Page 27 of Saved By Noel
As the curtain falls for intermission, I can tell my parents are wiping away the same tears I am. Madison pats my arm in support—she took our fourth ticket tonight in Aunt Gloria’s place, an invitation I know my parents will offer for as many years as she accepts.
I excuse myself to use the restroom, grateful to stretch my limbs and collect my emotions. My parents and I had enjoyed all of our usual Christmas festivities in the past few weeks. We hit up every major lights display in the Kansas City metro. We took photos with the elaborate decorations at Union Station. We even went ice skating at Crown Center—Dad enthusiastically cheered from a bench. Activities that historically included Aunt Gloria as our fourth. I know we’d all equally smiled at the memories and cried at the loss.
As I dry my hands, I study the tanzanite ring Aunt Gloria gave me on my sixteenth birthday. We were as close as an aunt and niece could be, even after I abandoned ballet lessons in eighth grade. I’d inherited her lithe ballerina frame from my dad’sgenetic pool, and I trained at the ballet school where she was an instructor from the time I was itty-bitty.
But Aunt Gloria recognized my heart was filled with stories and words more than fouettés and échappés before I was brave enough to admit it. She encouraged my parents to enroll me in a creative writing course in lieu of ballet class. Aunt Gloria always understood me, always supported me. Even in her passing, she understood and supported me with the gift of the writing cabin.
I return to my seat right before the curtain rises. As the dancers travel to the Land of Sweets, I picture all the worlds, all the princes, all the love stories I’ve dreamed up over the years. It’s time to use the gift that Aunt Gloria gave me to the fullest extent. It’s time to write one down, finally.
Chapter eighteen
Clark
Thwap!Chase’s tail slaps me across the face as he hangs his head out the window.
“Dang it, Chase, sit down!” I scold halfheartedly. “You know you’re gonna have to move to the back once we pick up Pops. And we can’t have the windows down.”
I’m picking up Pops on our way to Davis and Syd’s house for Christmas Eve festivities. They’ve been kind enough to allow Pops and me to crash their family celebration with their parents and siblings for the past few years. Davis and Syd do a special Christmas morning tradition with only their kids, but they open up the house to the whole gaggle of us every December 24. Their kids are the youngest out of the cousin crew on both sides. Being at their place allows them to put the kids to bed and continue hanging out with the grown-up crowd after 7:30 p.m.
Pops and Bev never had kids, and with my family all gone, we got absorbed into the Baker/Smith joint celebration. Christmas was never a big enough deal in our house growing up to mourn its loss. But it is nice to have a semblance of familial belonging on Christmas Eve. I always manage to stay busy with homeprojects on Christmas Day, making it a normal day like any other.
I pull into Pops’ driveway, and Chase starts dancing in the seat next to me. Pops is already waiting on the front porch.Stubborn man.
“What are you doing sitting out in the cold, old man? That can’t be good for your joints,” I rebuke as I stride toward him.
“I don’t need to hear another word from you about my joints, boy,” he fires back, though he’s slow to straighten fully upon standing. I wait next to the porch stairs, arm twitching to reach out to steady him. “And I don’t need no help walking down two steps,” he adds with a glare. He hands me a bag of gifts for the kids.
“Have it your way,” I gripe back. But mentally I’m cataloging the stiff nature of his movements. Concern slices through me.
Chase leans out the window to lick Pops’ face, earning a scratch behind the ears. He then obediently hops to the back seat of the truck, making way for Pops to climb in. I stand by the door, just in case. After placing Pops’ bag of gifts next to mine, I close the door behind him.
“Now, what’s this I hear about you telling off some nice girl a few weeks back?” Pops asks, no small amount of admonishment in his voice.
“Davis is a dead man,” I growl.
“You’ll have to kill off Sydney and Emily while you’re at it,” Pops adds, sounding smug. “I got an earful from multiple sources. They’re under the illusion that I could talk any sense into you. We both know that ain’t the truth.”
I snort.
Pops continues staring at me, unnerving my peripheral vision. “You’re not gonna let it drop?” I ask, eyes on the road.
He shakes his head.
Sighing, I surrender the bare minimum of information. “This new Christmas-obsessed girl, Clara, buys a cabin in town to use as her writer’s retreat or whatever. Then, she gets bent out of shape when she finds out the town isn’t the No-el, mecca of Christmas cheer, that she expected it to be. I just . . . set her expectations straight.”
I glance over to see if Pops is satisfied, but his eyes are narrowed. “And made her cry?”
Groaning, I lean my head back against the head rest. “It’s not like I set out tomakeher cry,” I say. “I can’t help it if she didn’t like the facts. This isn’t a Christmas town, and we don’twantit to be a Christmas town, despite what she may think we need. I made sure she understood that, and that’s all.”
No response.
“I don’t appreciate your judgy silence, Pops,” I say, not daring a glance at him.
“I’m thoroughly acquainted with this town’s historic aversion to Christmas,” Pops says. “Any close friend of your grandad’s knew all that. But I find it curious that you would need to react so strongly to a sweet, beautiful woman.”
“I . . . what? What are you talking about, ‘beautiful and sweet’—you haven’t even met Clara,” I stutter.
“I have my sources,” Pops declares. “Sources who hypothesize there’s more going on here with you than simply clearing up Nole/No-el expectations. Sources I’m going to have to concur with at present.”
