Page 62 of Fa-La La-La Land
But what happens when he doesn’t have experiences I can relate to or advice for my current age? Then what? Do I keep asking for letters? Or do I pay it forward and do for someone what Paradise has done for me and make Christmas magic again?
I glance at Rhys, kneeling in front of Charly. Over the noise of music playing, people laughing, and carolers singing, the soft notes of “Fa-La La-La Land” find me. Rhys is singing with Charly.
The scene is straight out ofThe Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Rhys with his brow furrowed but fighting a smile. Charly, with her hair in two space buns on top of her head, swinging Rhys’s hands side to side, totally oblivious to how uncomfortable he is.
I turn back to Nick. “Can I ask for something else this year?”
He blinks with surprise before his face splits into a smile. “Of course you can. Do you want a new bike? Or maybe a surfboard now that you’re a California girl?”
I laugh nervously. I hope what I ask for is worthsacrificing a letter from Dad this year. “No, something easier than any of those. I want to know what Rhys asked for.”
Nick loses his smile. “Oh, now, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that. His wish might not come true if I do.”
I tilt my head to the side. “I think that only applies to birthday wishes, not Christmas asks.”
He ho-ho-ho’s. “You’ve got me there, Stella. But I don’t know if anyone can find him the gift he wants. I don’t quite know what he means.”
“I might if you tell me. That’s the magic of Christmas, right?” I sit a little taller, pleading.
Nick tugs on his beard, thinking before turning to me. “He said something about wanting to find songs that make himandhis fans happy.”
“Oh.” I blink. “That’s trickier than I expected.”
Rhys has the songs already; he just has to believe it. Everything I’ve done to get him to see that hasn’t worked. So, what should I do differently?
“Might need a little help from the Big Guy with that one.” Nick rolls his eyes Heavenward and points.
I nod. “Thanks, Nick. I’ll take that into consideration.” Some kind of miracle or divine intervention may be exactly what I need.
“My turn?” Charly asks loudly, hopping from foot to foot while clutching both Rhys and Hope’s hands.
I stand and realize I may not get a letter from Dad this year, since I haven’t asked for it. I’m tempted to ask Nick who he gets the letters from, but I push the thought away. This is one fantasy I’m not willing to relinquish. I love the idea of Dad writing me once a year from heaven. I love the idea that believing in a little magic and a lot of kindness and love make it happen.
“Okay, Charly, I’m done. Come on.” I wave her up, then jump out of the way, narrowly avoiding being run over by her.
Charly jumps into Nick’s outstretched arms, and he sets her on his knee, already telling her what a good girl she is. I walk to Rhys, who’s smiling wide watching Charly with “Santa,” as caught up in the fantasy as she is. I link my arm through his and rest my head on his shoulder.
“You’re adorable, you know that?”
“‘Course I do,” he answers in his grouchiest voice.
We say goodbye to Hope and Charly then head back to Mom’s house. She’s got a long list of to-dos for us, starting with putting up the twelve-foot live Christmas tree a local farm delivers right as we arrive. Rhys eyes it warily and mutters something under his breath, but Mom’s got hot chocolate and homemade cannoli to fuel our work.
After standing the tree up, Mom gives us half a million conflicting instructions about which way to move it to get it straight. Lights come next, which Rhys has never done. He learns quickly the job requires more than stringing the lights around the tree willy-nilly. Mom insists they’re wound around the branches so the tree is as, in her words, “bright as baby Jesus’s star.”
After the lights are done—a two-hour endeavor—we load the tree with all the ornaments not already on the fake tree Mom’s had up since October. By the time we get the garland on the mantle and all the decorations done, it’s dark out and Rhys and I are both exhausted.
We collapse onto the couch. Mom brings us two fresh mugs of cocoa, then switches off the overhead lights, turns on the twinkling tree lights, and starts a Christmas album on the record player. The whole room glows in soft yellow light, and Elvis croons in the background.
“Look how beautiful! Thank you for helping,” she says,lowering herself into a comfy recliner across from us. Rhys raises his mug to her. “Thank you. You’ve both won me over. Christmas is worth going all out for.”
“All out?” Mom says from her recliner. “We still have more to do.”
Rhys nearly spits out his hot cocoa. “There’s more?”
Mom nods. “I don’t put Santas up until after the parade—don’t want to confuse the children—so you can do the outside tomorrow. Sebastian is taking me to Florence to pick up some more blow-ups. While I’m there, you two can put the Santa on the roof and the others in the yard.”
Rhys looks at me, wide-eyed and nervous, but I just shrug. I’m more concerned about the weather than about the work. “It’s supposed to snow tomorrow, Mamma. Are you sure you want to go to Florence?”
