“Centaur! And you didn’t act like it last year! Childish, that’s what it was, leaving on Christmas night and flying straight home, even though Nana and Poppy were coming over on Boxing Day with Auntie Geraldine.”
The treacle-y sludge of anger explodes like a grease fire, like someone’s thrown a bucket of water on a chip pan. “Childish! Being told my future is all but set, that you’ve found the loveliest girl in the world for me—and she was the prettiest girl I’ve everseen. You tell me that it’s all arranged, that she’s already said all I need do is pop the question—andshetells me she’s just gotten engaged that week.”
“I never knew—”
“Surprise! The old boyfriend is back, and now he’s serious. Ha! And what was I?” I swallow hard. I’m not sure why I’m so angry. I wasn’t in love with my “chosen bride,” but I... I wasreadyto be. Ready to prove myself. And I tried so hard, all that night, and she let me... until we were under the mistletoe and I thought she wanted me to kiss her.
You thought you were done being alone.
Thought you were done being secretly envious of your brothers and their wives, their beautiful little bairns. Thought you would give your parents the Christmas gift they’d been wanting for years.
Thought maybe you could fit in. With someone who loves you, you don’t need to fit in with the whole world, just in your own little family, your own little way. Just the two of you.
My voice is a choked snarl. “You’re right. I was childish. I let you lead me, let you handle things. Well, no more. I make my own decisions, Mum, and I’m staying in Pine Ridge for Christmas, working like it’s any other day, and I don’t plan to get close to anyone in any herd. I’m not what women want—on two legs or four.”
A muffled sob stabs my heart. “You’re shouting at your own mother. And not coming home for Christmas because I tried to help you?” Her sniffles would melt a heart of lead.
I groan and go lean against the toolbench in my shed, next to the stack of boards I’ve been sawing for the nursery.Don’t throw something. Don’t break something. Think of your estimate...
I’m going to have to apologize now. I’m going to have to pretend I don’t blame her for the humiliation I suffered, when it’s really her fault for failing to talk to Siobbhan and nail downa lot of vague statements she’d made about looking for a man, getting tired of being single, wanting a serious, steady bloke... All things my mum assured me meant Siobbhan was keen to meet me and for me to start courting her in the old-fashioned Centaur manner. All the complaints about other men that Mum took to mean that Siobbhan was interested inmewere really her wishing for her arsehole boyfriend to stop messing her about.
And he did, on Christmas Eve. Made her wishes come true.
I still blame her for coming to Mum’s Christmas dinner. For playing the part, so sweet and attentive. Almost like she was afraid to offend my parents by not seeing it through—until the last second. Then she dropped a bomb in the middle of McCartney’s big number, grabbed her coat, and slipped out the back, leaving me holding two brandies and hearing “simply having a wonderful Christmas time” echo in my head while all of my plans for the future unraveled.
Shouldn’t have let yourself dream about things, Nev. Not after a handful of texts.
But Mum said it was all fixed up.
Wouldn’t have dreamed if Mum hadn’t sworn this was the one, that it was all arranged, that she and Dad had done another grand job of picking the perfect mate, just like they’d done for my four brothers.
And all of it was made worse because it was supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year... The whole family, paired up and beaming, waiting for me to announce something, or for Sibbohan to get in the family picture...
She did. She did get in the family photo, snuggled right under my arm, her smile stiff. I thought she just tensed up when people took photos. I know I do. Mum says I scowl, even when I try to smile.
“What’ll you even eat for Christmas dinner?” Mum suddenly wails, piling on all sorts of different griefs, making a roast dinner of miseries for me to stuff down.
“If I promise to eat turkey and sprouts, will you stop crying?”
If this were a film, the caption would read “Sobbing intensifies.” Mum bellows, “No!” and blows her nose forcefully.
Bloody hell. Happy Christmas to me...
ONE HELLACIOUS CALLlater, I drive my specially modified van with its green and white “Promises Kept” logo on the side into the foothills, engine whirring a little louder as the elevation subtly shifts. I’d like to stay home. Have a whiskey. Or three. Watch Steve Martin movies. He’s always good for a laugh.
But it’s better to work. For the last decade, I’ve gone to work instead of to wallowing, and that’s a better choice. If my hands weren’t on the wheel, I’d cross my arms and give myself a firm nod in the rearview mirror. Better to work. I have to pick up the key from Klaus and Eirwen before they leave tonight. Could even stay and keep working. Another few days, and it’ll be a new mum’s dream.
My chin sets hard.Don’t think about that part of it.
Klaus greets me with a beaming smile and arms full of luggage. “You are a godsend! I don’t think any other contractor in the world would work through Christmas. I feel like a fraud asking you to give us such a gift,” Klaus says, and the twinkle in his eyes (yes, it’s true, they twinkle) dims.
“It’s not a gift. You’re paying me. Christmas is as good a time to work as any.” I shrug.
Klaus frowns. “Now, Nigel, I don’t expect you to work this whole time!”
“No, no. I won’t.” I lie and don’t care if it gets me on the “Naughty List.”
“Don’t pick on him. Some people like to have the holidays as a time of quiet reflection. It’s just a good thing he’s a centaur and not one of your elves. He’d never get a moment’s peace.” Eirwen comes out, round as a Christmas bauble and swathed in green velvet. She carries two smaller bags, and I rush to take them from her, but Klaus beats me to it.
