8 comments/ 17415 views/ 7 favorites The Peppermint Martini Miracle By: datedsoul This is my entry for the 2012 Winter Holiday Story Contest. Enjoy! Christmas editing love to SlySubmissive. * I eyed the khaki-colored concoction in the cocktail glass, complete with cranberries, with concern, and a little consternation. "You better taste good, you bastard," I warned it. I took a sip, swished the liquid around my teeth, and then swallowed. "God damn it!" I roared, hurling the glass, and the foul sludge within it, into the sink, where it shattered. I picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey on the kitchen counter and crunched across the broken glass that now littered my kitchen floor, heading to my bedroom. I momentarily wondered if the Turkey was the reason for my most recent failure. "Make a turkey-flavored drink, and use Wild Turkey. It'll be a hoot," I said to no one, mocking myself. The Turkey wasn't to blame. The finest bourbon wouldn't have saved that mixological monstrosity. Even without a myriad of spices and other flavored liquids, though, it would still serve its purpose tonight. I hoped. And, after all, turkey IS the tradition on Thanksgiving. I stripped down to my boxers and sat on my bed, flipping on the TV. I liked infomercials. The people on them, and the people watching them, felt like kindred spirits -- lost, and looking for something to relieve a problem they didn't really have, instead of facing the ones they really did. Who the hell is so bad at flipping an egg they need a combination spatula-tong? Who needs a cloth that can absorb five gallons of liquid? I spent the next hour or so nursing the bottle of bourbon. Not nursing as in drinking it slowly. You can't drink half a fifth in an hour and call it slowly. More of nursing like an infant at its mother's breast -- sucking greedily. As bleary-eyed consciousness gave way to chemically-induced unconsciousness, I begged whatever higher power might be listening to grant the one wish I had every night. "Not tonight, please." They never listen. Gunshots woke me a few hours later. It wasn't gang bangers, or an angry spouse. We weren't being invaded by some overly aggressive East Asian country. They were gunshots no one else heard. I always thought that sightless dreams were strange. Just an angry, startling sound, heard (if what one experiences in a dream can truly be described using the standard sensory input terms) three times in quick succession. Those were the good dreams. The bad ones had a droning, monotone audio, clinical and cold. "Thirty-five year old white male. Three gunshot wounds to the torso, no rear exit wounds." That uncaring voice would go on to describe every step of dismantling a human body during an autopsy, and I never managed to wake up before it was done. As a pharmaceutical research chemist, I knew enough biology to be unhealthily (for my own sanity) familiar with the process. The man being so dispassionately disassembled was my father, Steven Morgan, on the night he was shot and killed at the pharmacy where he worked. It was a random robbery by a drug addict, the third place he hit that night. The worst part -- I never found out why. There were no signs of a struggle. The video showed my father calmly and quickly handing over a few bottles of pills. He never made any sudden or aggressive moves. He didn't even say anything, other than, "OK." The druggy took the pills, and then calmly put three bullets in my father's chest. When the police cornered the robber (and murderer!) outside the gas station he went on to rob after the pharmacy, he opened fire on them. They shot back, and he was dead as soon as he hit the ground. I was so angry when I found out, angry that my father had been taken for no reason, that the man who had done it couldn't tell me why, that the police had done nothing but ensure that I would never have my answers. I was furious with my mother for allowing him to work extra hours because she had slipped and broken her arm a few weeks earlier, preventing her from working at her assembly line job. I was disgusted with my grandmother for getting old -- paying for her nursing home was the only reason mom had to work. Mostly I loathed myself, because I would never be able to answer that question. *** A digital chirping coming from Stacey's desk interrupted my train of thought. Stacey was a post-grad student, doing research for her doctorate. She was a brilliant young biochemist, far smarter than me. She was one of three post-grad students chosen by my company to do her research in our labs. She was also a mom, and a sister. That kept her phone pretty busy. People generally did whatever they could to avoid talking to me. "Stacey Stacy," she said, answering the phone without looking at it. The poor girl had a seriously unfortunate married name. Born Stacey Marie Jenkins, she married her college sweetheart John Stacy about five years ago. She joked that she lost an initial, but gained a stutter when they were married. Over the course of six months, I had gotten to know a little about her. When I asked her why she took his last name, she told me she did it, "in deference to tradition, and the groom's pushy parents." Since John was an only child, they desperately wanted their last name perpetuated. I asked her once if she ever went by her middle name, or had a nickname. She blushed a deep rose pink, and pressed her lips shut. "Hey, it's none of my business. Forget I asked," I told her. "No, I want to, it's ... not a nickname I like, and telling the story helps." "OK..." "My sister calls me ... 'Pinky'." "Why? I don't think I've ever seen you wear pink. Is there something wrong with your hand?" I peered curiously at her fingers. She chortled. "No." Then, she pointed at her cheeks, which were still flushed. "When I was a kid, I was painfully shy. Anytime someone talked to me, I would blush and be totally unable to speak. The more they tried, the worse it got. When I got home from my first day of kindergarten, my entire face was bright pink. Jamie, my sister, has called me that ever since." "I can see how that kind of thing just feeds back into itself." She blushed, but smiled. "Yeah." This phone call triggered the opposite reaction. Her normal peaches and cream complexion faded to a deathly white. Her eyes widened, and filled with tears. "Oh no. No no no. Oh God!" she moaned into the phone. I knew that expression. I'd seen it on my mother's face many years ago. She listened for a moment, whispered, "OK," and the hung up the phone. She moved mechanically about the lab, gathering her things. "Stacey?" "That was my sister," she answered hollowly. "John has been using her car for a few days. They fished it out of the river this morning. They think he hit a patch of ice. He didn't have any ID on him, so they called her to ... to ..." She broke down, sobbing. 'To identify the body,' I finished mentally. I started to move toward her, but I had no idea what to do or say. Before I could figure it out, she fled the lab. *** "Thirty-five year old white male. Three gunshot wounds to the torso, no rear exit wounds." I thrashed in my sleep as the voice droned on about Y-incisions, organ weights, and other morbid facts about the body on the stainless steel table. "Cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound to the heart, puncturing the left ventricle..." With the sound of a metal freezer door slamming shut, I shot upright in bed. Then, I reached for the bottle on the table beside it. Now that I had reached the age dad was when he died, the nightmares had gotten more frequent, as had the guilt that I had lived longer than him, and still had no idea why he was taken. *** I saw Stacey three days later, at her husband's funeral. I had planned just to offer my condolences and make a quick exit. "Oh, Tom!" Stacey wailed, flinging her arms around me as soon as she saw me. I tentatively hugged her while she sobbed. After a moment, I felt a tug at my pants. "You work with mommy," said a voice at my knee. I looked down into the upturned jade green eyes of Stacey's daughter, Megan. "That's right. My name is Tom. You must be Megan." "My daddy is with Jesus now," she informed me. I wish I could say the same thing, kid. Maybe I could sleep at night. Stacey's eyes caught mine for a second, her face miserable with heart-wrenching grief, and something else I couldn't identify. She tore her gaze away, and rotated to another mourner, who sobbed along with her, and Megan was scooped up by Stacey's sister. "Thank you for coming," she told me. I nodded. Then, I made a surreptitious exit as soon as they were both distracted. I picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home and tried to drink away mine and Stacey's pain. About a third of the way through the bottle, the sensation of Stacey's breasts against me when she hugged me dominated my thoughts. I hadn't so much as touched a woman for close to two years. I drunkenly, guiltily masturbated to thoughts of Stacey greeting me wearing nothing but her lab coat. The next morning, I accepted the nightmares as punishment for those thoughts. *** When I arrived at work the following Monday, Stacey was already there. I rarely sleep late, thanks to the nightmares, so I'm always one of the first people to the lab in the morning. "Hi, Tom. Thanks again for coming to John's funeral." "Of course. I just wanted you to know that, well, I'm here if you need anything." She smiled. "Thank you." She wasn't the distracted zombie I expected from someone who had just lost their spouse. She certainly wasn't her chipper self, but she appeared to be coming to terms with his death. That turned out to be a complete façade. An hour into the day, barely aware of what she was doing, she burned herself badly with a strong basic solution. The caustic substance rapidly demolished the soft tissue of her hand, actually converting any fatty tissue with which it came in contact into, well, soap. I heard the tinkle of glassware one never wants to hear in a lab, and I looked over to see Stacey staring blankly at her hand. She sucked in a sudden deep breath, and started to scream before running to a water faucet. I knew she had been working with the auto-titrator. That meant that whatever she'd gotten on her, water would just make it worse. "Stacey, no!" I yelled, charging across the lab. I managed to intercept her just before she turned on the water. "It hurts!" she screamed, panic and pain lighting up her face. "I know," I said, dragging her back toward where she was working. When I saw what she had spilled on herself, I knew what neutralizing solution I needed. We keep them beside the titrator for that reason. I poured a copious amount on her hand, sloshing some on both of our lab coats, while she fought to escape my grasp, screaming, "It hurts! It hurts!" Finally, the weak acid broke down the powerful base, and the damage stopped spreading, but Stacey went into shock. A three-inch swath of skin spanning the entire back of her hand was a blistered, bleeding, weeping mess. She took a few ragged breaths. Then, her eyes rolled up in her head, and I barely managed to steer her away from the spilled chemicals before her dead weight dragged us to the floor. I called the on-site nurse's station, and they called an ambulance. She was conscious when it arrived, but delirious. Between moans of pain, she railed at John for leaving her, begged the powers that be to return him, and apologized to Megan for being forced to grow up without a dad. That night, after most of a bottle of rum, with my cock in my hand, I fantasized that a kiss from my lips took away the burn on Stacey's hand. "If that's what those lips can do there, what else can they do?" she asked me shyly. I kissed my way up her arm to her neck. "Only one way to find out," became the newest item on my list of atrocities. The thing that made me hate myself the most? That night, I slept peacefully. *** Stacey was kept overnight at the hospital. She was somewhat dehydrated and malnourished. I found out she'd eaten very little since John's death. Being the holiday season, they also wanted to ensure she wasn't suffering from the extreme depression that can set in from losing someone at that time of year. They released her after twenty-four hours. She spent the rest of the week away from the lab. When Monday rolled around, she was, sadly, more like the distant automaton I expected. To prevent any additional accidents, I made her spend most of her time compiling and sifting through her already amassed data. She spent a week clicking listlessly through spreadsheets, setting up formulas, deciding what other research she needed to complete, and occasionally staring out the window at the falling snow. To me, Christmas just meant a day of Chinese food, movies on TV that I had seen a dozen times, and a phone call from my sister, Madeline. Mom had died a few years ago. Heart disease ran rampant in her family, and a heart attack took her suddenly at age sixty-five. The rest of the staff here knew not to ask me about the Secret Santa gift exchange. After I got drunk at the first Christmas party and glowered at everyone there, I resolved not to attend anymore, much to everyone else's relief. I thought about my first Christmas after dad was killed. It was like living in a black and white movie. The tree was gray, the lights were a harsh, glaring white, and the sound was tinny and muffled. But black and white Christmas movies have happy endings. Mine was joyless and numb. The chirping of Stacey's phone saved me from my depressed recollections. "This is Stacey," she said. After a long pause, she followed that with, "I understand. Thank you." She dropped the phone on her desk, and then buried her face in her arms, sobbing. "Stacey, what is it?" I asked. Between sobs, she told me that the police had considered John's death suspicious. Traffic camera footage showed that he had driven back and forth through that area several times. Then, it appeared that he had deliberately driven off the bridge. The official police report had ruled his death a suicide. As a result, his life insurance policy was void, and no payment would be issued. Her eyes locked onto mine. "They're right," she told me. "He left me a note." I went to her and held her as she sobbed. That night, I wondered if maybe John had the right idea. *** "Is Megan excited about Christmas?" I asked Stacey on the last day the lab would be open before the holidays. "Yeah, she's...oh, no. No no no. No, it can't be that close. Tell me today isn't the 23rd!" "Um, yeah, that's right. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve." "No no no! Oh God! I haven't done ANY shopping. I can't let her down! She knows things have been crazy. There's nothing under the tree, but she keeps saying, 'Santa will take care of everything,' and telling me not to worry, but with the cost of the funeral, I'm tapped out. His parents don't have much, so they couldn't help with the expenses. At least I'm considered an employee here and not an intern, but research assistant doesn't pay that much. I don't want to let her down, but I don't think I can handle the crowds and the madness. I can barely drive lately. I ... I have to go." She grabbed her coat and purse, and left. After she left, I couldn't stop thinking about Megan. I remembered those innocent eyes, so sure that her dad was in a safe, happy place. I heard Stacey's voice, telling me about Megan's unflappable belief that Santa would make sure Christmas was perfect for her and her mother. Then, I heard my own voice, just a little older than Megan is now, telling my mother I wanted to be like daddy, and give people medicines that made them better, that I wanted to help people. I wanted to help people. I grabbed my phone, and called one of the few numbers stored in it. "Maddy, it's Tom...Yeah, I know Christmas isn't for two days... No, I'm not sick. I need some help..." *** If there's one time of year that a man doesn't get strange looks walking around in a Santa suit, it's Christmas Eve. With a sack over my shoulder, and sleigh bells in my hand, I stood in front of the door to Stacey's small house. I shook the stick of sleigh bells a few times, and then hid them in a row of bushes lining the front of the house. "HO HO HO!" I bellowed. I heard a shriek of glee from inside the house. "Mommy mommy! Santa's here!" "Megan, wait!" Stacey yelled, but she was too late. Megan tore the front door open, rushed out in her Rudolph footie pajamas, and wrapped herself around my leg. "I told mommy you would be here. I told her!" Stacey slid to a halt just inside the door, staring gape-mouthed at the red and white apparition on her porch. I reached down and patted Megan on the head, but my eyes never left Stacey's. "Well, well, it seems we have two very good girls here who need some holiday cheer," I said. "Come inside, Santa," Megan offered, pulling on my hand. "I would love to, Megan, if it's OK with your mommy. Stacey, may I?" "See, he is Santa! He knows our names!" Megan assured her mother. Stacey stood frozen, still not sure what she was seeing. I was sure she had recognized me immediately, but if you had polled people at our lab asking who was the most likely to show up dressed in a Santa suit on Christmas Eve, I would have been a one vote write-in, and that only as a joke. Eyes wide and paralyzed with emotion, Stacey eventually managed to nod her head slightly. Megan squealed with delight and almost dislocated my shoulder dragging me into the house, where she proceeded to give me a quick tour. Stacey's home was decorated for the holidays, subdued, but elegant. It was a winter wonderland, not a shopper's paradise, or a simulation North Pole. Pine boughs and white candles on silver candlesticks lined a fireplace mantle. "That's our Christmas tree," Megan informed me, pointing to a six foot real tree in the corner, covered with strands of popcorn and white lights. "I helped pop the popcorn. That's our kitchen. Mommy and I were going to make cookies for you later. What kind of cookies do you like?" "Santa likes ALL kinds of cookies," I replied. "Are you sure? You're pretty skinny." "Well, Mrs. Clause has Santa doing Yoga and Pilates, but I get to eat all the cookies I want tonight, so don't you worry." I looked at Stacey, who was still completely flabbergasted, and winked. She relinquished a quick smile, but the effort almost cost her all control of the emotions I could see bubbling behind her eyes, and she had to reign it in, lest she break down. "OK. Come see my bedroom," Megan directed, steering me down a hallway by my hand. I managed to deposit my sack near the tree and mouth, "No peeking," at Stacey before I was led away. Megan's bedroom was painted a breezy green, and adorned with appliques of sea creatures. Her small wooden bed was carved like a sandcastle, covered with a bedspread patterned with crashing waves and seashells. "Santa, how come you're here now?" Megan asked me. "Haven't you been a good girl? I could double-check my list if you want," I teased. "Santa!" she yelled, affronted at my misdirection. "I meeaann, how come you didn't wait 'till I was asleep?" "Well, the world has gotten bigger, so Santa has to start a little earlier now, and I let the elves take the sleigh sometimes. Plus, sometimes Santa likes to see little girls faces when they get their presents." "Why?" "Because they smile so pretty when they're happy." "OK. I'll be sure to smile lots," she assured me, flashing me a test run of her grin. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. Speaking of presents..." "Yay, presents!" Megan squealed, clapping her hands. "I need you to stay here for just a few minutes. Santa can't give away ALL his secrets, you know. Your mom will come get you when I'm ready for you, OK?" The Peppermint Martini Miracle "OK!" I closed Megan's door and returned to the living room, smiling at Stacey as I approached. "Why are you doing this, Tom?" she asked quietly. "I'm sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Kris. As for why I'm doing this, well, that will be apparent momentarily." I flashed a devious smile at her, grabbed my sack, and headed toward the tree. I dug into Santa's bag and removed a myriad of gifts perfect for the discerning 4-year-old girl -- some dresses, DVDs, and half a dozen things about which I was completely clueless. I had solid intel that they would be well received, however. I set my bag to the side, the distinctive tinkle of glass muffled by the thick cloth. Presents arranged, I returned my attention to Stacey. She was shaking her head slowly, her face a mask of disbelief. "Stacey, would you bring Megan in, please?" Stacey shook herself, and then went to fetch Megan. As soon as her bedroom door was opened, Megan flew down the hall. She raced to the tree, and dropped to her knees amidst the presents, eyes enormous with wonder. "Mommy, can I?" she asked, clutching one to her chest. Stacey nodded mutely. "Yay!" she cheered. Paper flew, and she hoisted one of the DVDs over her head. "Just what I wanted!! Look mommy! Santa got it!" "I see that," Stacey eked out, her eyes filling with tears. The concern she had shown earlier slowly evaporated as wrapping paper began to litter the floor. When Megan unwrapped one of the dresses, the Christmas spirit finally fully captured Stacey. With an earnest, "Ohh," she went to Megan and held the dress up in front of her. "It's so pretty, mommy!" "Yes it is. Do you want to wear it to Aunt Jamie's tomorrow?" "Yes yes yes! I can't wait to tell her I MET SANTA!" Stacey chuckled. "Why are you crying, mommy?" Megan asked. "I'm ... I'm just happy you're having a good Christmas, sweetie." Eventually, all the presents were unwrapped, and Megan dove into a package with some dolls and clothing. I sidled over to Stacey, who was watching Megan supply both sides of a conversation with a doll in each hand. "That's why," I told her. Stacey turned to me, her eyes filling with tears again. Then, she threw her arms around me. "Thank you, Santa. I'll never forget this, and I don't think she will either." I placed my hands on her back and held her against me. My traitorous body tried to ruin everything. The heat from her seared my hands through the satiny material of her simple, green wrap dress. I almost managed to suppress a shudder as the floral scent of her shampoo invaded my nose. I was trapped. I couldn't pull away, knowing how much she needed the comfort, but every second threatened to expose me for the lecher I was. I needed a drink. Megan saved me. "Mommy, can I watch one of my movies?" "Sure, sweetie. Go brush your teeth and you can watch it in your bedroom." Stacey relinquished her grip on me and said, "I'll be right back." I nodded. Once they were busy out of sight, I removed the glasses and bottles from my bag. Thomas Morgan had been a failure as an amateur mixologist. I was hoping Kris Kringle might fare a little better. I muddled some peppermint leaves with some ice and a crumbled candy cane in the bottom of a cocktail shaker. I added four parts gin and one part peppermint schnapps, and then gave it a quick shake before straining it into two red-stripped martini glasses. With the drinks poured, I waited for Stacey before adding the finishing touch. When she returned, I took an ice cube, placed it into a wheel-style cheese grater, and then cranked the handle. A dusting of snow fell onto the peppermint martinis. I gave them a last stir with a candy cane. Before I could put it into the shaker, Stacey gripped my wrist and sucked the remnants of the cocktail from it tentatively, a shy but determined expression on her face, her eyes locked onto mine. My breath caught, and she smiled. "Merry Christmas," I said, handing her glass to her. "Thank you ... Santa," she said with a sly smirk. She took a sip. "This is ... perfect. It smells and tastes like Christmas." "I'm ... glad you like it." I took a healthy swig from my glass. "Wow, better than I thought actually." We sipped our drinks silently for a few moments. "How did you know what Megan would like?" she asked. I could hear the slight alarm in her voice, as if she wondered where I had hidden the cameras and mics. "I have a niece that's close to her age. My sister helped me." "That explains how, but I still don't understand WHY you did this. Not that I don't appreciate it, but, why me? Why us?" "C'mon. I know you saw the look on Megan's face when she was digging in." "Well, yeah, but, you don't really even know us." "The world would be an even shittier place if we only did nice things for the people we know. After all, most people behave their worst towards strangers. They only reign it in around the people from whom they fear repercussions. I know what it's like to be on the wrong side of tragedy. I've had a miserable Christmas or twenty. There's no reason to keep that tradition alive. I can't go back and make mine better, but I figured that I could maybe keep one or two from being miserable for someone else." For a moment, Stacey struggled for words. Then, she blurted out the last thing I expected to hear. "John was gay. That's why he killed himself." My jaw dropped. "But... Megan." "She's the result of the second and last time we had sex, once obligatorily on our honeymoon, once again about five months later." "I don't understand," I said. "I couldn't leave him for so many reasons. He was my first and only relationship. I was so shy I could barely acknowledge anybody who talked to me. I had one friend in college - my dorm roommate. John was in one of her classes. After they worked together for about a month, I managed to respond to him when he said, 'Hi,' one day while they were studying in our room. I think Gina suspected he was gay. She even hinted at it to me after she noticed our relationship forming, but I was convinced he hadn't any other girlfriends because he was as shy as I was. It all made so much sense to me. "I started to suspect that maybe Gina was right the night before we had sex the second time. I chickened out every time I tried to talk to him about it. Eventually, I was so desperate I practically forced myself on him. He managed to perform, but the lights were off, and I'm sure he just imagined himself somewhere else. He wouldn't touch me at all. "He was excited when I got pregnant, and I know he loved Megan, but I think he was more relieved than anything. A few months after Megan was born, I cornered him and made him discuss it. He finally admitted he was gay. His parents had been riding him since he turned eighteen to get married and give them a grandchild. They're so fucking pushy! But he could never tell them it wasn't going to happen. He was glad that Megan ended those questions. "Anyway, we decided to stay together for Megan." She held up a hand to stop any response I may have had. "I know, it's a terrible reason, but, I couldn't bear the thought of raising her alone, or only spending part of my time with her, and I was terrified of trying to find someone else." Her lip began to quiver, and she dropped her eyes. "Oh, God, Tom, I'm such a terrible person," she sobbed. "Stacey, what are you talking about?" "Tom, I'm ... I'm not glad he's dead but ... I'm glad I'm free," she whispered. I wrapped my arms around her, and she wailed with guilt. I stroked her hair, trying not to enjoy the silken texture and heavenly aroma. If she thought she was a terrible person, what would she think of me taking pleasure from comforting her? I was almost ready for her to kick me out, but I would rather give her present to her before she did, and leave without her hating me. I did what a could to reign in my libido, but everything about her made it more difficult by the second. Her soft, luscious flesh was pressed against me. Her fingers gripped my back, and every curvy sign of her femininity was apparent. I stiffened, in several places at once, and tried to take my mind somewhere else. "Tom," she said quietly, after a her tears had played out, "it's OK." She pressed herself firmly against me. "You're one of the reasons I'm glad I'm free. You've always been so nice to me, always made me feel ... special." I swallowed, hard, and then held her at arm's length. "No, Stacey, it's not OK. I came here to give two people who needed it a Merry Christmas, not to take advantage of you." I pulled an envelope from inside my Santa suit and handed it to her. "What's this?" "Your present." She eyed me quizzically before opening it. Her eyes scanned the letter, and her face slowly blossomed into an excited smile. "You wrote me a letter of recommendation, and the director of research signed it?" "You deserve it. Your silicon thin-layer chromatography concepts are fantastic, and your work is impeccable. I may be just an old drunk, but I know my shit, and the people in charge know to listen to me. If I say you're a rising star, they want their names attached." "You're not an old drunk. I know that beard is fake," she teased. I smiled halfheartedly. "A middle-aged drunk, then." "Don't say that!" she yelled at me, pounding a fist on my chest. "Drunks are selfish, destructive people. I don't know why you hurt so much, but you are not selfish. Just look at what you did tonight." "Call it one good act to make up for a lifetime of waste and failure, then." "Don't you dare downplay this!" she spat. "You did a WONDERFUL thing here. You made two people very happy, and you did it completely selflessly. You're a real-life Christmas miracle, Thomas Morgan." I stared blankly at Stacey, completely shocked by her words. Could it be that simple? Could that be the answer I had sought my whole life? It was something I could never have known before now, but it made sense. Was the 'why' of my father's death simply 'so I could be someone else's miracle'? Could I be living a black and white Christmas movie after all? No, life didn't work that way. I wasn't a domino set in motion all those years ago, destined to be at this place at this time for this reason, but maybe that event had allowed this one in some way. Maybe I didn't need a reason anymore. Maybe it was time to stop looking for one, and focus more on preventing myself from becoming the next tragedy. Maybe I could do good going forward, and try to balance the random bad, instead of looking for an answer that I would probably never find. It certainly felt good to deliver joy instead of being mired in misery. "Why do you drink, Tom? Why do you dislike yourself so much?" "Mostly, I drink so I can sleep. Otherwise, the nightmares ... don't let me sleep much." "Nightmares of what?" I sighed, and then told Stacey the story of the night that changed my life, and of the progressively worsening nightmares that had ruled it since. "Oh, God, Tom, that's awful. I never knew." "Nobody does, except for Maddy, my sister." "Have you tried talking to someone?" "A few times, as a kid. It didn't help, so I stopped going." "Do you ever sleep through the night?" I flinched, thinking of the night I had fantasized about Stacey, and slept dream-free. "Sometimes," I said blankly. "Is there anything that helps?" "Not consistently, no. Alcohol used to, but it takes more and more, and only helps for part of the night usually." Stacey nodded, and an uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen. "I need to go check on Megan. It's past her bed time, and we have to be up early tomorrow," she said. "I should probably go," I replied. "No! Wait, please, at least until I get back." The pleading look on her face froze me. "OK," I whispered. Stacey smiled warmly, placed her empty martini glass on the counter, and retreated down the hall. "Oh, what the hell." I said to no one, once she disappeared. I quickly mixed another batch of Peppermint Martinis, and took them into the living room, where I awaited Stacey's return. I perused the pictures on the walls and mantle. As I took in the images of various moments of family life, I noticed a theme -- John and Stacey almost never looked at each other, but she looked at him more than he looked at her. When the pictures began to contain Megan, they were both looking at her. Before her, they would focus on anyone else in photos, at something in the scenery, or just at the camera. They always held Megan, or their other family members close, but there was a perpetual distance between them when they were the only people in the image. Looking at all those photos, I realized Stacey had lost her husband a long time ago, if she had ever had him at all. When I heard her footsteps coming back to the living room, I stood with my back to the fireplace. I handed Stacey her martini. She took it wordlessly, sipped it, and smiled at me. "Is she out?" I asked. "Yeah." Another uncomfortable silence descended. Stacey sat down her drink with her back to me, clenched her fists, and took several deep breaths. When she turned to face me, she had the same shy, devious smile on her face I had seen earlier. "Tom, I have something for you for Christmas, but I need you to promise you'll accept it before you unwrap it." "Um, OK. I think I can do that." "Good," she said, approaching me slowly. She reached behind her back. I knew there was no way she had something in her hand. She had just had her back to me. So what could she... Stacey's dress twitched, and went slack on her shoulders. Her hand came forward holding one of the ties for it. She stopped a few inches from me, and placed the band of satiny material in my hand. "Merry Christmas, Tom." "Stacey, I-" She held up a finger to silence me. "You promised." "But, Stacey-" "No, no excuses. You are not taking advantage of me. You are not some awful person using me. I need this, too. That's why I made you promise. Please. I don't know what it feels like to have a man who wants me. Make me smile, like you did for Megan. Don't be cruel and make me beg, because I ... I don't know if I can." I was awed by the strength she showed. I had thrown a wild surprise into her life this evening, and this painfully shy woman still had enough steel in her backbone to make a request that obviously terrified her. She stepped forward, a pleading expression on her face. Her breasts lightly brushed my chest. At the moment of contact, my resistance melted like snow in the spring sunlight. I tugged on the green cloth in my hand, pulling her dress open. It slid off her shoulders, down her arms, and onto the floor. Motherhood had done good things to Stacey's body. She had been thin, almost to the point of bony in college. Maternity had added several inches to her bust and hips, and some meat to her arms and legs, but her youthful metabolism had removed the baby weight from her waist. She had gone from string bean to bombshell, and I had never noticed what a knockout body she hid under her lab coat. A low growl rolled from the back of my throat, making Stacey shiver. I ran my hands lightly along her arms, down her sides and over her hips, before moving them to the small of her back and pulling her against me. She flashed me a relieved smile, giggled, and began to sing "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause." "Not yet, you haven't," I said. "So what are you waiting for?" I pulled off my Santa beard, wig and hat, throwing them onto my sack by the tree. Then, I wrapped my arms around Stacey, pulled her against me, and slowly lowered my lips to hers. The kiss began tentatively, our lips brushing lightly. As I pressed my mouth more firmly against hers, Stacey sucked in a ragged breath through her nose, and began to kiss me back, working her lips against mine. Her fingers dug into my ribs, and I struggled to restrain myself. As soon as I stopped berating myself for how much I wanted her, I was almost insane with need. I forced myself to remember that this was for her, not me. I opened my mouth slightly, and hers followed suit. I let my tongue taste the peppermint on her full lips, and hers darted forward to meet it. One had caressed her smooth back. The other, almost with a mind of its own, drifted downward slowly to her round, full bottom. When I cupped a cheek and squeezed it gently, she moaned into my mouth, and thrust her tongue aggressively against mine. I ran my fingers through the silken hair I had craved earlier, kissing her hungrily. After a moment, Stacey tore her mouth from mine, gasping for breath. "Come see MY room, Santa," she said, mimicking Megan's earlier request. I chuckled. "Lead the way." She took my hand and guided me to her bedroom. I stopped halfway there and pulled my hand free. "Wait, forgot something." Stacey eyed me curiously, but nodded. I didn't want this to happen in the dark, but the full, harsh light of a modern light bulb seemed sacrilegious. So, I returned to the living room to collect two long, white taper candles and their silver candlesticks, along with the lighter half-hidden among the pine boughs draped on the mantle. Candles in hand, I turned back to the hallway to find Stacey watching me, a glowing smile on her face. Without a word, she turned and led the way again to her bedroom. Stacey sat on her bed while I placed the candles on a dresser backed by a large mirror. I lit them, and the room was coated in soft, buttery yellow light. When I turned to her, she smiled demurely and titled her face downward and away from me. I sat beside her on the bed. "Having second thoughts?" I asked. Her face whipped up to mine. "NO!" she yelled, and then clamped her hand over her mouth, looking out the door of the bedroom toward Megan's room. After a beat, she whispered, "No!" fiercely. "It's just, well, sometimes, Pinky is still in there." She took a shuddering breath. "Tom, I'm afraid I won't be very good at this. Like I said, you will be fifty percent of my partners, and this will be thirty-three percent of my experience." "Math nerd," I teased. Pinky charged to the surface, and, again, she turned away. I cupped her chin and hauled her gaze back to mine. "Hey, math nerds are super sexy. You don't have any naughty librarian glasses, do you?" "Sorry, I've always had good vision. It's my biggest nerd short-coming, and my secret shame." "I'll just have to make due with your fabulous body, then." "You ... you really think I'm pretty?" Stacey marveled as a beaming smile slowly blossomed on her face. "I shouldn't let you in a chem lab. You're a damn fire hazard." Stacey fidgeted on the bed. "So, where do we go from here?" she mumbled. Her radiant smile began to degenerate into anxiety. "First, you tell Pinky to shut the hell up for the rest of the night. Her input isn't wanted. Second, how about I lead, and you speak up anytime there's something you want?" I reached out to caress her cheek, and I felt her relax into my hand. "There's no fear here, and no judgment, OK?" "I..." Stacey began, and then faltered. I smiled and nodded encouragingly. "I want to see you," she finished in a rush. "Thank God. It's sweltering in this thing," I replied. I stood and quickly shrugged off the heavy, red velour coat and the t-shirt I wore underneath it. Then, I kicked off the boots and pants. "Um, I might be a bit ripe," I warned her. Stacey stood and buried her nose in the tuft of hair in the center of my chest. "You smell like a man," she moaned huskily. Then, she began to giggle. "What?" I asked. "Well, I've always kept my nails short, for the lab. I suddenly find myself wishing I could dig long fingernails into your back." "Personally, I'm not a fan of puncture wounds. I think yours are the perfect length. They'll make your point without any subcutaneous damage." The Peppermint Martini Miracle She giggled again. "I hope so." "Only one way to find out." It didn't seem so atrocious coming out of my mouth this time. I tilted her chin up and captured her lips with mine. She pressed her full length against me, and I felt every inch of her cooler body against my superheated skin. She slowly slid her arms around my neck, whimpering into my mouth as our forms molded together. As we kissed, I felt Stacey's tongue become gradually bolder, pressing its way past my lips to meet mine. I dropped both of my hands to her round butt and pulled her against me. She gasped as she felt how much I wanted her through the thin fabric still covering us. She raised a leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh on my hip. I gripped her fabulous ass and hoisted her up, letting her wrap her legs around my waist. Stacey's warm, wet lips explored my face as I carried her the few short steps to the bed. I knelt on the bed and moved to the center to lay her down as her hands ran wildly through my short, sweaty hair. I kissed my way slowly down her jaw, flicking my tongue lightly against her satiny skin, and making my way slowly to her earlobe, which I captured lightly between my teeth. Stacey gasped and arched her chest into mine, her hands kneading my back and shoulders spasmodically. My lips traveled down her neck to the soft hollow above her collarbone. Stacey cooed with every exhalation. I wanted Stacey to feel worshiped and desired, so I did everything I could to ignore my painfully hard erection and kissed my way from her neck over her shoulder and down to her wrist. Along the way, I licked every soft, sensitive spot I could find -- the pale, warm skin under her armpit, the delicate wrinkles inside her elbow, and the long ligament underneath her wrist. I kissed her palm all around the bandage shielding the tragic burn on the back of that hand. I licked, and then kissed the textured skin of each fingertip. Stacey captured a handful of my hair and pulled my face back to hers. I dove in and possessed her mouth forcefully with mine. She groaned into my mouth, her tongue thrusting eagerly. I pressed my hips against hers, and the groan escalated into a shriek. She sucked in a ragged breath. "Touch me, please," she whimpered. I kissed my way down to her chest, my fingertips lightly exploring the delectable skin of her abdomen. I buried my face in the smooth valley of her bra-encased breasts, licking, kissing and nipping gently. She did her best to score furrows into my shoulders as my hands slid up to cup her breasts through the green satin restraining them. I flipped open the front clasping bra, my hands trembling as I reached to touch the milky skin that had haunted me for weeks. Stacey's patience was quickly wearing thin. She grabbed my hands and smashed them into her glorious chest, crying out with ecstatic joy as my fingers tightened around them. I cupped her smooth orbs firmly from underneath, pressing them upward until they filled my hands. I massaged them gently, neglecting her pebbly nipples. She cooed appreciatively. When she began to thrust her chest into my hands, I leaned down and drew lazy circles around her already taut nipples with my tongue, relishing the taste of her skin and the crinkly texture of her contracted areolas. "Oh, Tom, oh, fffffffUCK!" she groaned. I captured a nipple between my lips and sucked gently. Squeaky "Mmm"s reverberated in Stacey's throat. With one nipple well worshiped, I kissed a sinuous path to the other. Stacey knotted her fingers loosely behind my neck. I licked her nipple, and then blew gently on it, watching it tighten. Her breathing quickened, and she pulled my mouth to her chest. I wrapped my lips around the taut peek and sucked firmly, flicking my tongue across the tip. A brassy, "Uhhhhh," rumbled from Stacey. I caressed the backs of her thighs as I sucked, my fingers slowly closing and flexing. Stacey lifted her hips, pressing them against my stomach. I could feel her wetness through her panties. "Tom, now, please, too long," she murmured. I kissed my way down her stomach, slipped my thumbs up the outsides of her thighs, and slid the sodden fabric over her curvy hips and off her legs. The scent of her arousal struck me like a mallet to a gong, and my body hummed in response. I stood up and quickly kicked off my boxers. I knelt above her and lowered my mouth to hers, kissing her tenderly. She pressed herself upward into me. I felt her hard nipples part the hair on my chest. The inferno between her legs branded my waist with her need. I gripped my firm shaft and rubbed the head up and down her wet slit. She was dripping with excitement, and the head slid into her easily. She sucked in a ragged breath and her body locked. I pressed slowly into her. She was incredibly tight, as I expected. She bit her quivering lower lip as her body gradually accepted my manhood. I pulled back and thrust forward gently a few times as she expanded to accept me. When I was finally fully embedded within her, I kissed her forehead, forcing myself to stay still. "OK down there?" I asked softly. "Mmhmm," she mumbled weakly, still biting her lip. I slid my hands to hers, clasping them both and lowering myself to cover her delectable body completely. She threw her thighs up onto my hips and moaned as I shifted within her. I rocked my hips, barely moving inside her, and she mewled appreciatively. I covered her face with light kisses as worked deep inside her. "Remember, anything you want, you tell me. I'm in no rush." Expecting this to be a one-time thing, I wanted to savor it. "You feel sooo good," Stacey groaned. She began to hump her hips into mine. I rose up onto my hands and started slow, long thrusts into her. "Ohhhhh, yeeesssss," she moaned. Her hands walked to my butt and gripped it, pulling me into her on every stroke. I leaned down to suck on her neck and shoulder as I buried one hand in the hair to which I had become so quickly addicted. Eager whimpers turned to hungry pants as I began to fuck her deeper and harder. Stacey began to babble. "Oh, yes, fuck, yes, Tom, harder, more, ughn, good, more, harder, so, mmm, please, more." Her fingers twitched as they roamed my back. My stomach began to clench and my arms shook. The babbling got louder, and her face scrunched as she rapidly approached her peak. "Tom, yes, I'm... I'm... aahhhhhh!!!!" Her body convulsed as a lengthy orgasm tore through her. Her face lit up with a overwhelmed smile as she shook. She was glorious in her ecstasy, and her joy brought me a sweet release I so desperately needed. "Oh, Stacey!" I groaned as I buried myself in her completely and exploded. I collapsed on top of her, cheek to cheek, while I caught my breath. I slipped my arms under her shoulders and held her. I felt a warm tear impact my cheek. I jerked up my head in alarm. "Stacey, what is it?" "No!" she gasped, pulling me back against her. "Don't go, please." "Shhh," I said, stroking her hair. "I'm not leaving until you want me to." She shuddered with a deep breath. After a moment, she said, "Tom, that might not be nearly as soon as you think." *** I'd like to say that I never touched another drop of liquor after that night, but that would be a lie. I wish I could say that I never had another nightmare after that night, but I'm not that lucky. I can say that Stacey and I made love again the next morning before she and Megan left for her sister's place for Christmas. I can say that, regardless of any government documents or rings, Bethany, Maddy's daughter, started calling Stacey "Aunt Stacey" when we arrived at Maddy's house for Christmas a year later. And I'm happy to say that Bethany and Megan were fast friends. I'd like to say that Stacey and I lived happily ever after, but, well, that chapter isn't yet written. I can say that Christmas was the first time I was more aware of what I had, and less of what I had lost. I can that booze and nightmares became the exception, rather than the norm. Now, I wake up less often in a morgue, and more often in Stacey's arms.