The Biker Needs A Nanny (Thirteen Bikers for Christmas)

CHAPTER SIX

Lucky—

I roll in the drive just before dinnertime. The sun has set and dusk has fallen. I’m taken by surprise when I see the house. Lights are strung around the porch and the trunks of the two palmetto trees.

Two big wreaths adorn the front doors. They’re made of pine and magnolia and tied with a red bow at the top.

I climb from my bike, and my eyes take everything in. There are wrapped boxes stacked in a tower, giant lollipops, and a hand painted sign that reads, Santa please stop here with two handprints I know immediately are Ella’s and Poppy’s.

The house has never looked prettier. All reds and greens, and everything somehow coordinates. It looks like a happy candy land. It’s supposed to be magical and merry, but all it does is give me a lump in my throat. I’m suddenly transported back to our last Christmas with Melanie, and the pain is crushing. My heart pounds in my chest.

I stand frozen, unprepared for how to deal with the emotions engulfing me.

The door opens.

“Surprise, Daddy! We decorated!” Ella shouts as she and Poppy bound down the stairs to me.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Poppy clutches my leg, turning her happy face to mine.

I ruffle her hair. “It sure is. Where did all this come from?”

“We’ve been working all week on the decorations. Grace helped us do it all. She’s really good at it,” my oldest informs me. “We worked really hard to finish putting it up before you got home.”

“I see that,” I reply with more sharpness in my voice than I intend.

Poppy spins in a circle. “Maybe it will snow.”

Ella follows suit, singing a song from a movie about an ice princess.

I walk up the stairs and pin Grace with a glare. “You did this?”

Her brilliant smile fades. “You’re not happy?”

“The girls are. That’s what’s important.” I walk past her, slam the door, and rattle the glass. I head upstairs to my room, and with every step I tell myself this was a mistake. The girls are growing so attached, and it will break their hearts if she leaves.

Or if I send her away.

I’ll be the bad guy, but all I want is my house back. I don’t want any reminders that it's Christmas. I don’t want any cheer, any celebrating. Doesn’t anyone understand that?

I head into the bathroom and flip the water on in the shower to let it get hot while I strip. When I climb under the jets and let the water pour over my neck and shoulders, I shake the sorrow from my mind. I focus on the heat seeping into my skin and nothing else.

It’s not Grace’s fault. She knows nothing of my pain. She’s clueless to the effect this time of year has on me. It’s not fair to snap at her. It’s not fair to steal the joy of the season from my girls.

I rest a hand on the tile and let the water stream over me, trying to find calm when all I want to do is punch a hole in the goddamn wall. I stand there until the hot water runs out, then I quickly soap up, rinse off, and shut the tap off.

When I step into my bedroom, the smell of something delicious hits my nose, and my mouth waters. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t had anything since the protein drink I made this morning.

Grace is cooking dinner.

It’s been a long time since I’ve come home to a hot meal.

Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, I head downstairs, my hair still damp.

Grace has made a point of setting the table in the dining room every night like a meal together is a big production. It makes the girls happy, so I’ve let it slide.

Ella carries in a platter of honey glazed ham slices and sets it on the table. Poppy follows with a basket of rolls.

I take my seat and wait until Grace comes in with a steaming casserole of cheesy potatoes and takes a seat. I look around the table. There’s a bowl of green beans, another full of applesauce, and a butter dish for the rolls. She’s thought of everything.

Poppy leans toward me to whisper a secret. “There’s candy cane cake for dessert. We helped Grace crush the candy canes. It’s really pretty.”

I nod and dish up my plate. I fork a slice of ham and put it on Poppy’s plate and another on Ella’s. Then I do the same with the potatoes and green beans, spooning them each a serving.

Grace butters their rolls for them.

The girls say their little prayer again. When Melanie died, I swore I’d never thank God for another damn thing. Now I have to sit and listen to my girls do just that every night.

I eat without conversation, but the girls chatter away about all the decorations. I try to tune it out and concentrate on my plate.

When they both finish most of their food, my oldest asks Grace if we can have dessert.

“That’s up to your father,” she replies.

I look at my daughter and nod.

Grace goes to the kitchen and returns with a pretty white frosted cake covered in crushed candy cane. It’s nice, but my eyes focus in on the cake stand, remembering the last time I saw it.

Melanie carried in a birthday cake for Poppy. She was turning three. It was the last birthday my wife got to celebrate in this house. Poppy barely remembers her.

Anger at God fills me. He took her from me, from the girls. And now my house is decorated to celebrate the birth of His son. The unfairness of it all fills me.

“You want a big piece, Daddy?” Ella asks excitedly.

“I don’t like cake,” I snap.

The happiness on her face melts away in an instant, and she bows her head and stares at her plate. She picks at her piece of cake, all the joy gone.

And that, too, is my fault.

Poppy silently eats her cake, her eyes moving between me and Grace.

Ella asks if she can be excused. Grace has been busy teaching them manners—ones I’ve neglected. It’s just another reminder of how I’ve failed.

Grace looks at me to make that decision.

“Yes, baby. And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just tired.”

She doesn’t look pleased with my apology.

She and Poppy push their chairs in and carry their plates to the kitchen, then run upstairs.

“You don’t do Christmas?” Grace asks, drawing my eyes.

She looks pretty sitting there in the golden light of the chandelier that hangs over the table.

“We do Christmas. We have a tree.”

“Only because Santa needs a place to put presents?”

“That’s right. What of it?”

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the attic.”

“The girls want to decorate it.”

“Fine.” I stand and toss my napkin on my plate, then stomp up the stairs. What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a goddamn two-year-old and I can’t seem to stop myself.

I yank the string and the access ladder drops from the hall ceiling. Trudging up it, I pull the cord for the light bulb and spot the green storage bag. I slide it across the plywood floor. It seems smaller than I remember. I drop it to the second floor, then reach for the box of ornaments.

I pause, staring at the other boxes—the ones that are marked in big magic marker with a single word: Melanie .

Her things. It’s the first time I’ve come face to face with it all since the day I packed them.

Will the damn reminders ever stop coming?

I haul the tree and box down and drop them in the family room.

“There. Happy?”

Grace folds her arms and stares at me until I stalk into the kitchen, grab a beer, and head upstairs.

I won’t join in decorating. I can’t. That box of ornaments is filled with memories. There’s no fucking way I’m opening it.