Page 20 of The Art of Being Merry
Jace pushes from the table and returns with two empty water bottles in his hands. He hands them to Atlas, who unscrews the tops, and then Jace takes them to the fridge—the only brand-new appliance in the kitchen—and fills them with water.
Carefully so he doesn’t spill them, he carries them to the table, screws on the tops, and slides one to Atlas before sitting down, impressing the hell out of me.
I love how Clementine’s teaching them to be independent even in her absence.
I plate a piece for each of us and join them at the table.
“So, how are you liking Winterberry Junction so far?”
“It’s very snowy.”
“And cold,” Jace adds, pretending to shiver. “We can’t go anywhere without heavy coats, gloves, and hats. But the lights are pretty. Mama did a super job.” Pride oozes out of him whenever he talks about his mom. I get it. I feel that way about my mom, too.
“We get a lot of snow, so be prepared for that, but this is thebest time to be here. We have a lot of Christmas activities, even a parade on Christmas Eve.”
“I sure hope Santa can find us this year. ‘Cause we moved again.” Atlas shares his opinion, his shoulders slinking.
“You can write him a letter. There’s a special mailbox on Main Street for Santa only. If you’re lucky, he’ll even write you back.”
Both sets of eyes go wide, their innocence shining through. Their faces are exactly why I help with the town’s holiday breakfast, the parade, and any other town activities involving the kids. To experience their joy and wonder and to keep mine alive. I’ll have to find out who’s in charge of the Santa letters committee this year, see if they need another volunteer.
Jace bounces in his seat. “Oh, I hope I’m lucky this year. I’ve been good.” He scratches his head. “I think.” He looks at his brother. “Have I been good?”
“Yeah, mostly. You’re always listening to Mama.” He takes a bite of his pepperoni slice, waiting until he’s done chewing to continue. “Though you still cry a lot. I don’t think Santa likes crying.”
Jace peers at me. “Does Santa like crying?”
“I’m not sure, Jinglebug. Maybe it depends on the reason for the crying.” I’m in over my head, pulling the answers from my ass, and also, another nickname. Where they’re coming from, I haven’t a clue. Jace doesn’t seem fazed by it, so I’m rolling with it.
“I didn’t want to leave Daddy, but Mama said we had to, and that he couldn’t come with us to live in Aunt Willa’s new town. I’m sad ‘cause I miss him.”
I don’t know much about their dad except he’s a douche, which Willa has corroborated. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have your dad in the picture, even if he’s horrible. Kids don’t always see their parents for who they truly are.
“I’m not sad. He wasn’t a good dad.” I almost drop my pizza slice at Atlas’s harsh words. “He never played with us or took us places, and he was never home. And when you were a baby, he let you cry a lot when Mama was out at the store. He’d yell at you to stop, but it made you cry more. But you don’t remember ‘cause you were a baby.”
Damn, what dreadful memories to have as a kid. I can’tremember a time my dad wasn’t around or willing to do something I asked. And if he yelled, it was only because we were misbehaving. I can’t picture him yelling at a baby to stop crying. Who does that?
“Yeah, but he’s the only dad we have,” Jace protests.
Atlas opens his mouth, but shuts it quickly, any retort dying on his tongue. After a minute, he mumbles something sounding like, “Dads are supposed to love their kids.”
My heart nearly cracks in two, being an eavesdropper in their conversation. I don’t doubt Clementine can’t act as two parents to them, but they’re still getting the short end of the stick with only one parent. Especially as boys. Growing up without a father figure won’t be easy.
No doubt Beck will step up to the plate for them, be the kind of uncle they need in their life. Like he’s done for Shania. Well, we both have.
I can do that, too. It’s the least I can do—be a pseudo-uncle.
Decision made, I tuck into my pizza, already pondering ways to help.
6
clem
Why I thought accompanyingan author to a bookshop was a good idea will forever be the million-dollar question.
The store is quaint, filled with bookshelves of different colors against the walls, the scent of paper and words tickling my nostrils. Overflowing tables of books boast special editions and highlight various series for children and adults. In the children’s section, Willa’s books are on prominent display, and I smile with pride seeing her “name” on them. Front and center, an entire table offers holiday books and gifts.
Willa spends a solid twenty minutes discussing books with Alanna, the owner. Half of the acronyms they used went over my head.
