware and crockery. In the resultant silence, Scout’s soft gasp is conspicuous enough to catch my attention. Turning, I find her staring at a bowl she’s just taken from one of the cabinets where we keep some of the more rarely used items.
It's one of Sara’s bowls that I didn’t have the heart to throw out. I should probably put that on my list of New Year’s resolutions.
“Oh, Nick,” Scout says when I cross the room to join her. “It’s our first Christmas here without her,”
“You miss her,” I say, proving yet again that I’m Captain Obvious pre-caffeine. “I do, too.”
We’re both silent for a moment, remembering Sara in her younger, happier days—not that she wasn’t already pretty old when we met her. Her ashes are buried in our backyard now. Yet another reason to be glad we’ve decided to stay where we are.
Finally, Scout heaves a sigh. She slides the bowl back into the cabinet, I extend a hand to help her to her feet, then we drift back over to the center island where I hand her one of the glasses of eggnog. “Merry Christmas,” I say as I touch my glass to hers.