A Sandy’s Seashell Shop Christmas Read online

  The sight of Micah makes him blink and frown. Maybe the thinks he’s walked in on some sort of family incident. I’m struck by the irrational fear that he’ll call the police or CPS or something.

  “It’s ok-okay,” I blubber, and sniff, and wipe, fishing for a twenty. “M-my h-husband w-was killed in Af… Afghanistan this t-time of year. It’s not…” I swallow hard. Pull it together, Tiff. Come on. “It’s not… a good day for us.” I hand him a twenty, wipe some more, saturate my sweatshirt sleeve. “Sorry.”

  “Sure. That’s okay. I’m… ummm… I’m sorry,” he stammers. He’s about to add something else, but then he doesn’t. Like most people, he’s not sure what to say.

  “We’ll be all right,” I assure him. “Keep… keep the change.”

  He takes one more look at Micah, then me. A hesitation, and then he does what most people do – he backs away because he’s afraid anything he tries to say might make things worse. He gingerly hands over the pizza, and then he’s gone.

  I set the box on the counter, finish getting past my breakdown moment, and thank God that Micah is too preoccupied to care. Now, his trucks, trains, and automobiles are all neatly lined up in front of the flyer, and Flat Santa is holding court. He’s asking who’s been naw-dee and who’s been nice. Examples are given, confessions are made. Thomas the Tank Engine has been a very naughty boy, Chevy Truck bumped Ford F-100, et cetera, et cetera. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

  Santa forgives all with a hearty ho-ho-ho.

  It strikes me that Micah doesn’t even know it isn’t Santa who forgives sins. The last time we stepped inside a church was for Aaron’s funeral. Micah was a chubby-legged cherub with no way of understanding the terrible mix of pine boughs, poinsettias, and funeral sprays inside the sanctuary.

  I focus on the pizza box, seeking a distraction. Maybe you’re just hungry, I tell myself. Low blood sugar. Some days, I can’t remember when I actually ate last. This is one of those days. Did I nibble on something when I gave Micah his PBJ and chips at the beach earlier?

  I pull down some plates, whip open the box, and there, tucked in the corner, is a Christmas cookie. It’s wrapped in red cellophane and tied with a gold ribbon. There’s a little gift tag attached. When I open it, I’m staring at,

  Christmas at Sandy’s Seashell Shop

  This ticket admits one or ten

  Christmas Eve 7:30-ish

  Fishermen, come as you are.

  That’s it. Suddenly, I know that Micah and I have two choices tonight. We can get dressed and make the short drive to Hatteras Village, or Micah can watch me sink down on the kitchen floor and cry until rivers become oceans and I finally float out to sea.

  I know which one of those options Micah would pick. I know which one he deserves.

  Now, I just have to find the strength to go through with it.

  Chapter 3

  My hands tremble on the steering wheel as we pass by rows of towering beach houses, all standing silent and dark in the winter night. I can’t help thinking of the biblical story – the one I’ve never even told Micah. Mary must have felt like this, traveling through unfamiliar country, driven by the need to shelter and protect her child, uncertain of what might lie ahead. I hope I’m doing the right thing. Who would even be hanging out in some shop tonight, rather than home enjoying a warm fire and maybe an early gift or two? What kind of people don’t have better places to be on Christmas Eve?

  I envision the store filled with beer-drinking men, here to enjoy the winter catch of rockfish, big blue, and ocean striper – rowdy types who’ve tipped back a few while taking advantage of the nice weather today. Aaron was filled with tales about idiots getting drunk and careless with their boats. One of the tragic accidents he witnessed was the reason he wanted to become a game warden in the future.

  Maybe this whole thing is a huge mistake, doubt whispers. Maybe you should turn around while you still can.

  But I drive on, anyway. I don’t have any choice. I know what awaits me back at the beach house. Besides, I’ve already promised Micah we’re going to see Santa Claus. He’s about to vibrate out of his car seat as he holds up Thomas The Train and Ford F-100, so that they can enjoy the scenery and help watch for Sandy’s Seashell Shop.

  We pass through Hatteras Village and there’s no sign of it. If I’ve ever been past that store, I didn’t even notice it, but I don’t shop much when I’m in the Outer Banks. I come here to get away from concerned friends and nosy but well-meaning community members, not attract new ones.

  Suddenly, there it is on the right side of the road. The little yellow antique house is hard to miss. It’s the only thing lit up from here to the ferry landing, and if there was any question, the sign out front, surrounded by blinking Christmas lights, seals the deal. Once again, it promises that Sandy’s Seashell Shop will offer An Ocean of Possibilities.

  I hope Micah and I don’t drown in that ocean.

  The parking lot is fairly full, and even with the car windows closed, I hear voices as we squeeze into a spot that’s part gravel and part lawn. Behind the shop, on a big deck filled with umbrella tables, there’s clearly a party happening. We’ve come to the right place, but it doesn’t feel right at the moment. I take a breath, wrestle Micah from his seatbelt, and up to the porch steps we march, side-by-side.

  Micah doesn’t even say a word. He can barely walk, he’s so busy gawking at all the lights and decorations on the old house. After he stumbles on the steps twice and nearly yanks my arm from its socket, I finally swing him onto my hip and continue to the top. We haven’t even reached the door when a motion-activated reindeer launches into a rendition of Jingle Bells. I jump, and squeal, and stumble against an Adirondack chair. A stocky, granny-ish looking woman with short blond hair opens the door, and cheers, “Me-e-e-rry Christmas! Welcome to Sandy’s Seashell Shop! I’m Seashell Sandy.”

  Regaining my balance, I stick out my hand to shake hers, but I get a bear hug, instead. She sucks us both in the door before standing me up again. For someone not five feet tall, she’s a strong little thing.

  “Come on in! You’re just in time.” She gives me the rundown – food on the coffee bar, chairs and sodas on the back deck, live nativity to begin soon in the old garage building. Don’t worry if I haven’t brought a white octopus gift, because they have plenty. Santa is a bit delayed but expected to arrive by boat around eight o’clock. “Have you been a good boy?” She asks Micah.

  I expect Micah to tunnel into my shoulder, but instead, he holds up his train. “Thomas been gwumpy, but he soweee.” He very seriously offers the truck next. “Fowd F-100 been a good twuck. He gonna see Santa Cwaus!”

  Seashell Sandy is delighted. She ruffles Micah’s downy hair. “Well you are just about the cutest little towhead I’ve ever seen. I’ll bet you and Thomas and Mr. Ford Pickup Truck can all see Santa in a little while when he gets here.”

  “Dokie, dokie!” Micah agrees, then tries to dig the Chevy from the pocket of his little striped overalls, so he can show it to Sandy. “I got Chebby, too.”

  “Good deal,” Sandy answers, and then we proceed to the adult introductions. I tell her that Micah and I are just in for the week to enjoy a little time away. She gives the explanation an acute look, and I have the anxious feeling that the third degree is coming. Why do a mom and a three year old show up all alone at land’s end on Christmas? That’s what she’s wondering.

  She asks if we have relatives here, and I have to admit that we don’t. “My husband loved the Outer Banks. He grew up coming here to fish with his dad.” I think that was one of the reasons Aaron was so keen on bringing Micah to this place – he’d made so many good memories here before his own dad died too young. He wanted to do the same with Micah.

  I have that choking feeling again. My eyes prickle completely without warning. I pretend to be rubbing a troublesome contact. I don’t even wear contacts.

  I’m relieved when the animated reindeer begins singing again, announcing more new arrivals
. Seashell Sandy reaches to the bay window behind her, where candy canes, Christmas hats, and headbands with felt reindeer antlers await. Even though we’ve come from the Land That Christmas Forgot, we soon look like part of the crowd. Micah is beyond adorable in an oversized Santa hat, and I slip into a pair of reindeer antlers. Sandy also presents me with a pin that reads,

  Sisterhood of the Seashell Shop

  Christmas Crew

  “There, now you’re part of the Sisterhood of the Seashell Shop,” she says before turning her attention to the next guest. “Come on in and make yourself at home!”

  Apparently on Christmas, all visitors get to join the Shop Sisterhood, because every person in the place is wearing the same button, even the guys. Surprisingly, there are quite a few of them. Some seem to be locals, solicited to help with the festivities. The rest look like fishermen. Several have taken the come as you are thing seriously. One guy even smells like fish, and he’s hanging out near the finger foods on the coffee bar along the left wall of the shop. I’m glad Micah and I ate pizza at home.

  I’m also starting to be glad we came. The shop is bustling with people. They’re lounging on the old sofas in the center of the room, and through the French doors, I see folks chatting at the umbrella tables out back. Freestanding propane heaters burn bright, warming the area. Christmas lights twinkle along the railing. Holiday music plays. On the fringes of the backyard, Pamlico Sound stretches out, moonlit and placid and peaceful.

  Micah wants to play in the little sandbox at the center of the shop. An adolescent boy named J.T. seems to be in charge there. He’s refereeing the toy situation with several kindergarten-aged kids who are clearly all dressed up for the Santa visit.

  “If you’re planning on seeing the nativity drama, it’s time!” A red-haired woman shouts over the din, poking her head through the back door. “Better come on while you can. The cast is getting restless.”

  About half the crowd shuffles toward the door. Micah and I follow a teenage shepherd girl named Zoey, who has come to escort any takers. She leads us to a building out back, where an old clapboard-sided garage has been turned into a humble stable. Picnic benches await audience members. Micah and I take a seat up front, while others file in.

  Fascination brightens Micah’s face. He squeals and points, identifying the stable animals. The fact that the cast is a little hodgepodge doesn’t bother him at all. The camels and the cows are wooden cutouts, but they’re accompanied by a potbellied pig, a border collie dressed as a goat, and a Boston bulldog in a lamb costume. The stable is empty, awaiting the arrival of its most important guest. I’m transported back to the little Arkansas town where I grew up, for the most part. With a sometimes chaotic, blended-and-separated-and-blended-again family life, church and school were the only really solid places I knew. I liked both of them more than I liked home.

  I don’t want Micah to say that someday. Somehow, I have to do a better job of this motherhood thing, of letting go and finding my way to a more normal life – one that doesn’t include working as many twelve-hour shifts as I can, so I’ll be exhausted enough to sleep a while.

  The red haired woman comes in and sits next to me. She introduces herself as Seashell Sandy’s sister, Sharon. “Welcome to Christmas at the Seashell Shop,” she says. “We try to tuck this little shindig in between the Methodist Christmas Eve service and midnight mass at Our Lady of the Seas. If we don’t hear from Santa Claus pretty soon, that might be a problem this year.” She swivels around, checking the room, then says, “Oh, wait, never fear. I think I see a potential substitute, right now.” She leaves me and hurries off to chat with someone by the back door.

  I relax in my seat and rest my chin on Micah’s head as Zoey, the shepherd girl, stands up with a book in her hand and quiets the crowd. She begins reading the story of the nativity, her lines carefully practiced and dramatically presented.

  Micah is spellbound. “Ohhh,” he breathes when Mary comes in on a gray Shetland pony, an adolescent Joseph managing the lead line. The pony is so docile he could probably do this on his own. He doesn’t even move when Joseph drops the rope to help Mary down. Dismounted, they pass along the center aisle, hugging one another close and looking desperate. They try several doors that lead to workrooms and closets, now playing the parts of lodging spaces. The innkeepers range from around six years old to perhaps twelve. They are brusque and unwelcoming.

  Finally, the stable is the only option. Mary and Joseph settle in. The lights in the building go dim until there’s nothing left but the moon glow through the old wooden windows and the faint sheen of Christmas twinklers from the deck. The Christ child is born beneath the shadows of the moon. When a shop light again illuminates the stage, Mary is swaddling the baby and placing him in his manger bed. She looks at her child with awe and wonder and adoration.

  I can’t help but think of the first time I saw Micah. In that moment, I couldn’t believe that from our imperfect lives, something so perfect could be born. In the next moment, grief stole in like a thief. Aaron wasn’t there and he would miss all the milestones of the early months. Military life is about sacrifice, but it was a sacrifice I didn’t want to make right then.

  By the time Micah was a year old, I knew just how big the sacrifice could be, and grief wasn’t just a sneak thief; it was a master. I couldn’t bear the fact that this helpless, tiny boy, who looked so very much like his father, was destined to grow up fatherless.

  Chapter 4

  The Santa ETA gets pushed back to almost 9 o’clock. By then, the nativity scene kids have shucked their robes and turbans, the white octopus gifts have been opened, and the kids are engrossed in a game of tag on the grass between the back deck and the shores of Pamlico Sound. Micah runs among them, squealing with glee and carrying the glow sticks he got in his white octopus package. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but he knows he’s having fun.

  Snuggled in a plastic deck chair, I’m struck by the sweet thought that maybe sometime in the future, Micah will have vague memories of his first real Christmas in this place his daddy loved.

  Something cold skims along my skin as I drape an elbow on the rough, salt-weathered railing. I slip my hand inside my jacket and feel through my T-shirt. The ring Aaron made from a silver Afghani coin hangs just over my heart right now. The ring was too big from the moment Aaron used it to propose to me, and so I’ve always worn it on a chain. I couldn’t bear to have it sized. The outside still carries the imprint of what the ring once was, a reminder of the place we met. A reminder that something wonderful can come out of even the hardest experiences.

  When it skims against my chest, reminding me of its presence several times a day, I always think that it’s Aaron coming near. I remember the hours he spent creating the ring, first drilling through the center of the coin, then heating it, then gently and slowly widening and stretching and flattening the coin until a perfect wedding band was formed. I never thought that such a thing would be possible, but if anyone could do it, it would’ve been my Aaron.

  He’s standing there, with his hand on my shoulder now, I can feel it. In that instant, I know that Aaron would’ve wanted Micah and me to be here tonight, not back at the beach house alone. This time, I don’t close my eyes and try to find Micah’s dad. Instead, I watch our little boy playing among the kids with wild abandon. Maybe every piece of joy we find, I think, maybe it’s Aaron’s joy, too. Maybe that’s the best gift we can give him, now. Our joy.

  The thought doesn’t come with tears, but with conviction, as if Aaron has been waiting for me to come to that conclusion all along. Beneath my hand the ring warms, even through the shroud of fabric, as if Aaron is holding it with me.

  In the grass, the kids stop their game. They’ve spotted someone on the water. Santa comes not by boat, but standing on a paddleboard, which is fairly brave of him, considering that if he falls into the water in that velvet suit, he’ll sink like a rock. Fortunately though, Pamlico Sound is only waist deep in a lot of places around he
re.

  When he steps off the paddleboard on shore, it’s clear that he probably wasn’t in much danger. Despite the pillow belly, he’s a young, athletic Santa. He makes the leap over the mud and rushes in with one quick, agile jump, and drags the paddleboard up to beach it. Entering the yard, he offers a slightly tentative “Ho, ho, ho!”

  Clearly, this is the substitute Santa. I wonder who they’ve drafted into playing the part. The kids are none the wiser, or if they are, they aren’t admitting it. They lead him to Sandy’s Seashell Shop like a visiting celebrity, and he’s soon seated in a velvet wing chair beside a Christmas tree filled with lighthouse ornaments and starfish garlands.

  Micah is so excited I can barely catch him. Before I manage to round him up, he has knocked a glass Cape Hatteras Lighthouse off the tree and shattered it. I sidle over to Seashell Sandy and apologize and tell her I will pay for the ornament.

  “Oh, goodness, don’t worry about it,” she waves off my concern. “There’s always a casualty or two during our parties. We write it off to shop loss. I’m just so glad you two went ahead and came.” She shoulder hugs me, pulling me off balance with a bouncy squeeze, but that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that something in her tone conveys familiarity with my situation. It’s as if she knows why Micah and I came here… but how could she?

  I look around the room and, behind the counter, flirting with Zoey-the-shepherd-girl is none other than the pizza delivery boy. My questions are instantly answered. I’ve been outed by the pizza guy.

  I have a feeling Sandy is about to ask the usual sympathetic questions, but Micah is having none of that. He wants to be in the Santa line. I’m happy to oblige, and we skitter off across the room. Once we finish with Santa, we’ll slip out and go home. It’s late anyway. I’m surprised Micah hasn’t hit the meltdown stage yet.