Felix has gone bone-pale.
“You sent Callista a picture of your grandparents’ house?” his brother-in-law crows. “How dumb are you? Nobody else here is on speaking terms with your ex-wife, so it’ll be obvious who sent it.”
My brother is starting to panic. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Itoldyou not to get involved with that woman,” Grandma declares smugly.
I study Athena, to see if she has any opinion on this, but she’s decorating the Christmas tree with bottles of bareMinerals foundation in preparation for a social media post. Nothing, not even the likely disintegration of her brother’s marriage, comes before the hustle.
Felix begins to rant that everyone is against him. Mom is suggesting alibis, ways she can cover this up, because he’s her baby and he’ll never have to take responsibility for his screwups if she can help it, and Grandpa’s fallen asleep in a chair because he’s too nice to be conscious for this. Grandma’s polishing an archery bowthe size of a toddler, giving me a brand-new reason to be scared of her. On the couch, surrounded by three jumping children, one of whom has scribbled all over his arm with a marker, Dad clasps his hands between his knees and stares heavily at the floor.
“You know what this family could use?”
We all look up at Hall, whose voice slices through the din with supernaturally amplified volume. “Counseling?” guesses eight-year-old Peach Tree as Mom ventures hopefully, “Pie?”
He holds up a pair of ice skates against his chest, grin a mile wide. “Ice skating!” He does finger guns at mom, shutting one eye. “But I like where your head’s at, Madeline. Let me throw a few pies in the oven first.”
She beams.
*
My relatives are mystified by the mountain of ice skates Hall was able to “rush order” in the correct size for every family member.
Felix, suspicious, demands to know how Hall knew all of our shoe sizes, if he has a fetish. Hall directs the wind strategically so that it blows away my brother’s naysaying before it can infect the others. Luckily, most of us have an entitlement complex so like, whyshouldn’tsomeone surprise us with ice skates that fit perfectly?
Even more mystifying than the skates is the ice rink that’s materialized where the defunct car lot used to sit on Old Homestead Road, just across the street and two spaces down from my gingerbread town house, which I hope none of them notice.
“Who built this?” Grandpa asks wonderingly. “You know how long this has been here, Bettie?”
“Nope,” I say. An old joke, replying when I know he’s talking to Grandma. She hates it.
No one besides us is here. “It’s probably a bribe from the mayor, hoping for reelection,” suggests Grandma, who watches Frangipane lunge for the ice without skates on. Her eyes gleam like twin knives as they rest on me, then flick to Hall, who’s smiling dreamily at what can only be his handiwork. Victorian lampposts hem in the rink, strung with twinkle lights and garland, each pole twined in ivy. There’s a red bench, and a birdhouse over by the fountain in the town square, which is supposed to be covered with a tarp for the season but now spurts crystalline water. Puffy pink clouds tumble low, the spire of the church tower lancing through them.
“I’m pretty sure this rink has always been here,” says my nephew Ichabod.
Dad grimaces without meaning to. (He’s where I get my resting bitch face from.) “It must’ve. Skating rinks don’t simply appear out of thin air.”
“Don’t forget your scarves,” Hall says, probably to knock their thoughts off track. He hands out scarves to each Watson or Hughes as they pass, their eyebrows lifted as they appraise this fancy gift.
“Darling, did you make these yourself?” Mom exclaims, looping hers about her neck. Her name is stitched above the black trim in gold. “Where’d you find the time?”
Felix refuses his scarf. He’d probably refuse to skate, as well, but he considers himself to be pretty good at it and can’t miss the opportunity to show off. Weak sunlight glints off his silver blades, harsh brow lowered, hands extended behind his back like a ski jumper as he pushes left, right, left, scaring off anyone in his path.Sean veers too close and staggers, clawing at air for a few moments before running Kaia over.
Mom is doing graceful triple axels like they’re nothing. Dad sits down on the bench, grousing that he’s too old to skate, which makes Octavian burst into tears:“Is Grandpa going to die?”
Something touches my hand and I jump back, but it’s just Hall.
He raises his eyebrows at me, a small smile touching the corners of his lips. Then, once again, he bumps his gloved fingers against mine. “Let’s go.”
“Me?” I point at myself.
He points at me, too. “You.”
“Oh, nah, no thanks, I’m too full of pie. I’ll just watch.” I try to shove my hands into my pockets, but the pockets seal shut. I snap my head up to level him with a glare, and he shakes his head amiably, tugging on my arm. “Hall, I’m serious. I know you’re really into this traditional holiday stuff—”
His head dips in a nod. “It’s the whole reason I’m here.”
“You’re here because I got drunk and didn’t know how to play a record.”
