Page 24 of All in for Christmas

“Of course there is!” Mary Christmas says brightly. “Take each lovely moment as it comes. Enjoy!” She goes back to arranging her advent calendars on the table, and smoothing out their creases. Checking pocket items and tucking them back in.

My mind whirls at her advice. How can I enjoy when I don’t know what tomorrow will bring?

When I can’t plan for it and organize? When my future is so uncertain?

When I don’t know whether I’ll be here , or there ?

“Mrs. Christmas, one more question, if you don’t mind.

It’s about Dean. Will I ever be able to share with him about what I’ve been through—I mean, in a way that he’ll finally believe me and understand? ”

She winks and says sweetly, “Everything in its place and all things in good time.”

My head reels as I stand at the street corner letting a few cars pass by.

I dump my empty hot chocolate cup in a public waste can then cross the street with a group of pedestrians.

Some hold umbrellas, others hunch their shoulders against the pounding snow.

Almost everyone wears hats and gloves or mittens. Many have winter scarves like mine.

The telescope in the window of Second Chances gleams in the reflection of the glass.

It’s a sturdy specimen, with a long, eggshell-colored tube and a lens cap on the section tilted toward the ceiling.

A smaller lens cap covers the eyepiece. I know almost nothing about telescopes, but from outward appearances, this seems like a good one, with no noticeable nicks or dings.

I crane my neck to peer at the price tag dangling from the tripod.

That’s not a huge amount, but it’s not cheap, either.

Surely I’ve saved up something from my work as Missy’s assistant and my earnings haven’t all gone to family expenses.

I expectantly stand at an ATM machine, waiting for my balance to print out after inserting my card.

The slender white piece of paper churns out and I rip it from its dispenser slot, staring at the numbers.

My mouth hangs open. No. I had five times this amount in the bank last week.

Not only that, I had a savings account! I reinsert my card and try again.

Ah, yes! There’s a joint checking account shared by me and Dean.

I select “Print Balance” then blink at the results.

This is evidently the account into which our paychecks go, and the one we use to pay our mortgage and other monthly expenses, like utilities, groceries, and childcare.

The resulting balance provides evidence we’re living on the edge.

Disappointment seeps through me. Unless Dean’s got a bundle in his personal account, and somehow I doubt that; we’re far more cash-strapped than I thought!

I check our joint savings next and find barely the minimum balance there.

I stare longingly at the telescope, wishing there were a way.

But no. I can’t zero out my personal account.

That would be irresponsible. And I certainly won’t take from one of our depleted joint accounts to buy Dean an extravagant surprise.

I examine the balance in my personal account again.

There’s not a ton of money there, but it seems plenty to pay for a modest selection of gifts from the market.

I’ll buy a few things for the kids and Dean.

I saw a vendor selling organic dog treats, so I can pick up a bag of those for Scout’s stocking, too.

Since I very well may be here through Christmas, it’s best to be prepared.

I withdraw some cash and slip it into my wallet.

Turn and view the bustling market across the street.

I can see Mary Christmas’s booth from here.

Enjoy , she said, encouraging me to make the most of things.

She clearly wasn’t aware of how little I have.

I picture Dean and the kids in my mind. All of us gathered in the front yard building a snowman, with Scout happily bounding around us.

Or maybe, Mrs. Christmas understands more than I guessed.

When I return home, Dean’s in our bedroom digging through the laundry basket and yanking stuff out. Two oxford shirts and pair of khakis. Socks. Underwear. “Hey hon. How were your errands?”

“Good.” I take the opportunity to stash my shopping bags from the market on the high shelf in my closet when he’s not looking. I wish I could talk to him about seeing Mary Christmas and what she said, but now’s not the time. The kids are around.

Henry stands by the bed, running a toy race car across Dean’s nightstand and making vrooming noises.

Scout’s with Eleanor in her room across the hall, lying beside her while she plays with her dollhouse.

I’ll need to find the right private moment to speak with Dean about alternate realities and real Christmas magic.

But I’ll have to figure out a way to do that gently, so he’ll believe me.

Everything in its place and all things in good time. But when will the right time be?

I shut my closet door and turn, nearly stumbling into a metal structure with a flat top. “Ack!” I point like an alien’s landed. “What’s that?”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles up. “An ironing board?” He steps toward me and sniffs my breath.

I stare at him, aghast. “What are you doing?”

“You weren’t out meeting the girls?” he asks concernedly. “For midday margaritas?”

“What? Nooo .” I can’t believe he’d think that of me. I straighten my sweater, slightly offended. Of course I know what an ironing board is. It’s not like I haven’t seen one. I’ve just never seen one in my house.

Dean sets his two oxford shirts and khaki slacks on the ironing board and pats it. “Here ya go.”

“Here. I. Go?” I cluck out the words like a stunned chicken.

Dean holds his chin in his hand and tilts his head. “Um. Paige?”

“Yes?”

“You act like you’ve forgotten how to iron.” He gurgles out a laugh and strides into the bathroom.

“Iron?” I call after him. “Who? Me?”

He returns with—yep—a stinking iron.

Who is he, Houdini? Where did the contraption materialize from? Certainly not the shower, or under the sink.

“Where did you get that?” I ask suspiciously.

“From the bathroom closet, where it always is.”

I wonder if he’s trying to trick me by testing my knowledge of our domestic supplies. I do know there’s a vacuum in the coat closet. I’ve seen it. “And why isn’t it in the laundry room?”

Dean scratches his head. “The laundry room we don’t have?”

I set my hand on my hip. “So where’s the washer and dryer?” It’s evident we’ve got them, based on the heaps of clean laundry and dryer sheets in the basket and on the chair.

Dean gives me an odd look and retreats into the bathroom, swinging forward the door.

He motions behind it with the iron in his hand.

I creep forward to peek behind the door.

He peels back a hanging curtain hiding an alcove in the wall.

What’re a stackable washer and dryer doing in there? I must have missed them somehow.

“ Vroom, vroom, screech! ” Henry runs his race car across our pillow shams then down the quilt covering our bed, mussing things up a bit, but that’s okay.

He’s keeping himself entertained and not upending the bed completely.

Dean and I made it this morning together, after Mom and Roger left.

So, see! We’re not totally piggy. Merely untidy in a selective fashion because, honestly, who has the time to fold clothes and—I gulp at the iron in Dean’s hand—iron.

“Is it my turn or something?” I ask meekly. Dean’s so equity-minded, that must be it.

“Sweetheart, it’s always your turn.”

“ What? ” I don’t mean to shriek, but this seems extremely prejudicial. “Because I’m a woman?” I ask.

“ Nooo ,” he says kindly, “because I’m abysmal at it. Remember how I scorched that brand new button-down shirt you bought me? The one I was supposed to wear to Jenny’s high school graduation?”

No.

“And my nice pair of dress slacks?”

No again.

He could be making this up, and I’d never know the difference.

My heart softens to the truth.

That’s not Dean.

“So I—offered to do this?”

He wears a jokey smirk. “Hey, are you trying to hint I don’t do enough around here? You know I do other things in return,” he continues in cajoling tones. “Keep up the cars. Change the oil, top off fluids. Clean and wash them.”

Gosh. I just take my SUV to the oil-change shop and the car wash. Maybe those things represent unnecessary expenses here. Like, apparently, dry cleaning.

Dean shakes his head. “Look, it’s no big deal.

If you’re not feeling up to ironing for whatever reason, I’m happy to take a stab at it again.

” He sounds nervous about it, though. He gives the iron a wary look, like it might bite him.

“We’ve only got two days of school left, so it’s a fairly small job. ”

Guilt harangues me.

I’m such a bad domestic partner.

But ironing?

Wahhhh.

Why can’t I go back to making French toast?

“No, no.” I step forward and take the iron from him. “No worries. I’ll do it!”

The appliance sags in my hand. Jeez. What does this weigh? As much as Henry’s bowling-ball-size head? I check the settings dial and note it’s got an off and on switch, and a very long cord.

Henry toddles up to me and tugs on my arm. “I gotta poo,” he says and frowns, hugging his saggy bottom.

I grimace at Dean and hold up the iron.

“Right.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. “I’ll take him since you’re busy here.”

“Great! Thanks!” I turn the iron around to study its flat underside. Hmm. Well. It can’t be that hard, can it? I blow out a breath and plug the darn thing in.