“When I was a kid, I went to Austria,” I say. I don’t even know why I say it. Not like somehow Natalia and I are in competition with each other. “Ironically, my mom and I went on aThe Sound of Musicprivate bike tour.” I hold up the kitten with the exaggerated whiskers and let out a cringe-worthymeow.
“Cool?”
“‘How do you solve a problem like bad decorations?’” I half sing, wanting to hear that laugh.
He raises an eyebrow, but I do a final operatic-nun note and he breaks. The sound is infectious, melodic. It hits my ears and makes me vibrate with strange happiness.
“You’re a weird dude.”
I shrug, still giddy, even though I keep telling myself his opinion of me doesn’t extend beyond the borders of this rinky-dink town. “So, how are we going to get all of this stuff to the college? Your car doesn’t have enough trunk space.”
“We’re going to need a truck,” he says. And then he sighs, realization falling over his expression. “I know someone with a truck.”
He doesn’t need to tell me who, and I’m already dreading that trip.
Chapter 15
You’ve reached Matthew Prince Sr. I am unable to take your call at this time. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message as to what this is concerning. I look forward to getting back to you.
God, I have that message burned into the back of my brain. I’ve heard it so many times. Never once has he called back with the excitement he so claims in that voicemail. The only things he looks forward to are golf trips and Rhode Island weekends. Talking to me is not one of his favorite pastimes. I’m sure of it.
I’m tangled up in the corner of the family room again. Gramps is probably still out shopping. Hector is back to chopping wood, which I now think might be his primary way of clearing his head. Grandma may or may not be back from the store.
I thought this would be a good time to tell Dad about my altruistic efforts. He’s always been the more lenient parent. Not because he’s soft—far from it—but because he’s all business. He sees even personal interactions as transactions. If having me home served him somehow, I’d be out of here already. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.
I shoot him a text:
I’m planning the Wind River Annual Holiday Charity Gala for Grandma and Gramps.
I almost addProud of me for taking the initiative?But I don’t want to bethatleading.
From around the corner, Grandma comes hobbling into the room with red-and-green plastic boxes stacked in her hands. Items inside each clang and roll and bang, a discord of Christmas junk.
“In all the nonsense, I haven’t gotten a chance to get up the rest of the ornaments.” Her arms look so dainty, and her sharp eyes poke out over the top of the boxes. “Do you want to help? I’m never going to be able to get the angel up top.”
The cookie challenge was enough holiday hullabaloo for one season. I’m already waist-deep in designing this gala. Trimming a tree would be a step too far into mushy sentimentality for my taste.
However, Grandma’s tree is somewhere between a Charlie Brown travesty and a bad department-store display window. It’s nothing compared to the gorgeous ones I pick out for the apartment. They have to use the service elevator to get them inside.
I hardly noticed this one in the corner up against the window. On closer inspection, I realize it’s fake. The smell, which is far more pungent than I’m used to, comes from a pine-scented hanging stick hidden in the branches. Shameful.
“When did you and Gramps go plastic?” I may not care about Christmas, but I do care about design aesthetics. Faux plants can kill ambiance and flow and make everything surrounding this holiday even falser than it already is. Too much of Christmas is kitsch. High straight camp with no concept. This place desperately needs the Matthew Prince touch.
“A few years ago, when Gramps threw out his back. Going to the farm, tagging, chopping, lugging it home… It’s a whole ordeal. Too much for our old bones.” She slumps like a marionette to prove her point.
“This is…kind of depressing.” The cringe factor is off the charts. I want some sense of regularity here. If I can control one thing, it’s the merriment I make for myself. Even if I’m not looking to be merry at all.
“I don’t think it’s so bad.” Her conviction could use some coaching.
I get a sudden second wind after a day of documenting sad, soggy boxes. “Let’s get a real one. Hector and I can help. Hector says he knows someone with a pickup truck. We need to borrow it to get the decorations to the school anyway. Maybe he can get it tonight. The farm is still open, right?”
I check the clock blinking over the stove. It’s only a little past six. The sun has gone down, but my hopes have shot up astronomically. I recall what Hector said about getting the Christmas spirit inside of me one way or another and, double entendre aside, this is one way I can stand to stomach.
I don’t know that Grandma loves the idea of tearing down the tree she already has. I’m about to suggest we could put the new one down in the basement because selfishly that’s where I’d want it anyway, but I think she notices the shift in my demeanor and doesn’t want to kill my buzz.
“Let me give Gramps a call.” She picks up the landline and begins to dial.
Downstairs, Hector is nowhere to be found. I search outside, but he’s finished up and put his tools away. Most of the rounds that had been left in the woodshed are split, stacked, and ready to be burned.
