My Kind of Christmas

was driving him into the ground. People started arriving at five, about the time the sun was going down. He’d had to light the heaters on the porch because the size of the crowd meant there’d be a long wait for a table. But standing around outside and enjoying the tree didn’t seem to bother anyone. And they stayed late—the bar was busy until after ten.
    This year he and Preacher had to suspend the early breakfast four days a week to compensate for staying open later. Friday through Monday they didn’t open until nine in the morning, even though typically, especially during the fall hunting season, they had the fires lit by six.
    On this particular night, Jack left the bar at nine-thirty even though there were still quite a few people there. Denny offered to take over for him, and the kid was amazing—he could handle anything. Denny was a partner out at Jilly Farms and the month of December was nothing but greenhouse work, snow removal and relatively easy days. But the bar was hopping, so Denny took the opportunity to put in more hours. His young wife, Becca, was busy with the Christmas pageant at the church and the Christmas program at the elementary school (where she was director, teacher, treasurer and custodian), so if he was late getting home, it was no big deal. Besides, all that work at the bar brought in extra cash, and Denny and Becca were saving for a house of their own.
    Jack was anxious to get home to his own wife. By now the kids would be asleep and Mel would probably still be up, reading or something. It was his favorite time of day.
    Even so, he drove out to Angie’s cabin instead. He hadn’t seen her all day—she’d gone to Brie’s for lunch and turned down an invitation to the bar for dinner. Who could blame her, it was a zoo. But to be sure she was eating well, he had Preacher pack up some brisket, some mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and a cherry pie made from preserves from Jilly. To prove he wasn’t such an old stick in the mud, he’d grabbed a bottle of sauvignon blanc, too, her brew of choice as far as he could remember.
    When he pulled up to the cabin he found the lights out, smoke coming from the fireplace and Patrick Riordan’s Jeep parked next to Angie’s SUV.
    I am so an old stick in the mud, he thought.
    He backed out and went home. He left his take-out dinner and the wine in the kitchen, took his boots off by the back door, dropped his shirt and socks on the washer—he smelled like grease and beer—and followed the light to the bedroom.
    Mel was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her laptop balanced on her lap. She looked up at him, smiling as she closed the laptop. “Hi, darling…”
    But he was frowning. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Did you know?”
    “Know what?”
    “I took a sack of takeout and bottle of wine out to my niece and guess what? Paddy’s Jeep is parked out there and the lights are out.”
    She studied his face for a moment. A long, stretched-out moment. Finally she asked, “What kind of wine?”

Nine
    W hen Angie entered the bar in the morning, it was empty. She went behind the bar, helped herself to a cup of coffee, then went back around to sit up on one of the stools. It was only a couple of minutes before Jack came from the kitchen.
    “Hi,” she said. “Mel said you wanted to have a cup of coffee with me.”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    He got out his own mug and filled it. She couldn’t miss the fact that he wore a troubled frown, that he was contemplative.
    “Ange, I went out to the cabin last night. I got off a little early and since I hadn’t seen you all day I wanted to surprise you with some takeout and a nice bottle of wine.”
    “Aww. How sweet.”
    “Well, obviously I didn’t make it inside. I thought it might be awkward, what with the lights out and Patrick’s Jeep there.” He looked at her pointedly.
    “He surprised me. When I got home from the clinic he was there. Did you see the lights? He put up Christmas lights and a wreath. I’m thinking about a small Christmas tree, but I don’t have ornaments. I could string popcorn or something. We used to do that—”
    “Ange, Patrick was there. It was nine-thirty.”
    She looked at her watch. “He was there at eight-thirty this morning, too.”
    Jack groaned, leaned on the bar and put his head in his hand. “Angie, Angie, Angie.”
    But she held firm, looking him straight in the eyes. “I like him. He’s a great guy.”
    Jack lifted his head. “He’s a Navy