ANH PLOPPED HER KEYS on the kitchen counter and Vi on my lap. She paced back and forth, and I'd been friends long enough to know not to push her. Finally, she leaned on the kitchen counter and looked me squarely in the eye.
“Who have I become? Really? Because what I'm feeling inside doesn't match who I've always thought I was.”
“Am I really supposed to answer that?'
“Vi's mother wants her back.”
I held Vi closer. “And you don't want to give her back.”
“Is that not the damndest thing? I've been complaining practically since Vi's birth that I don't want to raise her and how I want her parents to be more involved, and when they finally wake up and want her, I can't give her up.” Anh's face screwed into a cry. “I can't. She's mine. I never wanted to believe it, but she's my baby. She calls me ‘Mom,‘ which is a helluva lot better than ‘Grandma,‘ by the way, and I know I can give her a good life.”
“Of course you can. So you'll fight for her. You'll fight for what you want.”
“And in the midst of my breakdown, what does my American boyfriend do?”
“Proposes to you.”
“How did you know? So much for an anti-climactic moment.”
“I've been waiting for you to tell me. He told Rachel before Thanksgiving he was going to.”
“And you kept this from me why?”
“I wouldn't want to ruin your surprise. It's not often a woman gets proposed to. Wait a minute. I forgot who I'm talking to. So where's the ring?”
“Ring? Ring? I didn't say yes! But saying no felt like lying. Which is why I came here to ask my PhD friend who just did a damn dissertation on love why I wish I would've said yes.”
“Because you love him.”
Anh made a face and went to the pantry to retrieve food-prob-ably junk food, the stuff that I rarely ate anymore. She turned around, her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigod. You finally got rid of the peanut butter.”
“I did. It was time.”
“Good for you.” She motioned to the Christmas tree in the living room. “And you decorated this year.”
“The boys helped.”
“Still.”
“Still. I know. And as for you…”
“I should say yes.”
“Fourth time's a charm.”
“I thought it was the third time? That was my most disastrous marriage yet. Where does that saying come from?”
“America. No one knows exactly, but the precursor to it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in a letter in 1839 said, ‘The luck of the third adventure‘ is proverbial. Then it was spotted in 1912 in a snooty newspaper report about a mature woman getting married for the third time.”
“Women are such optimists. Talk about your American perseverance.”
“We push on. As for love, it's worth the chance, I think.”
“Are we talking about me now, or you?”
“You. Of course. Though I might heed some of the advice.”
Anh grabbed a fistful of Cheetos. Okay, I hadn't gotten rid of the junk food completely. “ I'm sure the duck house looks splendid this time of year.”
The invitation arrived in the mail the next day, a silver envelope with a crisp white card inside with silver foil lettering.
You are cordially invited to a Christmas Party at the home of Cortland Andrews on Friday, December 23rd at 7 p.m.
I traced my fingers over the lettering. I'd only seen him twice in the last month, our schedules for coming and going out of sync, which was for the best. Every day I thought of him-every hour, though I wouldn't admit it-and I had so much I wanted to tell him but ended up calling up someone else instead to share the news. But instead of feeling satisfied, the things piled up inside of me: that I had accepted the job at UT to teach three days a week in the liberal arts program, that William had won the local chess tournament, that I had now organized every drawer and closet in the entire house and the boys were miraculously keeping their rooms clean.
The little things, too, things that only Cortland might appreciate: that I'd completed the New York Times crossword in record time the day before, that I'd seen four ducks walking in front of his house last week on their way to a local pond, and they had stopped and looked at his house as if they knew they were welcome there.
The invitation did not ask for an RSVP, so I decided I would just drop by. He had probably invited all the neighbors, though many would already be out of town visiting relatives, and it would be rude not to wish him happy holidays in his first Christmas in his home.
More than ever, I felt Joel's presence in our home. As I removed the clutter, peace fell over me, the anxiety washed away. I missed him all the same, but as Deacon Friar had suggested, I felt Joel in my heart instead of pushing him out. Thinking of him had transitioned from hurt to comfort.
This would be my first Christmas After with la vita allegra. I'd baked Joel's favorite Christmas foods-banana nut bread and peanut butter cookies-and doled them out to the neighbors. I had taken the boys to the ATO house to deliver four dozen cookies to da Vinci to share with his guys, and another three dozen to the Panchal Center. I had saved one loaf back to take to Cortland's party.
Judith and Barbara took the boys to a Christmas party at Life so I could go to Cortland's party alone. I walked across the street at 7:05 p.m., not wanting to be the first one there, but no other cars were in the driveway. As I rang the doorbell, I heard Christmas music coming from the inside-the classics, Frank Sinatra. I wondered if the other neighbors had done as I had and simply walked over, though there were no other footprints on the snowy sidewalk.
Cortland answered the door, wearing a red sweater and pressed slacks, handsomely festive. He took the banana bread I offered him. “You came,” he said as if he couldn't believe it.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. Oh, come in. Let me show you around.”
“Wow.” The place was completely transformed. New tile, new paint, new granite and stainless steel kitchen, just as he'd described. I admired his vision for change. “It's all so different.”
“You like it?”
“Like it? I love it. Wait 'til all the other neighbors get here. They'll be jealous.”
He took my coat and hung it in the entry closet. I followed him to the kitchen and sat on the black bar stool and noticed two martini glasses on the counter. Two and not ten, twenty?
“Can I pour you a Christmastini?”
“A what-ey?”
“It's pomegranate juice. Nice holiday drink. Pretty tasty, too. And full of antioxidants.”
“And vodka, I presume.”
“Well, that, too.”
“One can't hurt.”
He shook the martini mixer and poured me a glass, the rich, red liquid filling it temptingly. “So congratulations on your new post at the university, Dr. Griffen.”
“How did you know? Wait a minute. Noble, Judith, my mom. You probably know everything that's been going on with me. And I had so much to tell you.” I caught myself, too revealing.
“I'd much rather hear it from the horse's mouth. Not that you're a horse, of course.”
I drank one, two, three Christmastinis and told him everything that had been bottled up inside of me, beginning with the mundane and getting more and more personal, about how I broke up with da Vinci the night before Thanksgiving and how I'd found his journals and how the boys had wanted to play matchmaker to make me happy again.
We moved from the kitchen to the living room on the plush leather couches and Dean Martin sang to us as we ate the appetizers that seemed like an awful lot of food for two people. I'd been enjoying the party so much I hadn't noticed the time, or that no one else had joined us.
“Where are the people?” I asked.
Cortland looked around. “What people?”
“The party people. Where is everyone you invited to your party?”
“They're all here.”
“They're all… wait a minute. You threw a party and invited one person?”
“That's right.”
“So it's not a party at all, but more like a date.”
Cortland shook his head, playing innocent. “Nope. This has all the ingredients for a party: music, food, drinks. I think even you can't refute that this is a party.”
“A party of two.”
“Does it really matter what we call it?”
“Of course it matters. Terminology matters very much.”
“Well, I, for one, think whatever it is we're doing here is going pretty well.” He leaned closer, then noticed the snow falling outside. “Thank you, Jesus.” Cortland bounced off the seat.
“Did you just thank the Lord for the snow?”
“Yep. It's the one party ingredient I couldn't pick up at the store. I needed it to snow so I could show you this.” He grabbed my hand and led me outside, down the path, the snowflakes tickling our faces as we walked hand in hand to the swing. He'd placed little red scarves on the duck statues in the garden.
“Nice touch,” I had to admit.
We held hands and swung back and forth, watching the flakes fall onto the trees, the oak, the evergreen, the tops of the ducks' heads. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You do know how to throw a good party,” I said finally.
“If you like this, just wait and see what I'm like on a date.”
“Dating is for the birds. I feel too old to date.”
“We could probably find a word you liked better. Mating?”
I turned up my nose. “Eww. No.”
“I've always liked the word ‘rendezvous.‘ It's fun to say: ron-daaaaaayvooooo.”
“I suppose we could rendezvous, though I'll need clarification on your definition.”
“Why don't we make it up as we go along?”
He leaned in again to kiss me, and I backed away. “I make it a habit not to kiss on my first party. And I better get back and finish wrapping some gifts for the boys.”
Cortland snapped his fingers. “I'm glad you reminded me. I have a gift for you. Nope. Scratch that. It's not a gift at all, but a party favor.”
Back inside, he grabbed my present from under the white vintage Christmas tree and handed it to me, wrapped in pages from the New York Times crossword. All puzzles he had completed, no less. I may have met my match in more ways than one.
Inside the box lay oversized Scrabble pieces, 8-inch squares, nine pieces total. I lay them out on the carpet: F, R, O, A, D, R, E, K, W. Within a few seconds, I had assembled them in order: WORD FREAK.
“For your new office,” he said.
“I love it. It's the nicest party favor I've ever received.” I kissed him on the cheek, tempted to kiss him through the night, but it felt good to show restraint, to take things slowly. “Thank you.”
“Thanks for coming. It wouldn't have been much of a party without you.”
“You can say that again.”
“It wouldn't have been much of a party without you.”
Some traditions remain the same After, and some die along with the deceased. While so many couples and young families struggle to please everyone at Christmas, Joel and I had set the stage early on that Christmas Eve was our private holiday. We would go where we wanted to go and do what we wanted to do. When the boys came along, our parents complained they wanted to see us Christmas Eve, but we insisted Christmas Eve be our day. We tried different things on Christmas Eve, ice skating at a local ice rink (too cold), visiting friends who didn't have relatives in town (too exhausting), until we finally settled into the tradition of attending Jesús and Gabriella's church for holiday mass, followed by Panchal's annual holiday dinner (celebrating multiple religions in one), kettle popcorn, and a game of holiday Scrabble.
As we walked out of the church on Christmas Eve with “Joy to the World” on our lips and in our hearts, I spotted Deacon Friar near the fountain. I had tucked the pennies he'd given me in my pocket and gave the boys each one to make a wish.
“Do you think it's too late to wish for something for Santa to bring you since his elves have probably already loaded up the sleigh?” William asked his big brother.
Bradley no longer believed in Santa Claus, but kept up the charade for his brother. “I'd wish on something else,” Bradley said. “Mom, do you think a wish is more powerful if it's at church?”
“I think a wish is as powerful as the intent of the wisher.”
Bradley paused, considering it and nodded. “Okay. So wish hard, then.”
Deacon Friar saw us and joined us at the fountain. “I see you've put your lucky pennies to good use,” he said as we watched the boys close their eyes and toss their coins into the water.
“I didn't need them,” I said. “It turns out my wishes had been granted all along.”
Deacon Friar folded his arms and motioned to the remaining coin in my hand. “What's that one for, then?”
I shrugged. “Insurance.”
The Panchal Center was alive with the sounds of broken English and the warmth of dozens of hearts filled with gratitude. I wondered what had become of Maria and her new baby-if, like Mary and her baby Jesus, they had found a safe haven. Panchal was such a place, and I knew I could never leave this home away from home. I would teach there until I could no longer form words at all. Panchal and Dr. Roberts were both right. It was about more than teaching a language; it was about succeeding in life. I could never abandon the hundreds of immigrants that would need the sword to find their way, the torch of knowledge to guide their path. Three days at U T, one day at Panchal's and three days for home. I would be busy, engaged, plugged in like never before. Happy, even.
Da Vinci found us, his arm wrapped around his Italian beauty with luscious curves Americans would consider plus sized. I was amazed at how much I'd grown. I wasn't jealous of her at all. I was happy for them. They clearly belonged together.
After the dinner, Bradley stood on a chair and popped the kettle corn in the microwave while William set out the Scrabble board. “Too bad we don't have four players,” he said, and Bradley looked at his brother and then at me, as if this would hurt my feelings.
“I didn't mean…” William said.
“It's okay, son. You're right. Scrabble is more fun with four players. Maybe we should invite someone to come play with us.”
“But who?” The boys asked at the same time.
Fifteen minutes later William explained the rules of the game to Cortland, who had been reading at home when we'd called him. He wouldn't have his daughter until the next morning, and was thrilled at the invitation. “Every word you spell must be a holiday word,” William said seriously. “It can be a person, place or thing, but it must have to do with winter or holidays, period. Daddy used to like to bend the rules, but now that Bradley and I are big enough, we don't need to do that, so don't try any funny stuff.”
“Gotcha,” Cortland said, setting up his Scrabble pieces. “No funny stuff.”
I smiled at how at ease Cortland was with the boys, how at home it all seemed, how grown up and real. Like a real thing relationship. I don't know what you called it. Certainly not dating, but certainly more than friends because of the chemistry. Perhaps it was just a relationship, pure and simple, and how that relationship would evolve would depend on us.
The game went on:
William: SLEIGH, 12 points
Bradley: SANTA, 8 points
Me: NOEL, 6 points
Cortland: LOVE, 16 points
“I don't know about that one,” Bradley said. “It's borderline.”
“Not exactly holiday,” William considered. “But God gave us Jesus at Christmas because he so loved the world.”
“And you buy gifts for people you love,” Bradley added.
“So the verdict is?”
“It's a keeper,” I said to him and put my hand over his, feeling compelled to touch him whenever I could, brushing against him in the kitchen as we made hot chocolate, plucking a stray hair off his shoulder, high-fiving him on the twenty-point HANUKKAH.
Cortland stayed after to watch the boys open one gift each: a new science experiment kit for William and a sports Xbox game for Bradley-the gifts I knew Joel would've wanted to give them. They were gone as soon as the wrapping hit the floor.
“Thanks for a fun evening,” Cortland said as we walked to the door. “Here I was starting to feel sorry for myself that I had to spend Christmas Eve alone.”
“Trust me on this. It's not worth the effort. I spent the last two Christmases feeling sorry for myself, and it didn't do me any good.”
“Well, I was right in the middle of a very good book. I can't wait to see what happens next.”
“I'll let you get back to it then,” I said, walking him out the door. I watched him walk down the sidewalk, his feet crunching in the snow, the feeling that my heart was stretching like a rubber band about to snap the farther away he got.
“Cortland!” He turned around, and I ran towards him and stopped inches from him. “I know what happens next.”
I reached up and kissed him-a long soul kiss, a Christmas kiss for all seasons, one that I would remember for all time, the first of so many more to come. We stood there in the snow, the North Star blinking above us, children around the world tucked into bed, awaiting their own Christmas wishes to come true. I'd not given up, I'd given in. I'd taken a chance, moved on, opened up, accepted and believed.
My name is Ramona Elise Griffen. I am a 36-year-old widow, a linguist, someone who thought true love could only happen once in a lifetime. One soul mate per soul. How could I possibly define the indefinable? Far better to feel it. I've uncaged it to let it take over, its all-consuming power all around me, within me.
When I set it free, it came back to me.