Chapter 4 - The Alternative Christmas
By 2:00 PM on Christmas Eve, the Subaru was packed.
In the back cargo area sat three large plastic totes containing our winter coats, heavy hiking boots, Luna’s art supplies, four boxes of board games, her specimen jars, and three grocery bags filled with the finest food I had bought that morning from the local co-op: thick ribeye steaks, fresh asparagus, Yukon gold potatoes for mashing, heavy cream, and two large tubs of vanilla bean frosting.
Luna sat in the backseat, wearing her purple winter coat and a pair of yellow headphones shaped like cat ears. She was holding her resin block up to the window, watching the winter sunlight refract through the amber-tinted wing margins of her luna moth.
As we pulled out of our driveway, my phone vibrated in the console.
It was an unknown number with an 828 area code.
I tapped the hands-free button on the steering wheel. "Wesley Carter."
"Wesley, it’s Brooks Pemberton."
The voice was smooth, polished, but laced with a distinctly irritated edge—the voice of a young man who had never in his life had a tee time cancelled or a reservation declined.
"Hello, Brooks," I said, keeping my eyes on the highway as we merged onto I-40 West toward Canton.
"Wesley, look, I’m calling because your sister is currently locked in the guest bathroom at Kimberly Avenue having a full-blown panic attack," Brooks said, his tone sounding more inconvenienced than concerned. "Your mother is lying on the sofa with a cool cloth over her eyes, and your father is driving around town trying to find a high-end bakery that has spare holiday pastries. What the hell is going on?"
"I couldn't tell you, Brooks," I said smoothly. "I’m not at Kimberly Avenue."
"Yeah, that’s another thing," Brooks continued, his voice tightening. "Ainsley said you were supposed to be there at eight this morning to start prepping the tenderloin and setting up the folding tables for the side buffet. My parents are arriving tomorrow at eleven-thirty sharp. My father does not do 'buffet style,' Wesley. He expects a seated, formal four-course service. We had an understanding that you were handling the logistics."
I let out a slow, quiet breath. "Brooks, did Ainsley happen to mention where Luna and I were supposed to sit for this four-course service?"
A pause on the line.
"Well... she said the dining room table only has eight formal chairs," Brooks muttered, a slight trace of defensive discomfort entering his voice. "Look, Wes, my mother is... she’s very particular about dining etiquette. She’s from the old school. She gets flustered by unexpected behaviors. Ainsley thought it would be easier for everyone if Luna had a quiet space in the breakfast room. What’s the big deal? It’s just a chair."
"You're right, Brooks," I said. "It is just a chair."
"So you're coming over to fix this?"
"I’m currently forty miles away, heading up into the mountains," I replied. "And I won't be back until after the new year."
"You're... what?!" Brooks’s voice cracked, losing its prep-school composure. "Are you out of your mind? Who is cooking the dinner? Who is paying the balance on the wine delivery? They won't release the case without an authorized signature! Ainsley says your card is the primary on the account!"
"Then Ainsley can use her own card," I said. "Or you can use yours, Brooks. You work in wealth management, don't you? Surely a four-hundred-dollar wine bill isn't going to break your budget."
"That’s not the point!" Brooks snapped, his voice rising in genuine fury. "The point is that this was agreed upon! This is a family effort!"
"No, Brooks," I said, my voice hardening until it cut like a surgical scalpel. "A family is a group of people who love and protect one another. What my parents and sister run is an extortion ring with holiday decorations. You tell Ainsley that if she wants a feast tomorrow, she can put on an apron and cook it herself. And you tell my father to make sure he keeps his briefcase close by. He’s going to need the paperwork inside."
"What paperwork?" Brooks demanded. "Wesley, what are you talking about—"
I pressed the red icon on the steering wheel, terminating the call.
In the backseat, Luna took off her cat-ear headphones and leaned forward between the front bucket seats.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, bug?"
"Was that the man with the golf trophy?"
"Yes, sweetheart. That was him."
"He sounds like he has a lot of static in his radio," she observed thoughtfully.
I laughed—a genuine, deep laugh that felt like cleaning out old dust from an unused room. "He does have a lot of static, Luna. But out where we're going, the reception is completely clear."
We climbed higher into Haywood County. The asphalt gave way to winding mountain roads lined with frosted rhododendrons and towering white pines. The temperature display on the dashboard dropped steadily: 34 degrees... 31 degrees... 28 degrees.
By the time we turned onto the gravel driveway leading up Hemlock Ridge, the first snowflakes had begun to drift down through the canopy—fat, lazy flakes of mountain powder that settled silently on the hood of the car.
The cabin was magnificent.
Built from massive hand-hewn hemlock logs, it sat perched on the spine of a ridge overlooking a vast, snow-dusted valley. The front porch had four rocking chairs facing the Blue Ridge expanse, and through the tall cathedral windows, a massive stone fireplace rose two stories toward a cedar-plank ceiling.
When I unlocked the heavy oak door, Luna stepped inside and froze.
Her eyes darted across the wide-plank floors, the exposed wooden beams, the soft wool rugs scattered across the living area, and the enormous dining table in the center of the great room—a single slab of polished black walnut surrounded by eight sturdy, hand-carved armchairs.
She walked straight to the table.
She pulled out the head chair, ran her small hand over the dark, gleaming grain of the wood, and looked at me.
"Is this the table?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"That's the table," I said, setting our totes down by the entrance.
"Which chair is yours?"
I walked over, pulled out the chair directly to her right, and pushed it until it was only inches from hers.
"This one," I said. "Right here beside you."
She didn't flap her hands this time. She didn't hum.
She simply climbed into the heavy walnut chair, rested her elbows on the polished wood, and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of aged cedar and burning pine smoke from the hearth I had just lit.
"I like this table, Daddy," she said softly. "It doesn't have any sharp corners."
While Luna set up her specimen jars and star charts on the wide coffee table by the fire, my phone buzzed one last time.
It was an email from David Chen.
*Attachment: Executed_Pleadings_Carter_v_Carter.pdf*
*Wesley,*
*The partition petition, notice of lis pendens, and emergency receivership motion have been electronically filed with the Buncombe County Clerk of Superior Court. Marcus Stone has the certified copies in hand.*
*He will arrive at 442 Kimberly Avenue tomorrow at precisely 12:15 PM.*
*Enjoy your Christmas Eve with Luna. Turn off your phone.*
*—David*
I read the email twice.
Then I walked over to the kitchen counter, plugged the phone into the charger, and held down the power button until the screen went completely black.
May you like
Outside, the mountain snow began to fall in earnest, burying the road behind us, erasing every track we had made, wrapping our small, warm world in a blanket of clean, unbroken white.
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