A Christmas Miracle

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A car slid to the curb at Jason’s side. A luxury SUV. A man rolled down the window.

“Jason, I thought that was you. Glad I made it in time for our appointment.” Gabe Kaufman, a client who happened to be driving from Knoxville to Asheville, climbed out of his car. “I’m glad you could see me.”

Jason felt for the phone in his overcoat pocket. “I’ve got your files. Let’s talk.”

He walked the guy over to a little restaurant behind the square. A server seated them at a linen-covered table, brought a silver carafe of coffee and unobtrusively served a five-star lunch while they discussed Gabe’s trading business. They finished the details about the same time dessert arrived, a chocolate mousse confection that took Jason’s mind off work for the first time since they’d sat down.

“What are you doing out here?” Gabe asked. “It’s a cute little place, and I can’t believe you have access to dining like this.” He looked around the smoke-scented, low-beamed room. “But why have you buried yourself in the Tennessee mountains at this time of the year? You don’t even have convenient access to an airport.”

Jason allowed himself a small smile. Gabe was an important client, but they weren’t such close friends that he’d be sharing his family’s business with him. “I lived here when I was a kid. I’m just home for a visit.”

“Seriously?” Gabe made a big show of his disbelief. “I never knew that. I thought you were Beekman Place, born and bred.”

“I spent most of my childhood there, but my roots are here.” Nothing had ever sounded more foreign to him. Or less true. He’d never had roots. He didn’t need roots like most of mankind. He needed the next challenge. “Everyone goes home once in a while. What are you doing in Asheville for the holidays?”

“The music scene,” Gabe said. “My oldest daughter plays a violin. Well—” he swallowed hard “—apparently, it’s a fiddle now. If I could tell you the money I’ve paid for lessons... But she suddenly loves bluegrass, and she heard there was good music here. My wife wanted to spend some time away from the city where there was a chance our phones wouldn’t work.

“And you know what? She succeeded. Here I am, and my phone is useless at the place where we’re staying. The wife did a little recon trip ahead of our family holiday, and she chose this chalet where she couldn’t get reception anywhere on the grounds.”

Jason laughed, commiserating. “No one understands a guy who can’t relax.” Women just assumed such men ran from one place to the next to avoid commitment. Like Fleming... But no—he had to get her out of his head. “Has your family gone to Asheville ahead of you?”

“We’ve been there a few days, but they came with me today. They seemed to think I might get distracted and not show up back at our equivalent of a desert island.” Gabe’s smile was wry, as if he was only about half as impatient with his downtime as he was pretending to be. “I dropped them back at that little holiday shop. Can you imagine anything as hopeless as running a store devoted to Christmas year-round? I might beat myself to death with one of the ceramic Santa Clauses in the window.”

To his surprise, a surge of irritation stiffened Jason’s spine. “It does all right for business,” he said, as if there were some good financial reason for him to lie about Fleming’s store being in the peak of good fiscal health.

“Yeah? You know the people who run it? Maybe the snow and the ski resorts put visitors in mind of Christmas. So how do people keep busy up here in summer?”

Good question. Jason had no answer. His mind went blank, as if he didn’t know how to have fun. He usually worked. For fun, he’d started flying lessons last summer. One year, he’d done some work in Hawaii and dived in the clear waters every free moment he could find. “What do you do anywhere in summer? Whatever’s available, I guess.” He glanced at the discreet crowd of would-be customers milling quietly by the door. “We might be taking more than our allotted share of time here.”

He dropped a wad of cash for lunch on the table and stood, leaving Gabe no choice but to follow. On the street, Jason put out his hand to shake his client’s. “It’s been good seeing you. Study the files I emailed you, and call me with your questions.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not running out as if you can’t afford a few minutes off the clock. Come down to the little store with me. I want you to meet my wife and girls.”

Another great idea. Fleming had made her position pretty clear during their last uncomfortable meeting. Jason made a show of checking his watch. “I don’t know...”

“Forget it.” Gabe pounded his back as if they were old football teammates. “The global economy won’t collapse if you take your eye off it for a few minutes.”

Without ever actually agreeing to go, Jason found himself walking with Gabe to the store. He even stepped in front of his friend and opened the door, which was wreathed in hand-drawn candy canes.

Gabe entered ahead of him, but stopped so suddenly Jason thudded into his back. Then he caught sight of the chaos. The door was the only clean thing left in Mainly Merry Christmas.

Three girls and two small boys, all covered in white goop, along with two women who apparently had some connection to the shrieking children, seemed to be wrapping mummies at the small table opposite the cash registers. Their animated voices drowned out Fleming’s attempt to calmly instruct them. A third woman had given up to retire, laughing, behind the checkout area.

Fleming caught sight of Gabe and Jason, and said something that got lost in the racket. From her look of consternation, Jason had to assume she wasn’t rejoicing at his arrival. Nearly encased in papier-mâché herself, she squared her shoulders, smoothed the white stuff off her hands onto the newspaper-covered table and smiled.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

Jason, bemused, didn’t have to answer. The two smallest girls bolted for Gabe and pummeled his suit with their sticky hands, shouting “Daddy!” with the elation of children who’d thought their father might have disappeared forever.

One of the women looked at Fleming, her body language an expression of sheer helplessness. Fleming dampened a length of paper towel in a plastic tub of clean water and passed it to her.

“Gabe,” the woman said, “maybe we should stay here in Bliss tonight. I think we’ve got the hang of this papier-mâché thing, and the girls want to finish their ornaments.”

The older daughter, clearly bored and nowhere near as coated in goop and glue, shook her head. “I don’t.”

“The girls want to finish their ornaments,” her mother said again. Then she lifted both hands, sticky still, and now slightly fluffy with paper-towel remnants. “And so do I.”

“Then, by all means.” Gabe turned toward Jason. “Maybe you could give me directions to a good hotel?”

“Sure.” Jason brought up the web page for Lyle’s place and texted a link to Gabe’s phone. “You can call and arrange for a room. Or just walk down the block. It’s on the right at the end of the square.”

“Go ahead, Gabe,” his wife said. “We’ll meet you over there after we finish.”

“Jason, this is Anita. Anita, my friend Jason. And these are my daughters. Starting with the tallest and least interested in hanging out with the family,” he said, grinning with affection, “Delia. And this one—” he flattened his hand in the air above a small, glue-laden head of brown hair “—is Kay. Last but not least, this limpet on my leg is Georgina.”

The small redhead clung to him with all her gluey might. “Daddy, I come with you.”

“After you finish your art project,” Gabe said with justifiable reluctance. “Jason, join us for dinner tonight.”

He should welcome the break. Some time with people who didn’t owe his family or the bank anything and had no reason to resent him. But he dreaded more questions, and he suspected Fleming and her store might be a topic of dinner-table talk now that Gabe and his family had met her. “Thanks,” he said, “but—”

Without thinking, he glanced at Fleming, and she ran her fingers through her hair, streaking it with white. She took a moment to decide to take mercy on him, but then came to his rescue. “Actually, Jason and some friends and I have plans for tonight. We’re planning...” She stopped, her blank expression certainly not helping Jason’s cause. “A Christmas thing. On the square. Caroling.” She finished with a look of triumph.

Gabe’s smile was crooked with disbelief. He glanced at Jason assessingly, as if he couldn’t decide how best to make fun of him. “Okay. See you in a while. Anita, hose the kids down before you let them be seen in public, will you?”

He hit the sidewalk, wiping at his suit.

His wife made a face at his back as he walked away. “He was joking.” She dampened her hands again with the clear water. “I think.”

“Jason, why don’t you come make an ornament?” Fleming asked, with irony in her voice as if she expected him to say no to the possibility of participating in something fun. “We’re doing a test run today, but we’re thinking our methods need a little work. Let us try some changes on you.” She waved toward the young woman behind the cash register. “This is Julia Walker. She’s our instructor for today.”

“Julia.” He couldn’t help doubting her skills, because the place was covered in glue and globs of wet paper. He looked back at Fleming with a nod. Did she think she could scare him off with a challenge?

She came around the counter, rubbing her hands together like a mad scientist on a bad television show. “We may have to turn these snowflakes into snowmen. Here we go again.”

* * *

“OF COURSE YOU turn out to be a papier-mâché prodigy,” Fleming said later that afternoon, as she scooped the last of the glue off the table with a scraping tool Julia had lent her before she’d left for a dinner date.

Jason twirled his ruby-colored ornament above her head. “I think I’ll lacquer this.” He held it out to her. “You want it?”

Somehow, his not wanting to keep it made her feel as if it didn’t matter to him. But why should it? He didn’t go in for things like tradition. “You aren’t planning to have a tree?”

“I don’t even know where I’ll be on Christmas.”

“With your family?” She couldn’t imagine Christmas without her mother and Hugh.

Could Jason be that detached? Didn’t his family celebrate, even with several different mom-and-child combinations?

He still hadn’t answered her question.

“Aren’t you going home?” She handed him a moist paper towel, but he wasn’t entirely covered in glue the way everyone else had been: she and Julia and Anita Kaufman and the rest of the small class who’d agreed to be her guinea pigs.

“Christmas is like Thanksgiving. It’s just a day, Fleming. I don’t have children. I don’t have to eat cookies for Santa or carrots for Rudolph.”