Page 1 of Spicy Nick

One

Three Days before Christmas…

There aren’t a lot of things that I'm willing to come right out and say I’ve been a fool about. I live in a small town and, ego aside, I have a certain reputation to maintain. Foolish is not a good look for me. But if I’m being honest, thereisa list, albeit a short one. And right at the top of said list is my wife. I have been a fool for that woman since the day we met.

In my defense, I was just twenty-two when she first crossed my path; so still pretty young. Scout, on the other hand, was even younger. Unfortunately young. Inexcusably young.

Young enough that she’d felt the need to lie about her age. And (as I’ve been reminded, repeatedly) young enough that I really should have immediately seen the lie for what it was.

Which I didn’t. Which goes back to my first point.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that she left town when she did. Not that I thought so at the time, of course. And despite the lies, despite the betrayal, despite all the years we spent apart, I never forgot her.

So, when she finally resurfaced, just a little over five years ago, and we picked up right where we’d left off, it felt like fate. Like it was meant to be. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that, for most of those five years, we’ve both been as happy as any two people could reasonably expect to be in this crazy world.

Except at Christmas. Which is weird, right? I mean, who doesn’t like Christmas? Well…my wife, that’s who.

I blame her father. Not that I ever really knew the man; we met only once, back in the day, and I counted myself lucky that he never found out about my relationship with his underage daughter. But, other than being a little obtuse, I’m sure he had his good points.

By all accounts he was a caring if somewhat distant father; a successful artist, who made a comfortable living (then married into even more wealth) and whose death left his daughter very well provided for. But one thing he was never able to provide her with was a secure and stable home life. Which is something that most of us want for our kids.

Growing up the way she did, it seems like the holidays were just one disappointment after another for Scout. And, as of yet, she hasn’t been able to move past that trauma. There are days when I’m not sure she ever will.

Which is not to suggest that she doesn’t put on a good act. She’s a very talented actress, after all. She fakes Holiday Spirit the way I imagine some women fake orgasms. Not that I’d personally know anything about that. But Scout employs so much skill and enthusiasm when it comes to Christmas, that if I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d almost believe that she was enjoying herself. Almost. But even I’m notthatbig a fool.

I’ve seen the way she grits her teeth when the topic of Christmas shopping is raised—and trust me, it’s not the money; she has plenty of that. I’ve seen her yawn her way through moreextended-family gatherings in the last few years than I care to think about. Especially since they’ve mostly involved my family. And I’ve seen how she rolls her eyes whenever I get busy decking her halls. And can I just say that she has some great halls to deck? Because man, oh man…

Okay, wait. Hold up a bit. That wasnota euphemism, all right? I’m talking about the house we live in. The gorgeous, Queen Anne, almost-a-mansion that Scout inherited from her stepmom. A house whose halls were positively made to wear boughs of holly. Also tinsel, candles, strings of twinkly lights, ivy garlands and (obviously)allthe mistletoe.

Deep down inside, I think Scout appreciates that there’s one of us in this marriage who makes a big deal about the holidays—for our son’s sake if nothing else. And I think she particularly likes the fact that it’s me. If only because that means it doesn’t have to be her. I know she enjoys the decorations once I’ve gotten everything in place. But, then again, I’ve also seen her sigh with relief when the last of the baubles and bows are packed away in the attic once again.

If she were all alone—single and childless and left to her own devices—I’m pretty sure she’d choose to skip the whole holiday process altogether and spend the season somewhere else. Like Cabo, perhaps, or Kauai.

So, on the surface, this year is simply more of the same. And you might think that I shouldn’t be overly concerned about Scout’s customary lack of Holly Jollity. But all the same, I am.

I can’t help feeling that something’s different this time around. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but having been a cop for as long as I have, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. And I’m telling you now that something feels off.

“So, what do you think is up with Scout?” I ask my cousin Lucy as we wait in this seemingly endless line that snakes itsway around Oberon’s town square so that my four-year-old son, Cole, can talk to Santa.

Lucy looks puzzled. “Issomething up with Scout?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking. Have you noticed anything different this year? About Christmas, I mean.”

Besides being my cousin—and practically a sister to me—Lucy is also one of Scout’s closest friends. She regards me, for a moment, over the rim of her chocolate peppermint latte, then says, “You mean, aside from the fact that she’s apparently skipped town and is gonna miss the whole thing?”

I glance at Cole, who’s playing hide-and-seek among the lighted sculptures with some kids he knows from pre-school, to make sure that he isn’t listening in. “She didn’t skip town,” I correct. “She had some last-minute work to take care of in LA. And she hasn’t missed anything—yet. There are still a few days to go, you know.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Lucy replies. “I mean, she’s not here tonight, is she? So that’s one thing she’s missing. Then there was Marsha’s party on the Solstice.AndSinead’s open house the weekend before that. Neither of which she was here for. I know that might not mean anything toyou, but?—”

“Okay, fine. She’s been gone awhile. That’s why I’m asking what you know.”

Lucy frowns. “I wasn’t done. I’m expecting you for dinner on Christmas Eve, as you know. And, last I heard, we’re supposed to be having Christmas dinner at your house. Is that still on? I mean, I’m not holding my breath, or anything. And I’m sure that you and your kids’ll be there, but as for Scout…I guess I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“She promised Cole she’d be home in time for Christmas,” I say—which effectively ends the discussion. Scout might expect me, or Lucy, or her stepbrother, or any of her friends to excuse her absence from time to time, to act like adults and understandthat sometimes plans change. But she’s not her father. And I know she’d never disappoint our son. Particularly not at Christmas.

Lucy nods and shrugs, acknowledging my point. “Okay. Fine. She’ll be back. Glad to hear it. So then what’re you worried about?”

“I don’t know,” I’m forced to confess. “That’s the problem.”

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