A Lot Like Christmas: Stories

by Connie Willis

  “And the friends who make it fly,” I said.

  “To small successes,” Marley said, and raised his cup to me.

  I looked at Christmas Present, and then at Yet to Come, whose face I still could not see, and then back at Marley. He smiled slyly.

  “Come, come,” Present said into the silence. “We have not had a toast from Christmas Yet to Come.”

  “Yes, yes,” Marley said, clanking his chains excitedly. “Speak, Spirit.”

  Yet to Come took hold of his teacup handle with his bony fingers and raised his cup.

  I held my breath.

  “To Christmas,” he said, and why had I ever feared that voice? It was clear and childlike. Like Gemma’s voice, saying, “We’ll be together next Christmas.”

  “To Christmas,” the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come said, his voice growing stronger with each word. “God bless us, every one!”

  As soon as the nearly empty maglev pulled out of the station, Linny uplinked to Inge. “I need a netcheck on a Mrs. Shields,” she said. “3404 Aspen Lane, Greater Denver.”

  “Today?” Inge said. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  I didn’t think they celebrated Thanksgiving in Norway, Linny thought, but Inge was obviously going somewhere. She was wearing a velvet slash top and sequined makeup. “I know, sorry, but I’m on my way to see a new client,” Linny said. “You can wait on the financial, I just need some background so I have an idea of what she might like—occupation, hobbies, interests—”

  “Right now?” Inge said plaintively. “I was hoping…see, the thing is, I told Carlo I’d have Thanksgiving dinner with him, and it’s only a few minutes from now.”

  “Can’t you be a little late?” Linny asked. “A background check should only take half an hour or so.”

  “No. Remember, he’s at Tombaugh Station, and there’s only a four-hour window, and personal calls don’t have priority. I promised him I’d talk to him while they were having their dinner. They’re on Canaveral time.”

  Linny’d forgotten Carlo was on the Moon. “Go have dinner,” she said. “And tell Carlo happy Thanksgiving. I’ll run a preliminary myself, and you can do a full netcheck later.”

  “Really? Thanks! I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it,” she said, though now that Linny’d given her permission, she didn’t seem to be in all that much of a hurry. “Is Norwall taking you out for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked.

  “He has an installation,” Linny said.

  “So you aren’t having Thanksgiving dinner with anybody?”

  “I already had it with Mom.”

  “I thought she was in Riyadh.”

  “She is. We did it online earlier.” In the middle of the night, actually, with Linny sitting half asleep in front of the screen in her nightshift and the vidcam carefully focused so her mother couldn’t see that all she was eating was a bowl of soyflakes.

  Inge sniffed. “I still think Norwall could have taken you out. Carlo and I have more dates than you two, and he’s 240,000 miles away. I know it’s your busy season, but—”

  “Are there any messages for me?” Linny cut in.

  “Yes. Soothethesavagebeast.com are out of Beethovens. They wanted to know if Bachs would work. And the Standishes want you to do their e-cards after all.”

  Wonderful, Linny thought, but at least there weren’t any messages from Pandora Freeh, which meant she was still happy with High School Memories. Now, if it just stayed that way till she could get there with the contract. Last year Pandora had changed her mind nine times, the last one the day before her installation, and this year they had already gone through Christmas in the Sahara, Board Games, and nine others before Linny had come up with a Christmas theme Pandora would actually stick with for more than two days. Now if she could just stick with it a couple more hours while Linny interviewed Mrs. Shields—

  “I’d better go,” she told Inge. “I need to run that netcheck.”

  “And I—yipes! Look what time it is! I don’t even have my eyes inked yet—” Inge said, and abruptly downlinked.

  Linny linked to soothethesavagebeast. It had a “Closed for Thanksgiving” banner on it. She connected to the netcheck site, typed in “Mrs. Shields,” and requested a general background check and a marketing profile.

  Nothing happened. What did I forget to do? she wondered. She hadn’t done a netcheck in ages. Inge did all of them. She must have—

  The screen buzzed an override. It was Norwall, looking irritated.

  “Where have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been trying both you and Inge for forty-five minutes.”

  “I gave her the afternoon off. It’s Thanksgiving, and—”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Like everything else about this day. Teddy Lopez just called. They want to switch themes.”

  “Why? I thought he and Emil loved their jazz theme.”

  “They did, but they got engaged,” he said disgustedly.

  “How nice—” Linny began.

  “I’m glad you think so. Because now they want a whole new love design, hearts and Cupids and orange blossoms, and they want their installation moved up to the twelfth so they can have it for their engagement party.”

  “Goin’tothechapel.com has some darling diamond ring ornaments,” Linny said, “and a glitteroptic tree would be the perfect—”

  “Legally, I don’t have to let them switch. They’ve already signed a contract. I have every right to hold them to it.”

  “But, Norwall, they just got engaged,” Linny protested, “and it’s Christmas.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’ve got four installations to do in the next six days.” His image leaned forward as if trying to see what was behind her. “I see movement. Where are you?”

  “On the maglev. I’m on my way out to Aspen Lane.”

  “Aspen Lane? Don’t tell me Pandora Freeh still hasn’t signed her contract. You let your clients walk all over you, Linny. You have to be firm with them. This is a business, not some sentimental—”

  She’d heard this lecture before. “Pandora Freeh’s signing her contract today.”

  “How long will it take? I could use you here at the installation to string lights for the outdoor tableau.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have to interview a client.”

  “Interview? Don’t tell me you’re taking on a new client? It’s the twenty-eighth of November! Did you tell her the deadline for new clients is June?”

  “She’s never had a professional Christmas. She’s always done her own, so she didn’t know how it works.”

  “And you felt sorry for her?”

  Linny nodded. “She was really desperate.” And very insistent. Linny hadn’t really had a chance to say no, but she couldn’t tell that to Norwall. “It’s a chance to broaden our client base. And I’m in good shape. Three of my installations are already done, and she doesn’t need hers till after the fifteenth. I’ll have no trouble fitting her in.”

  “Unless she keeps changing her mind like Pandora Freeh.”

  “She won’t. She was terribly grateful I could take her on—”

  “Yes, and she’ll probably tell all her friends that you’re willing to take new clients in December. Who is she anyway? Have you run a financial check on her?”

  “Yes,” Linny said, even though she hadn’t. But the fact that Mrs. Shields lived in the same exclusive community as Pandora Freeh meant she was at least moderately rich, and this was her client, after all, not his, and if Mrs. Shields turned out to be a lot of extra work, it was her problem.

  “Well, don’t leave without getting a signed contract. And why do you have to go all the way out there? Why couldn’t you do it from your office?”

  “She doesn’t like talking to people online. She’s not very knowledgeable about computers—”

  “So you have to waste a whole day going out there, and I don’t have anybody to string lights for me. If I’d known you were so far ahead you were in a position to take on new clients, you could have
taken over some of my installations for me,” he said, and downlinked before she could wish him a happy Thanksgiving, which, under the circumstances, was probably just as well.

  She called up the netcheck again. The screen buzzed an override immediately. It was Pandora Freeh. “Are you still coming out with the contract this afternoon?”

  “Yes. At four.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Oh, no. “Is there a problem?” Linny asked fearfully.

  “I just got to thinking, there’s no point in doing High School Memories if we can’t get a bust of Shakespeare. English was my favorite class, and—”

  “We have a bust,” Linny said. “I’ve already ordered it.”

  “But what if it’s different from the one in Mr. Spoonmaker’s class? I just don’t think I should sign until I’ve seen it.”

  So you want me to lug it all the way out to your house so you can look at it, Linny thought. “I don’t know if the supplier’s open today—” she said.

  “Oh, there’s no hurry. I can sign the contract next week.”

  By which time she would have come up with a dozen more objections. “Let me try them,” she said.

  She linked to Rock and a Hard Place, which was, thankfully, open till five, and then linked back to Pandora and changed their appointment to seven, which was still cutting it close. Her interview with Mrs. Shields couldn’t last more than two hours, and then she’d have to go all the way back into town to get the bust, which the guy at Rock had said was too heavy for one person to carry. She’d have to call Norwall.

  She relinked to him. “I know you’re busy, but if you could just help me get it to the station, I could handle it from there.” How she would manage the ten blocks to Pandora’s house she wasn’t sure, but maybe she could get a taxi.

  “It’s out of the question,” he said. “I’ll be here till midnight. If you’d had Pandora Freeh sign her contract right after the interview like I told you to, you wouldn’t be in this mess. You’re going to have to call this new client of yours and tell her you can’t—”

  “We’re coming into the station. I’ve got to go,” Linny said.

  And I still don’t have a netcheck, she thought, setting out on the walk to Mrs. Shields’s house. Well, she’d just have to do without. Maybe she could pick up some hints from the house. She already knew Mrs. Shields was a technophobe, and, from her image on the screen when they talked, that she was in her late fifties and didn’t dye her hair. That, and her use of the old-fashioned “Mrs.” indicated she was pre-retro, so one of their traditional themes. Maybe #23 A Little House on the Prairie Christmas, or #119 Over the River and Through the Woods.

  Here it was, 3404 Aspen Lane. The house wasn’t as expensive-looking as she’d expected. She’d assumed that anything in Pandora Freeh’s neighborhood would be in the hideous mansion category, but 3404 was a long, low-roofed house set well back from the street. Maybe she should have done a financial netcheck after all.

  But the wide lawn looked professionally groomed, and what furniture she could see through the large front window looked like mission-style Arts and Crafts.

  The door didn’t have any sensors or identity screen, just an old-fashioned doorbell. Linny rang it, and after a minute a tall young man in a wool pullover with a napkin stuck in the neck opened it. “Can I help you?” he asked, frowning.

  “I’m Linny Chiang,” she said. “I have an appointment with—”

  “Come in, come in! Brian, don’t make her stand outside like that!” Mrs. Shields pushed in front of the young man and practically dragged Linny into the house. “It’s freezing out!”

  She had a napkin, too, in her hand. “Am I interrupting your Thanksgiving dinner?” Linny asked anxiously.

  “Oh, no, not at all, we’d finished,” she said with a pointed look at Brian, who was still frowning. “Brian, take her coat,” she said, wrestling Linny out of it and handing it to him, “and go turn on the fire in the study.”

  Brian left, bearing the coat. “The handsome young man is my nephew, Brian West,” Mrs. Shields said. “We’re both so grateful you agreed to give up your Thanksgiving to come do this. Have you had dinner? Would you like some turkey and dressing? My nephew makes wonderful oyster dressing.”

  “No, thank you. I had dinner earlier.”

  “With your family?” she said, leading Linny through the living room to the study.

  “My mother and I had dinner online. She’s in Riyadh.”

  “But you must have had to eat in the middle of the night.”

  Linny was surprised Mrs. Shields knew what time zone Riyadh was in. Even her mother hadn’t had it straight. “It must be late there for you, darling,” she’d kept saying. “What is it? Nine o’clock?”

  “Have you had anything to eat since then?” Mrs. Shields was asking anxiously. “There’s cranberry sauce and candied yams and—”

  “No, thanks, really, I had something to eat on the maglev,” she lied.

  “Some chai then, or what is it you young people drink nowadays? Maxpresso? Red tea?”

  Linny could see the onslaught wasn’t going to stop until she’d agreed to eat or drink something. “Chai would be nice,” she said, and Mrs. Shields bustled out of the room.

  Linny looked around. Mission-style furniture in here, too, and from the looks of it, genuine Stickley, and the carpet, though worn, was an antique Navajo. She revised her financial estimate considerably upward.

  No knickknacks, though, to give a clue as to a possible theme—no stuffed unicorns or tribal masks or model biplanes. And no signs of a pet, which was too bad. Pets were so easy. All you had to do was link to notacreaturewasstirring.com, type in the breed, and they supplied everything: audio ornaments, needlepoint stockings, beribboned Milk-Bones, even a rom of dog or cat carols.

  There weren’t any holos either, just an oil painting of a bridge above the fireplace. Bridges of the World? Golden Gate ornaments and a covered bridge diorama for the outdoor tableau? Or maybe Mrs. Shields was interested in painting, or a particular artist. Linny leaned forward to look at the signature.

  “My nephew Brian does bridges,” Mrs. Shields said, bustling back in. “He’s an engineer. I’ll bet you two are the same age.” She handed Linny a mug of chai. “He’s twenty-eight.” She waited expectantly.

  “I’m twenty-seven,” Linny said. “Did you want to do the interview in here?”

  “Yes. Do you need to hook anything up or plug anything in? I’m afraid I’m a complete ignoramus when it comes to computers, and Brian isn’t much better.”

  “No, I’m all set,” Linny said, opening her notebook and switching it on, but Mrs. Shields was already calling, “Brian! Brian!”

  He came in, minus the napkin. “This is Miss Chiang, our new Christmas designer,” she said.

  “Christmas designer?” he said, with a puzzled look at his aunt.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Shields smiled at him and then looked back at Linny. “I’ve always done my own Christmases, but this year I decided it was all too much for me, and I was going to have a professional Christmas.”

  “You did,” he said.

  He clearly disapproved. Linny had seen this kind of resistance before, the men in the family wanting to keep Christmas the way it had been, which meant the women doing all the work.

  “Christmas requires much more planning and work than it used to,” Linny said. “Shopping, decorating, cleaning, baking, wrapping gifts, sending e-cards. It’s impossible for one person to do it all, and even if they somehow manage to, they’re far too stressed and exhausted to enjoy the holidays.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Shields said, looking at Brian. “I want to enjoy my Christmas, and this young woman is going to help me do that, so it’s no use your trying to talk me out of it, Brian. I’ve made up my mind. Why don’t you show us what you have in mind, Ms. Chiang?”

  “It’s what you have in mind that’s important,” Linny said, setting up the portable holo projector. “Deck.halls custom-tailors Christmas to your
wishes. We have over nine hundred holiday themes to choose from, and if you don’t see the theme you want, we can custom-design one for you. Did you have anything in mind?”

  “Oh, yes, I’d say she definitely has something in mind,” Brian said.

  Linny looked inquiringly at Mrs. Shields.

  “I really don’t know,” Mrs. Shields said. “Our Christmases have always been very simple, just a tree and stockings hung by the fireplace.”

  “Right, nothing fancy,” the nephew said.

  “Well, then let me show you something simple.”

  “Oh, no, I want to see all of your ideas. If I’m going to do a professional Christmas, I might as well go all the way.”

  “All right, let me begin by outlining the services we offer,” Linny said, giving Mrs. Shields a handheld. “So you can jot down the numbers of themes that you like. We offer a full range of services. Decorating, lighting, gift wrapping, shopping—”

  “Shopping?” Brian said, sounding shocked.

  “Yes, by client list or using marketing profiles. We can also do your Christmas cards, e- or vmail with full graphics, or handwritten, and party invitations. We can also arrange for caroling. You pick the services you want.”

  She printed out two price lists and handed the pages to them. Neither one did more than glance at them. She revised her financial estimate upward again.

  “Now let me show you some possibilities. This is Number 68 Winter Wonderland,” she said, typing in the code.

  A full-color hologram of a stairway entwined with darting white and silver lights filled an all-white room. The diamond-flocked tree at the foot of the stairs was hung with white velvet angel knots, and crystal snowflakes filled the air. “The snowflakes are Waterford, and the diamonds are each an eighth of a carat.

  “Or if you prefer something less formal, we have Number 241 Christmas at Loch Ness.” The white room changed to one done in red-and-green Scotch plaid. A large bush of purple heather stood between the plaid couch and the plaid chair, hung with tam o’shanters, thistles, and sea serpents. “The furniture, draperies, and carpet are available in the full slate of clan tartans,” Linny said.