CHAPTER EIGHT
We live our stories over and over in every
generation, at the edge of every sea.
—MAEVE MAHONEY TO KARA LARSON
Charlotte stood at the entrance to the Verandah Nursing Home with Kara. This was the place where Maeve had once lived, where Kara’s life had been changed by a single story. That is one of my favorite things about life changes—how they don’t always occur in the place and space we think they should occur.
Charlotte placed her hand on Kara’s arm before she opened the door. “You think Jimmy is okay?”
Kara released her hand from the doorknob, her other hand holding boxes of shortbread. Handmade garland was draped over Charlotte’s forearm. Kara shivered. “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”
Charlotte shrugged. “You know he’s never been alone on the road—he’s always had Jack and the band.”
“You talk to him every day, right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“And he seems fine?”
She nodded again.
“Then what’s wrong?”
Charlotte fiddled with the garland. “I can’t name it. I don’t really know.”
Kara brushed pine needles from Charlotte’s hair. “You just miss him. It’ll all be fine.”
“Yeah.” Charlotte forced a smile and opened the door to the nursing home. “You’re right.”
When the two of them entered the home, they were, as usual, overcome with the scent of disinfectant and baby powder. They walked back to the living room where the residents were watching Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street.
Mrs. Anderson looked up from her puzzle and smiled at Kara and Charlotte. “Well, well, look who the cat drug in,” she said with a lisp.
Charlotte looked at Kara and whispered, “I’ve never understood that saying—‘what the cat drug in’? What does that mean?”
“I think it means that they didn’t expect us.”
The remaining residents turned. Some waved; others ignored them. Mr. Potter stood up in his walker and half-walked, half-rolled toward them. “Hello, ladies. I’m assuming you came to see me.” He smoothed back the four hairs left on his head and winked.
“Well, I know I did. I’m just not sure about Kara here, what with her being engaged and all,” Charlotte said.
Mr. Potter laughed and then spoke in that rough voice that told of his smoking years, of a scarred throat. “Well, what gives us this pleasure today?” he asked.
“We brought garland for the living room and a tin for each of you.”
Mrs. Anderson looked up from her puzzle again. “What’s in that tin? Did you ask permission from the front desk? I’m allergic to pine nuts, you know. And Dottie over there is a diabetic. And Frances, well, she can’t eat anything that’s been anywhere near shrimp.”
Kara smiled. “It’s shortbread. Just butter, sugar, and eggs.”
Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “Now, how am I gonna watch my girlish figure if you’re bringing me these treats?”
Kara placed the bag of tins on the table. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with Maeve Mahoney. It’s her recipe.”
“Ohhh, you stole a family recipe?” Mrs. Anderson shook her finger at Kara.
“Borrowed,” Kara said.
The nursing attendant entered the room and paused the movie. “Hi, ladies. You need any help?”
“I think we got it . . . but if you could just let me know if someone can’t have shortbread . . . ”
Soon the room was decorated as if Mrs. Claus had visited, and Kara and Charlotte walked out of the nursing home feeling fuller and stronger and more joyful than before they’d walked through the doors. This is how giving is. I know logic tells us that giving means having less, but that’s not the way it is. Giving means having more. It’s just the way it is. As Kara and Charlotte know.
The concert in Knoxville was sold out. Jimmy’s nerves almost got the best of him, but he sang the song as if Charlotte were in the front row.
On this night he opted to stay in the bus while the band and crew went out. Sometime in the middle of the night he heard them come home, but his sleep was deep and silent.
Until the dream.
He walks out of a tour bus the size of a house, clouds low and dark. He pushes and yet can’t move forward. Finally, he breaks free and attempts to walk toward the concert hall, yet obstacles are placed in his way—a gap in the sidewalk, a policeman not allowing him past, a wild fan grabbing at him. He pushes hard against it all, his head down, his muscles aching, his heart thumping to get to the concert hall, to the stage. Nothing else matters—not the crowd or the police or the gash in the earth, a gash big enough to swallow any man alive.
He awoke in a sweat, sitting bolt upright in bed. He felt he’d been sent a message, but not sure of what it was, he stretched back into his bed and closed his eyes.
He ignored that nagging sense of something important—ahya, one should never ignore that nagging sense. But he did. Oh, he did.
There is this saying that time is relative. A very smart man said this, and it’s true—it’s all relative to what you want and when you want it. It seems to move slowly when you want something or someone, and it appears to fly at the speed of light when you’re exactly where you want to be, doing exactly what you want to do with exactly whom you want to do it. There are also those times when it seems to stand still, to stop completely, as if time itself is holding its breath to see what will happen next.
Charlotte felt this way—that time was standing still. She looked at the calendar and counted the days until she’d see Jimmy, and yet the date never seemed to move closer. She kept track of his concerts and cities, but their conversations had dwindled from many times a day to almost every other day.
Her client, Mrs. McClintock, stood at the top of her staircase and spoke down to Charlotte—literally and figuratively: “Young lady, you promised there would be freeze-dried pomegranates on this garland, that you would add a splash of red.” The woman fingered the top of the garland wrapped around the staircase and slowly descended the stairs, one deliberate step at a time, emphasizing each word with the click of her high heels.
Charlotte released a long sigh, smiling through her gritted teeth. “I explained on the phone yesterday that the supplier is out of pomegranates, so I used red berries instead. There is still a splash of red to accent the rest of your decorations.”
Mrs. McClintock reached the bottom of the staircase, but remained one step above Charlotte. “Yes, but this is the exact same garland that Edith Carson has in her foyer. And don’t try to tell me it’s not because I was at her Christmas party last night, and it is the same. Now, what are we going to do about this? My party is tonight, and I cannot have the same exact decorations as Edith Carson. I just cannot. So, my dear, what are you going to do to rectify the situation?”
“Well,” Charlotte said, “I can weave some dried oranges and then some magnolia leaves into the garland, and it will have a completely different look.”
“Yes, ‘different’ is one word. ‘Gaudy’ might be another word. ‘Cheesy’ might be another. Oranges? Are you kidding me? My decorations are red and white.”
Charlotte kept her smile. She wasn’t sure how, but years of practice helped. “No one has white and silver antique balls. I have a box of the most fabulous vintage mercury ornaments in all sorts and sizes. You wouldn’t be able to keep them, but no one, absolutely no one, will have anything like it. You’ll be the only one. I was going to use them for the mayor’s Christmas centerpiece, but if you want them, I’ll give them to you and they’ll never know the difference. Your garland will be the talk of the town. Forget pomegranates.”
Mrs. McClintock finally smiled, and Charlotte knew she’d hit the right button—one-upping the mayor’s wife. “Perfect.” Then she scowled again, which was easy for her to do because once a face is used to being a certain way, it returns to its original features without any effort at all. “But,” she said, “I need it up in the next two hours. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do,” Charlotte said. “I definitely do.”
She walked out the front door of Mrs. McClintock’s house and tried not to think about the other fifteen decorations she’d made and hung for the woman—not one of which she’d mentioned. Charlotte ran her hand through her hair. She was slipping; she should’ve known better than to make two of the same garland for two women in the same social circle, but Charlotte had never been more preoccupied than she’d been the past two weeks.
She climbed into her car and turned the heat to high and dialed Jimmy’s number on her cell phone. She leaned back in the seat and waited, but it was his voice mail that picked up. Again.
“Hey, baby. It’s me.” She paused and stared out the window at Mrs. McClintock’s house. “I’m leaving a client’s house. She was awful to me. Well . . . anyway. Call me, I guess when you can. I love you.” She realized there were tears on her face, and she didn’t even know she’d been crying.
She glanced one more time at her phone.
Nothing. Still nothing.
Jimmy had looked down and seen Charlotte’s number flash on his cell phone screen, but he had a magazine interview in less than thirty seconds, and if he’d answered her, he’d miss the interview. He’d reasoned that he could call her when the interview was finished.
Milton came from the front of the bus and sat next to Jimmy. “How’s it going, man?”
Jimmy stared distractedly at his phone. “Waiting on the People phone call. What could they possibly want to ask me?”
“This is for their Christmas issue. Just say what you’ve been saying all week.”
Jimmy looked at Milton. “It’s starting to sound like someone else. All these interviews, man. I read them, but the articles aren’t about me. I say these things, I know, but then they move the words around and make me sound like someone else.”
“You’re complaining?”
“No,” Jimmy said, running his finger along the mist that had formed on the inside of the window. “I’m just so flipping tired. I just want to . . . sleep.”
“Well, you’ll be able to do that in the new year.”
“The twenty-third,” Jimmy said.
“Well, that’s why I’m back here to talk to you.”
The phone buzzed, and they both looked at it to see the 212 area code for New York City. “People,” Milton said. “Answer it. I’ll be back when you’re done. We’re an hour from Raleigh.”
Leaving Mrs. McClintock’s, Charlotte calculated that Jimmy hadn’t answered the phone in two days, and when he called her back it was usually the middle of the night. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to have success. God, she just missed him. She put the gearshift into drive and headed in the wrong direction, which she didn’t realize until she’d reached the stoplight and had that odd disconnected feeling one has when they’ve gone the wrong way, or missed an exit, or when someone is missing someone else so badly that the details of life become blurry and unfocused. “Get over yourself,” she said out loud.
But that is the thing about the Christmas season: It’s difficult to get over hope for more. It is harder than any other time of year to get over “I want.” This was and is meant to be the time of year for gratitude and giving, but somehow the spirit gets confused and the “I want” takes over. But by the time Charlotte had reached Kara’s house, her mood had changed, and she smiled when her best friend answered the door. Like Mrs. McClintock’s face that formed itself into its favorite look, Charlotte’s soul moved back into its original delight.
Kara hugged Charlotte. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I need to borrow your vintage mercury ornaments for the night. Can I beg?”
“Absolutely. But then you must help me finish sketching out the chapel decorations for the nun in Galway. She needs me to fax them to her by tomorrow.”
“Faxing to a nun in Galway. Something about that doesn’t sound right.”
“I know. Isn’t that funny?” Kara laughed, which she’d been doing a lot of lately, what with her wedding now only two weeks away.
Charlotte turned her full attention to her friend and the wedding, remembering the wedding Kara had canceled to reunite with Jack. “The last time you were obsessed with every swatch of fabric, every bouquet, every smallest detail. You’re so much more relaxed now.”
Kara scrunched up her face. “Yeah, last time I think I was a bit more worried about the wedding than the groom. This time I care much more about the groom than the wedding. I just want to get to Ireland, see where Maeve grew up, and say ‘I do’ in that sweet chapel.”
“Oh, Kara, it’s all so amazing.” Charlotte sat in the whitewashed ladder-back chair. “Like a miracle. A real one.”
“I know.” Kara sat next to Charlotte and pulled out a photo of the inside of the chapel. “Okay, so here’s the picture. I told the nun I just want white roses on the end of each pew. The chapel is so pure, I don’t think I want any other decorations.”
Charlotte looked at the photo and ran her pinkie across the edge. “What about some magnolia branches on every other pew? You know, something southern. I can have them sent overnight. We can get them off that tree that you and Jack used to hide in when you were kids.”
“Yes,” Kara said, jumping up. “Perfect. You’re so good at this.”
Together the two best friends huddled over the chapel photo and talked about flowers and travel and the Christmas they all waited for.
Milton returned to the bus seat just as Jimmy was dialing Charlotte’s number. “How’d the interview go?”
“Same old, same old.” Jimmy slammed his phone shut. “Can I have a few minutes alone?”
“Nope, sorry. We’ll be in Raleigh in thirty minutes, and I need to talk to you before sound check.”
“What is it?” Fatigue pulled at Jimmy’s eyes; his insides felt weighed down with concrete, as if he were stuck in his seat.
“Well, look at you. You lost your Christmas cheer?”
“I’m just tired. That’s all. I don’t think I can hear ‘Jingle Bells’ one more time.”
“Well, you’ve got—let me count,” Milton ticked cities off on his fingers, “—six more times to hear it.”
“That doesn’t include sound check,” Jimmy said, groaning.
“Well, I’m here to cheer you up. I have great news.”
“Yes?”
“You have been invited to sing your song at ‘The Radio City Christmas Spectacular’ on Christmas Eve.”
“No can do.” Jimmy held up his hand. “I’ll be on a plane to Ireland by then.”
“You aren’t listening to me. You have been invited to sing at Rockefeller Center. Nationally broadcast. Christmas Eve.” Milton counted off the reasons on his fingers. “Right now only the country-music fans have heard of your song. That night—on Christmas Eve—the entire world will hear of you. Don’t you understand? There are a thousand singers who would kill their mama for this chance. Are you kidding me?”
“Can I think about it?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Milton paused and stared out the window. “For two seconds. That is how long you have to think about it.”
Jimmy looked at Milton’s face. “You already confirmed, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then here is the deal. I’m on a flight to Ireland the minute my song is over. I mean, the minute. First class. And you reimburse Mr. Larson for my ticket on the twenty-third. You got it?”
“Look at you, getting a handle on this stardom attitude.” Milton smiled. “I think I like it.”
Jimmy exhaled. “It’s my brother’s wedding.”
Milton held up his hand. “If anyone would understand why you’re doing this, it would be him, wouldn’t it? It’s for you, but it’s also for your brother and for the band. Your band.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said and exhaled. “I guess you’re right.”
Milton walked back toward the front of the bus when Ellie walked back and then sat next to Jimmy. “You okay?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Couldn’t be better. I love this Raleigh stadium. You ever sung here?”
Jimmy laughed and shook his head. “I sang in a bar in Raleigh once.” He paused. “To six people.”
Ellie smiled. “Well, you’d better get used to the bigger places.”
“I think I am.”
“You getting used to all the attention?”
He shrugged.
“Seriously, you haven’t been able to get out of the bus without girls lined up down the street. They wait by the back door of the stadium after the concert. They try to follow us to the bars. Is it making you crazy?”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” he said.
“I bet you’ve slept ten minutes every night.”
“Well, if y’all would quit dragging me out every night, it might be better.” He laughed, but he knew that he could stay back in the bus. But the two nights he’d stayed in, he’d felt the loneliness he didn’t want to feel. But he forgot what he already knew—that you can ignore your feelings, but they’re there anyway. They stay. And stay. Ignoring them does not make them go away—like a stubborn child.
“Yeah, we’re really draggin’ you.” She laughed. “And we don’t have to get up for the 6:00 a.m. interviews. Not that I’d mind.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning you can be me.” He smiled.
She snuggled back into the chair, curling her legs underneath her. “I don’t think they’d believe me.”
So,” Jimmy said, sticking his phone into his back pocket, “tell me about your family. You haven’t told me anything about who you’re missing.”
“Oh, that’s boring.” She stared out the window. “Oh, Jimmy, look. It’s starting to snow.”
Together they stared out the window and talked and laughed until the bus pulled into the stadium in Raleigh, and the whole party started again. And that is what this had all become—a party. What started as one thing became something else. And this is what happens when we aren’t careful, when we aren’t watching—what starts as one thing becomes something else entirely. Now it was a big party all about Jimmy’s fame and adorableness and how many singles of “Undeserved” were downloaded in a day. What began as an expression of love was fast becoming an expression of identity. Jimmy was becoming “the song.”
Ellie was correct—there were lines of girls waiting at every stop. The backstage passes went from children and families wanting to meet Rusk and Hope to girls in white tank tops and cowboy boots just dying to meet and touch Jimmy Sullivan.
He stepped off the bus and signed autographs, shook hands, smiled for the cameras. He posed with Santa Claus in a fake sleigh onstage, as if the sleigh were real, as if Santa were real, as if the fame were real. Of course, none of it was, but he did not yet realize it. Not yet.
