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“It’s your show,” he said. “Hell, I don’t even like Christmas.”
He was so obnoxious, she thought. But so ridiculously good-looking, in a shaggy-haired, skinny-jeans, tight-T-shirt way. A lethal combination. “Nonsense. Everyone likes Christmas.”
He laughed. “Right. Okay, I guess I didn’t explain this very well.”
“Explain what?” In spite of herself, she was intrigued, and found herself leaning toward him, hanging on his every word like the most hopeless sort of Fan-girl.
“This whole Christmas thing.”
“What about it?”
“This is probably going to throw you for a loop, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a big fan of the holiday.”
Maybe, she thought, he appealed to her because he challenged her. It had been a long time since anyone over the age of five had challenged her. “Don’t be silly. Everybody loves Christmas.”
“You slay me, Maureen. You really do. News flash—everybody does not love Christmas.” Then his gaze slipped down the list of songs. “I’m not seeing a lot of variety here. Nothing new.”
“We could always add ‘The Runaway Reindeer’ from your hit movie. Your fan club would love it. Would that make you happy?”
“That would make me gag.”
The meeting was going so badly. She wished she knew how to bring it back on track. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for auditions.”
“Ought to be interesting. Everybody wants to be a star.”
“So it seems. We’ll try to be as inclusive as possible. We should remind everyone that there are no small actors—”
“Only small parts,” he finished for her. “And everybody knows that’s bullshit.”
She winced, wondering why he felt compelled to antagonize her. Her friend Olivia would say it was because he liked her. The notion intrigued Maureen far too much. She busied herself with her printouts, hoping to disguise her nerves. “And then we’ll go right into rehearsals. Here’s a schedule.”
“Got it, boss.”
“Are you patronizing me?”
“I’m trying to, yeah.”
“It’s not working. I won’t be patronized. Let’s not lose sight of our goal. This program isn’t for us or about us. It’s for the children, and for everyone who wants to celebrate the holidays.” The more nervous she got, the more cranky she sounded.
“Honey, you’re taking this way too seriously.”
“Honoring Christmas should not be taken lightly.” Oh, Maureen, she thought. When did you turn into such a dork? Olivia was always telling her to relax and have fun. But Olivia was pregnant, and hormones made her completely unreliable these days.
“Got it,” Eddie said again. “Are we done here?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re done.” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage, struggling to conquer her nerves. They’d had a rough start. Maybe, she thought, they could fix things over dinner. “Listen, Eddie, let’s try not to start off on the wrong foot together. The bakery is about to close, but I was thinking, maybe we could go somewhere else, get some dinner and talk about this some more. I’d like to hear your ideas.”
There. She’d said it. She had blurted out an invitation to the best-looking guy ever to sit across a table from her. Putting herself out there like this was so contrary to her nature that she nearly hyperventilated, waiting for his reply.
To his credit, he didn’t smirk or anything. He simply rejected her in the most straightforward manner possible: “Maureen, thanks for the invitation, but I can’t. I have to be somewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I better go, or I’ll be late. Maybe some other time.”
She wanted to die. Right there, right then, she wanted to curl up and die, turn to ashes and blow away on a cold winter wind. What had she been thinking, inviting him to dinner? Of course he didn’t want to have dinner with her. He was Eddie Haven, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t have dinner with people like Maureen Davenport. Nor would she want to, even if he’d asked. He was crude and deliberately provocative, so far from being her type that it was laughable. The next several weeks were going to be excruciating.
Somehow, she kept a lame smile on her face as he practically bolted for the door. She pictured him heading home to get cleaned up, probably for a date with a woman who didn’t know a library from a lobotomy, but who knew how to fill the gaps in a conversation as well as she could fill a sweater. Maureen pictured the two of them on their dinner date, gazing across the table at each other at a candlelit restaurant, whispering “Cheers” and clinking their goblets of fine wine together.
Three
“Hi, my name is Eddie, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Eddie.” The people in the group spoke in unison, their voices warm and quiet in the small meeting room in the basement of the church. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he was. The greeting was part of the ritual of recovery, and the unvarying repetition held a certain comfort for the participants. Whenever he was in Avalon, he came to this group, and they all knew him. Everybody in the group knew who everybody else was because they’d all been coming here regularly, some of them for many years. There were sometimes a couple of new faces, yet the core membership was fairly stable. He recognized a red-haired college kid named Logan, a high school teacher named Tony, and an older guy, Terry D., who had helped Eddie a lot through the rough years.
When Maureen Davenport had asked Eddie if he was a churchgoing man, he’d answered in the affirmative. It wasn’t a lie—the building was a church. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He hadn’t started going to church thanks to some divine inspiration. Following a spectacular screwup on Eddie’s part, he’d been ordered by a judge to attend 12-step meetings. He hadn’t expected to like it. He hadn’t expected to discover the deepest truths about himself in a group of strangers. But something had happened. He hadn’t found salvation the way most people did. He’d found it in the shared fellowship of people like him, renewing their commitment every day to stay sober.
On many levels, he told himself, the night of his DUI had been a blessing in disguise. For Eddie, it had been the start of a new way of living. A new way to spend Christmas, too. He still couldn’t stand the holiday, but at least he could get through it with clear-eyed sobriety instead of through an alcoholic haze.
He’d started the journey—very much against his will—one snowy Christmas Eve. He was no longer that lost, desperate man who had shown up with a chip on his shoulder and his arm in a sling. But whether he was at his place in the city or here in Avalon, he still came to meetings for the support, the friendship, the chance to serve others. And sometimes, like tonight, he came to think about things that were bugging him.
Like Maureen Davenport. He could tell she was not going to be a picnic. She had that whole prim-and-proper librarian thing going on, which only made him want to tease her, undo her hair, remove her glasses and say, “Why Ms. Davenport, you’re beautiful!”
That was the way it might happen in the movies, anyway. He doubted Maureen would play her role, though. She’d probably just tap a pencil on her clipboard and insist on getting back to work. She promised to be weeks of Christmas pageant hell.
He missed Mrs. Bickham already. Mrs. Bickham had made his community service obligation bearable, because she’d been so easygoing. Eddie had barely had to lift a finger for the pageant. However, this Maureen chick was no pushover. She might actually make him do some work. Eddie didn’t really mind doing work, but he’d never been fond of taking orders from bossy females.
The people around the room came in all sizes and shapes, all ages and all walks of life. They sipped coffee and waited for Eddie to speak.
“The topic of tonight’s meeting is perspective,” he told them. “Yeah, that’s a good one for me at the moment. I need to remind myself to keep things in perspective. I first started coming to these meetings as a result of a judge’s mandate. I thought I didn’t belong here. The fact was, I didn’t want to belong here. I didn’t want to be a member of any club where you couldn’t drink your face off every single night.”
Sympathetic murmurings circulated through the group.
“The judge knew me better than I knew myself. She knew the value of strong medicine—in my case, a lifetime membership in this fine fellowship right here.”
Sometimes when he closed his eyes and thought about that night, those moments of terror, Eddie believed he was remembering it all exactly as it happened. He could still feel the glass neck of the bottle in his hand—Dom Perignon, of course. Nothing but the best on the night he would propose to the woman he loved. It was Natalie’s favorite and nothing else would do. Natalie Sweet. She was the perfect woman—a few years older, a lot more sophisticated, a journalist. What’s more, she’d been sending out “ask me” signals for weeks, he was sure of it.
He’d planned the evening out. Avalon was the perfect location, between New York City and Albany, where Natalie’s family lived. She thought he was taking her to her folks’ for Christmas, never guessing the surprise he had in store. He wanted to get engaged on Christmas Eve. He had issues with the holiday, thanks to the way he’d spent all his Christmases growing up, his parents dragging him from town to town with their Yule-themed road show. So to overcome those issues, he would supplant the bad memories with something good. He would transform the holiday from a time filled with painful associations to something joyful—getting engaged to be married.
He knew about the town of Avalon thanks to his family. The town was the home of Camp Kioga, where his folks used to park him each summer when he was a kid, while they traveled from place to place, performing at Renaissance fairs. Through the years, the town had come to feel like home to him, as much as any place had. He’d even pictured himself and Natalie getting a weekend place here one day. That night, he’d booked the best table at the Apple Tree Inn, the one overlooking the Schuyler River. In winter, the rocks were encased in ice and the banks crusted with snow, sparkling in the light streaming down from the restaurant windows. He’d requested all their favorites for the menu and even gave the restaurant manager a list of songs to play throughout the evening.
He remembered the expression on her face when she tasted her dessert—a silky eggnog crème brûlée—because it was the same face she made in bed sometimes. In fact, her dreamy look had been his signal that the time had come.
Although they’d already polished off a bottle of wine, he ordered champagne, noting the lift of her eyebrows and taking it as a good sign.
In retrospect, maybe it was apprehension.
Pleasantly buzzed from the wine, Eddie forged ahead with his plan. Natalie was almost secondary, a bit player to his starring role. That perception in itself should have been a clue. When the moment stopped being about Natalie or even the two of them as a couple, it could only mean trouble.
The sommelier poured two glasses. Eddie offered a toast—something about their future, about a lifetime of happiness. The time had come.
He was a traditionalist at heart. Unabashed by other Christmas-Eve guests, he went down on one knee and took her hand. At that moment, the theme song of The Christmas Caper came on the stereo. Maybe he should have recognized it as a bad sign.
The song had definitely not been on Eddie’s playlist. The manager might have thought Eddie would like hearing the sweet, sentimental tune. Eddie would never know. Many people assumed that such a beloved movie must be loved by him, as well. All he knew was that the hated song intruded on the moment like a choking spell in the middle of a gourmet meal.
And to top off the moment, this was the most heinous version in existence—the one recorded by an a cappella group known as the Christmas Belles, which had become a sensation on the Internet. The rendition was so sticky-sweet, he thought he might gag, just listening to it.
But he was down on one knee. He was committed. He had to go through with this. There was no turning back now.
He had carefully scripted the words, then memorized them so they wouldn’t sound scripted: “I love you. I want to be with you forever. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
That was her cue to weep for joy, perhaps to be so overcome she couldn’t speak, could only nod vigorously: Yes, yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you. All around the restaurant, people would sigh over his performance.
Then he would lift the lid of the small velvet jewel box, and a fresh wave of emotion would wash over her.
It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was going to turn Christmas into the happiest time of his life.
There was one problem. Natalie didn’t follow the script. There were no joyful tears. No reciprocal declaration of love. Only a stricken expression of horror on her face.
“Magic can happen, if only you belieeeeeeeeve,” sang the Christmas Belles in the background.
Natalie didn’t nod. She looked nauseous, shook her head no. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, getting up from the table and making a dash for the cloakroom.
Eddie had dropped a too-big wad of cash on the table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and left, despite knowing it was illegal to leave an establishment with an open container.
Not caring.
She was walking as fast as she could toward the train station.
“Can we at least talk about this?” he asked.
She kept walking. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’d be open to a proposal.”
“Hell, you were sending out signals like Western Union,” he said. “What was I supposed to think?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, excuse me all to hell for thinking you meant it when you said you loved me.”
“I did,” she protested. “I do. But I’m not ready to marry anybody, and neither are you.”
“Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”
“Fine, I won’t. But here’s what I think. I think you don’t want to be married so much as you don’t want to be alone.”
“Hey, it’s one thing to turn me down. Don’t psychoanalyze me on top of everything else.”
From there, the argument devolved into a rehashing of each other’s faults, and after she boarded the Albanybound train alone, he was ready to concede that yes, he had probably been hasty in proposing marriage.
By the time he returned to the restaurant parking lot for his van, he’d already made the transition from feeling hurt to feeling pissed. At her but even more at himself. Why had he made some big public production out of it? Why had he set himself up for failure like that?
As he drove through the streets of Avalon, the small town looked deserted, a ghost town. Most people had headed home early to be with their families on Christmas Eve. Others were at church, filling the night with song and worship.
Eddie planned to spend the rest of the evening with a man of the cloth. Specifically, a monk named Dom Perignon. Since the bottle had already been opened at the restaurant, he started drinking as he drove. Hell, it was Christmas Eve and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He’d just been dumped and he was desperate to numb the hurt and blunt the anger. And he was driving slowly, anyway. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. His parents had invited him home to their place on Long Island as they did every year, but Natalie had given him the perfect excuse to decline the invitation. Now he was out of excuses.
The snowstorm began in a lively flurry, feathering across the windshield. Within minutes, driven by a lake effect, the flurries blossomed into thick, relentless flakes that were strangely mesmerizing as they hurled themselves toward him. He decided to swing by the Hilltop Tavern, see if anybody was still around. He had a few old friends in Avalon who went way back to his days at summer camp. The small town never changed. He passed cozy-looking houses with their windows aglow, businesses that were closed up tight, the country club that crowned the top of a hill. The most impressive light display belonged to the Heart of the Mountains Church at a bend in the lakeshore road.
The oblong building twinkled with lights along the roofline. An elaborate, life-size nativity scene occupied the broad, snow-covered grounds. He rolled down the driver’s side window to feel the icy air. Big snowflakes whipped into the van through the gap.
The faint, distant tolling of bells drifted in through the window, and it was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard. He chased away the mournful noise by turning up the radio, which was playing Black Sabbath’s “Never Say Die.”
For Eddie, music was more than just sound. It was a place he went, familiar and safe. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of his childhood, music had been his retreat and solace. Over the years, his affinity had only deepened. When he was a teenager, it became a way to sort out the confusion, almost as calming as drinking a stolen six-pack from his parents’ fridge. Later, when he was a student at Juilliard, it was a form of expression that finally made sense to him, the perfect accompaniment to the wine he loved to drink before, during and after performances.
He heard music in his head, all the time. It surprised him to realize this was not the case for other people. Maybe it was a form of insanity.
Years later, when he reviewed the events of that night, he could never separate the sounds and images in his mind from those that had actually existed. He recalled a curious rhythmic beating noise, like the rotors of a helicopter, and a deepening of the already-dark sky. And then something—an animal? A tree limb?—crossing his path.
Operating on pure reflex, he swerved to avoid it.
Mission accomplished.
But in the next moment, everything was ripped from his control. The van hit a patch of black ice and careened off the road, exploding through a snowbank and jolting down a steep slope. The brakes and steering were useless as he cut a swath through the churchyard. Everything in the van—sound equipment, CDs, gear, the empty champagne bottle—was swept up in a tempest.
As the speeding vehicle smashed through the nativity scene and barreled toward the church, only one coherent thought slipped out. Please, God, don’t let me hurt anybody.
“That night changed everything for me,” he told the people in the room. “And for that, I’m grateful. I’ll remind myself of this in the weeks to come. Because something tells me I’m going to face some challenges. I always do, this time of year.”
“Thanks, Eddie,” the chorus murmured, and they went on to the next speaker.
His life had really begun the night it had almost ended. That was when he finally had to admit that drinking wasn’t working for him. He’d had to transform himself entirely. Music was still his life, but now he worked behind the scenes, a composer and producer, and he also volunteered for an after-school music program for at-risk kids in Lower Manhattan. Life was good enough for him, under the radar like that.
His ancient but still-in-effect contract with the production company had limited his earnings from the movie to a pittance. To this day, he had no idea why his parents had allowed it. That same contract called for him to participate materially in promotion of the movie—which meant he had to appear in DVD extras. Creating those segments earlier in the year had reminded him of the things he disliked about fame—knowing he wasn’t the person everyone saw and loved on screen. Having to hide who he really was.
Being a composer kept him involved in music, though by choice, he was mostly anonymous, creating soundtracks and jingles to order. It freaked him out that people recognized him, and that interest was renewed thanks to the DVD. He only hoped it would blow over soon.
The part of him that still loved to perform found satisfaction, as well. He visited Avalon frequently to play with a group of his friends in a band called Inner Child, and they had the occasional gig at local festivals or a neighborhood club. This year, he agreed to be the guest host for a local radio show, “Catskills Morning,” consisting of news, talk and music of his choice, five days a week. The regular host was on maternity leave.
His life was a far cry from the orgy of fame and fortune he’d once pictured for himself. But it was a much better fit.
The meeting ended as it always did, with the serenity prayer and a quick cleanup of the coffee service; then Eddie prepared to head home for the evening. He stopped at Wegmans and treated himself to his favorite take-out dinner—a pimento cheese sandwich, a big fat dill pickle, a bag of chips and a root beer soda. On the way out of the store, he encountered one of the earliest signs of the season—a Salvation Army bell ringer.
The insistent clanging of the bell was both annoying and impossible to ignore. Scrounging a crumpled bill out from his pocket, he stuffed it into the painted red bucket.
“Thanks,” said the bell ringer. He was young, just a boy, really. Something about him was familiar in a vague, distant way. The teenager reminded Eddie of some of his students, back in the city—hungry but proud. Maybe the kid had been in previous Christmas pageants. But no. Eddie was pretty sure he would remember that long, dark hair and soulful eyes, the slightly bemused smile.
“I’m Eddie Haven,” Eddie said.
He gave a nod. “Jabez Cantor.”
“New around here?” Eddie asked.
“Kind of. I’ve been away for a while. Just got back to town.”
