Chasing Rainbows A Novel

TWELVE


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-WKCKZLCVE

I never imagined the resolution of my disagreement with Diane would take place over a sale rack of Dooney & Burke hobo bags, but there we were.

She’d ignored me for weeks, zipping right past Thanksgiving and zeroing in on Christmas and New Year’s.

When I hung up the phone from Jim Barnes, I realized the person I wanted to tell more than anyone else was Diane. Sure, Ashley would be over the moon with excitement for me, but there are some things a woman needs to share with her best friend.

This was one of them.

David helped me track his wife to Macy’s by analyzing the recent pattern of spending on their credit cards. Diane might be a genius when it came to sniffing out a bargain, but she apparently had a lot to learn about subterfuge.

I hesitated when I saw the size of Diane’s abdomen. She’d popped since our last encounter, and I instantly regretted the time we’d lost over an inability to air our grievances.

She acknowledged me over a brown suede hobo, but just as quickly returned her focus to the rack in front of her.

I thought about turning away, moving on, ignoring the pang of sadness I’d felt every time I reached for the phone to call her before I remembered we weren’t speaking. Maybe learning to face life included learning to face your own weaknesses and mistakes.

“I was wrong,” I said softly.

She squinted at me and frowned. I didn’t have to look up to see the expression--or the vertical lines between her eyebrows. I knew they were there. They’d always been there whenever I’d surprised her. Not being one to often admit being at fault, my admission surely surprised her now.

“I shouldn’t have taken Ashley anywhere without checking with you first.” I casually inspected the zipper of a patchwork bag as I said this, knowing the trick to making the first move was to appear nonchalant.

“I might have been a little harsh.” Diane’s typically strong voice filtered weakly through the hanging straps of leather and suede.

You think?

But I didn’t say it. I thought it and then I tucked it away.

Arguing with Diane now wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Besides, she was pregnant and she was the mother of a teenager. She had a right to yell at me. Bottom line was this. She knew what she was doing when it came to kids. I hadn’t a clue. Five days does not an expert make.

“I’m sorry.” I lifted my gaze to hers and smiled at the puzzled expression on her face. Then I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.

Even though we were speaking softly to each other, she was obviously tense. Red blotches had exploded across her cheeks and down her neck, making her look like a mutant strain of chicken pox had taken over her face.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

I rounded the rack and linked my arm through hers. “Nothing a tropical smoothie won’t cure.”

She raised her brows and tipped her auburn head from side to side. “There is that.”

And as we headed out into the mall, the tension I’d carried since the night we’d argued began to ease. Relief spread through my muscles and bones.

“I’m sorry, too,” Diane said. “I saw you at the talent show.”

The talent show.

I flashed back on my conversation with Ryan and then on Diane and David’s performance, and I used the term loosely.

“What did you think?” Her voice jumped an octave, the note of hope ringing loud and clear. “Be honest with me.”

I rolled my eyes. From years of experience, Diane knew exactly what that meant.

“That bad?”

I rolled my eyes again.

Diane shook her head. “Ashley shaved off her eyebrows in protest.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “She what?”

“Shaved off her eyebrows.”

But before I could say anything more, I spotted the security guard from hell. Unfortunately, I was fairly certain he’d spotted me as well, based on the way his eyes morphed into angry slits.

I squeezed Diane’s arm, dropped my chin and steered her toward the food court.

“Shaved her eyebrows?” I asked the question softly, still unable to picture Ashley without her typically arched brows.

Diane giggled, the sound growing from a slight chuckle to a full-out belly laugh. She stole a glance over her shoulder at the security guard.

“He’s on his walkie-talkie. Maybe we could try to blend in with the crowd.”

I pressed my index finger to my chin dramatically. “You’re big as a house, covered in red spots and laughing like a hyena.” I shook my head. “I really don’t see blending in as a possibility.”

We were still laughing as the guard escorted us out of the mall, smoothies in hand.

But, we had a firm grasp on our friendship as well as our drinks, and that was worth any humiliation the mall security flat foot could dish out.

o0o

When I got home that afternoon, I’d planned on taking a long, hot shower, changing clothes, grabbing the Christmas gifts I’d purchased and heading to my mother’s house for a family dinner.

I hadn’t planned on finding a note taped to my front door.

Come ring my bell. I’ve got something for you.

Those two short sentences were so loaded with double entendres, I smiled in spite of myself. The note-writer hadn’t identified him or herself, but I had a strong suspicion of just who he’d been.

Number Thirty-Six.

After all, the only thing Mrs. Cooke would like to give me was a noise violation citation or a visit from animal control.

Before I had time to do much more than lift the note from the door, a Christmas tree made its way up the sidewalk. The tell-tale pair of work boots sticking out from below the trunk ensured the tree-bearer wasn’t Mrs. Cooke.

Heat flushed my cheeks at the thought of the last time Number Thirty-Six and I had been face-to-face, so to speak. The memory of my less-than-clothed state still stung, and the last thing I needed was a stark reminder of my stark nakedness.

“What are you doing?” I had to admit my tone was less than receptive.

The tree trunk slammed to the front walk beside me.

“Bringing you a Christmas tree.”

I tried to arch a brow but failed miserably. “What if I don’t need a Christmas tree?”

“Everyone needs a Christmas tree.”

“What if I don’t want one?”

His single brow arch was far more effective than mine had been. “Are you going to open the door, or am I going to have to do everything myself?”

“I suppose this is going to cost me.”

His amused expression turned to one of disbelief. “Like how?”

“Well, I can’t imagine you’d go to this much trouble out of the goodness of your heart.”

He thinned his lips, shook his head and hoisted the tree into the air. “Then you don’t have much of an imagination. Open the door.”

I did as he instructed, moving out of the way to allow room for man and tree to pass.

“Where’s your stand?” he asked as he held the tree balanced over a bare spot in the middle of my living room.

I held up one finger then dashed for the garage. Please Lord, don’t let me have tossed the stand along with every other piece of clutter in my life.

But there it was. In all of its faux-antique glory.

Stand in hand, I raced back into the house, carefully sliding the heavy metal object underneath the trunk. Five minutes later, the tree stood majestic and straight.

I smiled.

Number Thirty-Six smiled.

“Seriously. What do I owe you?” I asked, widening my gaze.

Number Thirty-Six’s smile slipped and his eyes turned sad. “Not everyone has an agenda, Number Thirty-Two.” He forced a parting smile. “Merry Christmas.”

He crossed the room and was out the door before I could say another word.

“Merry Christmas,” I muttered to no one as I watched him stride away.

I sat on my staircase and stared at the tree for a long while after Number Thirty-Six left.

He hadn’t said a thing about the scale incident, as I’d come to think of it. He hadn’t said a thing about seeing me naked. He hadn’t said or done anything other than bringing me a Christmas tree.

Not everyone has an agenda.

I was fairly sure most everyone I’d ever known had an agenda, but then, Number Thirty-Six wasn’t like most everyone I’d ever known.

Matter of fact, Number Thirty-Six wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known at all.

And that scared the shit out of me.

o0o

Mom, Mark, his wife Jenny, their three children, me and Poindexter gathered around Mom’s dining room table later that day. Christmas had loomed larger than life on the horizon for weeks and the moment of truth had finally arrived. The first Christmas without Dad.

His chair sat empty, shouting from the head of the table that he was gone forever.

I wondered why someone didn’t make life-sized cutouts of deceased loved ones for all major holidays. The thought wasn’t entirely crazy.

I was sure there were plenty of grieving relatives who’d like to see their loved one’s smile one more time across the dinner table, or next to the Christmas tree, or over the Easter basket.

Maybe I was on to something, maybe even something that could be parlayed into a new career, because heaven knew my job at the ice rink wasn’t getting me anywhere.

Of course, maybe I was also a bit insane, which was a distinct possibility.

“Bernie?”

My mother’s voice jolted me from my mental development of the dearly-departed-cutout marketing plan. I lifted my gaze and realized everyone was staring at me.

My mom made the get-with-it gesture with her eyes that told me I’d missed something vital.

“I’m afraid I might have been daydreaming.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s your turn to say what you’re thankful for.”

I squinted at her.

Was she kidding? “Are you kidding?”

My dad had died. My husband had left me. I’d quit my job and my dog would never earn his obedience school graduation papers.

Plus, this exercise typically took place around our Thanksgiving table--a meal we’d all skipped this year. I supposed my mom had postponed the inevitable, saving this oh-so-uncomfortable moment for Christmas instead.

“Bernie.”

Her tone left no room for excuses. She wanted an answer and she wanted one now.

“I’m thankful for--” I paused for several long seconds while I searched my brain for a suitable answer. But then I had it.

My answer.

“I’m thankful for all of you. And Poindexter. And my health.”

I wasn’t thankful for the extra ten pounds I’d socked on, but this probably wasn’t the time to nitpick.

Then I looked at the empty chair. Dad’s chair. My voice cracked as I forced out my next words.

“Most of all, I’m thankful for Daddy and the years we all had together.”

As we worked our way through the ham and scalloped potatoes and green bean casserole, I stole periodic glances at Dad’s empty chair.

I could almost picture him there. Laughing. Entertaining us with a story from his youth, or asking for an update on our lives.

Most of all, I could picture his smile. And his eyes.

I missed them.

I missed him.

During an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, Mark told a rather lame joke and everyone laughed a bit awkwardly.

Before too long, we each attempted a joke or a story, and in the end, our polite quiet faded away into a sea of laughter--the laughter Dad had loved so very much.

In my brother’s laugh, I heard Dad’s laugh.

In his eyes, I saw the same twinkle that had shone in Dad’s eyes.

Our family didn’t need a life-sized cutout. If we looked hard enough, Dad had left his mark on each of us.

And that was truly something to be thankful for.

o0o

“Laughter is the brush that sweeps away the cobwebs of the heart.”

-Anonymous