Page 9 of Christmas With the Convict

“Something catch your eye?” Mr. Bettencourt says.

I clear my throat. “Just admiring your home, sir. I’ve never been in a place like this…”

“Oh, I’m sure. Is that all?” He leans on the railing and looks down at his family, at his daughter. “You think I don’t know that patch on your vest? You think I don’t know the type of boy you are?”

“These were the clothes I had on my back when I went in,” I say, never backing down from his gaze. “I’ll be happy to get out of them for good.”

“I’m sure,” he sighs casually. “You have no business here, Mr. Oliver. My daughter… she’s idealistic. Good-natured to a fault.Youare that fault today, and I’m sure you’ll prove me right in due time.”

“Why not kick me out? Send me on my way.”

Richard Bettencourt laughs like a man holding all the cards, and he doesn’t care who knows it. He pats me on the back and smiles warmly. “And ruin Christmas? No, boy. I’ll leave that to you.”

He turns his back on me and whistles as he walks. It’s a whistle that a man makes for his dog to follow.

Wendy is down there, laughing and smiling, waiting for me.

I think about her, and only her, as I trail behind him.

Chapter 3

WENDY

There’s a varied set of reactions that one’s family members will take when you bring a recently released convict home for Christmas.

Your father will probably give passive-aggressive threats, spew backhanded compliments, and load his gun (I cannot confirm that the last bit has happened, but I have a hunch).

Your mother will be polite, welcoming, and entirely awkward. She’ll ask questions likeCan I get you something to eat? You must be sick of prison food!orThat’s an interesting tattoo… What does the barbed wire signify?She’ll drink, but that’s no surprise.

Uncles will make crass jokes about dropping the soap.

Your Aunts will stare far too lustily at his big body in a borrowed, too-small sweater.

Your sister and her husband will play it cool, saying only what they mean to each other with their eyes.

And all the children will commence a game ofcops and robbersin honor of their new, favorite, most interesting guest.

It’s a Christmas miracle Chase survived the first night with his sanity intact. Luckily, we arrived late, so he was only subjected to a couple hours of the circus before people started heading off to bed with their nightcaps.

My father, still not budging an inch, set Chase up on the dingy couch in the basement rather than the last empty guest room upstairs. I didn’t fight him on it. I’m sure Chase will be happy to sleep anywhere other than a concrete cell, and the distance between him and everyone else seemed to put him at ease.

If I had it my way, he’d be sharing a bed with me…

All night, I’ve been wishing we were back in the car, alone on the road. I could have driven for days watching him rest in the passenger seat. Sometimes, he would twitch and groan horribly in his sleep. I’d reach out and take his hand or gently rub his arm, and he’d settle.

I want to know what haunts his soul while he sleeps.

I want to hear his voice when he speaks softly and just for me.

I want to—so feverishly and horribly—crack open his journal and pour through all the words he wrote.

And when the house finally quiets, I tip-toe downstairs and through the door into the basement. I immediately shiver as my bare feet touch the concrete steps. The central heating has never kept it warm down here. One lamp is on, barely illuminating all the ski gear, firewood, and boxes stored along the wall.

When I reach the bottom and turn the corner toward the light, I find Chase sitting up on the little couch as if he’s about to fend off an attack. He’s shirtless, and I nearly fall down the final step.

I’ve never seen muscles stacked like that before…

“Just me.” I give a little wave.

---