Shaking the Sleigh

by Delancey Stewart

  I was a little jealous of Annabelle's apparent satisfaction with her life, her world. Her ridiculous striped tights. I sipped the drink, forcing myself to swallow down the cough that threatened as the fire slid down my throat. "It's good," I said, the moonshine stealing my voice and leaving me with a throaty whisper.

  Annabelle winked and took another sip of her own. "So how is the show coming along?"

  "It's not," I said, and took a longer sip. I set down my glass. "I mean, it is, really. Tomorrow I think I'll be firming up details on the last three houses on my list, and now that the crew is here we'll start filming. First one in two days."

  "Whose house?" Annabelle asked. "Can I ask?" Her blue eyes glowed with excitement—or moonshine—and her enthusiasm was obvious.

  "Um, I don't know if I remember all the names. Tanner, I think. Do you know them?" I was already feeling a little buzz in my head from the moonshine. I took another sip.

  "Of course, the Tanners. Lovely family. Lottie runs the little bakery cafe on the corner over on the square. Her daughter Paige is the local family doctor. She has a younger daughter too, Amberlynn, and an older one, Adeline, but Addie doesn't live here anymore. Little town wasn't big enough for her, I guess." Annabelle shook her head as if she couldn't understand how Singletree might be too small for anyone. "You'll probably have to film around the rodents over there, though."

  Concern straightened my spine. "Rodents?" I pictured a run-down house, infested with mice or rats. That wouldn't work. How had this house gotten past Juliann? The rodents must be new. I needed to get over to the Tanners' first thing.

  "They might be marsupials, actually. I'm not sure."

  "Annabelle, what are you talking about?" I took another bracing swig of the moonshine.

  "Chinchillas. Very cute, but extremely naughty. She used to keep them in a cage, but over time they got out, and now they pretty much have the run of the house." Annabelle informed me of this in a very matter-of-fact way, followed by a little hiccup.

  "I see." I felt my eyes widening as I finished off my drink. "I guess I don't know much about … chinchillas. Are they, like, pretty big?" I was picturing kangaroos, I knew that, but that was the only marsupial I could think of. And those got big. I’d seen a YouTube video where one was at someone's backdoor, scratching with knife-like talons at the screen and standing there with a chest muscled like a prize fighter's.

  "No, silly," Annabelle laughed at my marsupial ignorance. "They're little. Like roly poly little fur balls. About yay big." She held her hands out, showing me something approximately the size of a softball.

  "That's not tiny," I said.

  "Maybe Lottie will dress them up for the show!" Annabelle appeared delighted by this idea, and my stomach soured as I pictured rats wearing Santa hats and carrying candy canes in long yellow teeth.

  Annabelle may have sensed my need to change the subject, because she got her giggles under control and her smile faded into a more serious expression. "And how are things going with the playboy?"

  Callan. I leaned back, forgetting for a moment that my stool didn't have a comfortable cushioned back like Annabelle's. I nearly fell over backwards, but righted myself just before my balance was too far off and leaned forward instead, dropping my elbows onto the table top next to my drink. "That's not going too well, actually. I don't think he's going to be willing to let the crew film his house." I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering Callan's rigid posture as the cameraman had spoken to him. "He seems really … angry." I pictured his face again. "No, wait. Not angry exactly. Hurt, maybe. He seems like he's been hurt, I guess."

  "Didn't he have some kind of injury? Isn't that why he doesn't play for the Minnows anymore?" Annabelle's voice hid a shade of the dislike she'd already expressed for Singletree's newest celebrity addition.

  "Yeah," I said. "And I think it was the Sharks, by the way. They play in San Diego."

  Annabelle's face brightened and she sat up, her voice turning low, reverent. "Isn't that the team that has the Fuerte Fire?" Clearly, Annabelle admired Fernando Fuerte, who I knew had joined the team around the time Callan was injured. He was easy to admire. But he didn't have that same soulful gaze that Callan Whitewood did.

  "Right. I think so."

  "Hmmm," Annabelle said, and I figured there might have been some billboards out here too.

  "His brother said something kind of interesting to me too," I said, finding that talking about Callan was actually something I wanted to do and realizing almost at the same time that my interest in him might be slightly more than professional.

  "What did he say?"

  I considered my words, feeling almost like maybe I was sharing something too personal to Callan. But then I remembered his anger at me and went ahead. "He said that the thing his brother needs most is a reason to get up every day. That he's lost everything and that everything he ever believed his life was about has been taken from him."

  "Well, I'd be hurt too, I guess," Annabelle said, her face softening a little. "How did Callan react when you went over there?"

  I thought about my afternoon, about Callan's quick assertion to his nieces that we’d be attending the Nutcracker together and the careful flirting I was pretty sure had come after that. But then it had all turned. Confusion swept through my mind. "At first he was pretty cold," I said. "But then he kind of warmed up. His nieces were over—he's watching them, I guess—and we all decorated the Christmas tree he'd gotten for them, and things were pretty nice."

  "Woah, really?" Annabelle said, dropping her empty glass hard on the table top. "Is that a normal part of your job—decorating and hanging out?"

  I shook my head slowly. "Not really. I mean, the decorating part, kind of. I need to do whatever I can to get the houses set up for shooting. In Callan's case, that's pretty much everything. He's barely moved in, let alone decorated."

  Annabelle lifted an eyebrow, making her elf hat tilt slightly to one side. One of her ears had become slightly detached and was askew, giving her the look of a deranged elf. "But you looked all gooey and cute when you were talking about the tree and the little girls." She pointed a finger at me. "You like him."

  A little trickle of fear rolled through me as I downed the second glass of moonshine Annabelle had poured while I was talking. Did I? I certainly liked the way he looked. And maybe part of me felt a little pull to be what Cormac had suggested—to be a reason for Callan to move forward. But the last thing I needed was to become personally involved in another show I was working on. That was how I’d ended up here in the first place, swamped in a holiday I detested.

  "I'm just trying to do my job," I said weakly.

  "You're not a very good liar," Annabelle told me, pouring a bit more moonshine and then slamming it like a shot. She hiccupped and her other ear began to droop.

  "Think we should lay off the moonshine?" I asked, feeling a bit tipsy myself. "Do you have to drive home?"

  Annabelle began to giggle, swaying slightly side to side. "I'm just across the square. Apartment."

  That wasn't the answer I had expected. I thought Annabelle must be someone's mother, must go home to a big house completely coated in Christmas, and a husband wearing a horrible sweater. But now that I looked, I noticed Annabelle's hands were free of jewelry, save for the reindeer ring on the middle finger of her right hand.

  "Shall I walk you?" I asked, suddenly realizing I was becoming too involved with everyone here. I needed to get in, do my damned job, and get out. I wondered if the holiday cheer that infected this place like the black plague might be influencing me somehow. I’d thought I was immune, but the sound of jingle bells was insipid, worming in and striking when you least expected it. One time, years ago, I had found myself singing along to White Christmas when I was a little drunk and had sworn it would never happen again. I needed to harden my shields. No ex-soccer stars. No feeling sorry for lonely innkeepers. I had a job to do.

  I walked Annabelle across the square outside, stopping to pick up the woman's ears as
they toppled off and landed on the sidewalk along the way. I was unsurprised to find a sled leaned up against the corner outside Annabelle's door, decorated and painted. I had plenty of time to read it while Annabelle searched her purse for her keys. It read "Jingle all the Way." I smiled at the sentiment and at the innkeeper's single-minded obsession with the holidays, but then noticed another sentence painted in much smaller letters below. I squatted down to get a better look. It read, "Because no one likes a half-assed jingler."

  I burst out laughing, and Annabelle shot me a confused look. When I pointed at her sign, Annabelle laughed along with me.

  She'd found her keys and her door stood open. "Come in?"

  I gave her arm a pat. "Another time," I said, feeling a little sad at the darkness that was beyond the door, no one to welcome Annabelle home—not even a chinchilla, I guessed. "Thanks for tonight."

  Annabelle flashed a bright, half-drunk smile and went in. And I walked back to the inn, my mind simultaneously telling me to keep my distance and trying to figure out how to help the two loneliest people I’d met in a while as the moonshine buzzed through my veins, making me feel warm.

  "Oh, hello!" A woman called before I had even managed to take three steps up the front path of the house where I’d just parked. This, according to my list, was the Tanners' house. It was an older Victorian style home, kind of like the inn, and it featured a wraparound front porch. The woman calling and waving to me from the railing had evidently been sitting on the porch, enjoying an afternoon cocktail with another, older, woman, who remained seated.

  "Who is it, Lottie? Want me to shoot 'em?" the other woman said loudly, adding a cackle to the end of the question.

  "Shush, Helen," Lottie said, turning to her friend. "We don't shoot guests."

  "That's your first problem," the older woman said loudly. "Don't decide until you see who it is."

  I approached the woman at the railing somewhat cautiously, hoping her friend didn't decide to go all vigilante and take matters into her own hands. Upon closer inspection, I doubted the old woman was actually packing. She had to be at least eighty, and she seemed too busy sipping a cocktail to be really prepared to shoot anyone.

  "Hi there," I said to the friendlier of the pair. "I'm April Hall, from Holiday Homes?"

  The woman on the porch squealed and clapped her hands. "Oh thank heavens," she said. "I thought maybe I'd been dropped from the list. I'm Lottie Tanner. Come in, come in!" She sang this last part and waved me up onto the wide porch, which was draped in garlands and smelled like a pine forest had been decimated and then made into a tea. Lottie Tanner, on the other hand, wore a simple red sweater and a pair of dark jeans with black boots. Her hair was cut in a wedge style, longer around her face, which was plump and pretty and friendly.

  The older woman, who wore a sweat suit I was pretty sure I’d seen Lizzo wearing in a recent interview, scowled at me.

  "Don't mind Helen," Lottie said, waving a hand at her friend. "She's suspicious by nature. Plus she's older than Santa and it makes her grumpy."

  "You're no spring chicken, Lotts," Helen said, lifting her drink.

  "Well," Lottie said, waving away Helen's observation. "What can I do for you, April? Manhattan?"

  It was barely noon, and I didn't think drinking quite this early was a good way to salvage what was left of my job here. I needed to nail down two other homes this afternoon and potentially replace Callan's house if he wouldn't come around. "No thanks. I just need to ensure that everything is ready for the crew to come tomorrow."

  "Not to worry! Everything is all ready. All my little chinchees are so excited." Right. The chinchillas. Lottie looked past my shoulder. "You're coming too, right, Helen?"

  I cringed a bit. I was pretty sure I didn't need the addition of a grumpy gun-toting grandmother to my list of problems.

  Before Helen could answer, Lottie leaned in, "She's Juliet Manchester's grandmother. Did you know Juliet was from this area?"

  "No," I said, surprise coloring my voice. I didn't know that. "Wow." I was definitely a fan of Juliet's.

  "And did you know Ryan McDonnell bought a house here? He's marrying Helen's other granddaughter, Tess." Lottie nodded proudly now that she'd listed the celebrity-related attributes of her hometown.

  "And now you've got Callan Whitewood to add to the list," I said before I could stop myself. “His home is supposed to be on the show too.” Why did I constantly find myself making excuses to talk about him? Plus, I realized too late, Callan seemed to prize his privacy. But Annabelle had already known he was in town. He couldn’t hide from his neighbors for long, right?

  "Whitewood?" Helen asked loudly. "The Sharks player? The underwear model with the broken leg?"

  I didn't think that was the way Callan would really want to be described, but it was clear the old woman knew who I was talking about. I was about to tell her she was right, but she went on.

  "That fella was my only reason for watching soccer for a while. No one wore a pair of white shorts quite the way he managed them. I liked to watch him warm up, if you know what I mean, stretching that fabric this way and that over that tight round—"

  "Behave!" Lottie barked, putting a hand toward Helen in the way you might quiet a dog. Lottie wiped her hands on her pants, taking a deep breath and focusing on April again. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Whitewood is every bit as excited about having his home featured on your show as I am."

  If only that were true. "Right." I pulled the folder from my bag. "Is there somewhere we can go over the contract and the schedule for tomorrow?" I angled my head toward the front door, hoping maybe the rest of the conversation might go forward without the benefit of Helen's none-too-helpful insights. Now I found myself thinking about what Callan would look like stretching in a pair of white shorts, and some very unwanted tingling sensations were breaking out in parts of my body that should definitely not be involved with work. These tingly parts were the ones that had cost me the last job, and I couldn't lose this one.

  "Shall I show you the rest of the house, first? So you can be sure we're appropriately festive?"

  I glanced through the front window, which was frosted with spray snow, to the living room inside. Every surface had something Christmassy atop it, and through the pungent pine garland scent, I was catching wafts of cinnamon and vanilla. "I'm sure it's all great," I said, hoping to avoid being immersed in holiday hell.

  "You have to see the gingerbread village Paige helped me make," Lottie said, pulling open the front door for me. "That's my daughter," she went on as we followed a hallway toward another room where a decorated tree stood in the corner and a large table held a very realistic gingerbread village. A small round pom pom sat next to the gingerbread village looking soft and plush and somewhat out of place. And then it moved. I let out a little squeal of surprise as the pom pom turned to cast a guilty glance at us.

  I realized this was a chinchilla. It was eating part of one of the gingerbread buildings, but Lottie swatted at it and it scurried away, leaping from the table and underneath the couch.

  "She's a doctor," Lottie said.

  "That …? The … Um, the chinchilla is a doctor?"

  Lottie burst out laughing at that. "What? A doctor? No, dear, don't be ridiculous. That chinchilla is simply an adorable nuisance. That one is Apollo. My daughter is a doctor," she clarified.

  "Wow," I said, turning back to the gingerbread. "Is this …?" I bent over the little model, with its big tree in a central square and buildings all around. One looked very much like the inn. "Is this Singletree?"

  Lottie clapped her hands in delight. "It is!"

  Despite the turning of my stomach at the thick smell of Christmas all around me, I managed a smile. "It's amazing, Lottie. Really very nice." I turned back toward the front door, deciding that sitting with Helen was preferable to lingering in the thick holiday miasma that filled the Tanner house, not to mention the chance of chinchilla bite. Did chinchillas bite? I wasn’t willing to risk it.

  The scent
s were inspiring memories that flung themselves through my mind one after another, all of them posing as cheery and bright until the final closing of the front door of my childhood home flashed back to me, dropping a stone in the center of my chest. I swallowed hard.

  "Are you all right, April?" Lottie's hand found my arm, and I was being guided back to the porch. "You look white as a snowman," she commented, settling me next to Helen.

  "It's white as a ghost, dammit," Helen muttered. "Why does everyone in this town insist on over-Christmasing every little thing? Did you see the town sign? Someone graffitied it and crossed out 'Single' so now the place is called 'Christmas Tree,' for fuck's sake."

  I realized maybe I had a holiday-hating ally in the abrasive old woman at my side. "Too much," I managed to say, despite feeling particularly unwell all of a sudden.

  Lottie had gone in to get some water and bustled back out now, shushing her friend and putting a plate of gingerbread men and a glass of water in front of me before sitting down.

  "Even if you don't like Christmas, though," Helen said, snatching a cookie from the plate, "You'll like these. Lotts is the best baker in town."

  "Thanks, Helen." The women exchanged a fond look, and I felt even more unwell. Something about the close bond these women clearly shared—had probably shared for years—made me feel lonely. I knew I wasn't doing very well at my job, but now I realized maybe I’d been doing a pretty piss poor job at life in general. What did I have to show for myself?

  I took a cookie and bit into it, chewing and washing down the soft ginger-flavored cookie with water.

  "And?" Lottie was watching me.

  "These are amazing," I said honestly, feeling a bit of life coming back to me. If all else failed, maybe I could just live on my mother's couch and eat cookies. These just about made up for everything else. "You made these?" I asked, looking at Lottie with renewed admiration.

  "I have a bakery in town," Lottie said, waving away the compliment. "It's what I do. Baking's the only thing I've ever been much good at."