Christmas Outburst

CHAPTER ONE

– NIXIE –

Maybe she’ll stop talking if I poke her in the eye with my finger. Just point and jab. I don’t have long nails, so it probably won’t do much damage, right? Would there be silence? No. Likely screaming which would be more annoying than the woman’s continuous rambling about Christmas. Thanksgiving was freaking yesterday, take a damn chill pill, woman.

Okay, I’ve been making some Christmas themed mugs and such for the pottery store, but that’s business and much needed preparation for the whole process. It has nothing to do with my mood, or the need to decorate my yard, or hang freaking Christmas lights this early in the year.

“More tea, Gertrude?” My voice is sugary sweet and my smile as lukewarm as the tea that’s been sitting in front of us for over an hour while Gertrude rambles.

There’s blissful silence for a heartbeat or two before she says, “Oh, no, Nixie, two was enough. I do have to continue decorating the house. Humphrey will be home soon to help me with the lights. Now, will you be taking over your mother’s responsibilities? She would want you to, and you’re living in her house, you’re a part of it now.”

My mother would want me to? No. My mother would like to have lived a few more years and not die of a freaking stroke. She might still be here if my plane wouldn’t have been delayed due to a freaking computer update that took out all kinds of transportation systems.

Such a punch to the damn guts to realize things would have been different if I had been with her. Getting her to the hospital would have made all the difference in the world. But no. The Faxon family doesn’t give in easily, and she only complained to me about a headache.

I remember her telling me over the phone when I had to contact her about my delayed plane, “You worry too much, Nixie, it’s just a headache and it’ll pass.”

Mothers worry when something is up with their kids, but it works both ways when it involves your parents. At least, it does with me. So, I fired back the same thing she’d always said when we struggled with something, “Bite the bullet, even if it’ll make you choke on the gunpowder.”

She chuckled, the sound careless and warm, then she gave me our standard reply, “Might as well swallow it whole and make thunder crack in the shitter bowl.”

We laughed. It’s the last memory and discussion I had with her. The sheriff was waiting for me when my plane landed.

“I hope you can get him to join the Christmas lights theme,” Gertrude grumbles, oblivious to the fact I completely tuned her out.

Clearing my throat I ask, “Get who to join?”

Gertrude stands and stalks to the window. She holds back the drapes and waves her other hand in the direction of my next-door neighbor.

“The criminal who moved in a few weeks before our poor Violet died. Maybe it was his fault, the stress of a criminal moving in next door.” Gertrude drops the drapes and places a hand on her chest.

My face never shows what I feel on the inside. Some people have perfected a resting bitch face, I’ve created a perfect “everything is dandy and the sun always shines” face. Like my mom used to say; I swallow bullets and for sure as fuck make thunder crack in the shitter bowl. It’s the only way to deal with the nonsense life throws at me.

“Mom died of a stroke, a blood clot, nothing criminal, and no one had a hand in it.” My voice is calm while there’s a storm raging on the inside.

I don’t judge people. The criminal neighbor Gertrude mentioned is an early middle-aged man who rides a motorcycle. The glimpses I’ve seen of him? I’d say he’s about ten years younger than me. We haven’t met or so much as said one word to one another. Simply because I leave for work early and I do hear his bike rumble to life at odd hours when I am home working in my pottery studio.

My neighbor has a son, Leon, he’s fourteen and a polite teenager. I’ve seen and talked to him a few times when he came home from school. Sadness hits me at the reminder of my own daughter, Maeve, who’s twenty-three, and is living her own life in another state. She was a troubled teenager when she was Leon’s age.

Shit. What a fucked-up life I’ve had when I really think about it. I’m starting to wonder when my midlife crisis will hit. Maybe it did a hit-and-run when Alan, my husband, told me he wanted a divorce three months ago. It was the whole reason I booked a flight to go and stay with my mother to get my life in order.

The shitty reason Alan gave me why he wanted a divorce? The asshole wanted more out of life than to grow old with me. Hello, I’m freaking forty-five and he’s ten years older than me. For fuck’s sake we were already growing old together because we were married for twenty-five damn years.

Two weeks after my mother died, I found out the real reason why he wanted a divorce. Alan cheated on me with a chick twenty years younger than me. Harsh, right? Yeah, well…karma is a bitch because the chick stabbed him in the throat when he was sleeping. She thought Alan was cheating on her when she saw him out to dinner with a girl. The girl in question was Maeve, his own damn daughter.

Life has its own funny way of fucking shit up, and it’s why I’m good at swallowing bullets whole, and as it seems dodging bullets…even if it took twenty-five years to realize Alan was an asshole. The divorce wasn’t final so I’m officially a widow. I moved out of state, a complete fresh start in my mother’s house I inherited where no one here knows my background.

I only have my daughter left, and she has her own life and issues. Most times she forgets to call, and I only send her a message every now and then because I don’t want to smother her or be a nuisance.

Gertrude picks up her bag and gives me a beaming smile. “Poor Violet died too soon. We all miss her very much. Thanks for the tea, Nixie. I’ll leave you to enjoy your day off. You’re going to put up the Christmas lights today as well, right?”

Fuck no. I’m in no mood to be jolly except for shoving Christmas lights up someone’s ass, and I don’t think Gertrude would volunteer.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to speak my mind, but yet again swallow some ammo to shit thunder at a later point today. “I’m not sure if I have the time with all the cleaning and administration I have to catch up on.”

“Oh, yes, the administration. Did you settle on a theme for the Christmas decorations yet? Your mother used to be in charge and did such a great job all those years.” Gertrude reaches out and pats my hand. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Let me know if you need any help.”

Who the hell needs help picking a freaking theme for Christmas decorations? Christmas is a damn theme all by itself, right? Maybe I can move to another street, or book a flight for a long vacation that lasts till New Year’s.

“Thanks, Gertrude.” I give the woman a beaming smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that, doll.” She nods and slips out of the house, closing the door behind her.

A sigh of relief flows from my lungs. Great start to the first day off I’ve had in weeks. I’ve finally been able to leave the store in the control of one of the two employees. I closed the shop for two weeks after my mother died.

She’s always had the store and it’s how she put food on the table when I was growing up. My mother taught me, and she also gave workshops. Something I won’t be doing any time soon, but my mother had the two employees before she died. One of those two had pretty much taken over the workshops since my mother was slowly handing over everything to the two employees.

What my mother loved most was creating something, so she’d work at the pottery studio at home and drop off the products while the employees ran the shop. I had so much to handle beside the grief, it took me a while to start things up after I decided to take over. Which meant I had to pick up my old hobby again and make stuff to sell at the store.

Like I said, this is the first complete day off I’ve had in weeks, and from now on I only have to cover a shift at the store here and there while the rest of my time will be used in my own pottery studio to make stuff to sell at the store.

My mother had the house renovated to add a home pottery studio. The first few days were the hardest to be in her home, especially in the pottery studio where she loved spending time.

Ironically, it’s now the place where I love to spend my time as well. Before Alan dumped me, I was a bit of a hermit. After everything I’ve been through with Maeve, her finally overcoming her mental issues, fears, and anxieties, I’d rather stay home. Apart from the few hours I worked at the library, I read, cleaned, baked, and did all the grocery shopping.

My to-do list was long and mainly consisted of making sure everything was perfect when Alan got home. He never complained, I never complained, he worked full time, I worked part time, cared for everything, including our daughter who we almost lost due to her mental health issues.

Not that Alan knew all the details or so much as cared to ask. I guess, looking back? Our relationship fell apart long before he wanted a divorce. That’s on me as well.

Another sigh rips from me and I pick up the tray with the teapot and empty mugs. Once I’ve dropped it off in the kitchen, I head straight for the pottery studio and this time a real smile tugs my lips. I buzz through the routine and have my hair in a messy bun by the time I’m ready to start.

When I decided to take over Mom’s shop, I bought an electric pottery wheel, and also kept the old kick wheel my mother used. I don’t have a preference, and it’s either deal with the hum of the electrical or very quiet kick wheel that’s powered by my own foot.

Movement in the backyard catches my attention. I can feel my eyes widen when Leon climbs over the fence and falls into my yard. With utter fear on his face, he glances back at the fence and scrambles to his feet. I rush to the door, unlock it, and wave to catch his attention.

Leon stumbles in my direction and I grab his shirt to pull him inside. Closing the door behind him, he drops onto the floor and pulls my hand to make me step away from the window.

“What’s going on, Leon?” I whisper.

The teenager winces. “My mother. I had no clue she was out, pretty sure my dad doesn’t know either or he would have told me. Didn’t know what to do when she started to bang on the front door. My phone’s dead and she saw me through the window. I had to get out of there.”

I hear a woman screech; the sound is coming from Leon’s backyard.

“Stay here and call your father,” I tell Leon and shove my phone into his hands before I rush to the front door.

I grab the shotgun my mother always keeps in the umbrella rack behind the door, snag some shells from the tiny desk in the hallway, and rush back to Leon.

“Holy shit,” Leon mutters as I start to load the shotgun. “Nah, Dad, I don’t think that’ll be a problem…because Nixie just walked in with a shotgun and she’s still wearing a smile on her face.”

Gertrude might think there’s a criminal living next door to me because he rides a motorcycle, but I was raised by a single mother who always had a shotgun behind the door. She’d take me into the woods to practice every now and then, target shooting to keep a steady aim ’cause you never know.

Dammit, I miss my mom. Shoving that thought to the back of my head, I focus on the here and now. I might not know this teenager living next door to me past a chat and a wave here and there, but the boy has a look of utter panic and is clearly scared. I’ve seen panic and fear in my own daughter’s eyes and was helpless most of the time because her demons were inside her head.

There’s no way I’m going to allow anyone else to be scared in my damn house when it involves a real-life person tormenting this kid.