Chapter 1

I started to wipe my feet on the front door mat and just about stepped on a tiny package and note.

What the hell? Nobody ever gives me Christmas presents. Nobody. Ever. The Children’s Home had a pick-a-number gift system. Then the trading began. But gifts given directly to me? Never.

After wiping my feet on the mat, I opened the door to my loft apartment. I juggled the bank paperwork and the present with its note. I shucked my shoes by the door, put everything I was carrying on the kitchen table, and got rid of the tie.

I don’t do ties unless something’s really important, like meeting with a loan officer to get money to build an addition to the garage. Mostly I’m a jeans, work boots, and ratty T-shirts kinda guy who makes his money without wearing a suit. I fix and modify bikes, mostly Harleys, since I’m one of their certified mechanics. These days, I’m catching the wave of weekend warriors who’re donning black leather jackets and forming clubs after their offices cough them out for two days.

Living in the central valley of California makes mine a year-round shop. In fact, next year I’ll turn a corner into a bigger garage and two more actual employees. With Janene, our bookkeeper and resident Mama, we’ll be a full-time family of six and as many community-college interns as I can get.

I’d climbed out of the Children’s Home and was now a productive member of society, even though I probably didn’t look like one to the average guy on the street. I sure didn’t to any of the prospective mommies and daddies who periodically came by the Home when I was a kid.

Now I had my very first Christmas present just for me, nobody else. I didn’t even have to pick the right number for it or trade with someone else.

I poked the puffy bow. It sprang back and shouted, “Open me!”

I decided to tackle the envelope first. The handwriting was blunt lettering, a lot like Tim’s down at the shop.

Hello, Sam McGuire in Apartment 300. How are you? I’m your new neighbor in 303. Hope you’re not allergic to fruitcake because the piece in the box is my grandmother’s traditional recipe and the only way to start the holidays.

I’m holding a get-together on Saturday, December 1, 9:00 P.M. to whenever. You’re invited. If you can’t party here on Saturday, I promise to try to keep the noise down after 10:30. I’d like to meet you.

Happy holidays. Hope to see you soon.

Jay Merriweather

Huh. Jay had gone to a lot of trouble to be friendly in this converted warehouse where we all pretty much leave each other alone. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of another big, informal group. The Home was enough for me, thanks.

Still, he or she was trying to meet the neighbors in a happy, non-hostile way. Gotta give ‘em points. Besides, I had nothing to do Saturday night, and I’d probably hear the music and laughter anyway. Why not meet the new neighbor when everyone else did?

I took off my suit and put on a pair of grease-stained sweatpants and a tank top. I hate cooking, so I took one of the frozen things out of the freezer and microwaved it. Instead of standing to eat like I usually do, I sat at the table and stared at the present. It looked so nice in its snug little wrapping paper. Seemed a shame to open it. I poked it with a clean finger.

My hands looked different today since I’d scrubbed them before I went to the bank. I couldn’t wash away the cuts and scratches, the scars of my trade, or the calluses, but despite all the signs of garage work, I’d gotten the loan. The present seemed to be the secret reward for five hard years becoming my own man.

I’d never had fruitcake, but I knew how everyone joked about it this time of year. It lasted forever and could pound nails into concrete. Then har, har, har, everyone laughs. So fruitcake couldn’t be any good, right?

I poked the box again. It didn’t talk back, didn’t even grunt.

Finishing dinner, I threw the plastic tray in the trash and the fork into the sink. It was time to face the fruitcake.

Carefully I unwrapped the present, not wanting to mar its beauty. If the fruitcake was really bad, I could rewrap the box and then imagine something else was in it. It was the only present I’d be getting, so why not?

Fruitcake, at least according to Jay Merriweather’s grandma, appeared to be a solid brownish mass with bits of fruit and nuts in it and smelled like a pint of Jim Beam. The thing reeked. This was holiday food? Shit, it should be served at the bar downstairs. It’d fit right in with the lushes who try to stay afloat all night.