Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Whitney
We have two carts now. Halfway through the list, I had to go back to the entrance for an empty one. Then, even though I was only gone for a few minutes, I had to hunt through the maze of aisles and shoppers to find Rob again.
The man can not stick to a plan.
As I watch him trying to decide if mini slingshots that fling fake reindeer poop are good toys for the older elementary-age kids—and no, they are not—I think about the fire station. It’s incredibly organized and neat, though his desk is a bit of a mess. He’s responsible for the lives and safety of a community he loves, and they didn’t make him the chief for grins.
It’s almost as if Rob takes his responsibilities so seriously that when he’s off the clock, he just goes with the flow. And now he’s got me going with the flow, too. While we’re steadily checking things off the list, we’re doing it in the most unfocused and chaotic way possible.
And I’m having so much fun. It’s impossible not to enjoy watching Rob trying on antler headbands, getting excited about the tiny fire station in the Christmas village aisle. If a toy has a button to sample the sound it makes, he pushes it.
I wander off while he’s helping a boy search through the Hot Wheels cars, most of which the boy can’t reach—and find myself in the doll aisle.
I check my list because one of the children asked for a very specific doll and since her mother recently underwent a major surgery, the Santa Fund is helping her acquire presents for her kids.
It takes me a few minutes to find it, but I add it to the cart, wondering if we’re going to need a third one before we get out of this store. Then a doll wearing a patchwork dress catches my eye and I pick it up. I’ve never seen one before, but something about the simple dress and braided hair reminds me of my mom. It doesn’t make sense, other than reminding me of her affinity for antique rag dolls, but it brings me straight back to the year I asked for a doll for Christmas.
I don’t even remember what the doll was—some kind of fancy Barbie doll, I think—but I desperately wanted one. And I was disappointed on Christmas morning when, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper, there was no doll.
Later that evening, when I had Christmas dinner with my dad, his wife and my very young half-brothers, I’d gotten the doll. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what the doll actually looked like. But I remember his acceptance of a thank-you kiss to the cheek and his utter disinterest in the gifts he—or maybe his wife or an assistant—had bought me.
I don’t have to put any effort into recalling opening gifts with my mother. Because we didn’t have a lot, she always made the unwrapping an adventure. Lots of ribbons, colorful strings. Bows. So much tape. I used to tease her about her wrapping abilities because of how much tape she used.
Looking back, I realize it slowed the morning down. It took me longer to open my gifts, and there was so much laughter. Christmas mornings with her didn’t have the kind of gifts that were under my father’s austere Christmas tree, but try as I might, I can’t remember my father laughing.
Dad bought me a gaming system that was the envy of my friends. I don’t remember if it was an X-Box or a PlayStation. Maybe he bought me both.
Mom gave me a notebook with a pen loop, and she’d gone through the pages, leaving doodles and little messages of encouragement. That first journal held my dreams and the goals I needed to reach to make them come true. It taught me that nothing focuses my mind like pen and paper, and I still have it on my small bookshelf in my tiny apartment.
“I hate to interrupt,” Rob says, making me jump. “But she’s not talking to you, is she?”
“What?”
“The doll. You’ve been staring at her, and you were frowning and then you looked a little emotional, but then you smiled. I’m not sure if Beth put too much espresso in that coffee, or if you’re having an actual conversation with that toy.”
“Maybe she’s the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
He laughs and then gestures toward my cart. “Then you have to buy her.”
I put the doll back on the shelf. “I don’t have anybody to buy her for.”
“I meant for yourself.”
“We’re not here to shop for ourselves.”
Rob whistles nonchalantly while ever-so-slowly moving a bunch of children’s mittens so they cover a Hot Wheels firetruck. I laugh and start pushing my cart away from him.
“We’re almost done, Rob. Let’s just focus on the list so we can get out of here. It feels like time has no meaning here and we’re going to stagger outside only to find out we missed New Year’s.”
We finally cross almost everything off the list—there are a few items Rob concedes I’ll have to order online—and head to the check-out. We bought so much stuff, it doesn’t fit on the cash register belt, so I have to go get an empty cart to load the purchases into as they’re bagged. From the corner of my eye, I see him push that ugly sweater through, and I let it go. I’m almost looking forward to the battle over whether or not I’ll wear it to the Christmas fair.
When I see Rob pull a journal with a bright floral cover out of the second cart, though, I call his name. “That must have fallen out of the seat into the basket. That’s mine, along with those socks.”
He holds up the thick, fuzzy socks decorated with Christmas penguins. “These socks? Are you trying to be secretly festive, Ms. Forrester?”
“They’re for my mom. Put those two things aside and I’ll pay for them after.”
“They won’t even put a dent in the bottom line.”
“I’m not misappropriating funds from the Santa Fund, Chief Byrne,” I say with exaggerated snippiness, and he chuckles as he sets my items back in the seat.
He ducks into the men’s room while I pay for my purchases, and I’m standing near the exit with two full carts when he emerges.
“There must be somebody wrapping gifts for a fundraiser somewhere around here,” I say. “If we can find one with multiple wrapping stations, it’ll still take a while, but maybe not forever. ”
“No need. My family wraps the gifts.”
“ All of them?”
“No, we wrap the ones for the good kids in Christmas paper and the naughty ones get their gifts in brown paper bags.” He’s already pushing one cart toward the door, but the cheeky grin he gives me over his shoulder makes me laugh as I follow him.
I think I’ve laughed more today than I have all year, and as I hand the bags up to Rob to stow in the bed of his truck, I realize this has been one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. I’m not sure why doing a massive shopping trip with a guy who moves through the store like a mouse looking for peanut butter in a maze was fun, but I can’t deny that it was.
Once we finally reach the last bag, I return the empty carts while he rolls down the black leather thing that covers the bed of the truck and will keep bags from blowing out, raining toys and candy all over the cars behind us on the highway.
“I think it’s time for a burger and fries,” he says once we’re in the truck. “Want to hit the diner for lunch?”
I shouldn’t. What I should do is go back to the inn, make a sandwich, and isolate myself in my room. I need to dance it out. Reset myself, and shake off the uncharacteristically relaxed vibe so I can focus on the next task on the list.
“Let me show you the magic that is vinegar on your fries,” he adds when I don’t answer right away. After shifting the truck into gear, he gives me one more grin. “It’ll change your life.”
I actually kind of like the version of me I am with Rob, so what the hell, right? “Okay, Rob. Change my life.”