Jingled

  by

  Deany Ray

  Copyright © 2018 Deany Ray

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real names, characters, places, events and incidents is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior consent from the author.

  Just a Little Something…

  Aww…thanks for getting my book. My mom says it’s super good and that she can tell I worked really hard on it. I hope you’ll like it as much as she did!

  And hey, since you’re here, I bet you want to know more about my books. Then I’d finally have someone to talk to about them. Besides my mom, of course. C’mon, I’ll even throw in a free novella for you. That should seal the deal, right? Then you know what to do. Go to www.deanyray.com and sign up. I, for one, am really excited.

  Chapter One

  The snow outside the window looked almost magical. It seemed to sparkle in the bright light of the sun that peeked over the garage. I knew that perfect expanse of snow wouldn’t last, though. Soon, there would be tire tracks, windblown leaves and dirty footprints, perhaps some monster-sized ones from my brother’s mega-expensive running shoes—which really were a joke if you knew my brother Brad, whose only form of exercise was walking slowly back and forth between the fridge and the couch.

  Still, for now, the yard was shimmering, peaceful and quiet on this Christmas Eve. Quiet almost never happened at the Cooper house. Starting at the crack of dawn most days, my mother led a class of elderly exercisers. In shockingly bright leotards, a frail and unsteady knot of oldsters would rock and roll to music loud enough to startle Sleeping Beauty. Old folks are early risers and hard of hearing. At least I could fall into bed at night without setting the alarm.

  The quiet had been, unfortunately, wasted on me that morning. No way could I sleep! The smell of my mother’s cinnamon-flavored Christmas coffee drifted up the stairs as soon as I turned over in my bed at a little after seven. My mind was filled with thoughts of gifts, iced cookies, sweet potatoes, and stockings stuffed so full that not another thing could fit.

  Now, at just past noon, I sat at the table and watched my mother dash around the kitchen, busy and yet calm; she’d done this dance before. She stirred the cornbread batter, then she moved to the food processor, where she added in some oranges and cranberries. Her cranberry salad was the best. Every Christmas Eve it was there on the table in the small green bowl with the beribboned reindeer dancing around the rim.

  “I’m here to help,” I said. “Tell me what to do.”

  She placed a plate in front of me with a gigantic molasses cookie.

  “Oh, sweetie, you just enjoy the day,” she sang out. “I’ve got it all covered.” She kissed the top of my head then rushed to check on something in the oven.

  Sometimes I would help with preparations, chopping onions for the dressing or arranging the special antique silverware just so around the table. Mostly, I just sampled. I glanced at the deviled eggs with their mustardy, pickled goodness that I knew would melt right in my mouth.

  I also liked to spend the day guessing at the contents of the wrapped gifts that had my name on them. I’d brought one with me to the kitchen, so I could ask my mother for some hints. As if I were eight years old, I examined the small gift in my hand. You couldn’t guess a thing when your gifts were wrapped by that master of disguise who was my mother. Ever since the days when my brothers and I had been small, my mother had been on to us and our snooping underneath the Christmas tree—so she started getting sneaky. A book or dangly earrings might come wrapped up in a box that was big enough to hold a toaster oven. A new dress might be wrapped around a cane in such a way that the package appeared to be a large umbrella. She once slipped a noisemaker into a box that held a basketball for my brother Sam. Each time he’d pick the box up, we’d hear cluck, cluck, cluck, causing all manner of confusion—and also a bit of worry—the chicken must be hungry.

  This year, she’d wrapped the pile of gifts in leopard-print paper with oversized red bows. Each year had a theme, you see, when it came to wrapping paper. It was in my mother’s nature to go overboard with anything she did, and when it came to Christmas, the biggest kid of all had always been my mom.

  “Thanks again for having Marge and Celeste over,” I said as I moved the package back and forth between my hands, studying its weight.

  “I’m just thrilled they could come,” my mom said as she added sugar to the salad mixture. “The more people at my table, the happier I am, and you know I love those girls.”

  Marge and Celeste were my business partners, but most importantly, they were my two best friends. Most of the people in my hometown of Springston, just outside of Boston, thought the three of us were computer gurus. In truth, I could barely add an attachment to an email or download a true-crime podcast to my laptop without screwing something up. That whole computer-expert thing? It was all just a front. Like in some late-night movie we were undercover detectives, and we were pretty good, although things had slowed down in December. Thankfully, felons seemed to take days off at Christmas just like people did in other…lines of work.

  I ran my fingers along the edge of the wrapped gift. It might be a small book or something tucked into a box that was the right size for a necklace. A necklace would be nice. I should really wear more jewelry.

  “There’s a little something in that box you’re gonna absolutely love,” my mother called out gaily as she opened the oven door. “Santa says be sure to wear it when you see that sexy Alex. You use that little gift in exactly the right way, and I could be feeding sweet potato casserole to a son-in-law next year.” She winked at me as she carefully pulled the hot dish out of the oven. “I bought myself the same thing,” she added with a giggle. “Oh my! It almost makes me blush. I think both of us will have some good times ahead when the new year rolls around!” She did a little dance as she covered the dish with foil.

  “Mother. Please. Don’t!” I cried. Why was it, I wondered, that every mother in the world but mine knew that certain subject matters were way off limits for a mom? I set down the gift and made a mental note not to open that one in front of Sam or Brad. Alex was my maybe-maybe not, super-gorgeous guy, who I was trying really hard not to think about on this Christmas Eve.

  I changed the subject quickly. “So much food,” I said. “No one will go hungry.”

  “Not while I’m in charge of dinner,” my mother said.

  Some dishes, like the casserole, came out of the oven early and would have to be reheated. There was only so much room in the oven for the turkey, the corn soufflé, the ham…The list went on and on.

  “I’m glad Marge and Celeste decided to spend Christmas Eve with us,” I said with enthusiasm. “Marge’s family doesn’t live here, and Celeste’s massive clan decided that—surprise!—they’d fly to Mexico.” Her extended family had a nice vacation home there, and some matriarch decided that a warm and sunny Christmas would be nice. Celeste usually loved to fly down there whenever time permitted, but she had rolled her eyes at the very thought of a holiday away from home. I had to agree. Christmas was for mittens and warm sweaters. Short sleeves and sandals were for summer.

  “When do you think they’ll be here?” my mother asked, sinking into a kitchen chair for a cookie break.

  I shrugged. “I told them to just come whenever they’re ready. They kind of feel like family now.”

  “They absolutely do!” my mom agreed. “Those two feel like my girls. They’re welcome anytime.” She was up and started cracking eggs. She was never still for long.

  “Please, Mom, let me help,” I said, standing up. I wasn’t a cook at all, but I could manage cracking eggs.

  “You were always my best taster,” she said. “You’re very good at that.” She walked toward me with a spoonful of sweet potato casserole. “Did I add enough brown sugar?” she asked, looking worried.

  The sweet and buttery goodness melted in my mouth, and the crunchy topping was perhaps my favorite part.

  “It’s perfect,” I pronounced.

  My mom looked pleased.

  “If you’re looking for something to do, why don’t you hang the stockings?” she asked, turning back to the mixing bowl.

  “That sounds good,” I told her. “A job I can’t mess up.”

  Before I left the kitchen, I noticed a clear bottle on the counter. “What is that?” I asked.

  “Some rum from Mrs. Eisler,” my mother said. “I used it for the eggnog. That’s some good rum. Remind me to put a label on the bottle. Someone might want a drink later on tonight.”

  In the living room, the tree sparkled with colored lights as it stretched almost to the top of the high ceiling. A silver star twinkled up on top, and the branches were heavy with colored balls and fancy glittered ornaments along with crayoned paper decorations that Sam and Brad and I had brought home from elementary-school classrooms many years before.

  I carefully hung the stockings on the fireplace mantle. Mine was white and silver with angels in blue dresses. I’d chosen it in second grade, and although it had grown a little worn, it just wouldn’t do to hang any other stocking. Christmas, after all, was all about traditions. Like me, my parents and my brothers still had the same stockings that they’d used for years.

  I stood back and admired the way the mantle looked, with the stockings nestled prettil y in the greenery that stretched across the mantle, accented with red bows. Later, my dad would build a fire, and that would complete, at last, our perfect Christmas scene.

  I heard voices on the patio and turned to the window to see my dad and brothers huddled around the grill with some chestnuts in a pan. They all looked so serious as if the success or failure of our holiday depended on that single task. It was funny to see the three of them conferring so intently over one simple dish while my mother single-handedly managed a whole feast. I had to roll my eyes. I loved to tease my brothers, but I was happy to see Sam, who was not around a lot. He always stayed so busy. He worked in construction and was the only one of us three Cooper kids who was out living on his own.

  In the meantime, Brad and I were still tucked away in our childhood beds each night, much to my great humiliation. I would not think of that right then. Oh, no, I would not. It was Christmas Eve. Plus, it was only temporary, till I saved a little cash.

  On the other hand, Brad’s time in our childhood home wasn’t likely to come to an end any time soon. He wasn’t motivated to get a lasting job—or do much of anything—even though my mother had gotten him up and moving over the past few days. He’d help to string the lights outside and had even pushed a mop, much to my amusement. There was much cleaning to be done, and at the Cooper house, we did so much more than rid the rooms and furniture of any dust or dirt. With an assortment of special sprays, my mother attacked, with a vengeance, any bad vibes or evil spirits or whatever nonsense she could sense lurking in our domain. I think this year she even had a holiday version of her weapon in a bottle. I saw the homemade label. I think it said SCCS. Special Christmas Cleansing Spray.

  I glanced around the living room, which looked ready for the day: a traditional Christmas scene, minus the mistletoe. We were mostly family, and except for my mom and dad, any kissing would be just plain weird. Eggnog waited on a tray for the coming celebration, and an elaborate gingerbread house was spread out on the coffee table. My mother had worked on it for days. It had tiny candy flowers in tiny candy pots set out on tiny windows outlined in peppermint. There were gingerbread dogs and gingerbread children, and even a tiny Santa boot as the jolly man himself disappeared down the tiny cookie chimney.

  My mother was an artist. I was…well…a ditz when it came to cooking or designing or really any kind of creative skill. That’s why I’d decided that something had to change. This was the year I’d put myself in charge of Christmas Eve dessert. I mean, how hard could it be? My mom had stacks of cookbooks, and I knew how to read. I knew how to measure things in cups. I knew how to turn the oven to 375 degrees, and I knew how to watch the time until a dish was done. So really, nothing could go wrong.

  The day before Christmas Eve, I’d gone to work on what I hoped to be my masterpiece. I had the kitchen to myself. My father was busy at his diner, which he’d owned for years, and my mom was grocery shopping. Brad was being Brad, so Brad was on the couch with his best friend in the whole wide world; her name was Remote Control.

  After much flipping through cookbooks and debating in my head, I’d decided I would make an orange cream cheesecake, which looked simple enough to fix. I’d bought the ingredients, and all I had to do was put the thing together. I had plenty of time to whip it up and get it into the fridge for the minimum cooling time of eight hours.

  Brad looked at me skeptically when he came in for another beer.

  “What are you doing there?” he asked, frowning.

  “What does it look like? I’m making our Christmas dessert.”

  He paused.

  “You mean, besides what mom is making?”

  I shot him a look.

  “Nooo, I mean this is going to be our Christmas dessert.”

  “So there’s no plan B if you…you know…screw up the dessert?” he asked.

  “I won’t screw up the dessert,” I said in a high-pitched voice.

  He threw his hands up in the air in a defensive mode. “Just saying.”

  “Thank you, brother dear, for your confidence in me,” I told him with a frown.

  I would prove him wrong! The cake looked really good when I finished working. It smelled delicious too. I couldn’t wait to taste it.

  Now on Christmas Eve, I was tasting the cheesecake in my mind as I straightened up the stockings and rearranged some sheep in the manger scene.

  I stood back and took in the living room décor one more time when the doorbell rang.

  The cold air from outside rushed into my face as I let Marge and Celeste into the house.

  “Merry Christmas!” Celeste called out happily, her hands full of gifts and bottles of red wine. She looked absolutely gorgeous in a snow-white coat with jewels of every color on her fingers, around her neck, and sparkling in her ears.

  “Wow, would you look at that?” Marge squealed. “You live in the perfect Christmas house.”

  She ran to the tree, where she carefully examined a tiny Christmas mouse, a winged angel, and a spotted puppy hanging from the tree. She clasped her hands in glee, which set little bells to jingling on her Christmas sweater and her red Santa hat. Yes, Marge wore a Santa hat. The only one of us who could pull that off. When she saw the gingerbread house, she was speechless.

  I took their coats and gifts and helped them to get settled.

  Marge turned to the front door, where she had set down a big plastic box.

  “I’ll just leave that one there for now since it’s kind of large,” she said.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  She grinned. “You’ll see. A surprise!”

  With Marge, that could be delightful or scary. You never knew.

  I led them to the kitchen, where my mom greeted them with hugs.

  “This smells divine,” Celeste told her with a sigh.

  My mother blushed. “Thank you so much, dear. Why don’t you take a…”

  But she didn’t get to finish. Some very odd sounds came from outside. It sounded like a series of small and loud explosions, one right after the other.

  We all talked at once.

  “What in the world?”

  “What was that?”

  “Did someone shoot a gun?”

  We ran outside to check and saw the guys had thrown themselves flat out on the floor of the deck, and there were tiny bits of…something…jumping from the grill.

  “Are those the chestnuts?” I asked. They must have massively screwed up with the chestnuts.

  “Everybody down!” my dad screamed desperately.

  The explosions kept on coming, and we all huddled facedown on the deck in a matter of seconds.

  “Merry Christmas!” Sam yelled over the exploding chestnuts. “We thought it would be boring to do things the normal way.”

  “It’s not funny, Sam,” Brad said. “One of them chestnuts pinched me right in my butt.”

  The girls and I stifled a laugh.

  The chestnuts were still exploding. One of those things in the eye, however, could do a lot of damage. I took off my glasses and tucked them beneath my arm for safety. So much for the Coopers and their perfect Christmas house.

  “Do something, Dad!” I yelled. You would think my dad knew what he was doing. Being the owner of a diner and all.

  “I thought you knew how to do this, Jack,” my mother told him as she looked up cautiously.

  “Are there any chestnuts left to eat?” Marge squeaked. “Or did they all explode?”

  “Marge!” Celeste shot her a look.

  “What? I’m a fan of chestnuts,” Marge pouted.

  I was not, I decided.

  “Hold on, I got this,” my dad said.

  I watched his hand slowly move the pan away from the hot grill.

  “Finally,” Brad mumbled.

  Cautiously, we stood up and looked warily around us. The deck seemed safe again.

  As my mom pulled chestnut pieces from her long curls, my dad grinned at us sheepishly.

  “Sorry. You never know how these bad boys are turning out.”

  Pieces of chestnuts littered the deck and spread out across the snow.

  “That was…quite a show,” Celeste said, checking to see if one of her fingernails broke.

  “Can we go inside now? I’m freezing,” I said. In all the rush, we sprinted outside without our coats on.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7