“I thought you’d like it,” says Rupert, scratching himself happily.
“I have got to show my parents,” I tell him. “This is their idea of heaven.”
I head back through the foyer as fast as my new heels will let me, and run smack-dab into Annabelle Fairfax.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says. “And your pets.”
Lucy flushes at this, and Rupert shuffles his enormous feet.
“Shut up, Annabelle.”
Ignoring me, she flicks a glance upward at the chandelier, then back down at Rupert, who is standing directly beneath it. “Don’t move,” she tells him. Pretending to trip, she bumps against me, pushing me in his direction.
“Oh, look!” she cries in mock surprise. “How charming! Two turtledoves under the mistletoe.”
I look up and for the first time notice that there’s a sprig of mistletoe tied to the base of the chandelier.
“No way,” I tell her, stepping away from Rupert.
“Just another one of those rude Americans, aren’t you?” drawls Annabelle. “I figured as much. We get so many of you over here.”
“I’m not being rude!” I protest.
“Just ignorant, then, is that it?”
Stung, I start to sputter.
She laughs softly. “A Christmas kiss under the mistletoe is an old English tradition. And Rupert is your host, after all.”
I glare at her.
“Pucker up, Emma!” she says sweetly.
Rupert has such a pathetically hopeful look on his face that I want to slap him. Over his shoulder I see Lucy watching us, her expression unreadable.
“Fine,” I snap. “Let’s get this over with.”
I scrunch my mouth into as tight a knot as possible and raise my face reluctantly. Rupert’s enormous ears are trembling in anticipation. He places his sweaty hands on my shoulders and leans in. I try not to grimace when his lips touch mine.
Click!
I pull back with a start and turn around to see Annabelle holding up her cell phone. “Oops!” she says. “My finger must have slipped. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Stinkerbelle just took my picture.
CASSIDY
“Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over!”
—Pride and Prejudice
Sleigh bells.
I pull the pillow over my head, trying to shut out the noise so I can keep dreaming. I don’t want to wake up. I’m just about to score the winning goal for the U.S. Women’s Olympic hockey team.
The jangling continues. Annoyed, I crack open an eyelid. My stepfather is standing in the doorway to my room, grinning. He’s dressed in his pajamas and bathrobe. Chloe is in his arms. She’s wearing her pajamas too, the green “Mini Grinch” footie ones that Courtney brought back for her from L.A. She wags her jingle bell rattle happily.
“Go away,” I mumble. “I’m sleeping.”
I roll over. The sleigh bells draw closer. They’re not going to give up. I sit up. “Go bother Courtney,” I growl, throwing the pillow at them. I miss. I’m not at my best early in the morning.
Stanley laughs. “She’s already awake. Breakfast is on the table.”
Suddenly I’m aware of a very good smell wafting into my room. Christmas morning coffee cake! My mother bakes it only once a year. I fling back the covers and scramble out of bed, reaching for my fleece robe and slippers.
Downstairs, Stanley plops Chloe into her high chair, plucks the rattle out of her chubby hand, and slips a “Santa’s Little Helper” bib over her head. Then he and I slide into the breakfast nook where Courtney and my mother are waiting.
My mother lights a candle on the table. We don’t usually have candles at breakfast, but it’s Christmas and it’s one of our traditions. She’s big on traditions. The flame reflects in the yellow and blue and green of the stained glass window above the table, making the nook glow.
My mother beams at us. “Nothing makes me happier than having my family all together at the holidays.”
And nothing would make me happier than knowing the Berkeleys had canceled out on dinner with us tonight.
No such luck, though. It was my mother’s bright idea to invite them over, along with the Wongs. “It’s Christmas,” she said when I protested. “They’re far away from home.”
“The Wongs? They live in Strawberry Hill.”
“No, silly, the Berkeleys. I thought maybe they’d like a taste of a typical American Christmas.”
Typical American Christmas? That’s a joke. This year’s holiday special for Cooking with Clementine is called “A Victorian Christmas,” and the way our house is decorated, the Queen of England would probably feel more comfortable here than at Buckingham Palace.
I shove thoughts of Simon and Tristan out of my head and reach for the coffee cake. No point letting the Duke of Puke—my new name for Tristan—spoil the entire day.
“Chloe’s first Christmas! Chloe’s first Christmas!” sings Courtney, dancing the little Santa and Mrs. Claus salt-and-pepper shakers around the high-chair tray.
Chloe giggles and bangs her feet against the footrest, which gets Murphy all excited. He starts running laps around the kitchen, barking.
My mother is definitely feeling the holiday spirit because normally she’d be telling him to knock it off. Instead, she just laughs.
It’s really, really great having Courtney home again. I missed her a lot, even though between hockey and school I’ve hardly had time to breathe this fall. We’ve stayed up late practically every night talking, and she’s been to all of my practices and games. She’s still the same old Courtney I’ve always known, but she seems different, somehow, too. More grown-up, I guess. And maybe I am too, because we aren’t arguing all the time the way we used to.
“Let’s open presents,” I suggest, the minute I’m done with breakfast.
Mom and Stanley exchange a glance. “W-e-ll, I don’t know,” says my mother doubtfully. “I think maybe we should do these dishes first.”
“And shouldn’t someone walk the dog?” Stanley’s trying to keep a straight face, but the smile lines around his eyes are working overtime. Ever since my father died, Mom has kept up his tradition of torturing Courtney and me with delays before we’re allowed to open presents, and it looks like Stanley is in on the game now too.
“C’mon, guys!” I holler in protest. I know I’m too old to be excited about opening presents—I’ll be getting my learner’s permit in a couple of months—but I can’t help it. It’s Christmas.
“Oh, all right,” says my mother, pretending to give in. “I guess the dishes and Murphy can wait.”
Stanley and I build a fire in the living room fireplace while Mom wipes Chloe off and gets settled with her on the sofa in front of the tree. The Victorian Christmas theme goes well with our house, actually, which really is a Victorian. The living room ceilings are ten feet high, which is perfect for a huge tree. It’s covered with all the ornaments that my father gave my mother over the years. He traveled a lot on business, and would bring them back to her from all over the world. I miss my father, and I know I always will, but I don’t feel like I have to choose sides any more—I can love him and still be happy to have Stanley as part of our family.
My stepfather and I have gotten a lot closer this fall. Probably because we spend so much time together. He drives me to the rink in Acton nearly every night for practice, and to the games and tournaments on the weekends as well. He brings work with him sometimes, and I often see him on the phone with clients and stuff, but he’s always there.
We’ve had some good talks in the car too. Mostly about sports, but sometimes about other stuff—school, friends, life. It was Stanley, in fact, who was the first person I told about my idea for a community service project.
I want to start a hockey club for younger girls in Concord. I figure there must be kids out there like me, girls who want to play hockey but don’t because there aren’t any girls’ teams at the schools. I figure if I can get enough of them in
terested and trained, eventually there’ll be so many potential players clamoring that the schools will have to finally expand their programs.
“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” Stanley told me when I ran it by him. “You should get Mrs. Bergson involved. She’s got a lot of good connections.”
I’m planning to talk to her tonight. She’s coming for dinner too.
Tristan Berkeley’s been taking lessons from her. He’s training for some big competition in England next summer, from what his brother tells me. I haven’t seen him skate yet, since I’m hardly at the Concord Rink anymore, but Stewart Chadwick has and he tells me he’s good. Really good, in fact. I don’t know, figure skating is fine and everything, but it’s never interested me. And especially not ice dancing. Total waste of good ice, if you ask me. Plus, I never wanted to wear one of those sparkly costumes. I’d much rather suit up with pads and smack a puck around.
My mother puts some Christmas music on and passes the Santa hat to Courtney, since it’s her turn to hand out presents this year. Chloe is pinging off the walls with excitement, and crawls around the floor chasing Murphy and trying to pull the bows off all the presents. When she pulls herself up on the coffee table and grabs a sheep and the baby Jesus out of my mother’s antique nativity scene, Stanley steps in.
“Uh-oh, baby overload mode,” he says, picking her up and prying the figurines out of her hands. “How about we rock around the Christmas tree instead?” And the two of them start dancing.
Chloe gets a ton of presents, of course—toys and clothes and a bunch of books, too. It’s mostly clothes for Courtney and me, but I get the new hockey stick I’ve been eyeing and a biography of Cammi Granato and, from Courtney, a pair of silver earrings designed to look like tiny crossed hockey sticks and pucks.
“Aren’t they cute?” she says. “I found them at a boutique in L.A.”
“Uh, thanks,” I tell her. I never wear jewelry. But I might make an exception for these.
After our present-opening binge, we go back for more coffee cake and then play one of our new board games while Chloe takes a nap. Board games on Christmas day are another family tradition.
I’m all for traditions at Christmastime—especially the food. Tonight’s dinner is in the oven, and the smell is making me woozy. We always have ham at Christmas, and twice-baked potatoes and butternut squash and Caesar salad, plus my mother’s homemade monkey bread with some of Half Moon Farm’s homemade jam. There was a leftover mincemeat pie from Mom’s Victorian Christmas episode, but Courtney talked me into helping her bake apple and pumpkin ones too. I’m not much for messing around in the kitchen, but it wasn’t all that hard, especially since my sister did most of the work. She loves all that domestic goddess stuff. She’s like a little carbon copy of my mom.
We’ve already set the table, so we pretty much just laze around all afternoon. I read some of my new book, and take a nap on the sofa, and then I head upstairs to find Courtney.
“So tell me about this family that’s coming over tonight,” she says as I wander into her room. She’s lying on her bed texting her new boyfriend back in L.A.—Grant Something, from Santa Barbara.
“The Berkeleys? Oh, they’re nice. Well, the parents are nice, and so is Simon. Tristan is a pain, though.”
“How come?”
“He’s stuck-up. He hardly ever talks to anyone, and he doesn’t like me, that’s for sure.”
Courtney looks up from her phone. “Really? Why not?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t approve of girls playing hockey or something. He’s English,” I add, as if that explains it.
My sister laughs at this.
“Plus, he’s a figure skater,” I continue. “Ice dancing, actually. He probably thinks he’s better than us hockey slobs, you know?”
“Cassidy!” my mother calls. “Megan is here!”
I jog out into the hall and lean over the top banister. “Hey, Megs! Come on up! I’m in Courtney’s room.”
My mother eyes my sweatpants and Lady Shawmuts hoodie. “Honey, you might want to change into something a little nicer.”
“Why? It’s Christmas.”
“Exactly,” she replies, and I notice that she’s changed out of her pajamas and robe into black pants and a flowy red velvet top.
I look down at Megan. I can’t see what she’s wearing under her coat, but it’s probably not sweats because I can tell that she’s fussed with her hair and makeup. That’s because she’s got a crush on Simon Berkeley, though. I don’t, so I don’t particularly care how I look.
“Please, Cassidy?”
“Fine,” I reply, and head reluctantly to my room. I’m rooting around in my dresser drawers when Megan comes in.
“How about I help you pick something out?” she offers.
“Good luck,” I mutter.
She stands in front of my closet with her hands on her hips. I press my lips together to keep from laughing. I don’t own a skirt, and the last time I wore a dress was at my mother’s wedding nearly a year and a half ago. But Megan is determined. “This is nice,” she says, pulling out a gray satin shirt and holding it up. I frown. I can’t even remember ever wearing that. Did it get stuck in here by mistake?
“I think that belongs to my mother,” I tell her.
“Well, it will definitely fit you, then. You’ll look great—it’s the same shade as your eyes.” She digs around in the closet again, emerging this time with a pair of black velvet pants.
“I wore those back in sixth grade,” I protest, holding them against my legs to prove my point. They come halfway up my shins.
“So why are they still in here?”
I shrug.
Courtney sticks her head in. “Hopeless, isn’t it?”
Megan nods, smiling. “We have half an outfit so far. This shirt is gorgeous. It would look really nice with these pants, but Cassidy says she’s outgrown them.”
“So sue me,” I grumble. I outgrow everything. At this rate I’m going to be taller than my mother.
“I might have something that will work.” Courtney isn’t as tall as I am, but we’re kind of built the same. She disappears into her room, returning a minute later with a black skirt and a pair of black tights.
Megan’s face lights up. “Perfect!” They both look over at me expectantly.
I sigh and stick out my hand. “Gimme.” I retreat into the bathroom to change. The skirt is short, and even though I’m wearing tights, my legs feel exposed. Skirts are way different than shorts, somehow. I always feel comfortable in shorts.
I shuffle back to my room, plucking at the hem of the skirt to try and pull it down.
“Stop that,” Megan orders. “It looks great. What do you have for shoes?”
I point wordlessly at the row of sneakers on the floor of my closet.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, I suppose I could wear these,” I suggest, pulling my suede moccasin slippers out from underneath my bed.
Megan shakes her head in disbelief. “Don’t you ever go to the mall?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Hey, didn’t I hear Mom saying that you two wear the same shoe size now?” asks my sister.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Give me a second,” she tells Megan, and disappears again. This time, she comes back with a pair of high heels.
“As if,” I say, eyeing them.
“No arguing. This too.” Courtney passes me a wide black belt with a rhinestone buckle.
I sigh, but I do as she says.
“Oooh,” they both chorus when I’m done.
“Cassidy, you look fantastic!” Megan pulls out her cell phone and snaps a picture.
“Hey! No blogging about me, remember?”
“They won’t see your face,” she promises.
“But everybody else here tonight will, so we need to fix it up a little.” Courtney takes my hand and leads me back out into the hall. I teeter after her into her room, where she plunk
s me down at her desk and starts rounding up stuff for my hair and makeup.
“Eye shadow?” I recoil as she leans in. “Get out!”
“Shut up, Cass,” she says cheerfully. “Your eyes are beautiful, and you never do a thing with them.”
“I don’t want to do anything with them but see out of them!” I protest, but I surrender to the eye shadow, and to mascara and blush, too.
Megan roots around in her purse and pulls out some lip gloss.
“Okay, that’s it.” I leap to my feet. “I draw the line at lip gloss. I am not Becca Chadwick.”
“It’s Christmas,” says Courtney, grinning. “Think of this as your final present to Mom.”
I sigh, and allow her to dab some on my mouth.
“There,” she says. “Perfect.”
They both look so pleased with their handiwork that I want to laugh. Instead, I tell them to hang on a sec and teeter off to my room in search of the hockey earrings Courtney gave me.
“Nice touch,” says Megan when I return.
“Maybe you aren’t so hopeless after all,” adds Courtney.
“Gee, thanks.”
A joyful bark from the front hall means Pip and Mrs. Bergson are here. As we head downstairs to greet them, my mother turns and spots me. Her mouth drops open.
“Oh. My. Goodness.” She grabs my stepfather’s arm. “Pinch me.”
He and Mrs. Bergson both turn around too.
“Who are you and what have you done with my stepdaughter?” Stanley teases.
“You look beautiful,” says Mrs. Bergson.
“All three of you look absolutely gorgeous,” my mother agrees, smiling at Courtney and Megan, too.