Christmas Kisses

19. Christian

19

CHRISTIAN

I t took me swatting Angel’s ass a handful of times to still her enough to move her from her apartment to the street outside her building, but once I got her there, she seemed to have enjoyed herself.

The children from her neighborhood know her as well as the tenants she’s been trying to assist for the past three years. They were as excited about her arrival today as they were for the fat guy in the red suit. They did crafts and played hockey on the closed-off street. A handful even managed to wrangle her into Santa’s workshop to get a joint street photo with the star of the hour.

When Angel approached, I acted like there wasn’t a No Sitting on Santa’s Lap sign pinned next to my chair. She balanced on my knee with her cheeks as red as my velvet suit.

I loved her heated response as much as I love how often her eyes have strayed my way since I ditched the Santa suit. It could be because she knows I didn’t swallow the key to her apartment—I used the old under-the-tongue before gluing it to the roof-of-your-mouth routine I learned in junior high—but my ego refuses to believe that.

She’s enjoying the festivities because I’m on the sideline, ready to be ridiculed at any moment.

Her teases this afternoon haven’t been as bad as the ones I endured last night. Don’t let her cutesy features fool you. She’s only playing nice because she’d hate to add a stack of witnesses to my testimony that she’s a bully.

Calm down. I’m joking.

From the numerous reports I’ve read, Angel has every right to appear offensive. Her neighbors and her have been unfairly targeted for years. I plan to fix the injustice tonight. I just need to wait for the VIP of the party to arrive.

If my source is correct, that won’t be for a few more hours, so I may as well spend the time reminding Angel that Christmas doesn’t mean she also can’t grieve. It is time to pause and give thanks for the love, hope, and joy of the people in our lives.

Although her parents are no longer with us, they gave her a lot for which to be thankful.

It is proven without a doubt when a lady with a whistly voice butts her hip with mine. “They grew up with her being a major part of their life.” Tears prick her eyes as she drifts them to Angel waiting in line for her face to be painted with over a dozen children. “If a mother was sick, Angel was on her doorstep first, offering to babysit. If a child grazed their knee, she patched up their wounds. She was the building’s resident aunt until that wretched witch flew in on her broom.”

“Mrs. Richler?”

Spit flies when she blows a raspberry. “She’s had it out for the McClymonts since she arrived. It isn’t greed that drives the world but envy. Angel’s mother was a true saint. A gift from God. Not many women could look at her without being stabbed with jealousy.” Her worldly eyes twinkle with fondness. “It was only right that her daughter inherited both her looks and spirit.” Her eyes return to me. They’re wet and full of emotions. “Her name suits her well.”

“It does,” I agree before I can stop myself.

She takes a moment to gauge the authenticity of my reply before returning her eyes to Angel, who is occupying the children’s time in the line with a hand-clapping game. “They’ve missed her as much as the rest of us have.” A sigh sinks her chest. “We thought the hotshots from Broadway would steal her from us. We had no clue it would be a building supervisor from hell.” She shifts on her feet to face me, alerting me to the fact she stands shorter than my chin. “How did you get her to agree to this?” She continues before I can fathom a reply that won’t see me leaving the fair in cuffs, much less issue it. “I’ve been trying to get her to attend since her parents’ deaths. Not even knitting her a Christmas sweater guaranteed her attendance.”

When she waves her hand down her hideous getup, it dawns on me who she is. Forcing residents into hideous sweaters once a year shouldn’t be enough to issue a tenant a warning, but Mrs. Richler is as scroogy as she is corrupt.

I hold my hand out in offering. “Christian. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Roach.”

Her whistles louden when she’s excited. As her hand slips into mine, she says, “Angel talks about me?”

“Ah…” Not wanting to break her heart, I nod. “She also showed me the sweater you made her.”

“She did?”

I cough up an imaginary pubic hair before nodding again. “Uh-huh.”

“ Ohh …” I never thought I’d see an eighty-year-old face in the midst of ecstasy. I now can only wish to never see it again. “What did you think of the design?” Again, she beats me with her reply. “I knitted an extra one this year. My dear Reginald will be disappointed he missed the fair, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing it with you. Let me get it for you.”

“No!” I shout a little too loudly. Once my voice is back to a respectable level and I’ve returned Angel’s amused glare, I say, “I could never take dear Reginald’s beloved sweater. What if we have a sudden cold snap? I’d hate for him to get cold.”

She taps my arm with her rheumy hand. “It’s a little hard to get cold when you’re six feet under.” My eyes dart between her rapidly fading plump frame and Angel when she heads for the foyer of the building. “I’ll be right back!”

I consider my objectives for two seconds.

They all arrow toward the same result.

I need to leave. Now!

“We have to go.”

Angel has been seeking those words for the past four hours, but now that I’ve surrendered them, she appears disinterested. “But I’m two spots away from being a Christmas elf.”

She thrusts her hand at a boy who looks more like a Christmas devil than an elf.

Aren’t the pointy parts of an elf’s ears meant to be on ears?

This kid’s ears look like Satan’s horns.

I realize Mrs. Roach has been endeavoring to offload her hideous pubic-hair-phobia sweater onto an unsuspecting victim for hours when her entrance into the foyer of Angel’s building is quickly followed by her exiting it.

“Yoo-hoo! Christian. I have your sweater.”

This travesty she’s gripping for dear life has more wiry strands than Angel and her sweater combined. I’m one inhalation away from catastrophe and too scared at the prospect of being mufficated to act my age.

I curl my arm around Angel’s waist and pluck her from the line with numerous promises that I will guarantee her return next year before I sprint us down a side alley.

Angel grunts from the swiftness of my strides, but that’s the most of her protest.

Well, until we reach a safe distance from Mrs. Roach and her nightmare-inspiring sweater. “Spill. Now. Or I’ll ask Mrs. Roach if her sweaters also come in everyday-wear designs.”

Grimacing, I tug on the collar of my shirt before gesturing for her to lead me to the closest bar. “I need a stiff drink.”

Angel laughs before doing as asked.

During the short two-block walk, I tell her the story of my first pearl dive.

Shockingly, she doesn’t badger me about it.

She appears genuinely sympathetic.

I hook my thumb behind us. “Did they defrost your frozen heart or make it grow three times its size?”

She punches me in the stomach, winding me. “I’m being sincere because I can’t say I don’t understand your phobia.”

“A snake in long grass?” I ask, attempting to decipher her horrid look.

Her nose screws up before her chin bobs. “He swears it was there somewhere, but I couldn’t find it.”

I’m an ass for laughing, but it can’t be helped. I’m picturing things I shouldn’t be picturing. It was either laugh or spew. I went for the less messy one.

We make it halfway into an Irish pub when a jingle stops Angel in her tracks. She’s been enduring Christmas carols for hours this afternoon, but understandably, this one affects her the most.

While Michael Bublé croons about coming home for Christmas, I guide Angel out the door she walked through only moments ago before straying my eyes up and down the street.

At this time of the year, my options are limited. I either go for a tattoo shop that should look out of place between a boutique dress shop and a high-end jewelry store but somehow doesn’t, or a bakery.

I go for the bakery, hopeful the owner’s apparent friendship with Angel will ensure she’s not pushed out of her comfort zone for the third time today.

“Hey,” greets a gorgeous woman in her late twenties with auburn hair and a bright smile.

My assumptions about this bakery being a safe haven for Angel are accurate when the lady with “Harlow” stitched on her apron switches off a radio blaring a familiar tune behind the counter, cutting off Michael Bublé mid-chorus. “Christian, right?”

I jerk up my chin.

Harlow’s smile turns blinding. “We’re full, but if you’re happy to eat out, we have a picnic basket special you can enjoy along the waterfront. It is only a block from here but far from”—she waves her hand around the bursting-at-the-seams bakery—“ this .”

“You don’t need to leave. The couple at table 12 just asked for their bill, so they’ll be?—”

The woman operating a coffee machine howls when Harlow stomps on her foot before she gives her a look that only a blind man could misinterpret.

She’s playing matchmaker.

Her scheming face matches Tahlia’s whenever she tried to act like she had no clue her single girlfriend was coming over for tea the same night as my apparent “impromptu” invite.

Since I’m not opposed to some help, I say, “A picnic basket special will be great, thanks.”

With the cause of her stupor state no longer present, Angel’s focus snaps back to the present. “We will take a bundt cake and two large decafs to go.”

“Decaf? Eww.” Harlow shifts her eyes to the barista. “Izzy was right. Those instalove sparks are hot enough to scald.” Her eyes return to Angel before they flare with mischievousness. “You’ll need more than an early night to get out of those flames unscathed, honey. Caffeine-free veins won’t cut it.”

I gawk at Harlow, silently pleading for her to cough up the source of her magic when Angel neither protests at her request for Renee to switch our coffee to regular nor her offer for our purchases to be on the house.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay?” I ask after moving forward in the line to collect our order a few minutes later.

Harlow brushes off my offer with a smile. “I’m sure.” She hands me the bag holding a funky-looking cake but doesn’t remove her hand. She uses her grip on the flimsy bag to launch me to her half of the counter. “But if you hurt her, don’t think you’ll only have to look over your shoulder for Izzy and Ryan. The entire town will hunt you down.” She lowers her voice to a chilling whisper. “We built caves for a reason. To hide bodies.” Quicker than the flick of a light switch, her personality shifts back to chipper. “Thank you for supporting Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven. I hope you have a great day.”

She farewells Angel with a wiggle of her fingers before she serves the customer behind us.

“She threatened you, didn’t she?” Angel asks when she’s tempted to order a crane to move me from the entry of the bakery. My legs feel the weight of concrete.

“Yeah,” I reply half a block later. “Is that the norm around here?”

“Will you leave if I say it is?”

I take a moment to consider my reply before muttering, “Probably not.”

“Then it’s the norm.”

I laugh for half a second before snapping my mouth shut.

Does that mean what I think it does?

Is she hoping I’ll stay?

I lose the chance to ask when she admits, “The town is a little protective of its born-and-bred locals.” A fondness glistens in her eyes. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

She’s not talking about Ravenshoe as a whole. She is referencing her apartment. How do I know this? Tears form in her eyes as she peers up at the only window in the building missing the trinkle of Christmas lights.

“There’s still time.”

After a long breath, Angel twists her torso to face me. “For?”

“To put up the tree.” When she doesn’t immediately shoot down my suggestion, I say, “In some countries, trees aren’t put up or decorated until Christmas Eve. In the Northern Hemisphere, the shortest day and longest night of the year falls on December twenty-first or twenty-second. It is called the?—”

“Winter solstice.” She takes a moment to relish my smile before adding, “They believe that the sun is a god and that winter comes every year because the sun god is sick. The trees they bring inside remind them of what will grow and prosper when the sun god is strong again and summer has returned.” A touch of pink graces her cheeks. I’d assume she was embarrassed if fondness didn’t echo in her tone. “My father told me that story the first time we picked out our family tree. We chose the smallest, sickest looking tree so we could watch it thrive under our love.” Her hand darts across her cheeks to make sure they’re dry as she whispers, “I miss that tree.” She breathes out slowly like I can’t hear the words her eyes relay— As much as I miss them —before she rolls back her shoulders and clears her face of emotions. “Anyhoo. That’s enough reminiscing for one day.” Like all people stuck in the terrifying throes of grief, she shifts the attention to anyone but her. “I’d hate for someone to use our little share as a way to force us to face our fears head-on.”

I’m lost as to what she means until a whistly voice shreds my eardrums. “There you are!”

In my endeavor to lessen Angel’s panic, I walked myself right back into the firing zone.

In a quick tug, swoop, and pull maneuver, a hideously scratchy sweater is yanked over my head and pulled down my torso. I must be several inches taller than Mr. Roach because the waist of his sweater stops just above my navel.

Mrs. Roach appears oblivious. “It’s a perfect fit!”

When I shift on my feet to face Angel, needing another opinion, an odd tingling sensation impinges my throat. It isn’t the fear of being asphyxiated by a rogue pubic hair making my throat scratchy. It is the Christmassy grin stretching across Angel’s face as she gives Mrs. Roach a thumbs-up approval.