CHAPTER NINE
Here is where you must be careful:
Not all things are as they appear to be.
—MAEVE MAHONEY TO KARA LARSON
The paperboy rode his bike through the frigid streets of Palmetto Pointe, throwing the plastic-wrapped newspaper over his shoulder with the same move he used for his fastball on the baseball diamond—this is how he practiced and made cash at the same time. He hated this time of year, not only for the cold but also for having to dodge the Christmas decorations people put in their front yards, the strings of lights and wires that caught his bicycle tires in the predawn dark. When he reached Charlotte’s house, he threw the paper, not knowing he was delivering news that should have come another way, that should have come from that ole Jimmy Sullivan himself. If he’d known, if the paperboy had known what I knew, he would’ve skipped her house, avoided the neighbor’s silly lightbulb red-nosed reindeer, and gone on to the next driveway. But he couldn’t know, and I couldn’t stop him.
The announcement in the Palmetto Pointe morning paper was splashed across the front page: “Palmetto Pointe’s Own Jimmy Sullivan to Sing at Radio City Music Hall on Christmas Eve.”
Charlotte was already standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee and staring out into the beginning of the day when the thump of the newspaper hit her front porch. She opened the front door and grabbed the paper. Her mind on anything but the news, she unwrapped the paper, stuffed the rubber band in the junk drawer—just like every morning. The paper flopped open on the countertop, and she read the headline twice before she understood, before the words held any meaning. Then her hand shook; coffee splattered across the counter.
She hadn’t spoken to Jimmy in three days, and now she knew why: He was off in his own land now. He was gone from her; she’d felt it, and now she knew it.
The article remained unread, the coffee soaking through the print as Charlotte walked into the living room. Really, why did she need to read the article? The headline told her everything she wanted to know. He’d moved on with this new life. He didn’t care enough to tell her he was singing in New York City and he wasn’t coming to Ireland. Of course he wasn’t. He couldn’t be in New York City and Ireland at the same time. She plugged in her prelit, perfectly decorated, but fake Christmas tree. She turned a key for the gas fireplace, threw in a match, and then sat in the threadbare lounge chair, the one she’d been meaning to re-cover but had not yet because she loved the old faded chintz on it now. She exhaled and stared at the tree, at the fake gas fire licking the fake logs, and wished it were all real: the fire, the logs, the tree, Jimmy’s love. But they weren’t. And maybe none of it ever had been.
Jimmy awoke to his cell phone ringing. He groaned. God, he’d never been so tired. He glanced at the screen, but the leftover whiskey fogged his mind and his eyesight. He answered without knowing who it was.
“Hey, bro! What is going on?” Jack’s voice bellowed.
“Hey, I’m sleeping. I’m finally getting some shut-eye. Can I call you back?”
“Ah, have you seen the front page of the Palmetto Pointe Times?” Jack asked.
Jimmy’s irritation rose as it does for all of us when fatigue clouds every emotion into one. “How would I have seen the front page of the Palmetto Pointe Times when I’m in Raleigh and I’m asleep?”
Jack’s answer was silence, but it really wasn’t silence at all. It was an accusatory hissing sound that Jimmy heard in his ear as disapproval.
Jimmy exhaled into the phone. “I’m guessing you want me to ask you what it says, right?”
“Oh, I’m thinking you already know what it says.” Jack’s voice was low, rough as sandpaper, and Jimmy knew Jack was mad. A brother knows these things.
“Why don’t we quit playing this stupid game and you just tell me? If it was important enough to wake me, then just tell me.”
“Seems you’re singing at Radio City on Christmas Eve. Singing your perfect Christmas song.”
Jimmy rubbed his forehead, wished he hadn’t had that last shot of whiskey at the bar with Ellie. He groaned. “Damn, I was gonna call you this morning, Jack. I was.”
“Okay.”
“Milton said yes for me, and how could I possibly turn it down? This could change everything for us. For me. For you. For our band. It’s nationally broadcast . . . ” Even Jimmy heard Milton’s words coming out of his own mouth.
“It’s nationally broadcast, and, oh, by the way it’s also my wedding.”
Jimmy of course knew this, but sometimes the saying of something is worse than the knowing of it, and this was one of those times. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said. “Of all people, you understand, right? I mean this is for both of us. For all of us.”
“I don’t think so.” Jack’s voice was quiet now, the anger gone. “Have you talked to Charlotte?”
“I’ll call her right now,” Jimmy said and sat up. Charlotte. He hadn’t told her. His head spun and nausea rose.
“Good idea.”
“Jack?”
“What?”
“Man, I’m sorry. Please try to understand. Please. Let me talk to Charlotte, and I’ll call you back in a while. I’ll meet you in Ireland on Christmas Day night; I’ll be there in time for the party, just not the ceremony.”
“That’s just great, Jimmy. Always in time for the party.”
Jack hung up without a good-bye, and Jimmy slumped back into his bunk, felt around for the water bottle, and chugged it before dialing Charlotte’s number. It rang what seemed endlessly before her voice mail answered. Jimmy didn’t leave a message because he had no idea what to say.
Charlotte heard her cell phone in the kitchen, but she didn’t rise.
Kara was there now and sat across from Charlotte, holding her own mug of coffee. “Aren’t you going to see if that’s him?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. I won’t say anything nice right now, so I think I’ll just let it ring.”
Kara stared out the window at the morning so bright it looked as though the sun came in through cut glass, sharp and intrusive. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I don’t know what else to say.”
Charlotte twisted in her chair. “No, Kara. Do not be sorry. Not you. Listen, I knew what I was getting into loving a singer-songwriter who traveled and lived on a bus. I knew and I chose it anyway. It was sweet . . . Now it’s sad. But listen, this will not change your wedding or my excitement for your wedding even one teensy-weensy bit.” Charlotte leaned across her chair and looked directly into Kara’s eyes. “This is absolutely and completely going to be the most beautiful Christmas we’ve ever had. I can’t wait to get to Ireland. I can’t wait to see Galway.”
Kara smiled and reached across the space between them, taking Charlotte’s hand. “You are amazing.”
Again the phone rang, but this time it was Kara’s. She glanced at the screen. “Jimmy,” she said.
Charlotte shook her head, and Kara hit “Ignore.” Together they sat in silence, sipping their coffee and listening to the morning begin.
Losing a love somehow felt like finding one in this way—falling. She felt as though she were falling, but this time into an emptiness, into an echoing sadness.
