Page 26 of Christmas Is All Around
“Um,” said Charlotte, saying a quick prayer for the virtue of this hearty New England farm boy. Her mother might be past sixty, but her feminine wiles were not to be underestimated.
“But I’ll be home next week, and I’ll be sure to tell your father that you say hello,” her mom added. “By the way, are you open to commissions right now?”
“Not until after the holidays, and I have a long wait list,” Charlotte said warily. “Why?”
“Jamie Dyer is looking for someone to do custom invitations for the launch party for his new show,” her mom replied.
Charlotte suppressed a sigh. Dyer was one of her mom’s friends—a fellow playwright who had written several successful shows that had involved a surprising amount of nudity. “He’s welcome to get in touch, but I can’t make any promises.” It always felt a bit… icky when her mom made requests like this. They felt like a naked ploy to try to drag Charlotte back into the world of film and theater, where the rest of the family was comfortable and Charlotte was decidedlynot.
“I’ll let him know,” her mom said, sounding a bit distracted. “I have to run, Charlotte—inspiration has struck and I must seize it!” Without a further word of farewell, the line went dead. Charlotte stared down at her phone.
“Love you, too,” she muttered, tossing it onto the bed. Why had she even bothered? This was, more or less, what all her conversations with her parents were like—they were very eager to tell her about their lives, which were of course endlessly fascinating, and not remotely interested in whatever was happening with their younger, more disappointing daughter.
She knew why she’d bothered, though: it was Graham. Their conversation the night before, the pain that clearly still lingered from his dad’s death, had made her feel… well, guilty. She still had both of her parents, and she spoke to them only once a month, if that. Why should she get to have two living parents when Graham and his sisters didn’t?
She’d have to talk to them again in a few weeks, because Ava always called their parents on Christmas morning, and they were then subjected to five to ten minutes of guilt-tripping about their presence, together, on one side of the ocean, while their “poor, ailing, unappreciated” (Peter Lane, Christmas 2022) parents languished together at home.
It was exhausting.
Not, however, as exhausting as what John had in store for her the following day.
“Butwhy?” Charlotte asked plaintively on Monday morning, staring at the kitchen chaos displayed before her.
“Because it’s tradition!” John said brightly, handing Charlotte an apron that saidO Christmas Cheese!and featured an illustration of a block of cheese bedecked with ornaments, topped with a star. “Nothing says Christmas like mince pie!” He was already wearing an apron of his own that saidFizz the Season!above an image of a champagne bottle and a Christmas tree holding hands.
“I think this is why I don’t like Christmas,” Charlotte muttered, tying the apron around her waist and sending Ava a helpless look. “Don’t you need help with the baby?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Ava said cheerfully, a glass of prosecco in one hand while she spoon-fed Alice mashed-up banana with the other, despite the fact that it was not yet eleven a.m. (“Because it’s Christmas.”)
Drinking at inappropriate hours of the morning was one of the only things about Christmas that Charlotte actually liked, so she poured herself a glass as well, and prepared for the forced labor ahead.
“We need to get the mincemeat from the fridge,” John instructed eagerly, and Charlotte spotted an opportunity.
“Actually, I’m a vegetarian,” she said virtuously, adopting a look of reluctant apology. “So I’m afraid my morals won’t permit me to help you with this.”
“There’s no meat in mincemeat!” John said brightly. “So you needn’t worry!”
“She’s not worried,” Ava called from her spot by the kitchen island.
John patted Charlotte sympathetically on the arm, then paused, frowning, before asking, very gently, “Charlotte, love, you know that beef comes from a cow, don’t you?” He asked this in the tone ofsomeone afraid that they might be the one breaking the news to a child that Santa didn’t exist. “Because you were eating an awful lot of that Sunday roast at the pub yesterday.”
“It was a cheat day?” Charlotte suggested, but then a merciful god intervened and the doorbell rang.
“I’ve got it!” she screeched, bolting for the door; she’d forgotten that there was an easily alarmed baby in close range, and a moment later an indignant squawk could be heard, followed in rapid succession by an extremely creative bit of swearing from Ava.
“I don’t think that’s the sort of language you want to be teaching Alice!” Charlotte called over her shoulder as she raced into the hall, skidded to a halt in her socks, and opened the door. She hadn’t paused to consider who it would be, but was expecting the UPS guy, or perhaps Ava’s mail carrier, with whom she’d had several conversations since her arrival and who always called her “love,” but she was decidedlynotexpecting it to be…
Graham.
“You!” she said, and realized as soon as she said it that she sounded like a character in a bad melodrama encountering an accused murderer.
“Hello,” he said, lifting a brow. “I was going to text you, but I was walking by and thought I’d just stop by to see when you wanted to go to Sloane Square this week.”
“You were walking by,” she repeated suspiciously.
“Yes,” he repeated, mimicking her tone. “I know that Americans don’t understand the notion of using one’s own two feet to get places and that you likely want to haul out one of your shotguns and take aim at anyone on your doorstep.”
“Shut up,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “I live in New York—how do you think I get everywhere?”
