stops.”
“Okay,” Jill said. “I’ll keep digging around for that binder Evan kept with the information about his works-in- progress.”
“You can’t find it?”
“No,” she said. “And that’s weird, because he was never without it.”
“Anyway, you guys carry on with what Larissa sent from Toronto.” She walked over to Kevin and kissed the top of his head. “I really do appreciate this, Kevin.”
He beamed seraphically. “Now that was nice,” he said. He glanced over at me. “Be careful,” he said. “The universe has a way of repeating itself.”
When we left Kevin’s, Jill gravitated towards the window of his neighbour. Pinkies was offering Acrylics, UV Acrylics, Gel Nails, and Advanced Nail Art at Rock Bottom Stocking Stuffer Prices. “How do you think Claudia would feel about a little Advanced Nail Art?” she asked.
In the end, we gave Pinkies a pass and hit the two last refuges of the desperate on the day before Christmas: the bookstore and The Body Shop. Jill shouldered through the crowds at the bookstore with the single-mindedness of a conquering general. Within ten minutes, we were walking out the door with a shiny Santa bag full of travel books for Claudia, who longed for escape, and a poinsettia-patterned bag of self-help books for Tracy, who longed for nirvana. Both outcomes seemed desirable; both seemed unlikely.
Jill’s face relaxed as we wandered through The Body Shop, filling her basket with lotions, creams, glosses, blushes, bath beads, mascaras, eyeliners, and conditioners to enhance the beauty of a seventeen-year-old who had no need of enhancement. When the young woman at the counter wrapped the gifts in silver-starred Cellophane and tied them with shimmering bows, Jill turned to me with soft eyes. “It’s great to finally have someone of my own to shop for.”
“I take it you’re not talking about Claudia and Tracy.”
“Hardly,” Jill said. “For me, Christmas has always been a day to get through. Now, I can’t wait till tomorrow morning. I know this sounds bizarre, Jo, but at this moment, I feel incredibly lucky.”
“Because of Bryn,”
She nodded. “She’s my best gift. You feel that way about your kids too, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “Speaking of, my youngest treasure is waiting to be picked up, so we’d better make tracks.”
The fact that I cherished my children didn’t stop me from being realistic about them. Twenty minutes later, when Taylor, Jill, and I walked through our front door, I did what I always did when I came into a zone that had the potential to be hormonally charged – I made a lot of noise.
“Anybody home?” I called.
When there was no answer, Jill shrugged. “I guess they’re still at the mall.” She tapped Taylor on the shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a cup of hot chocolate with about a ton of marshmallows.”
“Jess’s mum made us hot chocolate just before I left,” Taylor said. “But she uses carob and she doesn’t believe in marshmallows.”
“Holy Willie Wonka,” Jill said. “What an abomination! Let’s hit the kitchen and make some real cocoa.”
After they left, I went up to the landing and tried again. “Anybody home?” I called. This time I hit paydirt. Angus, the King of Cool, appeared at the head of the staircase. His hair was tousled, his face was burning, and his fly was undone.
“So, how’s everything here?” I asked.
From the time he was three, Angus had flagged the fact that he was engaged in dubious behaviour by hitting me with a river of irrelevant details. When I’d heard more than I cared to about this really hilarious old Adam Sandler movie he had chanced upon, I zipped an imaginary fly.
“So what was Bryn up to while you were sitting alone watching The Wedding Singer?”
My son lowered his eyes and adjusted his clothing. “I’m a mutt,” he said.
“No argument here,” I said.
“It didn’t go too far,” he said.
“Keep it that way,” I said. “Angus, you know I try to stay out of your private life. All the time you and Leah were together, I trusted you to handle the situation.”
“Be respectful. Be responsible,” he said.
“You’ve got it,” I said. “And it still applies.”
That night we had enchiladas for dinner because we always had enchiladas for dinner on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that endured because in the first year of our marriage my husband had decided that eating Mexican food, listening to Mel Torme, and making love in front of the fire was a fine way to usher in the holiday. Now, even though I could only manage two out of three, it still was.
Our church’s early service was at 7:00 p.m. At 6:30, I was rummaging through my closet trying to find something that didn’t need ironing when there was a tap at my door. It was Bryn. She was wearing a demure black wool jacket, matching pants, and buttery leather boots. Around her neck was a woven gold chain that held a tiny cross. She was the epitome of pious chic, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. “Is this outfit appropriate?” she asked.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“We don’t go to church,” she said. “I didn’t want to wear the wrong thing.” She hadn’t shifted her gaze from my face. Her thick eyelashes were painterly smudges against her pale skin, and her eyes were as warmly liquid as dark honey. “I know I worry too much about how I look,” she said.
“We all do.” I smiled at her. “Now if I’m going to come up with anything that makes me look one-tenth as attractive as you do, I’m going to have to get back to my closet.”
“I can do that for you,” Bryn said. She stepped into my walk-in closet and, after a few minutes of silent appraisal, selected a simple black turtleneck and a black silk skirt with a pattern of red poppies. “If you have some mid-calf boots with an interesting heel, this will work,” she said.
She was right. Five minutes later as I checked the mirror, I knew I had never looked more pulled together in my life. I was doing a quick makeup repair when the doorbell rang. I walked into the hall, but when I heard the murmur of voices, I shrugged and went back to my lip liner.
Bryn was standing by the front door when I went downstairs. As soon as she spotted me, she slipped something into her purse.
“Who was at the door?” I asked.
“Nobody,” she said.
“I was certain I heard voices,” I said.
“Well you didn’t,” she said brightly. “You really didn’t.” The tilt of her chin defied me to press the point. I let it go, and the phone call I received five minutes later made me glad I’d exercised restraint.
It was Dan Kasperski sounding more agitated than I ever remembered him sounding. Mindful of eavesdroppers, I asked if I could call him back. When I did, he wasted no time on preamble. “Kevin Hynd spent most of the afternoon watching the footage Bryn’s father shot of her. He was alarmed enough about what he saw to ask me to review some of the tape and give him a professional opinion.”
I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach. “Is it that bad?”
“Jo, you have to talk to Bryn’s stepmother about getting her some help.”
“I was hoping you’d volunteer,” I said.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “Bring her in tomorrow.”
“Christmas Day?” I said.
“Ticking time bombs don’t stop for statutory holidays.”
When I came downstairs, Jill, Bryn, and my kids were already wrapped up for outdoors, ready for church. Lit by the twinkling lights of Taylor’s tree, they looked like carollers on an old-fashioned holiday card. Heart pounding, I hurried into my outdoor clothes and joined them. It was Christmas Eve. Divine Intervention was not out of the question, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
Taylor loved the lustrous magic of the Anglican service of Lessons and Carols. At that service, all the elements that caused her eight-year-old soul to soar were in perfect alignment. She loved music, and her favourite was “Once in Royal David’s City,” the traditional processional hymn. Every Christmas Eve, she would sit on the
