spend Merry July-mas with his dead wife.
“When did life get so complicated?” I ask.
She snorts and finishes her gingerbread, carefully folding the little brown bakery wrapper and sliding it in her pocket. “When was it ever not?”
I look at the oversized heel of her bad foot and nod. “I guess… I guess I’ve been pretty sheltered, mostly.”
She shrugs. “And now, what… you and your Dad aren’t talking? And you’re realizing even family can let you down?”
I look over at her. “Pretty much. He and I have this thing where I’m not supposed to call my Mom, on account of she ran off with her yoga instructor and he basically hates her. Usually I catch the cell phone bill before he does, but I’ve been slacking and… he found out. Called me a traitor, kicked me out.”
She nudges my knee with hers. “He’ll let you back in,” she says, confidently.
I snort so loud she instantly looks doubtful. “You don’t know my Dad,” I sigh. “He already took my car away, and froze my bank account.”
She nods, green eyes soft and wide in the glow from Mr. Carol’s Christmas lights. “So that’s why you’re slumming it at Holly Day’s and not working one of your old man’s car lots, now I get it.”
I sigh. It sounds so final, on her lips. “So, where are you staying tonight?” she asks.
I shrug. “I crashed at Booger’s pool house last night,” I confess, “but he’s pretty freaked his Mom will find out and tell my Dad.”
“Why should that matter?”
“Because… my Dad called all my friends and told them he’d quit paying for charter busses to away games if he catches them putting me up.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s pretty petty.”
“Like I said, you don’t know my Dad very well.”
“Sorry, Toby,” she says.
I chuckle. “It’s okay. I’ll figure something out.”
She slips from the table and reaches for my hand. “Come on,” she says, tugging me from the bench. “I think I can help.”
I follow her and we wheel our bikes deeper into the trailer park. It’s quiet, soft, glowing from flickering TV screens or blinking Christmas lights or both. She slides her bike against a double-wide and walks up the steps, opening the front door.
“Is this… yours?” I ask.
“Try not to sound so shocked,” she says, reaching inside and coming back with a set of keys.
“I’m not shocked,” I lie because, yeah, I’m totally shocked. I mean, I knew trailer parks existed and all, but… I’ve never actually known someone who lived in one before.
“Yeah, right,” she says, brushing past. We walk across the way to a small camper, dark, with two flat tires. “The lady who owns this pays me a few bucks a month to keep an eye on it for her. It’s empty, she only ever comes down during the winter, but I think it’s okay if you stay for a few nights until you figure something out. Maybe she’ll even rent it to you for cheap if you promise to fix it up for her…”
She unlocks the door and I see what she means: cabinet doors hang loose, the carpet is moldy, everything’s dusty or peeling or bent or rusted out.
“Seriously?” I ask, standing on the top step and looking down at her.
She takes the key off the chain and hands it to me. “Yeah, Toby, seriously.”
I shake my head, uncertain what to say. “But… why?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve never said three words to you at school.”
She nods, then snorts. “Yeah, you’re kind of a snob.”
I laugh. “So… why? Why are you being so nice to me then?”
She looks down at her orthopedic shoes and then back up at me. “I guess a guy who swallows his pride and busses tables at Holly Day’s Diner while his Dad owns half of Noel can’t be all bad, Toby.”
I nod because I’d much rather believe what Grace says about me than my old man does. She turns and limps a few steps away before stopping. She fiddles with something, her arms and elbows moving, but I can’t see with what. Then she turns back around, limps back and holds up a small pin; a candy cane pin.
Her candy cane pin, from the tip apron shoved in the pocket of her black jeans.
“Really?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says, smiling, looking prettier than ever.
I smirk. “Are you authorized by Holly Day herself to present me with that candy cane pin?” I tease her.
“Not officially,” she says, fingers warm on mine as she hands it over. “But trust me when I say your Holly’s material.”
And then I smile because, all of a sudden, I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Seasons of Snowflake, https://www.seasonsofsnowflake.com, where you can read many of his FREE stories and collections, all about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina.
Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends