Chapter 1 - Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

They say that Christmas comes but once a year – and Cole Fallon believed them. December 25th was still the holiday anchor, but merchants advertized the latest toys earlier. He could have bought his Christmas tree just after Halloween, but he’d held out until the day after Thanksgiving before being dragged to the corner lot.

Trees were everywhere, standing like tin soldiers. Cole smelled of evergreen. Perhaps that wasn’t a surprise considering he’d been lifting and twisting Christmas trees for the critique of two, six year-old boys for the last half hour. Youth today couldn’t seem to make a decision. Cole’s eyes scanned the selection, and his arms strained under the covering of his camel brown wool coat to present the latest choice for further inspection.

“How about this one?” he asked, peaking through the Noble Fir fronds. Cole tried not to smile at the sight before him, an audience immune to the cold and the light dusting of snow that had started to fall in downtown Des Moines. Dark heads covered with knit caps bent together in whispered debate - his sons Jarret and Jason. They were growing so fast they’d soon need another pair of winter hats, one red, the other blue, a vain attempt to distinguish the identical twins. Fortunately, their grandmother was a knitting machine.

“Yes. This is the one, Daddy,” Jarret declared, bouncing up and down.

The red-cap was not quite as convinced. “Hum. I don’t know.” Jason dithered, his eyes squinting and giving the tree one last poke.

“Oh come on.” Jarret said, smiling. “It’s super, it’s almost magic.”

“Magic?”

“Yeah,” Jarret explained, breaking off a piece of a branch, “a wand to grant your every wish.” He twirled the stick, sprinkling pine needles about in a strange ritual dance.

Jason frowned. “I want a wand, too!”

Before Cole could say anything to stop him, another branch had been pulled from the tree, leaving a large hole. The damage was sizable, and Cole realized that this tree probably should go home with them. Left on its own, only Charlie Brown would come to claim it. He’d only been half serious when he’d shown it originally. Slightly misshapen and crooked, the fir actually looked a little better after the adjustment on one side.

He sighed. The boys had run off, wands now turned into phantom swords were clearly more entertaining than tree shopping. Cole heaved the weighty tree into a slightly more comfortable position and carried it to the makeshift register. Glancing back, Cole couldn’t figure what the fence was for – the trees certainly weren’t going anywhere. Perhaps it was all to keep the customers in to pay ten dollars a foot for items they would discard in a month.

He brushed the flakes of snow from his coffee-colored hair as he called for the boys and guided them and the evergreen to the red Ford Explorer. His cheeks had taken on a rosy, Santa like glow, complimenting the light dusting of freckles on his nose. With a quick five-dollar tip the new purchase was lashed to the roof.

Wiper blades valiantly swished against the first flurries of the year, keeping rhythm with the rock tune on the radio as he drove home. Some had despaired that Christmas might be brown, rather than white. Having lived in Iowa his whole life, Cole hadn’t listened to the naysayers. Snow would fall – it always did. Most of his friends had moved away, using the weather as an excuse. Cole remained. His family was here, the schools were good, and there was nothing that he needed to run from.

Of course there were times when family was a bit too much in evidence. Cole made the final right turn and pulled into the driveway of the two-story Colonial. His eyes swept over the Currier and Ives picture of green shutters and maple trees, and tried to ignore the other vehicle that didn’t traditionally sit in the drive.

“Auntie Cat!” voices chorused from the back seat. All Cole could do was sigh.

“Okay munchkins, everyone out,” he said.

Catherine Fallon-Chandler stomped her boots on the welcome mat, waiting for her brother to ask her in.

Cole looked at the pixie blonde, and her mittened hands clutching a casserole dish. “What, more food?” he muttered, pushing the front door open. “You think that three guys can’t eat turkey for the fourth meal in a row or something?”

“Ungrateful blot,” she scoffed, stalking into the kitchen. She set the white Chinette in the microwave, setting the timer. “You will eat anything, regardless of its flavor. It’s the boys I’m worried about. Kids need iron and calcium.”

The heat of the house was welcome after the chill of the shopping trip and Cole rapidly decided to leave the tree out in the cold. The boys ran upstairs to change. Cole took off his gloves, following his sister into the kitchen.

She looked good there, like she knew what she was doing, but Cole was getting a little tired of seeing the freckle-faced tornado in the small space. “So you drove 45 minutes to save the kids from a call to the local pizza place?”

Cat hesitated, searching the cupboard for salad dressing, and pulling some lettuce from the refrigerator. Deliberately avoiding his question she turned on the radio, and listened to Bing Crosby singing the classic White Christmas. “I always liked that song.”

“Some would say the he’s having a nightmare,” he said, frowning. His sister typically hid any discontent behind a mask of pleasantries, if something was bugging her enough to show, it was something big.

“Funny you should say that,” she muttered. Lettuce was unceremoniously torn and tossed into a bowl. The knife cleaved the carrots.

Cole went to the wine cooler, pulled out a bottle of the Chardonnay she liked, and searched for a corkscrew. Silently, he poured a glass and set it in front of her. It was clear she wasn’t here on a food rescue mission. “You want to spill it now, or later?”

“Spill what?” she said, avoiding.

“Whatever is bothering you enough to murder the salad.”

She looked down, but then continued to wield the knife with vigor.

Cole leaned on the counter, rescued a hacked piece of carrot and chewed. He wasn’t going anywhere; it was his house. Blinking a few times he just watched her in silence.

Her mouth twisted in response, and a puff of air fluffed her bangs. “Damn, I hate it when you look at me like that.” She turned, resting a hip against the cabinetry, and snatched the glass in one hand taking a long sip.

Cole had to smile. He never really knew what she meant by that statement, but she said it often. He looked at everyone the same; his sister seemed to be the only one particularly bothered by it.

Setting down the carrot he covered his eyes. “Okay, I’m not looking at you.” His pinky finger brushed the wedding band he still wore as he moved the fingers apart, gazing through the narrow gap to see her reaction to his joke.

She made a show of checking the oven. “I ran into Taylor Bancroft today at the mall.”

Cole cocked his head to one side wondering what the problem was. “Gossip?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she offered taking another sip of her drink.

Cole wasn’t really one to follow the comings and goings of the old neighborhood. Cat still lived there, and ran into parents and children alike. They were only separated by a year so they found themselves sharing friends quite frequently. “And?” he asked, drawing out the word.

Before she could answer, Jarret came storming into the room. He was ‘too old’ to give his aunt a hug, choosing instead to offer a random, “Hey,” before grabbing a cookie off the counter and running out. When Cat was around there were always cookies. Jarret must have been stalking them, waiting for an opening. Cole wasn’t able to stop the grabbing and sprinting. He shook his head, half proud of the boy’s initiative, half frustrated at the spoiled appetite.

“Victoria is coming home for the holiday,” Cat finally said, breaking the silence.

This was the catastrophic news? Cole didn’t see the Armageddon in the simple statement. The Bancroft’s were family friends – even the youngest sibling. “Wow, what’s it been…six, seven years?”

“Eight since she moved to Florida,” Cat said definitively.

“And now her missed Christmas streak is broken.” Cole reached into a drawer to collect silverware and set the table. “What’s the problem?” Looking at his sister he thought he detected some jealousy in her tense expression. “High school was a long time ago.”

“You keep in touch.” Catherine accused.

“We were best friends. Of course we kept in touch,” Cole said, and knew the answer wasn’t completely truthful.

Catherine brought plates to the table. “She’s successful, and pretty.”

“Sure.” Cole remembered his friend fondly, and a soft smile graced his face. It faded as he watched his sister across the counter. “That bothers you?”

“No.”

The answer lacked commitment, and Cole was left with only one conclusion. “You’re wondering what Dave is going to do?”

Cat sniffed, as though dismissing the possibility that her husband would care that his old flame was returning like the prodigal son. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’ve been married for six years, Cat.” Cole threw a casual arm around his sister and kissed her cheek. “He may have dated Vic, ages ago, but Dave loves you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And Vic, well…”

Tossing the oven mitts on the counter, Cat stared at him, hands on hips. “Well what.”

“Chances are good she’ll blow into town and right out again. She’s made it pretty plain that Iowa is not her cup of tea. You probably won’t even see her.”

“But you will.”

The remark stopped Cole in his tracks. It had been a long time. Seeing Victoria would hardly be an imposition - he didn’t have a fascinating social calendar to rearrange. But Victoria had not shared her visit plans with him. That sort of showed where he was on the list of important people.

It hurt. “High school was a long time ago,” he repeated, before calling the boys to the table.

Dinner as always was a rowdy affair. Table manners were still in development, and the occasional spill could not be ignored. In time, food was consumed, plates were put in the dishwasher, and Cat took her leave.

The boys were tired. Excitement of the tree trimming had zapped some of their natural desire to stay up beyond their bed time. Without complaint, Jarret and Jason donned their pajamas and crawled into twin beds in the room they shared. Cole read them a story, but before the final page was turned, both his sons were asleep.

For an extra minute or two, Cole stayed in the hushed room. Pictures of cars and trains dotted the walls. Now with the activity stilled, the silent testimony to youth was pleasant to look at. Bright colors and smiling faces. Too bad life wasn’t that simple.

Down the hall was his office. After his wife Lila died, Cole converted the room to a more permanent space. There were still days that he went down to the newspaper office, but he’d managed to negotiate a softer routine that allowed him to work from home. His column ran daily Monday through Friday – 500 words on just about whatever he wanted to say. Cole usually had more than enough material to entertain the masses. And yet, there were days when he wondered what he was doing and why anyone would find his writing worth reading.

With a sigh, Cole pulled out the black leather chair and sat at the desk. He had planned to jot down some thoughts about tree shopping and the impending holiday; with that he would satisfy a requirement for an article on Monday and could enjoy the pending weekend. But he lacked focus. Instead he found himself looking through his email for the last note from Victoria Bancroft.

It took some work. Page after page of email history were displayed on the screen until he found what he was looking for, dated last February. He opened the item, realizing that it had originated with him sending a brief update post holiday, and a thank you for the poinsettia that had come via florist. Victoria had replied promptly, as was her custom. She liked to have the last word.

A half smile claimed his face as he remembered their competition. His five hundred words on any subject had probably started with notes to Victoria more than a decade ago. The email he looked at now only contained a few sentences. The nostalgic light in his eye dimmed as he studied the stilted prose on both the original and the reply. Maybe they had run out of things to say. Here were ashes of a friendship that had once meant a great deal to him. Slowly, he retraced the inbox confirming that she had not written again.

Fingers drummed quietly on the desk as the other hand clicked the mouse though the ten or so pages of limited personal correspondence. Something sparked - perhaps anger, perhaps more of the irrational hurt he’d felt at dinner when he considered that Vic would just ignore his presence during her unexpected visit. He had an excuse. Lila’s car accident had happened in early November, barely a year ago, and life was even now still an adjustment as he tried to balance his responsibilities. Victoria had no such catastrophic event to explain her silence.

Or did she? Cole was fair enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. Angry or curious, it didn’t matter - before he could think further, he opened a new message screen and typed a note. What started out as pleasantries with the intent to invite her to visit, quickly turned into a longer chronicle of select events of his everyday life, and a few random ideas.

The chime of the grandfather clock in the corner caused him to look up and see that over an hour had come and gone. Cole paused, and reread what was blinking on the screen. There were things he had said, and some he didn’t. The note spoke of work, the weather and politics. The election had just passed and Cole had some definite opinions.

Notably absent was any description of the kids. Victoria knew about them, and about what had happened with Lila, but for some reason he was reluctant to share about the boys. It would only emphasis how little they now had in common.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself. Where had the days gone? Choosing not to agonize over the past any longer, he hit send. Let the chips fall where they may. Victoria or no, he was still Cole Fallon, king of leftover turkey and proprietor of crooked Christmas trees.

{A/N - this story is personal and a labor of love. Concrit is welcome, but no plot elements will be changed. My thanks to Nefertiry and Decorus for their support with this work.}