Lakeshore Christmas

The song had definitely not been on Eddie’s playlist. The manager might have thought Eddie would like hearing the sweet, sentimental tune. Eddie would never know. Many people assumed that such a beloved movie must be loved by him, as well. All he knew was that the hated song intruded on the moment like a choking spell in the middle of a gourmet meal.

And to top off the moment, this was the most heinous version in existence—the one recorded by an a cappella group known as the Christmas Belles, which had become a sensation on the Internet. The rendition was so sticky-sweet, he thought he might gag, just listening to it.

But he was down on one knee. He was committed. He had to go through with this. There was no turning back now.

He had carefully scripted the words, then memorized them so they wouldn’t sound scripted: “I love you. I want to be with you forever. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

That was her cue to weep for joy, perhaps to be so overcome she couldn’t speak, could only nod vigorously: Yes, yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you. All around the restaurant, people would sigh over his performance.

Then he would lift the lid of the small velvet jewel box, and a fresh wave of emotion would wash over her.

It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was going to turn Christmas into the happiest time of his life.

There was one problem. Natalie didn’t follow the script. There were no joyful tears. No reciprocal declaration of love. Only a stricken expression of horror on her face.

“Magic can happen, if only you belieeeeeeeeve,” sang the Christmas Belles in the background.

Natalie didn’t nod. She looked nauseous, shook her head no. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, getting up from the table and making a dash for the cloakroom.

Eddie had dropped a too-big wad of cash on the table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and left, despite knowing it was illegal to leave an establishment with an open container.

Not caring.

She was walking as fast as she could toward the train station.

“Can we at least talk about this?” he asked.

She kept walking. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’d be open to a proposal.”

“Hell, you were sending out signals like Western Union,” he said. “What was I supposed to think?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, excuse me all to hell for thinking you meant it when you said you loved me.”

“I did,” she protested. “I do. But I’m not ready to marry anybody, and neither are you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”

“Fine, I won’t. But here’s what I think. I think you don’t want to be married so much as you don’t want to be alone.”

“Hey, it’s one thing to turn me down. Don’t psychoanalyze me on top of everything else.”

From there, the argument devolved into a rehashing of each other’s faults, and after she boarded the Albanybound train alone, he was ready to concede that yes, he had probably been hasty in proposing marriage.

By the time he returned to the restaurant parking lot for his van, he’d already made the transition from feeling hurt to feeling pissed. At her but even more at himself. Why had he made some big public production out of it? Why had he set himself up for failure like that?

As he drove through the streets of Avalon, the small town looked deserted, a ghost town. Most people had headed home early to be with their families on Christmas Eve. Others were at church, filling the night with song and worship.

Eddie planned to spend the rest of the evening with a man of the cloth. Specifically, a monk named Dom Perignon. Since the bottle had already been opened at the restaurant, he started drinking as he drove. Hell, it was Christmas Eve and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He’d just been dumped and he was desperate to numb the hurt and blunt the anger. And he was driving slowly, anyway. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. His parents had invited him home to their place on Long Island as they did every year, but Natalie had given him the perfect excuse to decline the invitation. Now he was out of excuses.

The snowstorm began in a lively flurry, feathering across the windshield. Within minutes, driven by a lake effect, the flurries blossomed into thick, relentless flakes that were strangely mesmerizing as they hurled themselves toward him. He decided to swing by the Hilltop Tavern, see if anybody was still around. He had a few old friends in Avalon who went way back to his days at summer camp. The small town never changed. He passed cozy-looking houses with their windows aglow, businesses that were closed up tight, the country club that crowned the top of a hill. The most impressive light display belonged to the Heart of the Mountains Church at a bend in the lakeshore road.

The oblong building twinkled with lights along the roofline. An elaborate, life-size nativity scene occupied the broad, snow-covered grounds. He rolled down the driver’s side window to feel the icy air. Big snowflakes whipped into the van through the gap.

The faint, distant tolling of bells drifted in through the window, and it was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard. He chased away the mournful noise by turning up the radio, which was playing Black Sabbath’s “Never Say Die.”

For Eddie, music was more than just sound. It was a place he went, familiar and safe. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of his childhood, music had been his retreat and solace. Over the years, his affinity had only deepened. When he was a teenager, it became a way to sort out the confusion, almost as calming as drinking a stolen six-pack from his parents’ fridge. Later, when he was a student at Juilliard, it was a form of expression that finally made sense to him, the perfect accompaniment to the wine he loved to drink before, during and after performances.

He heard music in his head, all the time. It surprised him to realize this was not the case for other people. Maybe it was a form of insanity.

Years later, when he reviewed the events of that night, he could never separate the sounds and images in his mind from those that had actually existed. He recalled a curious rhythmic beating noise, like the rotors of a helicopter, and a deepening of the already-dark sky. And then something—an animal? A tree limb?—crossing his path.

Operating on pure reflex, he swerved to avoid it.

Mission accomplished.

But in the next moment, everything was ripped from his control. The van hit a patch of black ice and careened off the road, exploding through a snowbank and jolting down a steep slope. The brakes and steering were useless as he cut a swath through the churchyard. Everything in the van—sound equipment, CDs, gear, the empty champagne bottle—was swept up in a tempest.

As the speeding vehicle smashed through the nativity scene and barreled toward the church, only one coherent thought slipped out. Please, God, don’t let me hurt anybody.

“That night changed everything for me,” he told the people in the room. “And for that, I’m grateful. I’ll remind myself of this in the weeks to come. Because something tells me I’m going to face some challenges. I always do, this time of year.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” the chorus murmured, and they went on to the next speaker.

His life had really begun the night it had almost ended. That was when he finally had to admit that drinking wasn’t working for him. He’d had to transform himself entirely. Music was still his life, but now he worked behind the scenes, a composer and producer, and he also volunteered for an after-school music program for at-risk kids in Lower Manhattan. Life was good enough for him, under the radar like that.

His ancient but still-in-effect contract with the production company had limited his earnings from the movie to a pittance. To this day, he had no idea why his parents had allowed it. That same contract called for him to participate materially in promotion of the movie—which meant he had to appear in DVD extras. Creating those segments earlier in the year had reminded him of the things he disliked about fame—knowing he wasn’t the person everyone saw and loved on screen. Having to hide who he really was.

Being a composer kept him involved in music, though by choice, he was mostly anonymous, creating soundtracks and jingles to order. It freaked him out that people recognized him, and that interest was renewed thanks to the DVD. He only hoped it would blow over soon.

The part of him that still loved to perform found satisfaction, as well. He visited Avalon frequently to play with a group of his friends in a band called Inner Child, and they had the occasional gig at local festivals or a neighborhood club. This year, he agreed to be the guest host for a local radio show, “Catskills Morning,” consisting of news, talk and music of his choice, five days a week. The regular host was on maternity leave.

His life was a far cry from the orgy of fame and fortune he’d once pictured for himself. But it was a much better fit.

The meeting ended as it always did, with the serenity prayer and a quick cleanup of the coffee service; then Eddie prepared to head home for the evening. He stopped at Wegmans and treated himself to his favorite take-out dinner—a pimento cheese sandwich, a big fat dill pickle, a bag of chips and a root beer soda. On the way out of the store, he encountered one of the earliest signs of the season—a Salvation Army bell ringer.

The insistent clanging of the bell was both annoying and impossible to ignore. Scrounging a crumpled bill out from his pocket, he stuffed it into the painted red bucket.

“Thanks,” said the bell ringer. He was young, just a boy, really. Something about him was familiar in a vague, distant way. The teenager reminded Eddie of some of his students, back in the city—hungry but proud. Maybe the kid had been in previous Christmas pageants. But no. Eddie was pretty sure he would remember that long, dark hair and soulful eyes, the slightly bemused smile.

“I’m Eddie Haven,” Eddie said.

He gave a nod. “Jabez Cantor.”

“New around here?” Eddie asked.

“Kind of. I’ve been away for a while. Just got back to town.”