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Kiki and Cara Mia’s Holiday Celebration
By
Joanna Campbell Slan
Author’s
Note: In Kiki Lowenstein’s life, this novella comes after Killer,Paper, Cut. In Cara Mia Delgatto’s life, this novella comes after Tear Down and Die (only 99 cents!)
Chapter 1
Monday (Hanukkah starts Wednesday at
sundown)
Kiki Lowenstein’s house in Webster Groves,
Missouri
~ Kiki ~
Standing on
the back stoop of our tiny house, I could see that the sky was brightening up,
but you couldn’t call it daylight yet. I could see my breath hanging in the air
like little patches of fog. If I hadn’t been eight-months pregnant, with
hormones that stoked my internal furnace to an unnaturally high temperature, I
would have been shivering in my house slippers. Instead, I was actually
comfortable.
So was Bronwyn “Brawny”
Macavity, our nanny. Of course, Brawny is the original Celtic warrior, a Stoic
of the first order. Nothing fazes her.
Nothing except a call from her
brother that their ninety-five-year-old mother took a fall off a curb in
Aberdeen, Scotland, and broke her hip. Now that
got her attention.
“Do you have everything?” I asked Bronwyn Macavity, our nanny. Instead of
her usual garb—a kilt, white blouse and knee socks—Brawny was wearing plaid
slacks, a white blouse, and a red cashmere sweater, an outfit reminiscent of girls attending a
parochial school in St. Louis.
“Aye, I think so. The gifts for
me mum are in the big suitcase that Detective Detweiler took to the car, and my
passport and papers are in my new backpack,” she said, with a pat to the black
bag at her feet.
Exhaust fumes were rising from the big Impala where my fiancé Detective
Chad Detweiler, the father of my baby, was warming the car for Brawny. Although
she couldn’t have cared less, it was a nice gesture.
The temperature had dipped last night and a light coating of frost dusted
the grass like sugar on a donut. Detweiler was getting ready to drive our nanny
to Lambert International, the St. Louis Airport. From there she would fly to
London’s Gatwick, and from Gatwick, where one of her sisters would meet her and
take her to her mother’s house.
“You promise to let us know
you’ve arrived safely?” I hated to see Brawny go. Since she’d joined our family
in July, Brawny had proved herself to be a wonderful nanny and a steadfast
friend.
“Aye.”
“Do you want me to wake the
children?” I didn’t want to, but I thought I should ask.
“No, I gave Anya a kiss and Erik
an extra cuddle last night. We looked at the calendar. That was a right smart
idea you had, Miss Kiki, to color in the days I’d be gone. It’ll make it much
easier for him to keep track. Anya said she’d help him.”
“He’ll be fine. Family first,” I
said firmly. “Your mother needs you. Your siblings do, too. You can decide as a
group what’s best for her. We can handle whatever happens here, but you’d never
forgive yourself if you didn’t go home now and see what’s what.”
We insisted that Brawny fly home
when she told us about her mother’s tumble. She needed to be there when her
siblings conferred about what they should do next. The fall broke their mother’s
hip. It was one of those life-threatening accidents that can happen to elderly
women. Since Brawny hadn’t been home in two years, her sense of worry was
intensified by the realization her mother was growing not only older but more
fragile.
“Me mum’s always been up and going. Here, there and yonder. Visiting with
her friends, playing cards, and helping out at church,” said Brawny. “But me
brother Hamish tells me she hadn’t left the house in weeks before the accident.
The fact that she’d been staying to home tells me she’s not herself.”
Yes, it was imperative that
Brawny return to Scotland, although we all hated to see her go. Erik in particular
would miss his nanny. She’d been with him from birth, and Brawny had provided
much needed stability in the boy’s life. Five-year-old Erik had come to live
with us only five months ago after his mother (Gina) and her second husband (Van Lauber) died in
a car accident in California.
Brawny accompanied the boy as a “gift” to our busy family, given by Erik’s
Aunt Lori (Lorraine Lauber). Lorraine had rightly surmised that Brawny’s
presence would ease the boy’s transition and help us adjust to having a new
family member.
“I’m sorry to be leaving you like this, in the lurch, so to speak. What
with so much of the boxing up yet to be done,” Brawny said, interrupting my
thoughts.
After my landlord Leighton
Haversham lost all his money to his scheming daughter, he could no longer
afford to keep the huge family home he’d grown up in. We lived on the spacious
grounds of that house, in a former garage that he’d converted. Since there were
five of us (counting Brawny), and one on the way, we were crammed into a
too-small space. He, on the other hand, was rattling around in the vast
5,000-square foot family home. So Lorraine had purchased Leighton’s property in
order to rent the big house to us for a pittance. Leighton would be moving into
our current home and paying her a nominal amount of rent to her as well.
At first, we’d argued with Lorraine, because this seemed like charity.
The big house should have rented for a lot more money than we could afford to
pay.
“How can it be charity when all parties benefit?” she asked.
She was right. After the death of her brother and sister-in-law, Lorraine
had taken on the role of becoming our “fairy godmother,” and she loved it. A
spinster with no family besides Erik, she relished how we’d “adopted” him—and
her—with open arms, long before she started showering us with gifts. She was
pleased to provide more space for Erik to romp around in. We were relieved to
have found a spot that was both affordable and convenient. My daughter was
thrilled that we weren’t leaving the beautiful property she’d come to love. And
Leighton was happiest of all.
Because most of his family furnishings wouldn’t fit in the converted
garage, we’d even decided to trade much of our furniture. He was happy that his
parents’ lovely things wouldn’t be sitting around gathering dust in a storage
unit. We were both thrilled that we could stay neighbors. Especially after his
daughter’s scheming, Leighton had come to think of us as his real family.
With the house-swap decided, Brawny had cheerfully taken on the
responsibility for packing us up and getting us ready to move. She is a wonder.
In addition to caring for Erik and easing his transition into his new family,
she had also assumed carpool duties, taking both Erik and my thirteen-year-old
daughter, Anya, to school. She did most of our laundry and made most of our
meals. If that wasn’t enough, she’d also made herself useful teaching knitting at
my scrapbooking and craft store, Time in a Bottle. Of course, when my own baby
came in January, she’d be an absolute godsend.
As I watched Detweiler hold the
passenger side door open for Brawny, a lump form in my throat. I would miss
her. I also fought a growing sense of nervous tension. For us to move from this
small house into our new, larger place, seemed like a gargantuan task!
Especially since I’d hoped we could celebrate at least some of the nights of
Hanukkah in the new place and then get it decorated for Christmas.
I sure wished she wasn’t leaving. But Brawny was doing the right thing.
Family first.
Even when it’s a family you’ve cobbled together.
Chapter 2
Monday (Hanukkah starts Wednesday at
sundown)
Cara Mia’s apartment above The Treasure
Chest in Stuart, Florida
~ Cara Mia ~
I woke up to
the sunlight streaming through my window. Outside I heard the cry of a seagull
and the soft rustling of palm fronds. Another day in Paradise!
As quietly as possible, I got out of bed, dressed, and crept around my
small apartment, trying not to wake my son, Tommy, who was sleeping in my
living room on my new sofa bed. But despite my best efforts, when the toaster
noisily popped up my slice of bread, Tommy sat bolt upright in his bed.
“Sorry, honey,” I said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Wassup, Mom?” He rubbed his eyes.
“Nothing, honey. My toaster seems to be jet propelled this morning. Can I
make you a cup of hot chocolate?”
In the run up to the Christmas
holiday, it was a family tradition that I’d start his mornings with a cup of
hot chocolate. Each day in December I would add another tiny marshmallow until
twenty-five of them crowded the top of his mug. Sort of like a liquid Advent
Calendar for Tommy.
This morning, he drank the hot beverage without a word besides, “Thank
you.” That didn’t surprise me. He was still half-asleep. Like most college
students, his body clock was all off. He’d been up until late last night, sending
messages over his computer to his friends in St. Louis.
After he finished his drink, he
sat there in a tangled heap of covers and stared off into space. His right hand
was busy stroking Jack, the white Chihuahua that I’d adopted. Jack usually
slept with me, but once Tommy was home, I was yesterday’s news. So much for
loyalty!
I didn’t prod Tommy to talk. I
could guess what he was thinking about. Yesterday, I had driven down to Coral Gables
and picked him up at University of Miami for winter break. Once he had helped
me navigate my way back onto Highway 95, he’d warned me he wasn’t happy with
how he’d done on his tests.
“I guess I’ve been having too much fun,” he had admitted sheepishly.
“Nothing you can do about that
right now,” I’d said. “You’re done for the holidays. Try to relax and enjoy the
time off. If the test grades are bad, we can talk later about what you need to
do.”
He didn’t say much during the drive up the coast to Stuart.
Nor had he said anything when we climbed the stairs to our little
apartment above my new business, The Treasure Chest. I’d tried to make him
comfortable by buying a nice fold-out sofa bed but admittedly the
accommodations were a bit cramped. However, in my humble opinion, the view of
the intracoastal waterway
right outside our window made up for the lack of space.
I’d considered the matter of his
tests dealt with and done. But obviously, Tommy didn’t agree. As he sat there
on the bed, he was chewing on his bottom lip, a sign that something was bugging
him.
“What’s wrong?” I said, as I retrieved the empty mug from the side table.
“I can tell your mind is going a mile a minute. Are you still worried about
your exams?”
“No, I’m not thinking about my
tests.”
I rinsed out the mug and waited, hoping that Tommy would hurry up and
talk. Since re-opening The Treasure Chest, I’ve been busy as the proverbial
bee, darting here and there, trying to revamp, revive, and re-introduce the
business to the Stuart community. What had once been a successful antique and
curiosity store had fallen onto hard times shortly before its owner, Essie Feldman,
died. The building had been an empty eyesore when I snapped up. While my
purchase seemed whimsical to outsiders, The Treasure Chest was actually a place
that I knew well. Each summer until I was seventeen, my parents had rented the
upstairs apartment for our vacation home.
That single living space had long since been divided into two units,
mirror-images of themselves. I’d rented out the second unit to my new friend
and co-worker Skye Blue.
Skye had been a great help as I had worked feverishly to re-open the doors
of The Treasure Chest, just in time for the tourist season in Florida. So had
MJ Austin, who’d worked at the original store, and who knew a lot about selling
antiques and collectibles. First we had refurbished the interior of the building
on a shoestring. Then we had to stock the place on a dime. Since all this
happened so close to the holidays, coming up with enough stock to sell had been
particularly challenging.
Since I hadn’t had the time to set up accounts with vendors, we’d been forced
to hand make most of what we sold. Coming up with items that were unique,
upcycled, recycled, and repurposed goods, really stretched our creative
muscles. But so far the “snowbirds,” our temporary residents from up north, had
found our wares incredibly appealing.
That created a new problem: producing enough merchandise to keep up with
demand.
And with each day, that demand was growing. I had to admit, we’d not only
done a good job of revitalizing The Treasure Chest. We’d done a great job!
Even my son thought The Treasure
Chest was “sick,” which is teen-speak for “awesome.”
“If the tests aren’t bothering
you, what is it? Maybe I can help,” I said to Tommy.
“Um, doubtful.”
I tousled his dark curls so like
my own. “Why not give me a chance?”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly.
“Last night I was Skyping with my friends from St. Louis last night, and Joseph
Popyck is having a party. This Friday. I’m invited. But I know I can’t go.”
Jack looked up at Tommy and pawed
my son’s arm in a show of doggy sympathy. The two had bonded immediately. Now the
little dog seemed incredibly sensitive to Tommy’s moods.
“Why can’t you go to the party?”
I asked. “What’s keeping you here?”
“You know.”
Oh. I’d forgotten.
I could have given myself a dope slap to the forehead.
Tommy hated air travel. Planes
freaked him out. Made him sick. The only way he could handle flying was to take
an Ambien before he boarded the plane so he could snooze the entire trip.
Giving a teenager Ambien was NOT my idea. My ex-husband Dominic had handed
Tommy a vial of the pills. I wanted to throttle my ex when I learned what he’d
done.
Worst of all, the Ambien worked. Sort of. Tommy could travel, but he
couldn’t travel alone. The Ambien did a great job of knocking him out, but it
had a nasty side effect. If Tommy couldn’t go immediately to sleep after
popping the pill, or if he had to wake up before he got eight hours of
shut-eye, he couldn’t think straight. He wandered around like a zombie and did
weird stuff. Like the time our flight was delayed in Charlotte. Tommy had taken
his pill too early, thinking we were ready to board the plane. While my back
was turned, he shoved his entire carry-on into a trash receptacle. If I hadn’t
turned around when I did, we would have lost his ID, iPad, and phone. Yes,
Tommy could fly but not without a companion.
I had tried several times to convince Tommy to try something else, like
Dramamine or Xanax, but he was so paranoid about flying that he wasn’t willing
to take a chance on a different drug. Of course, the more I pushed him to quit
taking the Ambien, the more I looked like “Mean Mom,” which was exactly what
Dom probably hoped would happen.
“I know you can’t take time
off,” said Tommy, “and I hate asking you to. But there’s another reason I’m
down. Dad wants me to come home. He says he misses me. He’s bought tickets for
both of us so we can fly out of Miami early Wednesday. But I don’t see how you
can leave the store. Not with the holidays coming.”
He was right, and I felt awful.
I also wanted to wring Dom’s neck.
