Simple Gifts: A Romantic Christmas Story Read online

How we’d smile at all our friends, pick up a knickknack or two at Simply Snowflake, a homemade candy cane at Sweets on Snowflake or a cup of coffee at the Books ‘n Beans Café.

  The town seems much different today, my wife’s favorite purses in the backseat, shame riding shotgun.

  I stop at the light next to Café Kringle, Snowflake’s very own year-round Christmas diner, with its 12-foot-tall blinking Christmas tree on the roof and a line of eager customers already waiting at the door to confirm reservations for tonight’s annual Christmas Eve dinner.

  How many nights April and I had whiled away inside, listening to the live jazz Christmas music or sipping a hot spiced cider while planning our bright futures.

  Now the gingerbread storefront seems cheesy, the line of eager beavers desperate in their fine red and greenery.

  To think I don’t even have enough in my pocket for a hot cocoa today.

  The light changes and I inch forward, in no hurry to steer toward the sadder part of town, where the Christmas lights don’t quite reach and you can barely see the tree on top of Café Kringle.

  Halfway to my destination I notice the car radio on, pre-set to one of those 24-hour a day Christmas stations.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, the quiet strains of Bing or Nat or Ella or Frank flying under my radar, but suddenly a bunch of screeching cats are meowing The 12 Days of Christmas and I snap it off immediately.

  The sad little strip mall that houses the Goodwill warehouse, plus another few down on their luck shops, looms just to my right.

  I hit my blinker and ease in, Mrs. Rubens’ reminder still ringing in my ears.

  I park in front of a check-cashing joint, its neon sign stating, “We’re always open!”

  I sit in the car, engine idling, and open the box next to me.

  There is a cute little flamingo purse on top; a souvenir from last year’s long weekend in Myrtle Beach.

  I open it now, little pangs of regret stabbing at my heart, and unzip the top.

  April always cleans her purses out before switching them, usually once a month or so; you know, taking out the credit cards, the lipstick, the hand gel, the breath mints or antacids or lip gloss or whatever girls stock their purses with.

  But she always leaves a few things behind, little time capsules of fun or not-so-fun, the castoff that doesn’t quite need to follow her to her next purse.

  Inside is a matchbook from a little seaside café called Sand in Your Shorts.

  I can still remember grabbing a frozen lemonade there in a corner booth by the window, while April indulged in a cinnamon pretzel and frozen cappuccino.

  There are some receipts, a toothpick poking out of its protective wrapper, the last two breath mints in a roll and two dimes.

  I slide them out guiltily and slip them into the little change well in the driver’s side door.

  You never know; they could add up to a dollar one day!

  Then, just as I’m about to zip it up and toss it back on the pile, I notice a tiny little pocket buried in another pocket, open, where April usually keeps all her credit cards, ID and loose cash.

  My heart flip-flops a little, like a kid reaching under his pillow the morning after he’s lost a tooth; I unzip the inner pocket and find a five-dollar bill, carefully folded four times over, until it’s roughly the size of a stick of gum!

  Five bucks!

  And don’t forget the 20 cents!

  I slide the box top open again and peer inside; six more empty purses remain!

  I rifle through them, tossing aside matchbooks – when did April become a matchbook collector? – and breath mint rolls and unzipping the tiny little pocket that must be a prerequisite for purses everywhere.

  Inside each one is a five-dollar bill!

  I stand, wallet suddenly thick with cash, and step toward the backseat of the four-door import: there are four more boxes waiting to reveal their riches.

  The Café Kringle looks sunnier on the way home, the crowds brighter, the blinking tree more quaint and appealing.

  The gingerbread cottage stores of Main Street look cheerier, too; the whole world does, when you’ve got a little money in your clothes.

  April is sitting on a box outside the front door, long legs crossed, back to the stairwell and looking at me expectantly as I practically leap off the stairs.

  “What are you doing out here?” I almost chuckle as she regards my approach suspiciously.

  “Look,” she says, pointing to the lock box on the front door.

  “The lawyer said we’d have until noon,” I say, checking my watch; it’s barely 11 a.m.

  She shrugs and offers a hand; instinctively I take it and hoist her up.

  She comes close, smelling of her lilac deodorant, but doesn’t hug me.

  “He let me take one last look around,” she says, grabbing the box from just outside the door. “There wasn’t anything else worth bringing with us, Rex.”

  Her eyes are still dry; she’s keeping her promise.

  “Okay,” I say, taking the box from her hands.

  It feels mostly empty; I peek inside and it’s a few forks from the kitchen, an old cutting board, a plastic St. Patrick’s Day mug, faded and foggy.

  I dump it down the trash chute next to the elevator and she barely notices.

  “I thought we’d have a chance to look around once more,” I offer, holding the elevator door open for her. “Maybe stand on the balcony, tell the ocean goodbye.”

  “That would have been nice,” she replies and, in the old days, I know she would have leaned against my chest, my nose coming flush with the top of her head so that I could smell her salon shampoo.

  I walk her to the car, deciding not to spring the hidden cash on her just yet.

  After all, she seems to have forgotten about the purses altogether.

  “You remember how to get there?” I ask, mouth suddenly dry.

  “How could I forget?” she says drolly, pulling the door from my hand and starting the engine.

  I follow her across town in the rental truck, past the storefronts, past Café Kringle, past even the Goodwill until she turns into the dilapidated front entrance to the Snowflake Motor Court.

  It’s gaily decked out for the holidays, but even the blow-up snowmen and plastic Santa sleighs on either side of the neon sign can’t disguise the fact that our new home is a trailer park.

  “When did you do that?” she asks, pointing to the snowflake wreath on the front door as I slide the new key into the front door.

  “The other day,” I shrug. “After I met the cable guy.”

  “It’s cute,” she says, but I don’t believe her.

  The door opens onto a surprisingly wide living room.

  The floors are cheap laminate hard wood, but they’re still hard wood.

  There’s a kitchen area just to the left, small but modern, and I slide the folder with the rental agreement and the landlord’s emergency contact number on top of a yellow Formica counter.

  I turn, expecting April to have followed me in but she’s still standing in the threshold, clutching her arms around her chest protectively.

  “Baby,” I say, voice choked with emotion. “It’s okay, really. It’s… temporary; just for now. We’re downsizing, that’s all.”

  She looks around at our neighbor’s trailers, already blinking with green and red lights and waving Santas on their roofs.

  “I bet that’s what every one of these people told themselves when they first moved in, Rex.”

  “Maybe,” I say, inching toward her. “But I’m not worried about them right now, babe. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be,” she says, snapping out of it and walking past me to the kitchen. “I’ll be fine. Really, just… can’t a girl have five minutes to adjust to her new digs?”

  She disappears through the kitchen to the master bedroom, where I hear the bathroom door shut; but not slam shut.

  I sigh and head back to the truck, sliding open the back door and spying
our few remaining belongings.

  She reappears a few minutes later, face pink with scrubbing, eyes clear and brown.

  She helps me move in the queen-size bed and mattress frame from our old guest bedroom, the love seat for the living room and the dining room table for two.

  “You okay with the rest?” she asks, offering me a glass of water from the tap.

  “Sure,” I say over the lip of an old juice glass she found in the cupboard.

  “I just want to get started in here,” she explains, already pulling plates and saucers from a box marked “Kitchen.”

  “If we can’t have a proper Christmas,” she adds, already resigned to her fate, “at least I can get this place in shape by New Year’s, right?”

  I make short work of the rental company’s smallest truck; hauling in the two dinner chairs, a few rolled up throw rugs, some lamps and nightstands before tackling the surprisingly few moving boxes we’d managed to pack.

  By early afternoon the moving truck is empty and I lock the back door tight, reaching into the back of April’s car to grab the dry-cleaning I’d picked up on the way back from my thwarted Goodwill run.

  “I thought you didn’t have enough,” she gasps, smiling for the first time with a smudge of dust on her cheek as I hand them over.

  “You never know what you’ll find if you look hard enough,” I say cryptically, following her into the master bedroom and admiring the way she’s already thrown it together.

  The bed is flush with the back wall, made and dressed with an old comforter and whatever throw pillows her coworkers didn’t cart away at our “It’s All Got to Go” party.

  There even a few mirrors hung on the wall, and our framed wedding picture on her nightstand; the clock radio on mine.

  “Looks great,” I say.

  She turns and almost excitedly gives me a tour of the rest of the place.

  The kitchen is done, empty boxes broken down and resting, flat, by the front door; ready for the recycling bin at work.

  The cabinets are full, the table for two centered and a single, bare candle in the middle.

  The love seat is flush with the wood-paneled wall, facing the small TV from the guest room; I’d sold the 52-inch plasma to my manager at work, and used the $600 to make the deposit on our new (mobile) home.

  There is a comfy off-white cushion in the wicker chair next to the love seat, and she’s turned an old steamer trunk from our den into a coffee table, complete with some of the ad magazines I’ve been in on top.

  The guest room has the matching wicker chair, a student desk I’d put together from a box and her laptop on top; there are a few scary movie posters, free from the video store downtown, already tacked up to the walls.

  “I feel like I’m 25 again,” I murmur, back out in the living room and reaching for her latest purse. “Buying our first place. Remember, the one on Mill Street back home?”

  “I remember,” she smirks, slapping me playfully on the shoulder. “It was half the size of this place.”

  “See,” I say, opening the door for her. “We’re already moving up in the world!”

  “Where are we going?” she says, reaching up to feel her ball cap still in place. “I can’t go anywhere looking like this!”

  “We’ve got to eat, don’t we?” I say, putting Phase 1 of my Super Secret Santa Christmas Plan into effect. “Let’s get some Chinese and then figure out what to do tonight. Besides, we’ve got to return the truck before our neighbors run us out of Dodge on our very first night!”

  She follows me back downtown, a curious expression on her face while I return the truck.

  “Where to?” she asks, pulling out of the rental truck parking lot and steering back toward downtown.

  “How about that little buffet closer to our place?”

  “Might as well,” she smirks, steering in that general direction. “We can gorge ourselves now since there’s nothing in the fridge.”

  The buffet is sparsely crowded and playing tinny Christmas music on greasy speakers overhead.

  I order a pot of hot tea and tell her to sit; I already know her favorites, anyway.

  I start with hot and sour soup, sprinkled with those little crunchies and fresh green onions on top.

  She smiles and avoids my eyes as I set it down and disappear for more.

  I come back with two spring rolls and Chinese donuts, knowing she likes a little sweet with her salty.

  We eat slowly, our first meal out in weeks.

  I can remember, not so long ago, a time when we’d eat out every night; and twice on Saturday!

  “I must look a mess,” she says, sliding away her soup and digging into a spring roll.

  “You look beautiful, April.”

  “You’re just saying that because you know I’m clinically depressed right now.”

  I snort and pull apart a Chinese donut, little nuggets of powdered sugar sprinkling across the scarred red table.

  “No, I’m saying that because we’re both clinically depressed right now and you know you look hot in a ball cap and sneakers!”

  She snorts and finally looks up at me from her plate.

  “We’ll get through this, right?” she asks, eyes wide with desperation; desperate for my assurances, for her husband – her man – to tell her everything will be all right.

  “Of course we will,” I say, reaching for her hand; she offers it reluctantly, as if she still doesn’t believe me.

  “You trust me, right?” I ask.

  She nods, biting her lower lip.

  “Then listen, I’ve got your back today. Okay? I know things have been rough lately, we’ve been snippy and snappy and not very friendly to each other. It’s Christmas Eve, April; I want us to have a good time, okay?”

  “It’s hard, Rex.”

  “I know it is, babe. You think I wouldn’t rather be at some five-star restaurant on Hilton Head right now, wining and dining you? But I’m doing my best; we’re both doing our best.”

  She shakes her head and pulls her hand away. “I feel stupid even complaining, Rex. I mean, there are people with real problems in the world right now. At least we both have jobs, right? And a roof over our head?”

  “And don’t forget,” I remind, springing up to get her meal. “Wheels under our feet!”

  She’s still laughing when I bring back her vegetable lo mein and fried rice, topped with steamed broccoli.

  After lunch, though it’s rapidly rushing toward dinner time, I pay with three of her crinkled fives.

  She starts to ask where they’re from, but stops herself.

  Instead she puts her arm in mine and says, “Let’s go home, Rex; I just want this day to be over with.”

  “Just a few more stops, okay?” I say, leading her toward the dollar store a few doors down.

  “We don’t have any more money, Rex,” she says, but I open the door and say, “We do for this place. Come on, babe; you need a little Christmas in your life!”

  “I dunno,” she says, hesitating. “I’m not in the mood.”

  I spy the corner grocer next door and reach into my pocket.

  “Here,” I say, handing her half of the leftover purse money. “Merry Christmas! Now, go pick out something for dinner later.”

  “Where’d you get this?” she crows.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I say.

  “Well, we’ve just eaten,” she protests, marveling at the four five dollar bills as if I’ve pulled them out of my, well… you know what.

  “Babe, it’s five o’clock. You know we can never sleep on Christmas Eve. Get some stuff we can snack on later, you know? Cheese, crackers, that kind of thing.”

  “With $20?”

  Then she realizes what a priss she’s sounding like and snorts. “Okay, okay, I’ll make a game out of it.”

  And she bounds off, calves flexing above her anklet socks.

  I watch for awhile, then turn and grab an empty green basket.

  I’m just shutting the trunk of her car 1
5-minutes later when I hear her slinking toward me, the plastic of her shopping bags crinkling in her hands.

  I take them, add them to mine, and close the trunk before she can see.

  “What’d you get?” I ask, almost turning left and heading toward Snowflake Towers before remembering and turning right instead.

  “It’s a surprise, remember?” she giggles, eyes bright and, I think, looking forward to getting to her new home for the very first time.

  It’s nearly dark by the time we pull into the Snowflake Motor Court, and the trailer park has truly come to life.

  Doors are open revealing warm, cheery scenes inside; blazing Christmas trees and neighbors or family milling about crowded living rooms.

  Blinking lights dot every bush and palm tree while snowmen wave and Santas sleigh and visiting cars litter the gravel drive.

  Only our trailer, # 19, is empty, dark and silent.

  But not for long, if I have anything to do with it!

  “How did we end up the Scrooges all of a sudden?” she asks, getting out of the car.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, patting the trunk. “Old Rex is about to fix all that!”

  “You’re being very mysterious today,” she says once I let her in and linger on the stoop. “What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s Christmas,” I tell her. “Now, go take a nice, hot, long shower and when you’re done, we’ll be the envy of the Snowflake Motor Court!”

  Well, not quite but… I do my best.

  “Wow,” she says, 20-minutes later, freshly scrubbed, hair dry and wearing the simple black dress I’d bought her last Christmas. “I never thought I’d say this inside of or, for that matter, anywhere near a trailer but… this is… beautiful!”

  I hate to admit it, but… she’s right!

  There are new candles flickering on the table for two; red and green candles on a simple mirrored holder, making them flicker twice as often and twice as brightly.

  There is music on the clock radio by my bed; Christmas music on the local jazz station, soft and low.

  There is a little blinking tree on the kitchen counter, in the middle of more flickering candles.

  Two stockings hang from the TV stand, filled with six pairs of nail clippers for her job at the dog groomers.

  There are little snowflake plates and napkins on the table, and snowflake mugs and plastic wine glasses.

  “You got all this at the dollar store?” she asks.

  “Every last bit,” I say, wincing at the ripe smell from my body after a full day of moving. “Now, while I take a shower, it’s your turn!”

  The shower stall is green molded plastic, but the water is hot and heavy and feels good on my sore, aching muscles.

  I slip into gray slacks and a black turtleneck to match April’s cocktail dress, though I wear my black pleather slippers instead of dress shoes.

  The music is a little louder when I step from the bedroom, the candles adding a soft, pine scent to the trailer.

  April turns from the kitchen counter, smiling, radiant, happy, a glass of champagne in each hand.

  “Finally!” she gushes, handing me one. “You took longer than me!”

  “What? Me? Never!”

  We toast and she shows off proudly her “spread” of generic Ritz crackers and “squeeze cheese,” wreath shaped mint chocolate cookies and a Yule log made out of lining up four chocolate swiss cake rolls in a row!

  “That’s classic,” I say. “Or should I say, classy!”

  “I spent most of it on the champagne and stuff for this week,” she says, hoisting a bottle from the fridge and topping off our glasses.

  I peek inside and see some cheese and lunch meat, plain white bread and a few small tubes of mustard and mayo.

  I smirk and shut it before the reality of the long week until payday can kill my Christmas buzz.

  “You’ve outdone yourself,” I say, inching closer.

  “Don’t kid,” she says, looking coy.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, inching in for a kiss.

  “Not until you tell me where the money for all this came from, Rex!” she insists.

  “Just imagine if you’d actually made it to Goodwill,” she says after I’ve revealed my BIG Secret, cheap champagne in hand. “I imagine some purse-loving hoarder would have been mighty surprised when she tucked into all those zipper pockets.”

  “Well,” I say, inching next to her. “I didn’t say I hadn’t made it to Goodwill; just that I was glad I checked the pockets first.”

  “You mean…” she starts, mouth agape.

  “April,” I chide. “It was found money to begin with, and look what a difference it made in our holiday. I figured you would have wanted me to do the same for some others in our boat, too. So, yeah, I left some money in a few of the pockets when I dropped off the purses.”

  She nods, smiles and, at last, kisses me.

  “My hero,” she coos, eyelashes fluttering.

  “Hero?” I snort, spying the depressing trailer we’ve decked out to forget just how depressing it is. “Hard to feel like a hero when I’ve just dragged my wife to the Snowflake Motor Court.”

  “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Rex. We’re married, remember? We’re in this together. Besides, look what I found…”

  She leads me to the front door, hand warm in mine.

  Her hair smells fresh and clean as she opens the door and points to a large, sparkling tree in the middle of the playground area.

  It’s at least 10-feet tall, and live, and decorated with giant plastic balls and equally large Christmas lights.

  People walk around it, admiringly, a cup of cocoa or wine or beer can in hand, talking, laughing, being neighborly.

  I hear the tapping of something, like wood on wood, and April whispers up into my ear, “Here comes the best part.”

  I’m thinking she’s officially off her rocker and waiting for Santa to fly overhead or something, but instead she listens raptly as around the tree a small children’s choir breaks into “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer!”

  I smile and reach an arm around April’s shoulder; she leans into me, elbow on her hip, plastic champagne glass held aloft in her hand, the same way she might if we were on our wraparound balcony at the Snowflake Towers, admiring the Atlantic Ocean nine floors below.

  “We should mingle,” I say, nudging her forward.

  “I thought so, too,” she says, taking my free hand with hers and leading me down the three steps to the gravel drive.

  “Merry Christmas,” she whispers in my ear as we join our neighbors to hear the children’s choir and measure the bulbs on the towering tree.

  “Welcome home,” I add.

  For once, she doesn’t dispute me...

  * * * * *

  About the Author:

  Rusty Fischer

  Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer and the author of several published novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press) and A Town Called Snowflake (Musa Publishing). For more FREE romantic holiday stories, visit him at www.storiesoftheseason.com.