Poets, kisses and keys.

My, you're an inquisitive bunch. And that's okay by me, I love questions. So many people wanted to know what Jacob gave me for Christmas.

This holiday didn't turn out to be nearly as minimalistic as I originally planned. Or maybe it did, but in a sweet, simply wonderful kind of way.

Somewhere late last night between washing dishes and sleeping, Jacob pulled a blanket down onto the floor by the fireplace and patted it while I stared at him in surprise.

What are you doing, Jacob?

Constructing a cliche, Bridget.

Oh, I see.

So come here, beautiful.

And?

You'll find out.
First I grabbed the bottle of wine, almost empty anyway, and our glasses and then I snuggled down into his arms. My favorite place of all. I asked Jacob if he had had a good Christmas and he said it was the best he'd ever spent. The whole time he talked he was pulling me out of my clothes. And sipping wine. Being silly. There hasn't been a lot of silly lately. Soon we only had that blanket between us and the rest of the world and there wasn't anything left that we hadn't done. But then he reached up to the table and pulled down a small yellow envelope.

For you, princess.

What is it?

Hold out your hand and see.
A small rusty key fell into my hand. I held it up curiously. No idea. Hints required.

Key to your heart, Jakey?

You've held that key for years. This is the key to your summer castle.

I don't get it.
He explained that my unspoken dismay at his acceptance of the university job sent him on a mission. Please understand I'm so proud of him, the job is a terrific opportunity, the problem lies in the fact that it means we stay here. I didn't want to stay here. Maybe until the end of the school year but this job is a good chance for Jacob to do something wonderful and if all goes well we won't be moving for years. Years.

So, true to form, Jacob fixed that.

He bought a cottage for us. Back home. A tiny windblown little frame house by the ocean, just a stone's throw from some of my favorite childhood beaches on the south shore. A retreat, an escape. A place to call our own that is uniquely ours. Castle indeed.

He bought it weeks ago and has been arranging to have it painted, furnished, repaired, and now it's ready. He had his sister take pictures and send them up and it's so beautiful. Floors and woodwork are white, the main rooms are my favorite shade of celadon and it's less than fifty steps to sand. There's a well with a bucket and an ancient cellar. There's a tire swing and a blueberry bush. A porch, screened in, with a lantern hanging on a hook by the door. He had a woodstove put in. And tin-punch cabinet doors. Because I saw it in a magazine once and said it was pretty.

But he wasn't done there.

He bought the land on either side of the cottage, too.

And he promised me someday we'll build a big house there.

I don't even remember what happened next because my brain snapped with a happiness overload. I do know I made him smile, I tired him out and I believe I proclaimed him to be something out of a book that I couldn't write if I wanted to, he's that incredible.

Jacob laughed and said that's exactly what he was shooting for, which was funny because he is too humble for words, he puts himself down, he dismisses his actions most of the time, one of the reasons I love to share his grand romantic gestures. On the way to bed, with my small hand disappearing into his larger one, he stopped and hung the key on a hook by the kitchen door, where it will stay until it's warm enough for us to go and visit the cottage for the very first time.

I keep going to look at it. Not the pictures of the cottage, but the rusty key itself. That key fascinates me. But then again, so does Jacob. Because just when I think he's outdone himself with his own brand of earth-shattering romance he conquers that too, and just keeps finding more ways to surprise me. That key signifies our future. A plan. A new dream for us. Sorely needed after a difficult year.

The ironic part is that I thought I had outdone him for gifts, finding and hiding a rare edition book of Marlowe plays, one of his favorites, having bought it months ago, knowing he would be positively dumbstruck by it and he was.

Just not as much as I was by that key.

Noel.

The biggest Christmas miracle of all would be two children who slept until 8 am.

On Christmas day.

Yeah, I'm kinda wow too.

Saturday night has a whole part two that followed but I refuse to spoil what is shaping up to be a wonderful, cozy, quiet day by writing about it right now.

Harry Connick Jr. and vintage Glen Campbell are taking turns singing Christmas songs on the stereo, turkey is in the oven, and the fire is crackling and popping, warming up the whole house. Jacob just made a fresh pot of coffee and is busy doing nothing but watching the kids play with new board games while he sips from his cup and traces the tattoo on the back of my neck, the one that surprises people when I wear my hair up.

His phone didn't ring much yesterday and these have been two very close, very warm and devoted days.

I hope you're warm and happy too.

Blow up the moon.

(Never, ever meet the Devil in his own element. Which would be anywhere your defenders are NOT.)

I thought I was so prepared with my emotional shields in place, ready to deflect Caleb's charming and oh-so-familiar appearance, an older, wiser Cole. In an expensive but meant to be casual suit, shooting his cuffs, a gesture that leaves me a little weak in the knees as it is. Slightly nervous, still with his customary heavy-handed approach of poise and chivalry. He was always smooth and seductive where Cole's charisma had an abrasive, wild edge to it. A simple matter of being less refined, an accidental appeal that he didn't cultivate so carefully the way Caleb does. Caleb is, quite simply, a ladies man. And he knows it.

Of course I wasn't prepared, who am I kidding?

When a sleek black car pulled up to collect us after his brief visit he hugged each of the kids and wished them a merry Christmas and then he turned and shook Jacob's hand and told him he was a lucky man and that he hoped the holidays were enjoyable and that he would have time to spend with his family. Jacob nodded and didn't say very much at all, gracious in allowing Caleb in the house at all. But he was reserved and politely formal, and he helped me into my coat, kissed my cheek and frowned as he searched my eyes, hoping I would change my mind and stay home.

I told him I loved him and I'd be back in an hour. I kissed the kids goodnight and Caleb held the door for me.

When we got to the car, Caleb told the driver to take us to an overpriced cocktail lounge downtown. I looked at him with a mixture of surprise and anger. I leaned forward and asked the driver to pull over because we hadn't agreed on that destination.

They have coffee there, Bridget.

I'm not going to a bar with you, Caleb. If you want to get coffee, then we're going to a coffee shop, or an actual restaurant.

How about the one at my hotel then?

Why are you trying to cause problems for me?

What? I only know of a few places here.

Then ask me for suggestions. I've only been here for years, I know a few.

You're absolutely right, Bridget, my apologies.
I gave the driver the address of a coffee shop nearby and we arrived in silence. After ordering coffee and cake, I decided to try and mask my difficulties with being near him by being nasty to him. Very nasty. Hoping it wouldn't be mistaken for the petulance that his brother adored.

So why do you need to know things about me?

What are you talking about?

Continuing to read my journal, asking Ben things that are clearly not your concern, trying to undermine my marriage. What are you up to?

I'm concerned. Bridget, spending time with you is watching our tightrope walker teetering back and forth at the middle and you know there's no net down below. Oh, and would you please stop referring to me as the devil when you write?

No one told you you needed to spend time with me, or analyze me, for that matter.

Cole was very worried about you.

Cole's dead.

He died worrying about you, baby.
I stood up.

Don't call me baby. Fuck, what is wrong with you guys? I'll take a cab home. I'll be sure the kids send you thank you notes for the gifts but you need to go home now, Caleb.
He stood up but made no move to stop me. Shot a cuff and checked his watch.

Oh Lord. Help me.

Please sit down and let me explain. I'm running out of time. You only gave me an hour.

I don't think so.

Then stand up, but let me tell you why I'm trying to make sure you're okay.

Fine.
I sat. And rolled my eyes.

God, you can be so childish.

Your brother loved it.

Does Jake?

No.

I see.

Start talking, Caleb.

Name the one person who ever knew you best?

Jacob.

No, not Jake, Cole.

Sorry. You're wrong.

I'm right, Bridget.

If you were right, Caleb, things would be vastly different right now. Your brother wouldn't have lived his life to hurt me.

No, he knew everything you liked and he indulged you even though he hated himself for what it meant for him. We talked more often than you think we did.
I stood up again. Someone came over and asked me if everything was alright, giving Caleb the once over. People had been watching us since we came in anyway, they do that. I murmured that I was fine, thank you. I sat back down. I must have looked like a pogo stick.

On the inside I felt sick to my stomach.

What are you talking about?

You know exactly what I'm talking about. The things Jacob won't do. For you, to you. Things you want.

Why would you want to hurt me like this, Caleb? How dare you?

He won't do them because he's selfish, Bridge! Forcing you to try and get pregnant, cutting you off from everyone you love. Cole went out of his way to give you everything, including time and space alone with Jake, if that was what you asked for. He gave you everything you wanted. And he felt like a monster but he did those things because he loved you. He wanted you to have everything.
Up she goes, holding back tears with characteristic success. They rolled down my face. These were revelations I already knew. Ones I can't acknowledge.

Caleb, your brother also tried to kill me, when he wasn't farming me out to you. I'm done here. I'm going home to Jacob now.
I tossed my napkin on the plate and stalked to the door to get my coat, shaking like a leaf. Fragile to a fault. Stupid princess. Caleb followed me. He helped me into my coat and then he wiped the tears from my cheeks with his fingers. I didn't stop him. I didn't stop him when he put his arms around me, pressing his mouth against my hair over my ear, speaking low so no one could overhear.

Bridget, you can have it all. All you have to do is say the word. If he won't do it then I will. And you don't have to leave him to get it.

He pulled back and held out a card key. For his hotel room. I stared at it while he talked and I could barely hear him for the blood pounding in my head. For one brief horrible moment I could envision myself taking that card in some desperate, fucked up attempt to turn back time and have just a few more intimate moments with Cole, somehow. Because it was familiar. Because...because I don't even know how to explain why.

But that's not what I want and that's not what this would be.

I don't want this.

I looked up at Caleb's face then as he spoke, not really listening but just staring at his dark blue eyes and noticing for the first time that he somehow looked nothing like Cole on this night.

...I can have the card dropped off and you can meet me whenever I'm in the city...

I don't know what else he said, because I wrenched out of his grasp and pushed past him, walking right out the door.

When I got home the children were still up and climbing all over Jacob while he told them the Christmas story in his own colorful, animated way. I waved and said nothing so that he could finish uninterrupted and then together we put the kids to bed and retreated to the den, not with coffee, but with cognac. Full-on full-glass cognac, warm, soothing tonic for my broken nerves.

I told Jacob everything and I told him that I'd box up the gifts and have them returned to Caleb's office. He nodded. I think he was too stunned to even react, and honestly I downplayed it because I can't handle not minimizing it. I got up to go get ready for bed, not remembering the last time I felt so sick to my stomach. I told Jake I was going to have a shower and why and he just nodded like he really hadn't heard.

Upstairs in the bathroom I stripped out of my dress and drenched myself in a hot stream of water. I turned around, put my head up to rinse my hair and my nose bumped Jake's. He had followed me in quietly under the cover of the noise from the shower, knowing how vulnerable I felt, he was ready to catch me.

Only I didn't fall. There was no risk involved.

He held me, smothered in his arms. He trusts me. He loves me.

He was worried anyway.

There's only one man I love on this earth, only one who's ever going to touch me ever again, only one I would ask those things of, knowing full well he won't concede to doing them but I'll keep asking until I learn to relax and calm down, and only one that is so incredible that none of those other things even fucking matter anymore.

That would be Jake.

As if anyone had to ask.

Oh and to keep him accountable, Caleb said he would fix the laptop when he gets here tonight, having changed his plans to be able to spend a little extra time in the city. Call me selfish, I want it fixed. We can use each other. God.

This isn't Tool, Jacob.

Uh-Oh.

Karaoke man has discovered the Christmas carols. And I am doomed. He's been warming up with The Christmas Song and Doc Walker all morning.

I used to like this song. Now I'm ready to throw the switch and blow Tool's Four Degrees through the house on 11.

But I think Jake would be insulted. I'm making a stab at tolerating liking country music because he listens to everything. Literally everything. Please don't forget this past spring when I was tortured with a week of Xavier Rudd. A week I will never get back. I couldn't stand the sacred Tibetan chanting stuff he put on this morning and he balked at Bif Naked. Doc it is.

Well, poo.

So far I like one song, kinda, sort, mostly. But maybe I'm a sucker for a cute video, a lot of rain and a blonde guy with a guitar.

Like you didn't know that already.

Technical difficulties.

Bridget has a geriatric laptop on life support and is most definitely not allowed to hijack the church computer to post entries to her personal journal, never mind the fact that said personal journal is read here most days by unnamed husband who is cranky today.

So yes, tech guy #1 died (that would be Cole) and back-up tech guy is far away (Lochlan) and so the very technologically impaired duo will either successfully swap out the hard drive and I'll be back in business or we'll have to resort to constructing a hippie laptop made of hemp and good vibes so I can write.

Warmest regards.

I think it's finally hit me. The elusive spirit that just kind of crops up out of nowhere as I take a look around and realize, it's here, Christmas. It's here whether I accomplished everything or anything on my list at all and I can do no more.

This year is light on presents and materialistic indulgences and rich and heavy on love. And thanks and Joy, which gets a capital letter for being free and bountiful.

Guys, I've got everything. The lights have been on all day long on that giant Christmas tree, I have helped Santa wrap the stocking stuffers, the turkey is just about ready to come out of the freezer for thawing and Jacob really doesn't have to eat cooked carrots this year if he doesn't like them. Mom's cookies are just about gone and Ruthie decided that school doesn't suck so much after all, especially now that there's one day left before vacation, two for Jake. Possibly three as he's the on-call chaplain for the fire station, being the newbie this year. So his phone stays on, hopefully people will stay home and be safe so that he can stay home the whole day.

Christmas could have been awful this year, but it's not going to be. And New Year's eve might possibly be epic, as I spent most of 2006 flying by the seat of my pants, and the pants finally gave out and I am permanently grounded in a fresh reality, one that I hope is a little less eventful and even more romantic.

And since there's a lot of you reading at work who may or may not have scored Friday off in order to travel or unwind before the festivities begin, I'd like to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

I'll be posting daily as usual, no worries. I just wanted to send out a big virtual Bridget-hug to everyone who has cheered me on and helped hold me up this year. Without you I would have been lonely.

Thank you. Happy Holidays!

Crosby, Stills, Nash and you.

Geez, I post the sweetest thing in the world and all everyone wants to know was howdrunkwasBridgetlastnight?
I was going to say not so much until I saw that I did indeed write something here. Geez, someone take away the laptop when they bring the alcohol please?

I haven't had a drink in a long time. But I have a feeling that if I can maintain whatever emotional plateau I have climbed onto as of this week I can avoid going back on the freaking stupid zombie pills and maybe just stay like this, because this is nice, and it's nice to have a nightcap or a cocktail or whatever.

In any event, it was a nice, quiet evening. The kids were zonked and asleep by 8, and Jacob turned off all the lights except for the Christmas tree and we danced in the living room but I don't think my feet touched the floor, and I don't think his lips left my shoulder.

    All your life
    You were only waiting for this moment to be free
    Blackbird fly

Obligations and carrots.

Every year for the past ten years my Christmas dinners have been a round table of wayward folks. Cole, our friends, his coworkers, random guys he knew who were far from home, or just plain alone, or didn't want to have to do the fam-thing because of so many reasons. We've always hosted a big dinner to give people a hot meal and some new memories, and because I think I'd rather die than think someone was alone on Christmas.

I can't tell you how many years straight Loch and I got shitfaced on cheap wine and stuck Cole with the dishes. I can't tell you how many years in a row Jacob sat across the table after eating almost half of all the food and started a discussion about going out for dessert when everyone else, who had eaten a fraction of what he had, were stuffed. Or how many times we sang Christmas carol parodies until we couldn't stop laughing. I can't say how many times I left the table at the end of the meal and went outside for a fresh breath of air only to have Jake sneak up on me with some funny little present, a hug and a wish for a Merry Christmas in which we held each other a little too hard, a little too close and perhaps a little bit too often in one night.

This year I'm out of luck. We've all got colds, it's been a long, crowded year and for the first time in recent memory there appear to be no stragglers in need of an emergency Christmas dinner. Not to mention it's our first real honest-to-goodness actual Christmas together, married and together.

And since we're so far behind this year, Jacob asked me to make a list and he went to the grocery store to get everything while I helped Henry with a project.

He came home and we switched places, I went to put away the groceries and he sat down with Henry to see what progress we had made.

Jake!

What is it?

You forgot to get the carrots.

No I didn't.

They were on the list.

Bridget, I hate carrots.

What are you talking about? You eat them all the time.

Raw. I hate cooked carrots.

But..every year you've eaten them. I've seen you. You clean the plate.

Right. Yes.

Okay, you've lost me.

Bridget, I only eat them because you make them. But truth be told, I can't stand them cooked.

You only ate them because I made them?

Because you made them, princess.

Well, now, that is the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I think I could fall in love with you.

So we'll skip them? And I love you too.

Are you kidding me? I have to make them now! It'll be a new tradition.

He smiled, defeated, and looked at Henry. Henry reassured him,

That's okay, Jake. I hate it when mommy makes carrots too.

Cheer in a glass. Uh oh.

I think Jake has a forehead fetish. He put my drink on the desk and then kissed my forehead and headed out to the garage. Then later he comes back in and smooths my bangs back from said forehead. My forehead is a fivehead, okay, I won't lie. I sometimes put a bit of powder on it so the sun reflecting off it doesn't blind people walking toward me.

Next he rubs his thumb across it when he puts his hand over my ear. My drink? Long dranked.

Okay enough.

This is not a post. This is Bridget enjoying a loopy semidrunk minute far too early in the evening.

What's in the glass is eggnog. Or mostly brandy clouded with just enough eggnog so that it can be called Christmas Cheer and not OhfuckBridgetsdrunkagain. But it is five o'clock and dinner is almost done and I'm cut off and lord I hope no one comes by tonight because this hit damn hard