Bright Lights, Big Christmas(44)

Austin and Patrick came back to the tree stand at dusk. Austin was wearing an obviously new yellow-and-blue-striped knit Steelers ski cap and scarf, and Patrick carried a large flat cardboard box.

“Looks like you sold a bunch more trees,” Patrick said, setting the box on the worktable beside her, as Austin crawled under the table to snuggle with Queenie.

Kerry pointed to the box. “Is that what I think it is?”

He lifted the lid. “From Arturo’s. Only the best authentic pizza in the Village. Sorry to be so late. I love my sister, but she can draw out a goodbye like nobody else.”

Kerry inhaled the spicy tomato aroma and lifted a slice from the box. She took a bite, chewed, and let out a sigh of contentment. “Oh my Gawd. This is so good.”

She polished off the slice in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

“I know you can’t get pizza like this down in North Carolina,” Patrick said.

She wiped her hands on a paper napkin and dabbed her lips with it. “On the other hand, you also can’t get real barbecue in Greenwich Village, or anywhere in New York City.”

“Hah! There’s a place over on Greenwich Avenue, called Mighty Quinn’s. It’s got incredible authentic barbecue.”

“I bet they serve brisket,” Kerry said with a dismissive sniff. “Not the same thing at all. And also, what’s the sauce? Is it eastern Carolina sauce, or western Carolina?”

“There’s a difference?”

“Don’t get me started. Blood feuds have erupted over this very issue. Eastern Carolina barbecue can be any cut of meat and the sauce is thin and vinegar and pepper based. To me, it tastes like bitterness and regret. On the other hand, western Carolina barbecue is divine. It’s smoked pork butt with a thick rich sauce that uses ketchup and some brown sugar.”

Patrick raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect some bias on your part?”

“Just reliable reporting,” Kerry said. “Now, my dad’s sauce is a little bit of a mash-up of the two. Although, it’s actually my grandmother’s original secret recipe. Muv would fill up recycled wine bottles with her sauce and give them out as Christmas gifts. And if she really liked you, she’d urge you to bring it back later in the year for a refill.”

“I’d like to try that sauce,” Patrick said.

“Murphy usually carries some around in his truck—for barbecue emergencies. When he gets back, I’ll ask him to give you a taste. Or maybe, when I go home, I’ll send you a bottle.”

“Why do you gotta go home?” Austin asked plaintively.

“Because … I just do,” Kerry said. “I can’t live in this little camper forever.”

“Why not? I love Spammy. I would live there forever if my dad would let me.”

“Spammy doesn’t have a working bathroom, or a kitchen. And we can’t park here much longer, because this space doesn’t belong to us. Right after Christmas, I have to find a new job and a new place to live,” she explained.

“But…”

Patrick ruffled his son’s hair. “I want her to stay too, Austin, but the lady says she’s only here til Christmas, so we have to respect that. Okay?”

Austin ducked his chin and she could see that he was fighting back tears. Kerry was getting a little teary-eyed herself at the prospect of all the changes looming post-holiday.

She gathered the boy into her arms. “Hey. Let’s not think about goodbyes right now.

“He’s shivering,” she told Patrick. “Maybe y’all should call it a night.”

Austin struggled out of her embrace. “Dad, can we have a campout tonight? Please? I’ve never been camping before. And this will be like camping in a forest.” His blue eyes shone as he pleaded his case.

Patrick checked with Kerry.

“Believe me, camping is highly overrated. And I should know.”

“He has a point though. We can’t just leave you defenseless against those bad guys.”

Kerry picked up her bat again. “They’re the ones who need to be worried about me.”

Patrick took a half step backward. “Maybe we’ll just hang out for a while and sing campfire songs and do camping things. Just till Murphy gets back?”

“It’s awful cold out here,” Kerry said. “More snow flurries are possible.”

“My grammy gave me a sleeping bag for my birthday,” Austin said pointedly.

Patrick considered, and then easily caved to his son’s entreaties.

“All right. We’ll run upstairs and get our ‘camping’ gear, such as it is. In the meantime, Kerry, please try not to start World War Three with the new kids on the block.”

She twirled the bat. “I can make no such promises.”





chapter 32





“We’re baaaack.” Austin was loaded down with a backpack that nearly dwarfed him in size, with a rolled-up sleeping bag under his arm. His father was pushing a small shopping cart with a lantern, blankets, a thermos, and a couple of folding soccer chairs.

“You call this camping?” Kerry plucked a bottle of champagne from the cart.

“This is how we do it in our neck of the Village,” Patrick said.

Austin struggled out of his backpack and settled into the smaller of the two chairs.