It's the first year for no snow. The first year for palm trees instead of evergreens. The first year for an empty, quiet, sparsely-decorated house, and the first year for no significant other in it. It's a time for new traditions and old friends, but it is the first year. And the first year doesn't always mean that you don't regret the years that have gone before.
She's wrapping presents, cross-legged on the floor amidst silver ribbon and gaily-patterned paper. Addison loves Christmas, and everyone who knows her knows that whatever they're getting from her will be something they've always wanted – even if they didn't know that they wanted it. She's knitted things in her single spare time; she's listened to careless conversations in the office and called family to pick up hints for presents. She's even hidden cool toys in generic socks to fool the Shepherd nieces and nephews, even if she doesn't get to actually watch their faces this year.
For a season that was their season, and the season that they worshipped, too, it sure isn't giving Addison an inch. Everything in her house belonged to her-and-Derek; as if they were one person instead of two separate entities. And really, it's how it used to feel – they would sit by the fire and drink spiked eggnog while laughing about the latest scandal at work; going through the Scottish catalog and arguing over which present to pick for Derek's mother (Addison wanted tasteful; Derek tried to find the most ridiculous Scottish-themed gift so that he could laugh at it on Christmas morning); even decorating the tree, making Derek get a stool to put on the star instead of leaning precariously against the tree itself, making it list ominously to the side.
Now, she looks at the tree, which is about three feet shorter this year, and remembers leaning against it herself to put on the star. She managed to recruit Naomi, Violet, and surprisingly, Dell (is that boy gay? She'd swear he was, if he wasn't so fixated on Naomi) to decorate the office, but she'd decorated the house herself. Derek hadn't cared about the Christmas decorations, so she'd hauled boxes out of the crawl space herself and hung ornaments and climbed up the outside of the stairs to string lights, and the funny thing was, it felt like routine until she realized that the snow globe that rests on her coffee table every Christmas was missing.
"Can't we open one present early?"
"Now you just sound like the kids." Addison smooths back Derek's unruly curly hair and smiles. "If they see us opening a present, they'll want to, and then we're going to have a group of angry parents on our hands."
Derek grumbles. "Who cares? This is our Christmas, too, and not only that, Addison? It's the first Christmas. So let's not care about making good first impressions . . ." The rest of his sentence is obscured as Addison leans forward to kiss him silent.
"Shut up and wait until they go to bed."
An hour later, they've stolen away to the darkened family room, amidst squeals of "I want Auntie Addie to kiss me good night!" and "Why can't Uncle Derek read the story instead of Daddy?" Under the still-lit Christmas tree, Derek kneels and Addison kneels with him. His eyes are sparkling in the glow from the coloured lights and false candles, and as he leans down, searching under the tree, he sticks his tongue out slightly in concentration and Addison can't keep the silly smile off her face. It's too perfect. It's too Christmas-card, and still, it's right.
He comes up with a moderately-sized package and dumps it a little abruptly into her lap. "Here, take a look at this." His face is animated and Addison unwraps the paper characteristically, unfolding a corner here and untying the ribbon there until Derek finally loses patience and pulls off the paper for her. "Come on, Addie!" He's as excited as one of his nieces or nephews and Addison can't help laughing. The box is heavy, explaining Derek's sudden lunge towards her.
When she lifts it out, it's almost more beautiful than she expected. Like one of those "objects may be closer than they appear" car mirrors. It's a simple snow globe, but it's exquisitely done. There's a skating family in the center; there's a signpost and a Christmas tree and it's a generic sort of thing, but the box plays "The Christmas Song" and Derek winds it up.
They kiss as the snow falls and every year afterwards, the tradition stays that the first snow gets the first shake of the snow globe (and okay, the first kiss, too).
She debates calling him. He doesn't care about sentimental things like that; why should he keep it? Maybe he doesn't have it, but he knows where it is. Maybe he broke it or gave it away. Why is this consuming her mind? It's like Christmas can't happen without this snow globe, and that's just stupid. Who stalls a whole holiday?
Eventually, she calls Naomi. "I need it," is all she can get out, and Naomi promises to be over in fifteen minutes with wine and chocolate-coconut snowballs.
Addison hears the car before she sees the headlights and despite herself, she steps out into the blowy night to meet Naomi at the door. The tears have mostly dried on her cheeks, but she's fragile and recently-glued-together and best friends understand that, and maybe despite the blowing harsh wind and the grains of sand that sting her face, they'll have this chat on the verandah or they'll walk on the beach, and Naomi can convince her that she doesn't need Derek's snow globe to have a merry Christmas.
However, she doesn't see that the car that's turning in her barely-there driveway is making a three-point turn to get out of the cul-de-sac. She doesn't see that the person doesn't see her until she's standing at the top of the driveway, still facing the beach, deep in thought. She doesn't see anything, but she feels the pain when she hits the cement and the person's car horn beeps a second too late; she doesn't know anything more and Naomi, Sam, and the lady turning around with two kids in their car seats fuss over her until the ambulance comes.
"What day is it?"
The doctor's question is simple, but it rings through Addison's head and she grimaces. "Wednesday."
"How many fingers?"
"Three."
"What's your middle name?"
"Forbes." She struggles to sit up, blinking painfully. "Ow."
"You have a concussion; try not to move." The doctor's voice is dry, devoid of emotion, and Addison closes her eyes again until she hears Naomi's voice. "Well? Is she okay? God, Charlotte, you'd think you'd be able to tell me sooner than this!"
The nasal, flat Southern voice of Charlotte King grinds into Addison's brain, but she tries not to wince. "She's going to be fine. Lots of scrapes, a broken arm, and? Well?" Her voice cuts off and Addison hears low voices. "She's stopped raving so I guess her head's getting better."
Raving? About what? Did Charlotte King – oh, God, coherent thought costs more than her most expensive Christmas gift this year.
Naomi walks in and Addison slits her eyes open enough to see her smile. "Hey, clumsy. Getting hit by cars the new trend?"
"Shut up." Addison's voice is croaky, but the words are clear, and Naomi leans down to give her a gentle hug. "You had me worried."
Just then, the telephone by the side of the bed rings. Addison grimaces, "Oh, God, Nae, make it stop, make it stop," and then does a slight double-take at Naomi's guilty face. "What did you do?"
"Pick it up, Addie."
"What did you do?"
Naomi leans over her and answers the phone. "Hello? Yes, she's here. Doing better. Still a bit concussed."
She hands the phone to Addison, who takes it reluctantly. "Hello?"
His voice comes from far away; every sound is amplified and she can hear the long-distance hum. "Addison?"
"Derek?" She drops the phone and Naomi picks it back up, holding it to her ear. Addison just sighs. "Why are you calling?"
"Why are you walking out in front of cars? You're a New Yorker, Addie! Have you forgotten everything in three months of sunshine?"
"No." The tears suddenly well in her eyes. "I miss you," comes out sloppily and Derek sighs. "Yeah, sometimes I miss you, too."
"Where's my snow globe, Der? I need that globe."
"What?" He's confused and Naomi suddenly grabs the phone. "For God's sake, Derek, if you've ever wanted to make her happy, now is the time!"
Derek sighs. "Addison, I gave you all the properties. I assume you packed up what you wanted."
"I can't find it . . . I need that globe."
There's a silence on the phone. "Okay, I didn't want to tell you this."
"What?"
"Last January, I was putting it away, and the box bottom opened. It smashed, Addie."
"You wouldn't tell me it smashed?" Addison's voice is weak and little, and Derek sounds contrite. "I knew how much it meant to you."
"Oh."
Addison hangs up the phone, quietly, and closes her eyes.
Two weeks later, Addison's at home and the bandage on her head is one of those soap-opera right-forehead bandages that she makes fun of with Naomi every day after work. The doorbell rings and she almost ignores it, being comfortably ensconced on the couch, but it could be Sam or Cooper and she doesn't want to close her door to friends.
The UPS man is hot, brown-suited and jaunty, and she signs the electronic register with curiosity. The box is heavy, and there's no return address.
Exacto knives don't work if you don't know how to use them. Addison fiddles with the tape (and then the millions of packing peanuts) before she gets the box open and finds the card inside.
"It's not the same one, and it's not going to be the same thing, but here's something I thought would give your Christmas a homey feel." It's signed in his black scrawl.
The globe is smaller, less ornate. The skating family is a little more crudely made. But the song is the same and the snow is just as magical.
It's the first year of a new tradition. First years can mean new hope, too.