Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

“I heard it was a rough few days,” I said, clearing my throat.

“I’ve felt better, that’s for sure. I’m on the mend now, but…” She cracked a smile, a ghost of her irrepressible self. “I’m glad you came by. I wanted to talk to you.” Getting the words out seemed to be an effort. “Emily called a little while ago.”

“Emily?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You remember her, right? Gorgeous hair, has a five-year-old son, the woman you love? Anyway, she called me because she’s worried about you. She says you’re not eating.”

“She called you?” I said, feeling my irritation rise. Now Marge was going to worry about my health?

“I asked her to keep an eye on you and let me know how you’re doing,” Marge said in a bossy voice I remembered from childhood. “Which is why I then asked you to come over.” She scanned me with a critical eye. “You better eat a decent dinner tonight, or I’m going to get seriously angry with you.”

“When did you discuss ‘keeping an eye’ on me with Emily?” I demanded.

“When we went to Santa’s village for the trees.”

“You have better things to worry about than me, Marge,” I said, conscious of how sulky I sounded.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “That’s something that I won’t let you take away from me.”

Tuesday, December twenty-second, was London’s last day of school before the winter break, and that was when I planned to wrap all the gifts. Before I’d left her house the previous day, Marge asked if she could help with the wrapping, since the gifts were over there anyhow.

When I arrived at the house with wrapping paper after dropping London off at school, my first thought was that Marge looked better than she had the day before. Simultaneously, I hated that I had begun to make those kinds of evaluations every time I saw her, only to see my hopes elevated or dashed depending on how she seemed to be doing.

Liz was home with her that day, and she exuded a forced good cheer as we brought the gifts to the kitchen and began to wrap. At Marge’s request, she made us all cups of hot chocolate, thick and foamy, although I noticed that my sister drank little of hers.

Marge wrapped a couple of the smaller gifts before settling back in her chair, leaving the rest to Liz and me.

“I’m still not happy that you’re calling Emily to check up on me,” I groused.

Despite her condition, Marge was clearly enjoying my discomfort, as evidenced by the gleam in her eye. “That’s why I didn’t ask your permission. And if you’re interested, we didn’t just talk about that, by the way. We talked about a lot of things.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What things?”

“That’s between me and her,” she said. “But for now, what I want to know is whether you ate last night. Full report, please.”

“I made steaks for London and me,” I sighed. “And mashed potatoes.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “Now, have you spoken with Vivian about the plans for Christmas this year? Other than that she’ll be coming to Charlotte?”

The tradition in my family had been to gather at my parents’ on Christmas Eve. My mom would make an elaborate dinner and afterward, we’d allow London to open gifts from the relatives while It’s a Wonderful Life played on television. On Christmas morning, at our house, Vivian and I would have London to ourselves.

“We haven’t gotten into the specifics yet,” I said. “She doesn’t come in until tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then.”

“You probably need to get her something,” Marge pointed out. “For London’s sake, so she can see her mom opening some gifts. It doesn’t have to be anything big.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“What did you get Emily for Christmas?”

“Nothing yet,” I admitted.

“Any thoughts yet? You’re cutting it a little close…”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking to Marge and Liz for inspiration. “A sweater, maybe? Or a nice jacket?”

“Those could be part of it, but she told me what she’s getting you, so you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Like jewelry or something?”

“If you want, I’m sure she’d appreciate that, too. But I was thinking that you need to do something from the heart.”

“Like what?”

“I think,” she said, drawing the words out, “that you should write her a letter.”

“What kind of letter?”

Marge shrugged. “You write for a living, Russ. Tell her how much she’s meant to you these past months. How much you want her to remain in your life. Tell her…” Marge said, lighting up, “that you want her to take a chance on you again.”

I squirmed. “She already knows how I feel about her. I tell her that all the time.”

“Write her a letter anyway,” Marge urged. “Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.”

I did as Marge suggested. With London in tow-piano lessons weren’t until the New Year-I drove directly from school pickup to the mall, where I found some gifts for Vivian: her favorite perfume, a scarf, a new novel by a writer she liked. I also picked out an embroidered silk jacket for Emily, one that I was sure would complement her rich coloring and slightly Bohemian style, and a gold chain with an emerald pendant that would accent the color of her eyes. Later, after London had gone to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Emily a letter. It took more than one draft to get it right; despite the wordsmithing I did for my job, writing from the heart was entirely different, and I found it difficult to strike that delicate balance between raw emotion and maudlin sentimentality.

In the end, I was happy with the letter, and grateful that Marge had made the suggestion. I sealed it in an envelope and was about to put the pad and pen back in the drawer when I suddenly realized that I wasn’t yet done.

Working until long past midnight, I wrote Marge a letter as well.

Vivian got in a little past noon the following day, not long after I’d returned from dropping off the gifts at Emily’s. With the tree already trimmed, London and I had spent the morning decorating the mantel and hanging the stockings. It was a little late in the season, but London didn’t mind at all. She was proud to be old enough to help.

I let Vivian visit with London for a while before signaling my desire to speak with her. Retreating to the kitchen while London watched TV in the living room, I asked her what she wanted to do for Christmas Eve. At my question, she stared at me as though it were obvious.

“Well, aren’t we going to your parents’ place, like we always do? I know that it might feel a little strange considering what’s going on, but it’s Marge’s last Christmas and I want London to spend time with her and the family, like she always has. That’s why I came home in the first place.”

Even though we weren’t in love anymore, I thought to myself, there were still moments when I was reminded of some of the reasons I’d married Vivian in the first place.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day unfolded much like they always had.

The atmosphere was a bit stilted on Christmas Eve at first, for obvious reasons. Everyone was polite to each other and there were kisses and hugs all around when Vivian, London, and I showed up at my parents’. But by the time I finished my first glass of wine, it was clear that everyone’s sole aim that evening was to make the gathering enjoyable for London’s sake-and Marge’s.