Ellen wakes up Christmas morning with a sense of utter well-being.
She's always been a small-town girl, and she likes it that way. But until the new house is ready they're staying in a luxurious hotel suite in St Paul, and she has to admit the place has its compensations. People to wait on them hand and foot, and enough money to do all the shopping she likes.
(Less than she'd have expected, actually; but after a lifetime of straitened circumstances, it's nice to be able to buy herself a new coat without worrying how much of a dent it'll make in the household budget.)
She drowsily reaches out for her husband, realising as she makes contact that it's Ralph she's touching. Not Mac.
Oh. Right.
What would Mac be doing today? He was always so determined to make a festive holiday - first for his mother's sake (she always tended to go a little quiet at the anniversary of her husband's death, the poor sweet woman). Later on, because he never could get enough of indulging his nephew and niece- oh, that unfortunate Becky. She'll have a hard life ahead of her, with no parents or money.
A sense of guilt starts creeping over her at the thought. Mac had looked so very tired the last time she'd seen him, delivering the October alimony cheque, and she'd wanted to ask if he was well, but- no. It'd hardly been the sort of question to ask one's ex, a fortnight before the new marriage. But the shop had been struggling even when she'd left, and now he has a niece to care for- and he's still caught up in that patent lawsuit, isn't he?
Put it out of your mind, Ellen. He's not your worry anymore.
But the guilty little undercurrent keeps poisoning her day. All the while that Ralph and she are exchanging costly gifts, and kissing each other with approved zest. Going out for a monumentally expensive breakfast, laughing at his jokes- what woman doesn't have the knack, for enjoying herself in the moment? While underneath she's thinking about something else entirely, and the fellow never suspects. She'd done it often enough in the last few years of her marriage.
Maybe it isn't going well for them. Maybe there's a fourteen-year old child at the shop, crying her eyes out because there isn't any Christmas for her (now, that's a story whose refrain is far too familiar). Maybe they've shut the heat off in the absence of customers, wrapping up in blankets and huddling by the fireplace.
Ellen takes a bite of sugared blintz, softly yielding to the silver fork. Maybe he's hungry, going without today so there'll be enough for Becky. She won't ever know. She's lost the right to share his burdens, or even ask what's troubling him.
By the time breakfast is over, and Ralph is taking her to meet some of his business contacts (don't they have anything better to do, on Christmas? Doesn't she?), the battle's lost. She'll just have to start going to the shop again. Whatever it costs her in self-respect, whatever Ralph thinks about it. Just to be sure he's all right.
Maybe she doesn't love him anymore; but dammit, that needn't stop her indulging in small-town neighbourliness.
As much as he'll let her get away with, at least.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
"One special Christmas delivery, just like I promised," Hans says heartily to Mac. "Though I'd have done it anyway just to get the blasted creature out of my nice clean post office…there was some sort of mixup, some fellow drove it down from the depot late last night. They didn't want it either."
It's a live goose. It honks at them.
"Ah well," Jack says philosophically. "I'll go get the meat axe-"
"Jack!" Becky says in outrage. "We can't kill it! Not on Christmas!"
"You sure? We really can't?"
"Not if Becky says no," Mac agrees. "Besides, do you know how long it takes to prepare them? We'll spend the whole day plucking feathers…though I wish we'd known yesterday. Or before the shops closed. What do I put on the serving platter, three more pies?"
"You're saying this as though extra pie is a bad thing."
"I've already baked four," Mac muses. "Plus two cakes, plus a pudding. It is just possible I've overdone it this year."
"I'm calling her Gertrude," Becky says. "Or at least, I will until we sell her to a farmer who'll butcher her himself- but not today. And not tomorrow either."
"If you two insist, then…I have four pounds of pastrami in my fridge," Jack offers.
"Who ever heard of Christmas pastrami?"
"Not me."
"Sorry, Unc."
"Huh," Mac says, with a gleam in his eye. "Guess we'll just have to improvise, won't we?"
It's a pretty ridiculous affair; but he and Jack and Becky contrive to have a very cheerful Christmas.