The Christmas Women Read online

  When her cell phone rang, Kristen snatched it up and saw it was Trudie. Kristen was delighted and surprised. They hadn’t talked in months.

  “Trudie! What a surprise. How are you?”

  “Cold, sleepy and wishing I was somewhere warm.”

  “I’m going to make you jealous. I’m in San Juan and it’s 81 degrees.”

  “No way! Oh, I am jealous!”

  “Don’t be too jealous. I’m here for a deposition, until Monday afternoon. What’s up? It’s been so long.”

  “I’m sitting by the fire, drinking hot chocolate and looking through our high school yearbook.”

  “Oh God, not that, Trudie,” Kristen said, easing down on a chaise lounge chair which commanded a glorious view of the ocean.

  “I went to see Mrs. Childs Thursday night. She had a malignant tumor removed from her breast. Surgery went well, but she doesn’t look good.”

  Kristen’s shoulders slumped. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Somehow I thought she’d live forever. She was always so strong and healthy. She never got sick, not even a cold.”

  “She asked me to call. She said, ‘Call the other Christmas Girls and tell them I said hello.’”

  Kristen stood and paced the balcony, suddenly lost in the past, overwhelmed with the sights and smells of Deer Lake; remembering Mrs. Childs’ resolute face and steady eyes. “I want to send her something... flowers or something.”

  Trudie sipped her hot chocolate and eased back in her recliner. “Kristen... I’ve been thinking. I’m sure Mrs. Childs would love to see you and Mary Ann. It would really give her a lift, I think, if she saw the three of us together again.”

  Kristen sat back down, shutting her eyes against the sharp sunlight. She heard the squeal of seagulls in the distance. She didn’t speak.

  Trudie continued. “You both could stay here at the house with me. If you can’t come before Thanksgiving, then maybe you both could come in December, sometime before Christmas. It would be fun for us to have a little reunion. Just the three of us. It’s been so long.”

  “Have you talked to Mary Ann about this?” Kristen asked.

  “No, not yet. I’ve been thinking about it since Thursday night.”

  “Mary Ann lives in California now,” Kristen said.

  “I knew she left Denver,” Trudie said, “but I didn’t know where she went.”

  “Yes... we talked about two months ago. She moved to some little town north of L.A., but I don’t remember the name. She’s doing graphics works for some local ad agencies. She’s also into healing, astrology, meditation and all that kind of stuff. She’s living in a little house near the ocean with her two daughters.”

  “I haven’t talked to her in over a year,” Trudie said.

  Kristen got up again and switched the phone from her right ear to her left. “She called to ask me if I knew a good lawyer out there. She’s still having problems with her ex. Child support and alimony. Anyway, I put her in touch with a friend of a friend, and then we caught up on things. We mostly talked about our marriages and our kids. Then, as always, we talked about high school and how we wish we could go back and start all over again. I guess a lot of people do that when their life gets all messy.”

  Trudie placed her cup of hot chocolate down on a coaster by the chair. “Do you think you could come, Kristen?”

  Kristen paused, thinking. “I don’t know if I can get away, Trudie. I just made partner a few months ago. I have a huge caseload and Alan and I are seeing a marriage counselor twice a week. I hope it works. The woman costs a fortune.”

  “I hope it works, too,” Trudie said.

  “I hate to say it, but most of our marriage trouble is my fault. Alan’s a good father, a good provider and he’s a nice guy. He’s very thoughtful, he’s faithful and all my friends like him. I think even our therapist likes him better than me.”

  “Okay. So what’s the problem then, Kristen?”

  Kristen pulled back the sliding door and stepped inside, drifting over to a chair. She sat, tucking her right leg under herself. “I don’t know, Trudie. I’ve just been so unhappy lately. Maybe for a long time. I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve got a good life, a good job, a good husband and a beautiful son. So what’s my problem?”

  “Maybe you should come for a quick weekend,” Trudie said. “It might do us all good to be together again.”

  Kristen hesitated. “Yeah, it would be fun to see you both again, and to see Mrs. Childs. Do you think… she’s going to die soon?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but she was looking pretty weak.”

  “Okay, look. Give me Mrs. Childs’ number. I want to call her. Then let me look at my calendar and see when the best weekend would be. Meanwhile, why don’t you call Mary Ann and see if she can come?”

  Kristen gave her Mary Ann’s phone number then continued. “We’ll do a conference call and try to come up with a couple of days that will work for us. How does that sound?”

  Trudie sat up. “It sounds great. I’ll call Mary Ann and get back with you.”

  Kristen spent the rest of Saturday dictating letters and preparing for the deposition on Monday morning. She called her son and her husband and then, after dinner, she took a stroll along the beach, recalling her senior year of high school and that warm spring night by Cotter’s Pond, where she and Cole Blackwell had made love beside the water under a drenching moonlight. She blushed with regret once again as she remembered their duplicity. For the first time, he had broken his usual Saturday night date with Trudie so they could go out. They’d been meeting in secret nearly once a week for two months, but he’d never before abandoned Trudie on a Saturday night.

  “Why don’t you just tell Trudie it’s over, Cole?” Kristen had asked, while they drove back to town.

  “I can’t. She trusts me. She’s in love with me.”

  “And you’re not in love with me!” Kristen had said, hurt and angry.

  “Of course I’m in love with you, Kristen. You know that.”

  “Then why don’t you tell her that?”

  “Why don’t you?” he shot back. “You’re her best friend.”

  He’d turned his eyes back on the road. “I’ve got to concentrate on school and baseball. We have a big game coming up. All this stuff is distracting me.”

  The memory was an awful one. Kristen sighed heavily as she found the edge of the tide and waded in, barefoot, her capri pants rolled to her knees. The red sun was sinking into the sea and flaming clouds were piled on the distant horizon. “Silly high school stuff,” she thought. “Stupid, silly high school drama.”

  But in bed that night, Kristen slept fitfully. Cole finally did tell Trudie about his and Kristen’s relationship and she heard all about it from Mary Ann.

  “I’m sorry, Trudie, but I’ve fallen in love with someone else,” Cole had told Trudie while they were sharing fries, friction and frowns at Burger King. Trudie tossed her cup of Coke at him and walked out.

  Kristen and Cole both attended Ohio U. and dated through their sophomore year, when Cole met someone else. It was Kristen’s turn to get dumped. Right after graduation, Cole married Marylyn Cass Harrington, a petit blonde from a wealthy Boston family. Kristen still bristled at the way Marylyn spelled her name. It was so pretentious.

  Kristen rolled over on her side, staring into the darkness. “Stupid high school drama.”

  Cole and Marylyn were divorced eight years later. They had a son and a daughter. Cole had called Kristen one night, soon after. He was in New York and wanted to see her.

  “You know, I never loved anyone but you. I made a mistake, Kristen. Marylyn came after me, and her father said he’d help my career. I was stupid. It was all a big mistake.”

  “Go to hell,” Kristen had told him, slamming down the phone.

  FIVE

  It was 73 degrees in southern California and the warm air was moving. Mary Ann O’Brian drove leisurely under the tall palm trees of Carpentaria Avenue. She gazed out at the surf shops, caf
es, antique stores and fast food restaurants. There was a relaxed calm about the town, an everlasting quality about the place, as if time had paused for awhile to rest after eons of relentless toil. That’s what Mary Ann loved about it. There were no hurried strides; no blaring horns; no tension on the tanned bodies and pleasant faces of the people who lived there.

  When she’d first moved to California, she felt a gentle happiness, an instant relaxation and a timeless freedom, as though her life back in Denver and Ohio had happened lifetimes ago.

  As the car bumped across some railroad tracks, Mary Ann took in breaths of the soft, intoxicating air and craned her neck, searching for the ocean, just like she always did. And then the sea came into view, as if some stage manager had drawn back a huge white curtain, revealing the natural majesty of ocean and sky.

  The impact was astonishing. Mary Ann was surrounded by a horizon of mountains and a glittery endless ocean view, with white rolling waves and a broad tan beach. She removed her sunglasses to see plunging cliffs and, in the distance, the shadowy Channel Islands. Mary Ann slowed down as she took it all in, silent and grateful to be living there.

  It hadn’t been an easy decision to leave Denver—to leave the familiar—sell the house, pull the girls away from their school and friends—just because she was having a major life crisis and knew a life-change was paramount for her mental and physical health.

  When her friend Deb called from California to tell her that a quirky little house was for sale at a reasonable price, and that she’d help Mary Ann find graphic design jobs both online and in the area, Mary Ann jumped at it.

  Deb, a social worker and a Reiki practitioner, mentioned that the community was also open to alternative medicine, healing and astrology, all of which Mary Ann had studied and practiced. With the money she’d receive from the sale of her old house, her savings and her husband’s erratic child support and alimony checks, they’d make out just fine.

  It was Mary Ann’s red-haired daughter, 13-year-old Lynn, who gave her the most trouble over the move. She went into screaming fits. They’d argued and fought for days, and several times, Lynn threatened to run away.

  Carly, a cool 15 year-old blonde, was the more stoic, simply brooding and not speaking for hours at a time. A week after they moved into the Carpentaria house, she’d refused to speak to anyone. She texted, or used a pad and pen to write questions and answers. Strangely, she also refused to take a shower for six days. It was Lynn who finally told her sister that she stunk and she’d had enough.

  A month later, the girls had fallen totally in love with the place. They met boys who were teaching them to surf, they made new friends at school, and most important to them, they had glorious tans. They sent photos of themselves on the beach in two-piece bathing suits, hip-shot, flashing dazzling smiles. They posed with sun-drenched muscular boys on their surfboards, noting in their texts that it was 75 degrees, while in Denver it was 29 degrees and they were about to get another snowstorm.

  Mary Ann traveled a two-lane road, taking in the coastline and sprawling houses facing the sea. She was charged with life, her bright eyes eager, her face animated as she scanned the area. “God, this is beautiful,” she said, aloud.

  She saw surfers bending into curling waves, surfers belly down on their surfboards paddling out to sea, and surfers standing on the edge of the tide studying the waves, their surfboards tucked under their arms. There were swimmers, sunbathers on bright towels, and sailboats leaning into the easy wind.

  Mary Ann angled left down a quiet road to her house and parked outside the one-car garage. It was a square stucco house, nearly 3000 square feet, with a mish mosh of twisting, sun-bleached dune fences that enclosed the yard and rambled up toward the upper dunes.

  Mary Ann carried the two bags of groceries toward the house, looking back toward the sea. Her daughters, Carly and Lynn, were on the beach with Deb, who lived just a few houses away and frequently spent time with the girls.

  Their house was a quirky one. The ceilings were low and the floors covered with a worn brown carpet. The living room had a 1960s nautical maple living room set, and on the coffee table was a large, pink flamingo lamp, hovering over a 13-inch brass statue of Buddha.

  A narrow stairway led up to the second floor, to shadowy rooms and kitschy porthole windows. The bathrooms smelled of mold, the showerhead spit staccato streams of mostly cold water, and the kitchen had faded green linoleum. The kitchen walls were yellow, the kitchen table sunshine yellow, and the four matching chairs were upholstered in yellow washable vinyl plastic. But none of that mattered to Mary Ann and the girls. It was quiet and warm, and it was only 300 steps from the beach.

  Mary Ann entered the house, took the groceries to the kitchen and set them down. That’s when she saw the note from Carly:

  Mom:

  Dad called. Said he needed to talk. Doesn’t he have your cell number?

  Mary Ann slid the note aside and began putting the groceries away. Her bright mood shifted to a brooding dread. She didn’t want to talk to him. She had nothing else to say to him other than just send the child support checks on time. He was calling because the checks were two months late, and this month’s check would probably be late too. The same old pattern. He never changed or tried to change.

  Mary Ann heaved out a sigh and wandered into the living room. She stood in the center of the room for a time, her arms folded, her eyes closed, her body rocking gently back and forth, as she took deep breaths and allowed the agitation of her mind to settle. She silently repeated the words peace, contentment, tranquility. It was a practice she’d begun almost eight years before, after she’d visited an ashram in Santa Barbara and met a woman, an Indian meditation master. That encounter had changed her life.

  With her eyes still closed, she visualized the ashram, a big white oval building, with a glorious panoramic view of the blue ocean. It was surrounded by flower gardens, and quiet stone paths that meandered through trees and acres of rolling, shimmering grass. There was a pond with benches, and an expanse of trees, where meditators sat on little blankets under a cool, protective shade.

  Inside the main hall of the ashram, Mary Ann remembered chanting in Sanskrit. The music began with the deep pulsing drone of the tamboura, an Indian musical instrument that resembles a lute. It’s used as a drone to accompany singers or instruments. Its deep, vibrating sound represents to the ears the Aum or Om sound of the creative force of the universe. A flute drifted in, and then the light ethereal voice of a female singer. It was a lovely sound, otherworldly and soothing. More singers joined in, layering the chant with rich harmony and vocal improvisations. Finally, the swelling sound of over 400 voices chanting in unison was unexpectedly thrilling and enthralling.

  Afterward, her meditation was deep and powerful. Her meeting with the meditation master was a life-changing event. It had helped to get her through the difficult divorce that followed.

  Mary Ann opened her eyes and sat down on the carpet, arranging herself into a full lotus position. She still had a residue of acid anger over the divorce and it often threatened her peace. She still awoke some nights in a sweat, shouting at Robert for betraying their marriage—for having a child with another woman while he was still married to her. She still had a pulsing anger over his unreliable and grudging financial support, and too few quality visits with his daughters.

  Carly, at 15-years old, kept her hurt inside herself, pretending she didn’t care. Lynn, at 13, openly cursed him, refusing to see him the last time he visited. That wasn’t good either. Mary Ann didn’t want her daughters growing up to hate their father. She was careful not to speak negatively of him or portray him as the selfish bastard she thought he was. For that alone, she felt she was a saint. But who knows what will happen in the future? Their relationship with their father could change for the better. Maybe he’d even grow up someday and take responsibility for the family he helped create.

  Mary Ann was struggling for mental calm when her cell phone rang. She ignored it, con
tinuing her relaxation techniques: deep breathing and visualizations. But something inside nudged her to answer it. She unfolded her legs, got up and reached for her phone.

  “Mary Ann. It’s Trudie.”

  Mary Ann lit up, her mood instantly brighter. “Trudie! What perfect timing. It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Freezing my ass off, but I’m fine. I got your new number from Kristen.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Yes... just a few minutes ago. She’s in San Juan for a deposition.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s good.”

  “Still married?”

  “Yes... Still trying to make it work.”

  “You were the smart one, Trudie. You stayed single. No heartache. No silly complications that drain away so much of your life force.”

  After a long silence, Mary Ann said, “Uh-oh…Did you get married, Trudie, since we last talked?”

  “No, Mary Ann. I’m still very single. I’m calling because I went to see Mrs. Childs. She had a lumpectomy on her breast.”

  Mary drifted over to the couch and sat down, her eyes suddenly downcast and sad. “Oh... I hate to hear that. Is she still in the hospital?”

  “No, she’s at her daughter’s house. Her daughter’s a nurse and she’s looking after her. She asked me to call you and Kristen and say hello.”

  “I would love to see her again. Can you give me her phone number? I’ll call her.”

  “Sure. But I had a thought. Why don’t you come back to Deer Lake for a visit? Kristen’s going to try to come for a couple days. You could both stay at the house with me. There’s certainly plenty of room.”

  Mary Ann considered it, the invitation exciting her. “When is Kristen going?”