The Perfect Love Song

The weeks between Thanksgiving when Jimmy wrote the song and Christmas passed in the hectic way of the world today. Times have changed. What was once meant to be a slow and calm remembrance of blessings, of our Lord’s birth, of joy and family, has become a chaotic jumble of parties, overspending, kinfolk drama, and obligatory giving. Oh, there I go, giving my opinion when I was just meant to tell this story.

For Charlotte, an interior designer, this is the busiest time of the year, what with everyone wanting to outdo everyone else with the most perfectly perfect Christmas decorations, as if it’s about the lights, garlands, and yard art.

Some people know right away what they are supposed to do in life—others wander and stumble until they find their vocation and say, “Wow, I should have been doing this all along.” Charlotte is the first kind. She knew when she was five years old that all she wanted to do was make the spaces in and around her life more beautiful. She made her mama crazy moving furniture and repainting her room every six months. She knew this town, the houses, and the women’s tastes better than anyone ever had. This was her gift.

Now, if anyone can have two opposite experiences with Christmas, with life itself, it is Jimmy Sullivan and Charlotte Carrington. If you made a checklist and placed their lives one against the other, you would laugh and say that these two—Jimmy and Charlotte—would never even meet as adults, much less talk, much less fall in love.

The week before Christmas, Charlotte and Kara stood in the Larson kitchen, baking their yearly Christmas cookies, which they put in tins and gave as gifts. This year they were also making shortbread in honor of Maeve Mahoney, adding it to the gift boxes they would give to friends and then distribute at the nursing home. Although Kara had moved out of the family home last year, this kitchen was much better equipped for so much baking.

Charlotte wiped flour from her hands and picked up her mug of hot tea. “Yes, ‘awful’ would describe it. I don’t know—I guess because I’ve never felt like this about anyone, it’s awful and wonderful.” She turned back to the cookies, plopped a silver ball onto a Christmas tree. “Missing someone you love is like nothing I’ve felt before. Everyone I’ve loved has always been here with me.”

The holiday season sometimes fills our hearts with unrealistic expectations, and the romantic visions of Jimmy sitting by the fire and telling Charlotte how much he loved her were in stark contrast to the quick and infrequent visits. Charlotte wanted him there to decorate the tree, to hang the lights, to go to all the parties and events. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

Christmas Day arrived as most days do: while we sleep. Yet Charlotte awoke at midnight, for no real reason at all (that she knows about anyway). She sat up in bed and then walked across the hardwood floor to the window. She stared into the dark night where the neighbors’ multicolored Christmas lights blinked like frantic eyes. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered to herself, to the world. She pictured Jimmy’s bus moving down Highway 16 toward Palmetto Pointe, toward her, toward Christmas Day.

This was the only present she wanted that day—to see Jimmy. Little did she know that his present to her was more than anything she could have asked for. Charlotte crawled back into bed with a smile.

With family gathered in the warm Larson living room, there was a lull—a beautiful, syncopated beat between notes—after everyone had opened gifts and before dinner, and this is when Jack proposed to Kara in front of the family and the Christmas tree. Jimmy knew this would happen, and he’d waited all day, hoping for Jack to hurry so Jimmy could sneak off and sing Charlotte her song, so Charlotte would know Jimmy did have a gift for her, just not one she could unwrap.

After the hugs and tears, Kara lifted her glass. “I know it is love that brought us together, but I might not have had the courage to go looking for Jack Sullivan if Maeve Mahoney hadn’t reminded me how authentic love feels, if she hadn’t asked me this one question: ‘Would you wait for him if you knew, if you really knew, he’d return to you?’ When she asked me that, I knew, before I knew I knew, that of course I’d wait a lifetime if he were really returning. So instead of waiting, what did I do? I went to find him. So here’s to Maeve Mahoney, her stories and her questions.”

Overlapping voices shouted, “Hear! Hear!” as the glasses clanged together like heaven’s wind chimes. The wedding talk began. Rosie and Charlotte talked one over the other with Kara and Deidre until the men—Porter, Brian, Jack, and Jimmy—slipped into the kitchen to collect appetizers and more champagne.

“Ireland. Let’s get married in Ireland at Maeve’s church—that chapel she always talked about in Claddagh. Next year. This time. Christmas Day.”

And as the details filled the warm conversation, Jimmy motioned for Charlotte to follow him to the back hall. He wanted to sing her his love song. He took her onto the back porch—the place love had grabbed his heart. He brought his guitar out of the case, strummed until he felt it was in tune. “Charlotte,” he said, “someday I hope to buy you the most beautiful gift in the world, but today all I have for you is a song. I wrote it at Thanksgiving.” There was a nervous edge to his words that Charlotte had never heard before.

He nodded. “There was this moment when you walked across the room and I was completely overwhelmed with love. Words filled my head, and I went down to the old footbridge at the end of the road. That’s where I was when I disappeared for a while.”

And he sang. I believe the angels sang with him. No, I know the angels sang with him. And Charlotte cried silent tears that were the good kind of tears—ones of filling, not emptying. The family, who had snuck up and been listening the whole time, now burst through the door, and their private moment became a shared moment. And for the first time in Jimmy’s life, he believed that Christmas just might be different from any other day.

I’m not the biggest fan of New Year’s Eve parties. It seems to be a night made for disappointment. All those songs and poems and parties about the new year, that big crystal ball falling in New York City and smaller balls falling all over other cities and other places, and people go putting so much stock into the night, as if the clock turning from 11:59 to 12:00 can change everything. This entire ruckus raises expectations to a level that just can’t be fulfilled in anything but movies and books. I know, I know, it’s the symbolism of a new year, a new start, and more than anyone you know, I believe in symbols, but it has become an extreme sport, this New Year’s Eve-party thing.

All that getting drunk and finding someone to kiss and putting all that importance on resolutions and goals is just enough to make anyone depressed. And from what I can tell, this is mostly what happens on New Year’s Eve—getting drunk and depressed. Ah, but maybe that’s why everyone does all that silly drinking—to NOT think about the kissing and love and resolutions and goals. In my humble opinion (okay, so it’s not so humble), New Year’s Eve should arrive in humble quiet and glory. But that’s just me.

On this particular New Year’s Eve, Jimmy and Charlotte, along with Jack and Kara, went to a concert in Savannah. The Unknown Souls were part of a “Country Music New Year” concert featuring all the up-and-coming country artists. And this is where it all began—where Jimmy’s fame and therefore Jimmy’s downfall began.

The Lowcountry coast during the holidays is one of the most tender and heart-opening scenes in the world. The lights set against the hanging Spanish moss and whitewashed porches look like angels gathered to sing. That year December arrived in a warm, moist nuzzle. The fancy scarves and hats, they were of no use. Soon January would come in with a freeze that broke all records, but for now there was a reprieve.

The holidays are beautiful anywhere they are celebrated, but they are extraordinary when celebrated in a place that honors the story. Not only the story of Christmas, but the story itself for just what it is.

What I also know—the stories change every year. The people who tell the stories don’t know they change the details a bit every year until the story becomes a living, evolving thing. But here is the beautiful part: It is still the same story even if it sounds a little bit different each time it is told. The important part remains the important part. The essence stays. And this is what happened as Kara, Jack, Jimmy, and Charlotte drove to Savannah on New Year’s Eve. Charlotte drove her convertible because they believed the warm weather would allow them to put the top down, but after twenty minutes on Highway 16 they decided it wasn’t such a great idea. Charlotte’s heart felt as if it were piled so high and sweet with love that it might burst.

She pulled the car to the side of the road, and Jimmy jumped out to pull the top up. Charlotte turned to the backseat and looked at Kara. “Remember that night your mama took us to see the Christmas lights in Savannah and she got a flat tire?”

“And you wore a red taffeta dress with this huge green bow, and I wore this silly scratchy wool dress my grandma made for me that Mama forced me to wear so Grandma could see the pictures. And it was just the three of us—me, you, and your mama.”

Kara leaned forward in the seat so she was in between the two front seats, her left leg and arm draped over Jack’s leg. He didn’t mind much. It seemed that every few minutes he was amazed again and again into realizing that this was his love. His Kara. Here was all he’d dreamt of during those years alone, during those years on the road. It was moments—common moments—like these that stunned him the most. Like waking up in the middle of a dream and realizing you didn’t wake up but that it is your life. Just like that.

“Yes.” Charlotte raised her hands in the air. “And we were singing them so loudly that your mama came back to the window and asked if we were crying. She thought we were upset.”

Charlotte stopped, stared out the window. “And then that car stopped and helped us. It was an old man who didn’t look like he could change his coat much less change a tire.”

The top was up by now, and Jimmy climbed back into the car. Charlotte smiled at him. “We just remembered a time when Mrs. Larson took us to Savannah to see the Christmas lights and she got a flat tire.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.” Kara looked up to the roof of the car for a moment and then back to Charlotte. “So that old man changed the tire. Mama told him she could do it—that she knew how. But she was wearing this long black skirt and silver high heels. It was cold out. I remember the heat pumping in the car. But the old man said there was no way he would allow her to change that tire on the left front side because she would be standing up next to the traffic. He changed it in like one minute. It was weird. And then he just drove off without letting us pay or thank him.”

Charlotte nodded as she started the engine. “We had the best night in Savannah. We saw every light and every house and even went on that carriage ride after we’d begged and begged. We drank so much hot chocolate that you got sick on the way home.” She exhaled into the memory.

Yes, the essence of that story is true. Margarite Larson was a beautiful woman, but the facts? Well, they are all mixed up. Kara wore silver. Charlotte didn’t even own that scratchy dress yet (she got it for Christmas that year). What is true—the old man. What they don’t know is that he was sent to help. Even in hindsight we don’t always see all the unseen forces at work in our lives. We aren’t always meant to, I suppose. Sometimes help isn’t given for recognition; it’s just given.

Kara, Jack, Charlotte, and Jimmy arrived at the concert safely after passing an accident miles ahead of them, which had been caused by a drunk driver. They would have been involved in this wreck if they hadn’t decided to put up the convertible top. Or maybe if they hadn’t decided to put it down in the first place. Or we could go back even further—if they hadn’t had to wait for Kara to run inside and grab her purse. There are so many things that work themselves into “chance.”

The Unknown Souls were plopped directly in the middle of the concert, unfortunately in about the exact same place as an “intermission” might be in a play or opera. Sadly, the audience, unfamiliar with this band of extreme talent, used this opportunity to get a drink, visit the concession stand, or go to the filthy bathrooms. Those who did stay were talking or making out. Until Jimmy started singing his love song.

Ah, the hush that descended on the auditorium was almost holy. A quietude that caused breath to be held and eyes to open wide without blinking. It was a moment, well, many moments, when only the lyrics and music filled the place. A common man filling a common place with an uncommon beauty.

Kara and Charlotte were sitting backstage, sipping champagne and listening—they couldn’t see the crowd, but when the quiet descended, they poked their heads out to make sure the stadium had not emptied. Charlotte’s eyes—oh, the beauty of her eyes—when she realized that the song meant for her had filled others with the same bliss.

Jimmy bowed to the applause and returned backstage to see Charlotte. “Hey, girl, they seem to like you.” He kissed her in that soft way he has with her, as if she might break, as if she is the most fragile thing he’s ever held.

She laughed, which is Jimmy’s favorite thing about Charlotte. When she laughs he is filled with such delight he’s unsure whether it’s just too much—all this love is maybe, he sometimes thinks, just too, too much. That is what a man who hasn’t had enough love would think.

This was the moment when the bald, stout, sweating man came running backstage. His name was Milton Bartholomew, and he was (and is) in charge of these concerts. A concert organizer. An expert in audience response. A man who knows when a song is destined to be a hit.

Milton laughed so loud and long that his face was tinged with purple. “Whatcha apologizing for, son? It was brilliant. Truly brilliant. You wrote it about Christmas, didn’t you? That’s a Christmas song.”

“The perfect Christmas song. All about undeserved love. All about letting that Love into your heart to change the world.” Milton’s hands were flying all over the place, as if he were throwing confetti or rose petals.

You see there are moments in life when the smallest action leads to the biggest changes. We don’t know—none of us—when those moments are happening. We understand only when we look to the past, and sometimes not even then. This was one of those moments.

“You’re right,” Jack said. “It could be the perfect Christmas song.” He turned to his brother. “It’s true. I didn’t even realize it, but,” Jack turned to Milton, “you’re right. It is the absolutely perfect Christmas song.”

Just then a famous country superstar, Rusk Corbin, walked by, searching for his guitar, and stopped to hear the end of the conversation. “What is?” he asked.

Now, at this moment everyone stopped and stared at Rusk. Jimmy and Jack didn’t answer; Charlotte and Kara were starstruck, and Milton pulled out his cell phone.

“Well, Jimmy here,” Kara pulled Jimmy forward, “is the lead singer for the Unknown Souls, and he wrote and sang the most magical song of the night.”

She stopped, embarrassed, realizing that this star was part of the evening’s concert. “Well,” she said, smiling her cutest smile, “so far, anyway.”

The foursome stared at him as he walked off, and then they all burst into laughter. They had no idea what had just been set in motion. No idea whatsoever. Do any of us ever know what’s been set in motion when it is?

Jack poured champagne into plastic flutes and handed them around. “This time next year we’ll be married.” He pulled Kara closer. “And we’ll all be together in Ireland.”