Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,42

to admit my tone was less than receptive.

The tree trunk slammed to the front walk beside me.

“Bringing you a Christmas tree.”

I tried to arch a brow but failed miserably. “What if I don’t need a Christmas tree?”

“Everyone needs a Christmas tree.”

“What if I don’t want one?”

His single brow arch was far more effective than mine had been. “Are you going to open the door, or am I going to have to do everything myself?”

“I suppose this is going to cost me.”

His amused expression turned to one of disbelief. “Like how?”

“Well, I can’t imagine you’d go to this much trouble out of the goodness of your heart.”

He thinned his lips, shook his head and hoisted the tree into the air. “Then you don’t have much of an imagination. Open the door.”

I did as he instructed, moving out of the way to allow room for man and tree to pass.

“Where’s your stand?” he asked as he held the tree balanced over a bare spot in the middle of my living room.

I held up one finger then dashed for the garage. Please Lord, don’t let me have tossed the stand along with every other piece of clutter in my life.

But there it was. In all of its faux-antique glory.

Stand in hand, I raced back into the house, carefully sliding the heavy metal object underneath the trunk. Five minutes later, the tree stood majestic and straight.

I smiled.

Number Thirty-Six smiled.

“Seriously. What do I owe you?” I asked, widening my gaze.

Number Thirty-Six’s smile slipped and his eyes turned sad. “Not everyone has an agenda, Number Thirty-Two.” He forced a parting smile. “Merry Christmas.”

He crossed the room and was out the door before I could say another word.

“Merry Christmas,” I muttered to no one as I watched him stride away.

I sat on my staircase and stared at the tree for a long while after Number Thirty-Six left.

He hadn’t said a thing about the scale incident, as I’d come to think of it. He hadn’t said a thing about seeing me naked. He hadn’t said or done anything other than bringing me a Christmas tree.

Not everyone has an agenda.

I was fairly sure most everyone I’d ever known had an agenda, but then, Number Thirty-Six wasn’t like most everyone I’d ever known.

Matter of fact, Number Thirty-Six wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known at all.

And that scared the shit out of me.

o0o

Mom, Mark, his wife Jenny, their three children, me and Poindexter gathered around Mom’s dining room table later that day. Christmas had loomed larger than life on the horizon for weeks and the moment of truth had finally arrived. The first Christmas without Dad.

His chair sat empty, shouting from the head of the table that he was gone forever.

I wondered why someone didn’t make life-sized cutouts of deceased loved ones for all major holidays. The thought wasn’t entirely crazy.

I was sure there were plenty of grieving relatives who’d like to see their loved one’s smile one more time across the dinner table, or next to the Christmas tree, or over the Easter basket.

Maybe I was on to something, maybe even something that could be parlayed into a new career, because heaven knew my job at the ice rink wasn’t getting me anywhere.

Of course, maybe I was also a bit insane, which was a distinct possibility.

“Bernie?”

My mother’s voice jolted me from my mental development of the dearly-departed-cutout marketing plan. I lifted my gaze and realized everyone was staring at me.

My mom made the get-with-it gesture with her eyes that told me I’d missed something vital.

“I’m afraid I might have been daydreaming.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s your turn to say what you’re thankful for.”

I squinted at her.

Was she kidding? “Are you kidding?”

My dad had died. My husband had left me. I’d quit my job and my dog would never earn his obedience school graduation papers.

Plus, this exercise typically took place around our Thanksgiving table--a meal we’d all skipped this year. I supposed my mom had postponed the inevitable, saving this oh-so-uncomfortable moment for Christmas instead.

“Bernie.”

Her tone left no room for excuses. She wanted an answer and she wanted one now.

“I’m thankful for--” I paused for several long seconds while I searched my brain for a suitable answer. But then I had it.

My answer.

“I’m thankful for all of you. And Poindexter. And my health.”

I wasn’t thankful for the extra ten pounds I’d socked on, but this probably wasn’t the time to nitpick.

Then I looked at the empty chair. Dad’s chair. My voice cracked as I forced out my next words.

“Most of all,