She wanted to make sure everything was just right, because this December 23rd was both a beginning and an end.
Inhaling the scent of the Douglas fir in the living room, which was decorated in brand new reds and silvers and golds, she went around the table, laying forks to the left, knives to the right, equidistant from the Spode Christmas plates in between. She placed the crystal wine goblets at 1 o'clock, the smaller Scotch glasses at 2. She slid red linen napkins under the forks, making sure the fold was next to the plate, and pushed red tapers into the 3 inch crystal candle holders that served as a simple centerpiece. She smoothed down an upturned edge of the white lace tablecloth, checking to see that it was centered over the table. Satisfied after a final perusal, she headed back to the kitchen to toss the salad, and wait for his knock.
She wanted to make a statement with her first Christmas in the new place. Tired of the "poor, divorced Gillian" mantra that people often adopted behind her back, and sometimes in her presence – and that she, herself, had chanted more than once – she had needed an occasion to declare herself changed. Liberated. A butterfly of sorts emerging from a stifling, oppressive cocoon. She saw this holiday season as the perfect opportunity to do just that. As much as she hated Thanksgiving (well, except for the one that Cal gave her), Christmas was her comfort-food of holidays. No matter how unhappy she might be at her own past holiday "discoveries" (her dad's hidden bottles of vodka; Alec's hidden stash of crack), her inner delight at the trappings of Christmas never wavered. The glow of candles and outdoor lights; the lure of the holiday storefronts; carolers, get-togethers, eggnog, packages, perfect round balls; Christmas music. All served as a warm blanket and backdrop for Gillian's sense of the way things should be. This Christmas marked the beginning of the way things were going to be: the coming-out party for the new, hopefully improved, Gillian Foster. A chance to be as comfortable with herself as she was with the holiday. An opportunity to be open and confident with the people she loved.
Gillian checked on the prime rib that hissed and bubbled in the oven, then reached for the potato masher and the pot of boiled red potatoes. It hadn't been a particularly good year, if Gillian was honest with herself. The pain of her divorce still lurked beneath the surface of her thoughts, like a persistent headache not quite strong enough to be called a migraine, but irritating nonetheless. The whole episode with Jenkins and the copycat killer, though not recent, was a nightmare that visited her unannounced and unwelcome several times a month, and during the day manifested itself in a randomly aching shoulder. Terry and the question of loyalty – and whether hers matched up. Vegas. Gillian refused to even think about that manifestation of Cal's Achilles heel.
But the worst parts of this year – moments that still sent her heart trip-hammering and her breath nowhere to be found – involved Cal being in a life-and-death situation in which the outcome was far from certain. The visual of Cal with Eric's gun pressed to his head, bleeding and exhausted, was permanently etched into the backs of Gillian's eyelids, and it came to her whenever she closed her eyes for too long. Similarly, the sounds of gunshots, both heard and imagined, invaded her waking and sleeping moments, and brought into view the bunker in Afghanistan, and Cal ducking the muted explosions that rocked both his shelter and Gillian's composure, threatening to destroy each. Now, in her suddenly stifling kitchen, Gillian felt her breath shortening and her heart rate quickening; gulping air, she brought her arm up and down in rapid succession, mashing furiously.
Get a grip, she admonished herself firmly. Tonight is supposed to banish all that. Or at least push it so far into subconsciouness that it can only be uncovered by hypnosis. She added more milk to the submissive potatoes, and jumped a little at the welcome sound of a knock at the door.
Waiting somewhat impatiently, one hand jammed into its corresponding coat pocket, the other holding a small, wrapped box, Cal Lightman was beginning his own reinvention of sorts. After what he felt was a mostly crap year – save for Gillian's divorce, though he wouldn't tell her that – Cal was more than ready for the end of 2009 and the turn of a new calendar page. Due perhaps to the emotional stress of certain – situations – he felt himself tiring sooner than usual, thought it harder to concentrate on matters at hand, found it nearly impossible at times to hide the emotions that threatened to erupt all over his face. He found it harder to not have these emotions, period. The Cal Lightman of old – dispassionate, aggressive, impulsive, daring, fit and energetic – was dissolving before his eyes into a gauzy, ghost-like replica of himself. He felt unsubstantial. Oh sure, he still could think his way through, and act on nearly any given situation (guns to the head notwithstanding), but it took him a disturbingly fair sight longer to put those instances out of his head. To say "bollocks" and "fuck all" and be done with them. No, this stranger named Cal positively dwelled on the "what ifs" and the "could have beens" until his eyes spun and his head ached, and all he wanted to do was grab Emily in a bone crushing hug, or Gillian in… well, he'd probably never get to act on those feelings. As a result of the lingering turmoil, his sleep was sparser than usual, and the sleep he managed to get was riddled with anxiety. He awoke several times a week in a cold, shivery sweat, his heart racing, his breath ragged. Sleeping pills left him groggy and fuzzy-headed, and weren't too compatible with the amount of Scotch he was consuming. The idea that he was in some post-traumatic stress loop occurred to him more than once, but he'd be damned if he'd go to a shrink. Besides, the only shrink he'd feel comfortable with was Gillian, and no way in hell was he going to burden her with his problems. He'd dragged her down into his slop often enough. He fiercely clung onto what little pride he had left; it was all he had to get by on some days.
Watching her silhouette head his way through the front door curtain and glass, Cal was filled with a jolt of warmth that traveled throughout his body and make a mockery of his finest Scotch. He hadn't felt this at ease since Thanksgiving, and a smile, natural and uncensored, spread across his face. He straightened his shoulders, hid his hand with the box behind his back, and took a step up and into Gillian's welcoming embrace.
"Happy Christmas, luv."
"Merry Christmas, Cal."