Christmas Music: A Romantic Holiday Story
Rusty Fischer
Christmas Music:
A Romantic Holiday Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
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Christmas Music
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2014 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © Olly – Fotolia.com
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!
Happy reading… and Merry Christmas!
Enjoy!
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Christmas Music:
A Romantic Holiday Story
He hears me cursing through the open sliding glass door and chuckles.
“What’s so funny about the power going out in the middle of a batch of Christmas cookies?” I cry as I sidle over to the door, dollar store potholders on my hands.
He flops and flaps across the four feet of grass between our porches and says, “Didn’t you get the memo?”
“What memo?” I ask, but even as the words come out, I suddenly know exactly what memo.
“The green one Dotty kept putting on your door every time you took it down,” he prods, maroon and wheat striped ski cap pressed down over his dirty blond surfer curls.
Even as he says it, we both spot the stack of crumpled green notices on my pitiful table for two. I pick it up as he leans against the open door frame. Someone must have a battery operated boom box because even in the pitch dark of Christmas Eve, no power to speak of, I hear a chill saxophone playing “Silent Night”.
“Well… I…” It’s dark now, the little dime store Christmas tree on my counter black, the lights suddenly off, the oven cut out, mid-cookie sheet. “Do you have a light?”
“It just so happens…” he chuckles, smoke oozing from his young lips as he stamps out his cigarette on my postage stamp size patio and flicks a lighter to guide himself into the apartment.
The flame flickers across his handsome young face, covered in a few days worth of scruff. He’s got his obligatory Bob Marley T-shirt on, with red cargo pants and flip flops. Winter wear, Florida style.
He goes from jar candle to jar candle, until finally the room glows with a faint orange flicker and the scent of warm vanilla and cinnamon.
“That’s better,” I sigh, slumping down into one of the two chairs and kicking the other one out for him.
He ignores it, leaning against the doorjamb instead. I don’t know whether to be hurt or impressed. I’ve only just moved into the complex and I’ve seen him hanging around on a few occasions, either heading out to surf, or just coming back from another long session.
I pick up the least crumpled flyer and read it by the light of a dollar store jar candle:
Dear Resident,
Effective 8 PM on December 24th, the power will be turned off for routine maintenance. It will be turned back on again just after midnight, on December 25th. We are sorry for the inconvenience, but we hope this won’t dampen your enthusiasm for spending Christmas at the Manchester Arms.
Happy Holidays,
Dotty
“How… how is this even legal?” I ask, looking up at him as he fills my open slider. “It’s Christmas Eve. Is no one else baking? Is no one else eating? I mean, I was going to make meatloaf, after my cookies…”
My voice trails off. I don’t know why I said that. I was going to make Sloppy Joe’s, actually, but I guess that sounded too loser to admit. So I said meatloaf instead.
Like that’s any better?
His name is Grover. He introduced himself my first day here, hand still wet from the sea. Grover smiles. “You know, before ovens, they had these things called fires…” He points to the candle in front of me and says, “There’s one…” Then his eyes scan the room, pointing at the other candles dotting my humble little abode. “And there… and there…”
I’m not amused. The cookies were just starting to smell good. I got icing and sprinkles and everything, and they weren’t cheap. “Your point, Grover?”
“My point is, it’s kind of a tradition around here to bring whatever you’re making and cook it on the big grill out in the yard…”
His voice trails off as he sees the face I’m making.
“Hey,” he wags a finger, “don’t be like that. It’s just, you know, it’s been a rough year for most of us. This is Dottie’s way of bringing us together as a community.”
“I thought this was an apartment complex.” My voice comes out harsher than I’d intended, and in the flickering candlelight I see his eyes get a little wider, then a little harder.
“If that’s all you want it to be, Grace, that’s all it will ever be.”
It sounds like a parting jab but he stays, lean frame taking up most of the doorway. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I apologize without actually saying I’m sorry. “I just… I’m not a big joiner.”
“I wasn’t either, ‘til I moved here.”
Even in the candlelight I can see his full lashes, his moist brown eyes. “Will you just… sit down already?” I ask, impatiently.
He lingers in the doorway until I say, “I’m not going to hit on you, if that’s what you’re worried about…”
“Jesus,” he chuckles, slapping across the room in his flip-flops. “I don’t have that high an opinion of myself…”
“Sorry,” I say, biting a nail until he looks at me judgmentally. “It’s just… my first Christmas without a drink, you know?”
His eyes are open and calm, his smile genuine, almost… proud. “I didn’t know, but… congratulations. It’s my third.”
“Yeah?” I ask, impressed.
He nods, shyly, eyes finally flitting away to the crumpled notices on the table. “Yeah.”
I reach out a hand, gently, to cover his on top of the table. I hold it there until he looks back at me. “Congratulations, Grover. Really, that’s… that’s quite an achievement.”
Then I take my hand away, softly, because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. Even so, I couldn’t resist; he’s the first person I’ve touched in months.
He leaves his hand there and jerks his head toward the open slider. Now the radio outside is playing “White Christmas,” still tuned to some jazz station, or maybe it’s just stuck on a soft sax solo.
“So are you coming or what?”
“I can’t grill meatloaf, Grover.”
He chuckles, grin crooked, teeth big. “So make hamburgers instead. Do like the Marines: improvise, adapt, overcome.”
He sees me scowling and presses, “Come on, it’s Christmas. Don’t be alone.”
I nod toward him. “I’m not alone.”
He stands, gently, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re going to be when I bring my hot dogs to the grill in a few minutes.”
“You’ll be out there?” I ask, a little too desperately.
“Grace, we’ll all be there. There’s nothing, and no one, to be worried about tonight. You’re here, you’re safe… it’s Christmas. Don’t be like this.”
I sigh. “Hamburgers and hot dogs, huh?”
“It’ll be fun,” he assures me. “It always is.”
“Yeah?”
He pauses, halfway to the door, turns to face me. “I didn’t want to go either, my first year here. But Dotty came and convinced me.”
“That wh
at you’re doing, Grover?” I ask. “Convincing me?”
He shrugs, turns, and doesn’t answer. “Five minutes,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves, and I watch his shadow slip back next door.
I sigh and linger at the table. The room looked depressing enough with its little blinking Charlie Brown tree and fiber optic snowman, now it just looks sad and empty.
I stand and drift into the kitchen. It takes about six steps, and drag the hamburger meat from the fridge. I form it into six patties, small, thin, but making only four seems, somehow, selfish.
I look around the humble kitchen for more to bring. A bag of chips, some marshmallow Santas, a box of thin mints, a six-pack of generic soda. There’s a small plastic hamper I’ve been using to go to the beach; it’s got handles and I slide all the goodies inside.
I’m not wearing anything fancy, black jeans, maroon sweater, gray flats. I hadn’t planned on company and the cookies were for myself, but I’d really been looking forward to them. Along with about twelve sappy Christmas movies I’d queued up on HitFlix!
I don’t look in the mirror or fix my hair or face. It’s dark out, we’re grilling, I don’t know any of these people and I’m not in the market,
