Christmas in Cactus Flats and Other Holiday Romances Page 5

  "It's so pretty," she answered, speaking aloud the thought in her head. She felt him standing just behind her, his fingers gently releasing hers as they gazed outside.

  "Worth it, wasn't it?" he whispered back. "Goin' out there with some crazy idea to make something that pretty for everybody."

  She didn't answer, although she swallowed hard in an attempt to make words possible. The reflection in the glass swam into focus for a moment, J.P. smiling at her.

  "Merry Christmas," he said. He stepped backwards, the sound of his voice audible a moment later as he mingled with some of the guests by the buffet.

  Drew continued to gaze at the lights in the distance, past the reflection of herself in a cowboy hat and a pink wool top better suited to Boston's cold. The image of J.P. and his guests, of Tonni refilling the bowl of grilled avocado dip, invisible in the darkness of shining stars as brilliant as those she watched from the clearing beyond her grandparents' cabin.

  In the haze of her tears, they blurred together in a halo of colors, like a wreath of brilliant stars hanging just outside the window.

  Chapter Seven

  As J.P.'s truck wound its way along the road, Drew followed along behind, swerving to miss potholes and rocks unearthed by off-road tires. To her mind this road was actually traveling upwards with its narrow curves, although it didn't seem possible given the flatness of the rancher's fields in the distance to her left.

  There was no Christmas morning traffic, although she suspected there was very little traffic here at any given time. Did Arlene drive this road often? Did she ever think about locating somewhere more convenient? She had very little time to ponder this idea, as Arlene's trailer appeared in view.

  Blocked up with cement and underpinned with plastic sheeting. A red travel trailer of vacations long past, faded in the sun to a pinkish tan with rust spots on its metal surface. A set of wooden steps, walkway stones dodging between weeds and dust. As Drew pulled into the empty yard, she eyed the place with chagrin.

  Shifting into park, she climbed out of the driver's seat, taking in the sagging striped awnings over the doors and windows, the burned-out porch light bulb in a swift glance. She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and turned towards J.P. His hands were tucked in his pockets, a ball cap pushed back from his brow.

  "You want to take your stuff in?" he asked. His fingers lifted the bag's strap from her shoulder, his free hand reaching into her open car to lift the duffel bag from her passenger seat.

  Drew climbed the steps hesitantly, her fingers avoiding the grimy rail. The key J.P. had given her fit the lock in the door knob. She twisted it, then pushed open the door and peered inside.

  Faded carpeting, faded furniture. Newspaper scattered across the floor, cast-off garments and empty cereal boxes. Did a grown woman live here or a crowd of teenagers? There were no answers for these constant questions in her mind, nothing except her own speculations. J.P. seemed not to notice anything amiss as he carried her bags inside.

  He cleared his throat. "There's probably not much in the fridge," he said. "There's a land line in the kitchen, phone works." He set her things beside the sofa. "The restaurant's number is on a business card taped next to it, if you need to call. But sometimes I'm at the other one written below. When I'm out with my herds."

  "Your herds?" she repeated. Until now, it had never occurred to her that he had a life beyond the day-to-day operation of the Dry Street Barbecue, waiting on his mother's customers and wiping down tables.

  "My ranch," he said. "Ma lives out there with me — that's why the restaurant's empty upstairs. She cooks, helps tidy up — that's why I'm down at the restaurant some. Help smoke the meats and fill in when the rest of the crew's off." He tucked his thumbs in his pockets, glancing around the room as if to ascertain that there was nothing else for him to do.

  She knew in a moment he would be going; no doubt he and Tonni celebrated the holidays with a big dinner or something. Her eye flickered towards him, a wish that he would linger for a few minutes whispering itself in her thoughts.

  "Thanks," she said. "For the key. And for carrying my stuff." She stood awkwardly, hands searching for something to do as they clasped behind her, then hung loose at her sides. J.P. nodded.

  "I'll see you around," he said, tipping the brim of his hat and smiling before he stepped outside again and closed the door. She watched through the window as his truck crept down the driveway towards the dirt road again, then turned towards her new lodgings.

  The sofa was hidden under a faded knit afghan in squares of black and neon yarns. Through the half-open door stood a bed cramped against one wall, its sheets and faded comforter crawling towards the floor. Where shoes and garments led a trail to a pressed back chair and antiquated dresser. A modern flat screen television was perched on an unpainted console, VHS tapes piled incongruously around it.

  Opening the refrigerator, she found an out-of-date milk carton, a moldy container of Mexican takeout that she pitched into the garbage with revulsion. A scattered number of pots and pans in the cupboards, a pair of tongs and two forks in a drawer. A half-dozen cans of soup lined up alongside the unplugged coffee pot.

  She sank down on the worn recliner in the living room. Her imagination transformed it into the armchair in the Boston apartment, the one where her mother sat and watched her fill out her college entrance forms. Closing her eyes, she pictured that moment with clarity, Priscilla's neatly-pressed slacks and white sweater, the June edition's The New Yorker open to the cartoon. Although her mind inserted a Christmas tree in the corner of the room despite the heat of summer.

  *****

  Untidiness was the least of the little trailer's problems. The window in the bedroom was stuck when Drew attempted to force it open to allow a little fresh air into the place. The toilet handle stuck, water running constantly from the tank to the bowl. When she turned on the kitchen light, the bulb burst in a flash of blue light and smoke, alerting the battery-operated fire detector concealed on top of the fridge and sending Drew into a scream of panic in response.

  There were other unpleasant aspects of living here: such as Drew's nap of exhaustion interrupted by the sound of someone pounding on the front door. Slipping her shoes on, she stumbled towards the door, wondering if it was Arlene on the other side. Peering out through the curtains, however, she saw a vastly different figure.

  An imposing man in a heavy coat, his shaved head exposed to the glaring sunlight. There was no evidence of Christmas cheer in his grip, suggesting he wasn't here to wish Arlene a happy holiday. Heart in her throat, Drew turned the lock even as she slid out of sight behind the door.

  "Arlene!" His voice sounded angry. "I know you're in there! You ain't gonna hide forever! That payment's two months due and you know it." The thudding continued, vibrating the door as Drew crouched against it.

  "I'll just come comin' back and you know it! I'm gonna find you and you better have a good excuse why that's still owed me!" She heard the sound of his boots stomping off the porch. An engine roared to life a moment later, a flash of reflected sunlight traveling across the trailer's wall as he drove away. With a sigh of relief, Drew crawled shakily to her feet, her fingers raking through her hair in response to emotions half-crazed and exhausted.

  An unpleasant picture about Arlene's life was forming in her mind. One filled with deadbeat boyfriends acquainted with loan sharks, a surly teenage half-brother defined by laundry piles and cereal consumption. Perhaps she was a beaten-down figure, seeking refuge from these problems by running away. Perhaps she was never coming back.

  "Hi, J.P. It's me. Drew. You remember — Arlene's daughter?" She had dialed the restaurant's number first, only to hear ring after ring; she dialed the number below and experienced success in the form of the young man's drawl.

  "Everything okay?" He responded. She remembered it was Christmas Day; no doubt he was busy at home doing ... well, whatever ranchers do for the holidays.

  "I was just wondering," she continued, weakly, "if it
would be possible for someone to fix a broken window for me ... and maybe a plumbing problem. I would pay for their services, of course. The local carpenter or plumber takes credit cards, I hope?" She twined the phone's cord around her fingers as she sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor — the chairs being occupied by stacks of magazines and several small appliances still in their boxes.

  "Well, there's nobody who would come out today, of course," he answered, "except in a real emergency. Tell you what — I've got time tomorrow after Ma leaves and before I check my fences. Let me come down there and take a look at things." In response to her pause, he added, "I'd come tonight, but it's gettin' a little dark. 'Course, if it can't wait —"

  "Oh, no," she interrupted, "I—I didn't mean to make you think —"

  There was a soft, whistling sound on the other side, as if J.P. was thinking of something rather than listening to her. "I could come tonight, soon as dinner's over."

  "No, no, the morning is fine," she answered. "I just thought it might be a nice gesture. To have a few things taken care of for Arlene while she's away." This afternoon had convinced her that it wasn't worth waiting around to forge a connection with a situation which seemed beyond her understanding.

  "First thing tomorrow, then," he said. A moment later, the line was the sound of a dial tone. She was relieved that his tone in signing off was cheerful, making her feel less like a pest and more like a friend of sorts.

  Surely, however, he would let her pay for the repairs.

  Drew dozed off on the sofa around midnight, lulled to sleep by the wavering sound of a radio station playing Christmas carols. It reminded her of a scratchy record her grandmother was fond of playing, a quiet, solemn choir. When she awoke in the morning, however, the sounds had transformed into a local deejay reading aloud classified ads for livestock and farm machinery.

  Sitting up, she combed her fingers through her hair as she recalled last night's phone call. Her brain felt foggy as she rummaged through her clothes, looking for something to wear. Surprising herself by her choice of items: a flowered blouse, a matching skirt whose shades were almost spring-like in her winter wardrobe. Who was she trying to impress? A local boy who would forget her in a couple of days when she was gone?

  She dismissed that thought from her mind as she rummaged through the cupboards for breakfast. Finding a bag of corn flakes was the closest she came to breakfast — but there was enough for two bowls if J.P. was hungry.

  Drew waited for him on the porch, knees tucked close to her chest as she watched for signs of life on the road. J.P.'s truck appeared around the bend. She waved to him, then withdrew her hand when better judgment passed over her. She stood up when he climbed out of the driver's seat.

  "Good morning," she said. "I'm sorry you came all the way out here. Surely there was a professional I could call..."

  "Don't worry about that," he answered. He was wearing a faded flannel shirt similar to the one Tonni had loaned her that morning at the restaurant, his jeans stained from mud as if he had already been working for this morning. He lifted a large toolbox from the bed of the truck before approaching the steps.

  "Nice boots," he said with a smile, as his glance fell on her own. A pair of squeaky brown leather which seemed silly in comparison to his faded ones stained with dirt.

  "Another one of those impulses in the tourist shop," she answered, blushing. "I guess I thought it would help me blend in or something." She pushed open the front door, letting him into the living room.

  He inspected the stuck window with a frown, testing the seal around the edges with his fingers as she watched from the doorway.

  "I think I might just use a little lubricant on this one," he said. "Loosen up the hinges so it cranks out when you turn the handle." He rummaged around in his toolbox and produced a spray can, misting the rusted metal screws which held the window's hinges in place.

  Drew slipped into the kitchen, where she filled two mugs with the contents of the coffee pot, an off-brand brew she had found tucked behind an empty box of crackers. She wondered if he took sugar and cream, especially since she couldn't find either in the cupboards.

  "Do you take anything in your coffee?" she called over her shoulder. "I think there's some sort of sweetener in this drawer." She inspected the paper packets with suspicion as she fished them from beneath a jumble of spoons.

  "Black's fine," he answered. Emerging a moment later, he cast an eye at the burned-out bulb above, its socket blackened from the electrical burst the previous evening.

  "Little accident?" he asked.

  "Dead bulb," she said, feigning nonchalance at the uncomfortable memory of herself screaming in response.

  He placed the tool box on the table. "I'll change that before I go, if you want," he said, accepting the cup of coffee. "And look at the plumbing problem. 'Course, if I need parts, I'll have to finish that job later." He blew softly along the top of the cup before taking a sip.

  "Sorry if it's bad," she winced. "I couldn't find any decent brands in the cabinets. I'll have to buy some if —" She cut off her remarks here, not wanting to admit she was giving up. Not yet, anyway.

  "It's fine," he answered. "As good as what I make at home." He set the cup on the counter.

  "I thought your mother probably made coffee," she said. "Part of keeping house at the ranch?"

  He shook his head. "I'm up hours before that," he answered. "Cattle and horses don't look after themselves." He started to pull out a chair, but noticed the stacked objects filling the seats. He didn't comment on it, merely raising his eyebrows as he leaned against the counter.

  "I don't think this is how you envisioned your post-holiday experience," she ventured, after a moment's silence. "I should have ignored the window and the rest of the things since...well, since it's not my place."

  J.P. shrugged. "You're just looking out for your mom," he said. "No trouble, anyway. That's just a few minutes work, the window." He took another sip from his coffee mug and glanced towards the sink.

  "That where it leaks?" he asked. She shook her head.

  "This way," she said. She didn't watch him work on his second project, afraid he would perceive her as clinging to him in some way. She finished her cup of coffee in the hallway, staring at a framed print hanging crookedly on the wall. A garden landscape with an old whicker chair in its midst, a beribboned gardening hat on its seat in the fashion of calendar art or inspirational posters.

  "Um, yesterday evening, a man dropped by to see Arlene," she said, broaching the subject carefully, despite the shiver she felt at the memory of the irate fist pounding on the door. "Is she ... is she in some kind of trouble?" Or maybe in a relationship with it, she thought.

  There was a stretch of silence from J.P.; through the half-open door, Drew could see him kneeling beside the tank, both hands submerged in the water. He had paused in this action, however, gazing at the wall as if thinking about her words.

  "Was it a bill collector?" he asked.

  "More like a loan shark," she answered. She saw him drumming his fingers on the rim of the tank. He reached into his tool box and pulled out a wrench.

  "Probably nothing to worry about," he answered. "If it was a little shrimpy guy, that'd be Lester; if it's a big bald guy —"

  "That's him," Drew chimed in, a slightly nervous tremor in her voice.

  "Daryl," said J.P. "Arlene probably borrowed a little somethin' ahead of her next check. Folks who know him say he gets a little jumpy when it's time to collect." Drew heard a clinking sound, the soft ping of metal from some unseen part.

  "Is she in trouble?" asked Drew. "Financially, I mean." She had edged further down the hallway, not sure what she was asking. Did she want to float a check to an unknown relative — or relatives, if her family was bigger than she imagined? Or did she want someone tall and reassuring like J.P. to stand guard outside for twenty-four hours until she could escape from this place. This Daryl — or Lester, or whoever — looked like someone probably armed and dangerous.

>   "Arlene? Nah. Probably just got a little ahead of herself again." There was a splashing sound, the scraping of ceramic as the tank's lid slid into place again.

  "Does she have anyone to help her out? Any family or close friends?" The images of the hulking teenage son and the deadbeat boyfriend popped into her head with this question.

  She heard a laugh from the other side of the door. "Not that I knew of until now," he answered. "Unless somebody tells you different, the answer's no."

  Drew released a sigh of relief. At the sound of him testing the water pressure, she realized he was on the verge of emerging to catch her lingering in the hallway. Did she seem desperate for company? Or merely as if she was too interested in his helpfulness? Without thinking, she hurried into the next room, making herself busy by attempting to make the bed. Pulling the comforter over the pillow, she kicked a pair of jogging shoes underneath the bed, creating noise for no reason other than to comfort herself with some form of activity. Even if it took the form of lunacy.

  There was a shuffling sound in the hallway, the sound of the bathroom door closing. "Looks like everything's working," he called. "I'll change that light bulb, check the socket before I go."

  "Great," she called back. She gave the comforter a final tug, only to cause the underlying sheets to slide completely free of the bed. Moving away from the untidy pile of linens, she checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing the waves of hair back from her face. Not that her appearance mattered at this moment, of course.

  He was adjusting the light bulb, a new one without the blackened wires within. He flicked the switch, bathing the floor and table in a yellow glow as she entered.

  "A short in the switch," he said. "Wiring's getting old in this thing. Tell Arlene she should have somebody take a look at it when she gets back."

  Her smile in reply was faint. "If I'm still around by then, I will," she said. "But as everybody says —"