Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Read online

  Lust alone, they’d decided, was no place to start a life—or at least fifteen years of a life—together. Especially since they didn’t have time to work through all the baggage that unavoidably accompanied a new sexual relationship, enough time to simply be together and absorb each other, pay attention to the pleasure of discovering themselves by themselves. Especially since this wasn’t about them at all, but about—and for—the children.

  It would be easier, they told themselves, each other, to remain friends, keep emotions steady—to hold at bay the doubt that inevitably arose and eroded a purely sexual liaison and maintain the level of… companionship, to which they were rapidly becoming accustomed if they merely went on as they’d begun: in separate bedrooms, as platonic partners, with a shared love for, and commitment to, their children. In other words, confederates with some heartfelt vows between them.

  Shipwreck survivors aboard the same life raft with five children in an unstable sea, depending on each other alone to protect the kids and their futures, to make it through.

  Because if they didn’t get this thing right from the start instead of hurting only herself and Nat when reality invaded and good intentions and emotions hit the fan, they’d be hurting five vulnerable little kids as well.

  Better, perhaps, to let Nat’s former in–laws take all the children now, and save the pain, than to let the kids believe they’d found a magic, holiday–style solution to a dilemma that could only be solved by all of them working together to make ‘happily ever after’ an option, not by one single appearance of a miracle that lasted barely a few days.

  The fact that Helen thought she might like being married to Nat—especially if all the marital fringe benefits were involved—had nothing to do with anything. Nor did the fact that she was—secretly—beginning to enjoy the constant chaos of five kids with needs to be filled. Nor the fact that she really didn’t think she wanted to return to Washington. Despite the constant mayhem of family existence, life was far more… satisfying… here. Far more interesting. Far more complicated and less theoretical than the politics of guarding national secrets and paper shredding in the capitol. Far more involved and involving.

  Far more real.

  Despite the doomed Christmas pageant she’d so enthusiastically—and stupidly—agreed to help the children’s school and parish music minister produce. Like she had nothing else to do what with her wedding today, five variously excited to stoically apathetic kids to think about and all the relatives her sisters had invited to, er, "pay their respects" to Helen and "welcome" Nat and the children to the family over the upcoming Christmas season.

  Sighing, she stuck out her tongue at the mirror and turned off the bathroom light, slapped the unhelpful dictionary closed in passing and went to stand in the glass enclosed porch off her bedroom—which also happened to be the master suite. It was cold outside, less than twenty degrees, and she was glad when her bare feet found the thick rug she’d laid over the tile, thankful for the icy slap in the face when a draft came in from somewhere and threw particles of frost to sting her cheeks.

  She needed a cold dose of weather this morning, an awakening from the premonition that things had been going just a little too smoothly the past couple of weeks to be believed. Even Zach appeared to have settled into a kind of… pattern of acceptance… since Helen and Nat had told the kids they were going to get married today and all of them could help with the wedding.

  Jane would be flower girl, in a new long dress Aunt Alice had whipped together for the occasion. The three–year–old had practiced her role by littering the entire house with bits of shredded paper—much to Toby’s delight and subsequent upset stomach, since some of the paper Jane shredded had once held candy or margarine or other equally delightful and edible things. She had been thoroughly rebellious when Helen had required her to clean up the "bootifool" mess.

  Max was in charge of the rings and had slept with them under his pillow last night after insisting that someone set his alarm for six–thirty so he’d be ready in his rented tuxedo in time. They’d worked hard to convince him that 4:00 a.m. would be way too early to get up, that eight would be plenty soon enough and then, at the crestfallen expression on his face, had compromised.

  Libby, naturally, had turned down the role as one of Helen’s bridesmaids and insisted, instead, on wearing her own tuxedo and giving the bride away. Had to be more comfortable than a dress, she’d said, then refused, despite evidence during her fitting to the contrary, to change her mind.

  Cara and Zach, too young to be considered legal witnesses, were nonetheless standing in with Helen’s sister Meg and Nat’s brother Jed as co–maid–of–honor and best man respectively.

  The judge next door had graciously consented to leave her own Thanksgiving festivities long enough to perform the ceremony. Jake and Emma; Helen’s former in–laws, Henry and Ida; her mother, Julia; and Nat’s parents and brother were all coming and staying for dinner after. And Helen had ultimately convinced her sisters that less was more and gotten them to agree not to invite all the relatives to come both today and for Christmas. Indeed, on the face of it, everything looked well–ordered and proceeding as scheduled.

  But it was usually best not to judge a day by its appearance.

  * * *

  His dresser drawers were missing and he couldn’t find the sweatpants he’d hung on the bathroom doorknob before climbing into the shower.

  With an annoyed, "Damn, she’s at it again," Nat felt his way cautiously around the room, trying to discover what Helen, in her infinite mystery, had done with his stuff now.

  His tuxedo was, of course, right where he’d left it over the back of the wing chair Helen hadn’t yet moved out of his room. Again. The monkey suit—bright red cumbersome–bund and all—was a grudging concession he’d made to the occasion at Cara’s insistence that he needed to "spiff up" to get married. This despite the fact that Helen had assured them both sincerely—under her breath, but Nat heard it—that Nat looked plenty spiffy enough as it was in his one good gray suit with a rose in his buttonhole. But his daughter had her heart set on the penguin look, so there the blasted thing was in all its questionable glory.

  Not, he thought dryly, that he could see it anyway, and wasn’t that the point? How it looked?

  Well, perhaps not entirely. Perhaps it was how it felt, too. Formal and credible. Pomp and circumstance.

  And a little bit unreal.

  He hadn’t worn a tux since his high school prom; the last time he’d gotten married he’d been in uniform. There hadn’t been a great deal of call for formality since his discharge, and when there was, he put on his suit and tie and let it go at that. But this was Cara’s request. And Max had told him gravely that they were all dressing up, even the Kern’l, like at the dancing scene in Beauty and the Beast,because getting married was special and you had to look that way, too.

  A man would do a lot for his kids.

  Shoving wet hair out of his face, he continued his search. Only his drawers, his sweatpants and the contents of his closet were missing. Everything else was exactly where he—or rather, Helen—had left it.

  Muttering something colorful under his breath, he made his way back to the foot of his bed, reached for the robe that should have been there—but wasn’t. For almost a minute he stood stock–still, trying to figure out whether he’d truly lost his mind or someone else was merely messing with it. Then swearing on a stack of bibles what he intended to do to the miscreant who’d left him skivvies and nothing to cover them with, he grabbed his quilt—nope, that was gone, too, damn it. And no cane where it should be, either.

  Thoroughly annoyed now, he tore the sheet that remained on his bed off of it, draped the percale about his waist and went in search of Helen.

  * * *

  There was a kids–trying–to–be–quiet commotion in the hallway outside her door, and someone tapped lightly. Before Helen could step in from the porch and respond, the door eased open and Libby stuck her head into the room,
glanced furtively around. Without knowing why she did it, Helen instinctively remained silent and out of sight, waiting out events. Libby obviously did not want to be seen.

  Probably a wedding day surprise, Helen decided, amused in spite of her premarital jitters. Probably fixed me eggs and candy corn on a bed tray. Well, I won’t spoil it. I wonder if they did the same for Nat.

  "Coast’s clear," she heard Libby breathe to someone behind her. "Come on, hurry up before she comes back."

  "I can’t," Cara’s voice whispered back. "Zach’s standing on this stuff and I can’t move."

  "Well, tell him to get off it and come on."

  "I am off it, you stupid dork." Zach’s voice, low but audible, decidedly sarcastic. "She’s standing on the junk herself. Tell her to get off it, and hurry up, why don’t you."

  "Shut up, both of you, and get off it and hurry up," Libby retorted in a stage whisper. "It won’t be a surprise if she catches us."

  There was a squeak and the door eased the rest of the way open; the floorboards creaked with the tiptoe of little feet across them. Curious, Helen leaned against the wall, poked her head far enough around the corner so she could see what was going on. She was just in time to catch Libby dumping a load of Nat’s clothing on her bed, to spot Cara and Zach dragging Nat’s quilt and blanket piled with his dresser drawers across her floor, and parking them next to the bed.

  "I’ll hang these clothes in the closet," Libby hissed. "You guys go back and get the dresser."

  "Are you crazy?" Zach demanded. "It’s heavy. We need you to help, too—"

  "Hey." Helen stepped out from behind the partial wall that divided the sitting area–balcony from the bedroom. "What are you guys doing with Nat’s stuff?"

  "Huh?"

  Startled, they turned to her, three less–than–innocents caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Libby recovered first.

  "Mom." She was impatient and disgusted. "You spoiled the surprise."

  "Oh?" Helen asked. "And what surprise would that be?"

  "Well, we were just—"

  "Helen." Furiously feeling his way through the doorway, Nat stalked into the room, chest bare, sheet gathered in a fist at his waist out of the way of his feet. "I thought we’d worked out this you moving stuff around on me without giving me the guided tour first. What the hell have you done with my clothes?" He stopped, felt with his foot the distinctive texture of the fabric he was standing on. "Is this my quilt on your floor?"

  "Nothing, yes and don’t swear in front of the children." Lord, he had a nice chest. She allowed herself a split instant to wonder what the rest of him looked like bare. Equally good, no doubt—and that was probably an understatement.

  "Children?" He tilted his head from side to side, listening. "Which children?"

  "Da–ad!" Cara exclaimed, dismayed and aggrieved. "What are you doing here? You know you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding. It’ll jinx it."

  "That’s a superstition and—"

  "Did you see Mom before that wedding?" Zach asked, almost casual, mostly pointed, a little sad.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, but—"

  "There, see!" Libby, triumphant. "Divorced, so it’s a bad thing and you have to leave right now."

  "Maybe," Nat said dryly, "if I could see anything it would be, but since I can’t actually see the bride now or later, only hear, smell—" he turned to where he’d last heard Helen’s voice "—you smell great, by the way—" returned his attention to the children "—touch or taste if she was close enough, so what’s the—"

  "Some–antics," Libby retorted, making Helen need to clear her throat and swallow a grin at the child turning some of the adult’s favorite discussion–winning phrases back on him. "Don’t be so literal, and ’sides, you could see her if you had an operation like the one we watched on The Learning Channel where they take off, um, that part of your eye that makes you not see and put in one so you can—"

  "Elizabeth Jane!" Helen interrupted firmly. The flaming, mortified color on her face was reflected in her voice.

  Libby turned to her earnestly. "Well, he could. I heard you tell Aunt Edith you wondered why he couldn’t—"

  "It’s not nice to eavesdrop, Libby," Helen said feebly, chagrined beyond her wildest imaginings. "Nat, I’m sorry. Speculating ‘what if’ is what I do for a living, but if I was going to ‘what if’ about you, I should have at least made sure our informer wasn’t within hearing distance first." She whipped back to Libby before Nat could respond. "Speaking of which, my miss, why don’t you inform us about what you guys are doing in here with Nat’s clothes?"

  It was Cara who answered matter–of–factly, "Married people sleep together."

  Which Zach promptly punctuated with a "Duh" that dripped with all the disrespectful how–did–you–get–so–old–when–you–are–so–dumb sarcasm his eleven–year–old voice could muster.

  And Libby finished, "And you didn’t have time and this is the mom’s and dad’s bedroom, so we decided to move Nat in so you wouldn’t have to."

  And Nat reacted with a startled chuckle, and Helen sat down on the arm of the sitting room couch, her jaw hanging.

  They were right, of course.

  Which only goes to prove the theorem that it’s always best not to judge the drift of a day by the smoothness with which it begins, and to remember that, regardless of what decisions two adults make between themselves, when there are children involved and the adults in question are parents, it’s best to remember that children raised to have minds of their own usually do.

  * * *

  The wedding, of course, went almost as smoothly as Nat’s and Helen’s plans for maintaining separate bedrooms after it.

  The bride got cold feet and suggested to the groom that they call the whole thing off, since there were obviously a whole lot of things the kids expected of them married that she and he hadn’t thought to discuss yet.

  The groom, suffering his own jitters, agreed with her in one breath and in the next told her they’d have to discuss a lot of things later because he needed some serious help "getting into that damned monkey suit" and he hoped to hell that when someone finally described her freaking dress to him it was worth him getting into the shoes that were sure to kill his feet instead of the hiking boots he’d have preferred to wear, and did she, perhaps, need any help getting into it and would she mind terribly helping him?

  Emma and Jake arrived too early with their attorney and a yam–with–colored–marshmallow casserole in tow. Jake, looking sad and uncomfortably like a guilty little boy with a secret he didn’t like keeping, fidgeted nervously with the knot in his tie; Emma, bitter but beautifully coiffed and dressed in black, stuck a cigarette in her mouth the moment she stepped through the door, put it politely away when Zach hastily told her she couldn’t smoke in the house because one of the colonel’s relatives had brought an oxygen tank and was using it. When her grandson’s back was turned, she eyed Helen with daggered loathing and made the tight–lipped accusation, "You did this on purpose."

  Which Helen hadn’t, but her sister Twink unfortunately had.

  Emma was, Helen tried to remember, a woman in mourning, a grieving mother who’d lost her only child less than a month ago, long before Amanda’s natural time—never easy for any parent, doubly hard for a woman like Emma who’d been, Nat had told her, unable to carry another pregnancy to term and had wanted to, desperately.

  Helen’s former in–laws, the frequently reality–deficient Henry and Ida Maximovich, arrived true to form, fifteen minutes early, intending to be forty–five minutes late and bickering about whether Henry had been driving seventy miles an hour down I–75 from their home in Lovells—too fast—or merely sixty–eight miles an hour—too slow. Ida, looking as usual like she was somehow wearing a bird’s nest on her head, brought in from the car with her two covered dishes, one filled with the child–dreaded tomato aspic, the other which she urged Helen to "stick right in the oven, dear, so the stewed prunes with noodles wi
ll be ready for lunch."

  When Helen accepted the dishes and leaned in to brush the lightly weathered cheek with a kiss, offering sympathy for the loss of her ex–husband, Henry and Ida’s youngest adopted son, Ida shook her head briskly, patted Helen’s shoulder and held her at arm’s length, saying, "Now, now, none of that, dear. God must have needed him and Amanda in heaven very badly to take them that way, but we’ve done our crying and this is your day. I’m just glad we can be here for you and the children and that John came to his senses and finally decided to share Libby with you as he should have from the start."

  Touched by the unexpected sentiment from her usually ditsy–seeming former mother–in–law, Helen blinked back startled tears. As a duo, Henry and Ida had always appeared somewhat caricaturish, but apparently her memory and long–ago estimation of them was wrong. Having decided this, she turned to greet Henry, who gave her a distracted arm squeeze, then hit his head on the hand–held television he was carrying when he tried to dive headfirst into it in order to recover the ball some college football player had fumbled.

  So much for poignancy and revised estimations.

  The "normal" grandparents arrived next, simultaneously.

  Helen’s mother, Julia—dressed appropriately for the occasion in a new, dark red sweatshirt and matching sweat pants covered with clowns and the names of all her grandchildren—greeted her daughter with a hug, a narrow–eyed, critical, up–and–down assessment and a considering, "Uh–huh." Handing her a loaf of bread and a can of mackerel, she said, "Well, you’ve stepped in it now, so I guess you’d better suck it up and feed the masses." Then she offered her arm to Nat and led him away, telling him in detail what he should be prepared to encounter that he probably hadn’t already if he went through with today’s "I do’s," and, if he wanted to back out, now was the last chance he had to do it.