Page 31 of Christmas at the Ranch
“So soon? Where are you? When are you coming home? You haven’t told me anything.”
“I’m…” I look around me, at the shops hung with holiday lights, their windows festooned with garlands. I’m in a place that feels so far from the city that none of what’s happening there seems real. But it is. “I’m sorry I’m not there for you. I just…I can’t be there right now.” When I say it, I realize it’s true—I can’t return to the city yet. The idea of renting a car to drive back fills me with dread. I feel completely directionless, stuck in a place I don’t belong—but unable to go back to the city and face what waits for me there. Not yet. “I wish I could help you, Mom.”
“You’ve helped me,” my mother says, her voice suddenly soft. But she doesn’t go further than this, doesn’tmention the trust fund. I wonder if she ever will. She has always been so good at maintaining a façade. Maybe we’ll just never talk about it. Maybe one day, when my father’s legal team has somehow managed to get him out of this, she’ll just refer to it asthat nasty business with the lawand move on.
“But I’ll see you on Christmas?” my mother is asking me, and I feel a deep pang of guilt. I know where I want to be on Christmas, where I should be—and it’s with my best friend and her warm, welcoming family. But my mother’s going to be alone. My father is in jail.
And yet, I still can’t tell her I’ll come home for Christmas. Right now, it feels like I have no idea where home even is.
“I’ll see, Mom” is all I can say. “I have to go. I’ll check in again soon.”
I walk slowly through Evergreen’s downtown, past all the quaint, familiar shops. As I walk by a gray Victorian, slightly set back from the road, I nearly bump into a white-haired, bespectacled, and mustachioed man carrying a stack of newspapers so high they almost obscure his face. I step aside too late. We collide, and the newspapers begin to slide from his grip.
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry!” I’ve managed to catch the newspapers just before they fall to the sidewalk, but a few escape, fluttering off in the snowy breeze. Once I’ve secured his stack back in his arms, I race to catch the other newspapers before they blow onto the street.It’s the local newspaper,TheEvergreen Enquirer.“May I buy one?” I ask the man.
“Oh, it’s free,” he says. “But these are all for subscribers. And I need to get them out today.” He seems extremely harried—which is when I notice he’s wearing an air-boot cast on his left foot.
“Can I help you deliver them?” I ask.
“A kind stranger,” the man says with a genuine smile. “I’m Bruce McLaren. Chief reporter forTheEvergreen Enquirer. Publisher, too.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, I do all the jobs at theEnquirerthese days—including newspaper carrier, which isn’t easy considering I slipped on the ice last week and ended up with this.” He lifts his air-booted leg with a rueful smile.
“Here,” I say, taking the stack of newspapers from him. “I can do this for you. Do you have a list of addresses?”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you,” he says. “Honestly, you’re too kind…” He trails off, waiting for me to say my name. I hesitate.
“Emory,” I finally say, and wait for a flash of unfriendly recognition. But despite the fact that he’s the town’s only news reporter, he appears to have no clue who I am.
“Guess you aren’t in the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat,” I say under my breath—but he hears me and looks horrified.
“Are you kidding me? I don’t have time for group chats! I havenewsto report on, and a paper to print, and then newspapers to deliver. It’s exhausting.” Hepushes up his glasses, which are sliding down his nose. “Maybe Iwilltake you up on your kind offer. No addresses needed. Every house and business in the town proper gets one. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour. You’re sure you don’t mind helping me with this?”
“I’m positive,” I say.
“Well, then, meet me back here when you’re done, and I’ll make you a nice pot of tea as a thank-you.”
I feel the same way I did while helping Charlie with the chores at the ranch yesterday: Having a straightforward task passes the time, and I don’t spiral into worry over my parents, over how I’m going to find a place to stay or when I’m going to get back to Toronto. I enjoy walking through Evergreen with a purpose, taking in the holiday decorations. People here go all out, and decorations run the gamut from elaborately tacky tableaus featuring life-size blow-up Frosty the Snowmen to traditional cedar garlands, fairy lights, and elaborate pine wreaths hanging from door knockers. I slide newspapers into letter boxes and through door handles, lay them on front porches, wish everyone I see “happy holidays” and receive the greeting back. I read the headlines on the cover, and they all make me smile. “Holiday Hoedown Set to Be a Huge Success!” “Classic Christmas Recipes from Grandma Shirley.” “Owner of Overturned Golf Cart on 118 Found.”
On my way back to the newspaper office, I see a couple up ahead on the sidewalk, heading toward Carrie’s Café, talking and laughing. With the snow falling gently around them, they look picture-perfect, walking side by side—but then the man turns and I realize who it is.
He’s not wearing his plaid barn jacket; he’s got on a navy parka. And it’s Mariella beside him, her long blond hair unbraided, gliding down her back like a glacial waterfall. She’s wearing a cute little red beret and looks like the main character in a holiday romance movie. He seemed so upset when I saw him a few hours ago—but all that’s gone now.
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s good that Tate has a beautiful girlfriend who clearly makes him very happy. I can’t forever regret the way things ended between us when we were young. But still, I stand frozen watching as he holds the door of the café open for her. He doesn’t turn; he doesn’t see me at all.
When he’s inside, I cross the street and approach the Victorian house, all the joyful, festive feelings I was having while delivering the newspapers evaporating.
Bruce opens the door with a smile, which cheers me up a bit.
“I really do appreciate you,” he tells me when he lets me in, leading me through a dusty, papery smelling newspaper office that is, I note, completely emptyof any staff. He clears some space on a messy desk and sets down a teakettle and invites me to sit. I look around at the framed front pages lining the walls, at the stacks of paper everywhere. The place is messy but also homey and warm.
“Is your staff on Christmas holiday?” I ask him.
“I used to have a reporter, but she decided journalism wasn’t for her and went to med school,” he says sadly.
“Smart,” I say. “I have a journalism degree, actually. Sometimes I wish I had decided to do something else.”
“But journalism is one of the most honorable professions!” he says, aghast. “ ‘A good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself.’ Arthur Miller said that. ‘The quality of democracy and the quality of journalism are deeply entwined.’ Bill Moyers.”
“ ‘A journalist is a person who has mistaken their calling,’ ” I retort. “Otto von Bismarck.”
