The Night Before Christmas Read online

  The Night Before Christmas

  A Novel

  By

  K. S. David

  The Night Before Christmas

  The Night Before Christmas. Copyright 2018 by K. S. David. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction; names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is coincidental.

  1

  A small crowd was gathered on the edge of my lawn. Neighbors hollered so loud that I couldn’t even hear myself think. A wall of hickory trees covered in a new dusting of snow stood above us caught our noise, bounded it around and threw the sounds back down. The strange vibration of our voices echoed in my ears.

  “Calista! Really! Chasing an old man with a dough roller in the middle of the night! You should be ashamed," chastised Alma Douglas. Her blue curlers peeked out from beneath a large sateen scarf infested with brightly colored butterflies. Her thin pink cotton robe barely closed over her ample bosom. Her feet were thick, feet were shoved into a pair of matted blue slippers.

  "Ashamed?" I snorted. "I found him in my house! What woman runs out of her home in the middle of the night screaming, if nothing is wrong?”

  "He's harmless," Mr. Landy gagged back a chuckle. "Wouldn't hurt a fly." Then leaned forward and whispered, "The lights are on, but no one's inside." He whistled and made circles around his head. "You know what I mean, right?" Meager strands of gray hair had escaped hair band and whipped around the balding halo of his scalp.

  The subject of our discussion was my elderly neighbor, Fred Guthrie. The man was stooped with a slight hump in his back. I had been living next door to him for a few months but had only seen him a hand-full of times. Shuffling his feet back-and-forth, he was oblivious to the argument surrounding him. The man was thin. A good wind could have knocked him over. Standing between us, Fred Guthrie was immune to my argument. His yellow, rummy eyes were downcast. Blue veined hands quivered at his side as he hummed faintly.

  "He walked in on me in the bathroom!"

  I had been taking a well-deserved bath. After a sixteen-hour day in my bakery, my hands felt like rubber, my ankles were throbbing, and my back felt like I'd been beaten with a baseball bat. The break would feel like a week-long vacation, and I intended to take advantage by sleeping in, eating junk, watching a little football and reading a good book. A hot, steamy bath had been on my too-do list all day. Love ballads filled the halls of my house, and I planned to polish off a bottle of Chablis.

  “Way to go, Fred."

  I rolled my eyes to the night sky annoyed. Fred's encouragement came from another neighbor who shared the center of our cul-de-sac with a man who'd been a thorn since the day I moved in. I didn't know his name - didn't care either, but I knew his taste in music, women and the brand of beer he preferred. Loud music boomed from his backyard nightly. He wore aged denim and a t-shirt so old the letters had started to peel. A soiled black bandana was pulled low over his brow and tattoos covered visible skin - except his hands, his neck and his face. I could always tell when he was coming or going because the motor in his Harley made my windows shake. I squinted up at the man. Streetlights barely illuminated his face and his bandana made it impossible for me to get a good look at him, but he had a firm jaw and full lips. Catching my examination, he winked. I sneered at him. I didn't do grimy and I didn't do assholes - at least, not anymore.

  Ms. Douglas came to my defense this time. "Don't be crude, Onion. It must have been shocking to have Fred walk in on her." She turned to me. "Dear, I understand your anger, but I assure you, Fred doesn't know what he's doing."

  Did she just call him, Onion? I've heard strange nicknames; Onion topped the list. It recalled an unwashed body - bad odors. The thought intensified my dislike for him.

  My neighbors were convinced that Fred is harmless.

  “My doors and windows are locked," I said. I check them every night making my rounds from room-to-room. Somehow Fred had picked them open. Scary. I'm a single woman newly arrived in this city. If my locks are that easy to overcome, then I didn't stand a chance against a real criminal. "Why isn't he in a rest home - someplace where he can't do harm?" I snipped.

  “This is home," Landry said. "Fred's been here since the neighborhood was built. He's got one of the model units."

  I looked to my left. Fred's house is a beaten down old box. Tiles were missing from the roof; the siding is covered in dark stains. His front steps are crumbling, and his walkway is little more than a chipped slab of concrete. The windows barely rest in their frames, and the storm door had no glass. None of these are show homes, mine included. It's a community of forty-year-old frame houses where spare change pays overdue bills, a trip to the doctor or it fills the refrigerator.

  The man Ms. Douglas called Onion hooked a finger through a loop in his jeans and cocked his chin in my direction. With a mischievous grin, he offered, "I'll fix your locks for you."

  “Ah, no thanks," I say. "I'll do it myself." At least Fred was an old man, and I could, with a lot of prodding, accept that he has no ill intentions toward me. But the lazy grin twitching at the edge of Onion's mouth gives me the sense that his thoughts aren't quite so unblemished.

  “Suit yourself," he shrugged.

  Fred shuffled his feet, yawned and scratched is belly.

  “Sleepy, Fred?" Ms. Douglas cooed.

  He bobbed his head and smiled dumbly before raising his palsied hand and giving her cheek a little pat.

  “See, dear, he's harmless," she said, taking his hand gently in hers. "This is a big old mistake."

  Landy wiggles a finger between them. "Probably thought he was in his own house. And these old locks aren't worth a damn. They're easy to pick. Did you get them changed when you moved in? You should’ve."

  Irritated by the suggestion, I snapped, “So, it's my fault the old man wonders. I doubt he if even knows which house belongs to him. He shouldn't be living on his own. What if he walks into traffic or climbs on the roof?"

  Scratching at his ear like my voice agonized him, Onion said, "Give the guy a break. You go back to your bath. And we can get back to our lives," he said, backing away from me and heading toward his place.

  I wanted to say something snappy and hurtful, but the winter air was blowing up my thigh, reminding me that I was standing in front of my neighbors wrapped in a towel, holding a rolling pin. I was too cold and too tired to fight.

  "Fine," I growled, with a shiver.

  A motorcycle roared up the street as I turned to walk away and an involuntary whimper scampers out of me. The appearance of my neighbor's buddy meant another noisy night.

  “Hey." Onion waves at me. "Why don't you come over later? We're cooking out. Kinda like a Thanksgiving Eve celebration. We're going to finish decorating for Christmas."

  Red and green lights stretched across his front porch banister. Two-holiday topiaries stood by the door. Someone had strung clumps of gold beads, and silver icicles over the stiff plastic branches and a blow-up Santa leaned to one side in the yard.

  "I'd rather hang myself," I snarled.

  Mr. Landy tittered and turned away. Ms. Douglas clucked at the men in disappointment. "That's enough. Stop teasing her." To me, she urged, "Go ahead, Sweetheart." She waved me toward my house while heading in the opposite direction, guiding Fred toward his front door.

  But Onion wa
sn't done having his fun. He'd heard my last remark. "You don't have to kill yourself over me, baby."

  Ms. Douglas yelled over her shoulder, "Leave her alone!"

  The guy on the bike hooted out a call. "Yo, Onion. What's up, bro?" He held up his middle fingers as a means of greeting then peeled off his helmet as he jogged toward his friend.

  He was dressed like Onion; dank jeans, ratty t-shirt, dark scarf and black shades, even though it was near midnight. He took off his glasses and eyed me from top to bottom. "Bro? Did you start the party without me?"

  “I invited my neighbor to join us," Onion pointed at me. "But she's not up for partying tonight. She'd rather take a bath than hang out with two hot guys like us."

  "I like baths," the other man said, eagerly.

  “Here's an invitation," I said. "Keep your music down. Tell your friends and the sluts you parade up and down the driveway, to shut up when people are sleeping. Most of all, I invite you to keep your friends from pissing on my lawn or falling asleep in my rose bushes. I'd like to see them bloom in the spring."

  The other man raised a hand to his face where a wicked patchwork of cuts crossed his cheek and the bridge of his nose. Shock registered on his face. "Damn. Is that where I fell asleep the other night?"

  "Urgh!” I turned and stomped back up my driveway.

  As I slam the door behind me, I heard Onion call, "Hey, neighbor. I can still fix your locks. Just give me a call. Anytime."

  2

  "I don't know if this is what I want," said the young man sitting across from me. Henry Armand, and his partner, Simon Marshall, wanted a six-tier wedding cake that showed all their favorite things.

  "What's not to like about this?" Simon said. He rolled his eyes, "She's got everything you requested. You wanted the leaning Tower of Pisa - there it is." He pointed to the three-dimensional computer image. Like the rea-life structure, it had been drawn at a 45-degree angle and would be made entirely out of molded white chocolate. Simon had proposed to Henry at the base of the tower the year before. "She's got the beaches from San Lucas and she's got us running the Boston Marathon. There’s not much room for anything else."

  The first time I met the couple, Henry described seeing Simon through a crowd of other runners. "I want a little more ... vavava boom." Henry rolled his handle-bar mustache between his thumb and forefinger. Thick red hair fell over his shoulders, and he wore a lush jade green sweater.

  "Henry, it's a cake!" Simon exclaimed. "We're going to roll it out on a cart. Pray that one of my sister's bratty kids doesn't stick their face into it then we're going to cut it into little tiny pieces and give it away. It won't go on display at the Smithsonian. And, I have to point out that the thing is already costing me a mint." Simon pushed his hand through his thick blond hair and rolled his eyes. He stood, removed his suit jacket and lay it across the back of his chair before checking his watch and falling back down into his seat.

  "Don't start," Henry said, tossing up a hand and pushed it inches from Simon's face. "This is my wedding - my one and only, and I want it to be special. You should feel the same way."

  Of the two, I preferred working with Simon. He was a pragmatic man. But, I'm a cake maker which means I must figure out how to please both.

  "I'm not spending another dime on this cake. This thing already cost forty-seven hundred dollars."

  "That's because we're having four hundred guests. Most of whom are your relatives and your business associates," Henry huffed. “I just want a pretty cake. Is that too much to ask?”

  Simon, a successful executive at a software company, was also the eldest child of a large Catholic family. He had quite a few people to impress. Henry, an artist, worked in mixed media from a small gallery in the warehouse district.

  "You want a six-tier sugar-coated autobiography," Simon retorted.

  "Gentleman," I interjected. "I can add more dazzle without increasing cost." To Henry, I said, "You love color. I can add a few surprises."

  I had expected a moment like this. Turning toward my computer, I opened my design software. Before the meeting, I'd created a stencil in antique calligraphy which interlinked the first initials of their names. With a few clicks, the design was lifted and added to the 3-D image of Henry and Simon's cake.

  I turned the computer screen around so both men could see.

  Henry yelped. "That's it. That's my wedding cake. I love it." Grabbing Simon's hand, he exclaimed, "Don't you just love it?"

  Simon pursed his lips, leaned forward and silently regarded the image. "This isn't going to cost more money?" he asked suspiciously. "It looks time consuming and expensive."

  "This is a simple element. Your cake will still be ready in time for your Christmas Eve wedding."

  With an approving wobble of his head, Simon suddenly smiled, and added, "Then I love it, too."

  Personally, I preferred the original design. The first cake was simple. Elegant. But, my client wanted sparkle - so, he got sparkle.

  "Are you sure this is the one? I can still make revisions at this stage. I can change the colors, remove the tower ..."

  Henry yelped, "Don't you change a thing. This is exactly what I want!" he jabbed a finger at the screen. "I want that."

  It had taken three meetings for Henry and Simon to agree on a design for the cake, but I wasn’t inconvenienced. I liked the idea that something I created would launch two people into their next phase. So much happens after a wedding; lives speed off in a million directions. People may not remember the color scheme or the giveaways, but they remember the cake. Even then they barely remembered the color of the cake. Didn’t remember the design elements. But they did remember how the cake tasted. And I made damned good cake.

  I fed Henry and Simon snickerdoodle cookies and hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. I wanted them stuffed and happy before Henry changed his mind about the design or Simon grumbled about the cost again.

  Waving goodbye, I waited until they turned the corner before flipping the store sign off and dimming the lights in the small dining area at the front of the store. In the kitchen, I closed my eyes and gingerly eased myself on top of the stool in front of the long wooden work counter, gritting my teeth against the grinding ache in my bones. A sigh of relief escaped my lungs as the pain ebb. I pulled my dark hair into a holder at the nap of my neck and braided it to my waist then drew my left foot over my right knee and started to massage my ankle. It even hurt to touch.

  Black Friday shoppers had been out in force swarming Bissell Street where my bakery, Sweet Temptation, is located. My business plan projected a break-even point after seventeen months, assuming slow and steady growth. To my surprise, my little spot was taking off a lot faster than I envisioned. Due in part, because Bissell Street was experiencing a renaissance, of sorts. Six blocks from downtown, it boasted renovated early 20th century brownstones that had been converted into utilitarian stores in the 1950's; dress shops, hardware stores and a laundry mat. The location lost popularity in the 80's. A few stores lingered, but most of the owners closed their doors and walked away until an enterprising developer recognized the potential and turned the stretch into a hot spot for clothing boutiques, fusion restaurants, dance studios and new age think tanks.

  Jordan, my assistant, shot a quick look at me from across the room before slipping six two-inch vanilla cakes on the table beside a large bowl of buttercream frosting. Several bags of red icing sat waiting. "You okay?" she asked.

  "I need a better pair of work shoes." My ankle was swelling. Not a lot, but enough to for me to see the skin puffing.

  Jordan frowned. "It’s not your shoes. We've been running non-stop. I told you we should have come in for a few hours yesterday. If we had gotten a jump on the prep work, then you wouldn't be in pain."

  "We deserved a break just like everyone else." It would be month before we had another day off.

  Opening my bakery had been one of the most impulsive things I've ever done. It’s wedged between a haberdashery and a jewelry store. The
place had been a pizza shop before I bought the building. The real estate agent had been planning to show it, but her client never arrived. On a whim, I asked to see it. The lighting needed to be updated and the wood floors still required a good buff and shine. Greasy rags and dust lingered everywhere. It begged for a new coat of paint. Yet, through it all, I saw the potential. I envisioned cases of pastries. In my mind, the site came alive with artsy lights hanging from the ceiling and a dining room full of customers. The storage is abundant. There are two huge walk-in freezers, a dry-storage closet, and an attic. On the day of my final walk-through, we found a collection of black and white daguerreotypes in the attic depicting life in Centre City circa 1900. It turns out that the old building originally belonged to a photographer. I pulled my decorating theme from those photos.

  My treasures litter the showroom, like the copper pans and floral lace teapots. I have a Victorian cobalt glass rolling pin, and the walls are covered with several of the photos we found: ladies in long flowing day dresses with high lace collars; little girls with pigtails and ribbons; boys in knickerbockers and sailor suits.

  Little did I know, that the photos would be my number one draw. A columnist from the local paper wandered in, noticed the photos and went bonkers. The eerie faces staring out of those photos meant nothing to me; she recognized people she knew. The reporter ran a piece about the pictures then begged me to let families linked to them swing through the store. Every few days she'd bring someone new to the bakery. I had lost contact with my own family, so I liked watching others connect with theirs. At first, folks asked for a cup coffee. Then they’d notice the goodies in the display case and they’d add a pastry or two to their order. When they came back a few days later, it rarely had to do with pictures. By then, they were new fans of my vanilla hazelnut coffee and fancy muffins.

  Groaning, I slid off the stool and made my way to the sink where I lathered up to the elbows before rinsing away the soap under warm water. Batting her eyes, Jordan pressed her lips together and gave me a wide smile. In response to my discomfort, Jordan's could be passive aggressive - her way of letting me know that she believed herself to be right.