Chapter 1 - The Dirty Coats On The Marble Floor
The coats hit the marble before I did. They landed in a wet heap by the front door, snow melting into little puddles around them, and my red scarf was right on top like it didn't belong there either. Outside, the light coming through the open door was blue and cold, and inside it was all warm yellow from the lamps and the fire, and that was the trick of the whole house that night. It looked like Christmas. It smelled like pine and sugar.
My arms were still up in the shape of holding them. The guests had taken off their coats and handed them to me, one after another, and I was supposed to carry them to the closet. But Mrs. Green said to just put them down. My boots were wet and my sweater was too warm and I could feel the snow melting on the floor around my feet.
I was seven that Christmas Eve, and I was the kid by the dirty coats.
The door had opened and the cold came in with my grandfather. His overcoat was dark and covered in snow on the shoulders, and his burgundy scarf was dusted white, and he was breathing hard like he'd walked fast from his truck up the long driveway. He saw me first, standing next to that pile on the polished floor, and his face did something tight. My sister was back by the living room, in her cream sweater with the dark pattern, not moving, just watching. My dad was behind the drinks table in his suit, holding a glass and not saying anything.
Mrs. Green looked at me and didn't even look at my grandfather when she said it.
"You stay with the dirty coats."
It was quiet but everybody heard it because the marble made everything echo. I didn't know what to do with my hands after that, so I put them at my sides. The snow on my grandfather's coat was melting too. I could hear it.
He came closer and bent down, not to the coats, to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and it was cold through my sweater. Then he looked up at her. She was right there by then, close enough that I could see the little line between her eyebrows and the way her black heels clicked on the marble. She raised her hand toward his chest like she was going to push him or stop him, and they were face to face in the middle of the entryway with the fireplace and the garland behind them.
"Don't speak to him like that."
His voice was low and even. He didn't yell. He just said it plain, to her, and my sister took a half step back. My dad didn't move.
She didn't step away. She reached for the tall brass candlestick on the side table, the one by the three-tier white cake with the red ornaments, and lifted it. I didn't think she'd actually hold it up like that. She held it high, toward him, and her hand was shaking a little but her voice wasn't.
"Get out of my house."
My grandfather didn't move either. He pulled me against him, his arm around my back, shielding me with his coat that still smelled like outside. The pile of coats was still on the floor, and the puddles were getting bigger. No one by the drinks table said anything. My sister's eyes were on me.
We ended up beside the cake table near the fireplace. The wreath was hanging above the mantel and the garland was lit up, and the cake just sat there, perfect and white, while we were all breathing hard. My grandfather looked at Mrs. Green across that little space, and his voice dropped even lower.
"It ends tonight."
He wasn't talking to the guests. He was talking to her. Then he bent his head down to me, and his hand tightened on my shoulder, and he said it quiet, just to me, like it was a promise he was trying not to break.
May you like
"You're coming home with me."
Nobody moved after that. She was still by the cake with the candlestick. He was still shielding me. The front door was still open and the snow was still falling outside, and I could feel the cold coming in across the marble floor toward our boots.
