Page 1 of The Christmas Keeper

Chapter One

“Did I ever show you the last photos of my Kelli’s baby?” I forced myself to stare at yet another picture of another wrinkled little prune wearing a pink knit stocking cap. “This is Diaphony. I honestly do not know where you kids nowadays find these oddball names. Whatever happened to using down-to-earth names like Helen or Margaret or Gypsum.”

My gaze widened. My great-aunt Priscilla blinked at me from behind thick bifocals.

“Gypsum?” I asked loudly because I had to in order to be heard over the band playing “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty” a mere hundred feet away. Also, Aunt Prissy never wore her hearing aids so conversation with her was always bellowed.

“Mm, yes, that was my dear departed Edgar’s father’s mother’s name.”

I studied the old, old gal on my left. “Her name was Gypsum. Like in the gypsum used as a fertilizer in your garden? That kind of gypsum?”

“No, I don’t garden anymore. It’s too hard to get up and down, although I did have a lovely tomato plant in a container. Kelli planted it for me. I have a picture…”Dear God, please save me from another old lady with a cell phone.“Hmm, I don’t know where the pictures went.”

“Let me go find Kelli for you,” I rushed to say, shot to my feet, and hightailed it across the packed dancefloor of older folks, my parents among them, shaking their booties as if doing the hustle was going to save the world from some sort of catastrophe.

I had no clue who Kelli was, what she looked like, or if she was even here in Ottawa. All I knew about my incredibly distant cousin was that her kid looked like that dog that had starred inDeadpool and Wolverine, and she gave tomato plants as gifts. Didn’t matter. It had gotten me free from another nosy relative asking when I was going to get married because I wasn’t getting any younger and my baby sister had beat me to the aisle. Oh, the shame!

As if I cared Nora had found her prince charming before me. I was happy for her and for Antoine. He was a good guy. Much better than that dickhead she had dated back home. The guy had done her wrong so badly that she had moved from Pennsylvania to Canada to start over as far away from the asshole as she could get. If he’d not run like a scalded cat the moment he’d been caught cheating on my sister with her ex-bestie, I would have stuck him to the wall of my bar with a handful of darts and then punched him in the face. Repeatedly. No one hurts my little sister. I had warned Antoine about that the first time we’d met, and he had taken me quite seriously. Sure, he was a hockey player who had about six inches and fifty pounds on me. Didn’t mean I couldn’t get a fast, cheap shot in before he beat me to a pulp.

I elbowed my way through a pack of Ottawa hockey players to get to the bar. Free bar, so the two tenders were hustlingto fill orders for over three hundred people. Antoine was really famous, universally liked, and had a French-Canadian family that numbered in the thousands, or so it seemed. My order was an easy one. A double shot of Irishman’s Grand Reserve with a stout German lager, preferably Guinness. The barkeep was cute and pulled a good beer. I tipped well, took a sip of my cold beer, sighed, and glanced at my watch to count down how many hours were left before I could feign a headache and leave the reception venue unseen by my sister or mother.

“There you are!” Nora slid in beside in a cloud of joy and Estee Lauder Modern Muse. Her bright brown eyes, the same color as mine, were shining as she reached out to take my hand. “They’re going to play the song for our dance next.”

“I didn’t know that there was a dance for the bride and her brother,” I replied and tossed back the shot. It burned nicely.

“They do when the bride asks for one.” With that, my tiny little sibling tugged me from the bar. I quickly tossed a ten to the cute bartender before grabbing my beer. “Plus, you’re not just my brother, you’re the brother of honor, so that calls for a special dance.”

Knowing I would lose this battle—I always lost with Nora—I followed along in her white lace wake, smiling at people I didn’t know, beer in hand. We reached the bandstand before she turned to check me out. “Where is your tie?”

I dug into my tuxedo jacket pocket, pulling a knowing smirk from the guy playing bass. He was cute too. There were so many good-looking guys here. Probably most were straight, or if they weren’t, it wouldn’t matter as I was leaving as soon as the newlyweds drove off with cans clattering behind them or I could sneak out unseen. Knowing my sister and mother, who had eyes like hawks, I’d not be making my break anytime soon. Nora yanked my tie from my hand with a tsk that sounded so much like Mom’s that I had to snicker.

“Your nose crinkles just like Mom’s,” I teased.

“Honestly, Brann, you look so handsome in this tux,” she chided, reaching up to retie the dark green bowtie. Forest green and white were the colors, holiday-themed, or so the wedding planner had explained to me as if I were a halfwit. “You should keep the tie tied and work the room. I’m sure there are some guys here who would love a dance with you.”

“I don’t dance in case you forgot.”

She tugged the bowtie tightly. “You do now. You should learn. Dancing is a great way to meet new people.”

The band stood above us, ending the previous disco song, and the lead singer stepped up to the mic with a rehearsed smile.

“Where would I slow dance with men back home? They closed down the dance hall right after World War II.”

“I’m not talking about dance halls, dork. I mean at the bar.”

“Right. So many of the patrons would love to see two guys slow dancing during Monday Night Football. You’ve been in this big liberal city for too long if you forgot what rural Pennsylvania is like.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I moved to get away from the toxic masculinity BS.” She patted my now righted bowtie with a tiny, French-manicured hand. “I just want you to be happy. You hermit up at home with Fred and Wilma, then spend all day in that bar, wasting your nights with the guys throwing darts at a corkboard, and go home alone.”

“I’m not alone. Fred and Wilma are there. You just said so.” Her lips flattened. “What? You just said it. Geese are wonderful company.”

“Ask Wilkes about how wonderful they are,” she snapped back like a rubber band.

“Wilkes should have known better than to go through the front gate just to deliver the damn gas bill. I have a sign.” If people choose to ignore the BEWARE OF THUG GEESE sign onmy little picket fence, then woe onto them, and that applied to Wilkes Lilly.

“You’re lucky he didn’t mace Fred,” she said as she battled to keep a straight face.

“Fred was just protecting his lady love,” I argued as I had with the postmaster after that whole butt pinching fiasco last spring. I’d lost the battle and now had to collect my mail at the post office due to a ‘dangerous poultry situation’ at my home. Some people are so delicate. One little goose pinch never hurt anyone. Well, okay, it did hurt, but the bruise faded in a week or two. Fred pinched me at least once a year on the backside, generally in the spring when hormones were high, but it didn’t require a trip to the ER, for goodness sake.

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