by Marie Landry
She gives her standard huff. “Fine, can’t. Since you can’t get me a job here, will you at least drive me to my meeting at the employment office?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that either.” I swallow the guilt rising in my throat. I want to help Celia, I really do. Really do. Helping her is the same thing as helping myself; the sooner she has a steady job, the sooner she can get her own place or go to college or do anything that’s no longer living with me. “The office is all the way across town. I need to grab lunch and get back to work.”
“Ugh, come on. Doesn’t being besties with the boss get you some special treatment? You bailed on work early yesterday. Can’t you take an extra long lunch and help me out?”
The snide way she says ‘besties’ makes my hackles rise. I ignored her comment earlier about having the perfect best friend, but she’s pushed too many of my buttons this week. For some reason, she’s been down on Bridget since the moment they met. Bridget has been nothing but kind, asking Celia to join us for outings, inviting her along on our friend dates, bringing extra food whenever she comes over with takeout. I can only assume Celia’s issue is jealousy. At twenty-nine, Bridget has an awesome career in which she’s moved through the ranks to become boss, plus she has a drop-dead-gorgeous boyfriend who treats her like a queen. She’s got her shit together more than anyone I know, not to mention she’s the best friend and soul sister a girl could have.
“I would if I could, Celia. I’ve got a deadline that needs to be met today, and I’m not staying late to finish. You have plenty of time to have lunch with me and then get the bus. The one that stops outside this building will take you straight to the employment aid office. I can give you change if you need it.”
She stuffs her arms into her coat and swings her purse over her shoulder, nearly knocking out a man heading for the elevators. “Don’t do me any favors, Ivy.” She spins on her heel and heads for the exit.
I almost call after her to at least have lunch with me, but the words die on my lips. Instead, I mutter, “I’ll remember you said that next time you ask me for a favor.” Ignoring the funny look from the guy Celia almost wiped out with her purse, I shake my head and make my way to the cafeteria. Foregoing the healthy options I’ve been trying to stick to lately, I make a beeline for the soup station, choosing an everything bagel and cream of broccoli soup. Calories and carbs be damned. At least there are chunks of broccoli floating in all that cream and cheese. If the cafeteria had a liquor license, I’d probably opt for a glass of wine right now, if not something stronger.
After paying for my lunch and finding a seat far from anyone else, I dig in, trying to swallow my irritation along with the creamy soup. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too hard on Celia. If I’m bitter because I’ve been saddled with a whiny, snarky, demanding roommate when I was perfectly happy with my life the way it was. But then we have conversations like the one that just transpired, and it leaves me wishing Celia realized how lucky she is to have walked away without me throttling her.
It was her comment about Bridget that made my defenses snap up quicker than usual. Celia is always making little digs about her, along with comments about how she doesn’t believe I’m not jealous or resentful of Bridget’s success. I’m not, though. Well, most of the time anyway. And whenever I do get jealous, I quickly remind myself I wouldn’t want to be the boss. The better pay doesn’t outweigh the long hours or the responsibility of overseeing a big team.
I do, however, miss how things used to be. Before Bridget was promoted a year ago, she was a marketing consultant like me, and we worked side by side for five years. I miss the days of chatting while we worked, and meeting in the break room for a bit of gossip or to make plans together. Now she’s so busy I feel like I practically have to schedule a meeting just to talk to her during the day. Not to mention since Bridget started her relationship with our former boss, David, we’ve gone from hanging out most evenings and weekends to seeing each other a couple times a week if we’re lucky.
A chair screeches across the linoleum, startling me out of a daze. The spoon in my hand hovers halfway between the bowl and my mouth. My stomach gurgles, and I push the rest of my lunch away, my appetite fading. All this heavy contemplation is going to give me indigestion.
Nothing feels like my own anymore. My apartment certainly isn’t my own. And as much as I try to deny it, it’s harder than I thought having to share Bridget. We’re still as close as ever—I don’t think anything could shake the sister-like bond we’ve formed over the last six years—and I don’t begrudge her being in a relationship, especially since David is pretty much the personification of Prince Charming. I just wish I had something that was all my own that I didn’t have to share.
Gathering my things, I dump my tray at a cleanup station and head back to the elevators. There’s something else I’m beginning to realize I can no longer deny: I don’t like the person I’m becoming. At times it feels like the air around me is toxic and I’m the one giving off the radioactive vibes. I don’t want to become my aunt—bitter, nasty, and downright insufferable. Something has to change. I just don’t know what or how to make it happen.
CHAPTER THREE
Over the weekend, I was treated to silence from Celia. And it was a treat; her previous attempts at the cold shoulder have never lasted long, probably because she’d burst if she kept her snarky comments to herself. This time, though, from the moment I arrived home on Friday and asked how her meeting went—“Fine”—and what she wanted for supper—“Don’t care”—she didn’t utter another word. It allowed me to make plans without feeling guilty, so I spent most of the weekend with Bridget and her mom watching movies and eating junk food. It’s always been our thing, even though it’s become less frequent in the last year. After feeling sorry for myself over my lack of recent girl time with Bridget, it was exactly what I needed.
On Monday when I arrive home from work, Celia is sitting on the couch. Her stiff body language—as if she’s ready to spring to her feet the moment I walk in—paired with the way she whips around at the sound of the door tell me she’s been waiting. That in itself would be enough to make me wary, but the Jack O’Lantern grin she plasters on her face turns the wariness to suspicion.
“How was your day?” Her voice is pitched so high it sounds like she inhaled a dose of helium.
“Fine…” I say slowly, setting my purse down and bending to undo my boots.
Celia jumps up from the couch. “Wait!” I jerk upright so fast I nearly wrench my back. “Don’t take off your boots and coat. I was thinking we could go out for a bit. I know I’ve been difficult lately and I’d like to make it up to you.”
I bite my tongue to keep from correcting her about the ‘lately’ part. “That’s not necessary, Celia.”
“I want to, though. An apology and a thank-you rolled into one.” She comes around the couch and leans against the back, studying me. “Do you remember that time my mama took us to the fair? She told your aunt she was taking us shopping for back-to-school clothes, but we went to the fair instead and completely ruined our dinner with slushies and cotton candy?”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “I remember.” I’ll never forget that day. It’s one of the few happy memories I have from my teens, likely because it doesn’t involve my aunt and uncle. It was even worth the hour-long lecture from Aunt Fan when I got home.
“I was thinking maybe we could go spoil our dinner,” Celia says. “I know just the place. My treat.”
It’s clear she’s up to something. Celia and I don’t hang out. We spend a lot of time in each other’s presence because we live in fairly close quarters, but I wouldn’t say the time we spend together is necessarily by choice. By some miracle, we like a lot of the same TV shows and movies, and since there’s only one television in the apartment, we both end up in the living room a lot. We don’t go shopping together or out for lunch or any of the things I do with Bridget. Still, maybe she’s actually trying and I should stop always thinking the
worst of her.
“I suppose having dessert first is one of the perks of being an adult,” I say. She squeals in response and hurries over to grab her coat and boots.
*****
“This is some kind of joke, right?” I put the car in park and stare with wide eyes out the windshield.
“Of course not!” Celia says, her voice taking on that high pitch again. “Why would you think that?”
I scoff. “Celia. Seriously?” I wave my hand toward the window. “This is where you want to eat? Here?”
‘Here’ is Santa’s Village. Celia wouldn’t tell me where we were going when we got in the car, instead simply directing me as I drove. We had made it almost to the outskirts of Bellevue before she motioned for me to get off the highway. When we pulled into what looks like an elaborate movie set of the North Pole, I thought I must have been hallucinating. I know about Santa’s Village—a whole holiday theme park set on several acres of land and open from November through December—but I’ve never seen it firsthand. Now that I think about it, I’m surprised Bridget, being the Christmas lover she is, hasn’t dragged me here before.
“Isn’t this place for little kids and families?”
Celia shakes her head quickly. “No, plenty of adults come without kids. It’s a great date spot or a place for groups. They have the best hot chocolate you’ve ever tasted.”
“How do you know?” I ask, unable to keep the suspicion from my voice.
Ignoring my question, Celia unhooks her seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. “You coming or not?”
A clear sign I’ve been spending too much time with Celia: my first thought is to respond ‘or not’. My sense of adventure wins out over my desire to be contrary, though. I also have to admit I’m curious what Celia is up to. I unbuckle myself, stuff my keys in my purse, and follow Celia to the front gates. We approach a small red hut, where I expect we’ll have to buy tickets, but the elf inside—yes, elf, a young woman bedecked in red- and white-striped stockings, green and red dress, matching hat, and red pointy-toed booties—simply greets us with a hearty welcome and tells us to enjoy our visit.
We step through the gates and I have to force my feet to keep moving instead of stopping so I can stare in awe. I feel like I’ve been transported to the North Pole. An open space inside the gates is home to various food carts advertising everything from hamburgers and hot dogs to funnel cakes to eggnog and hot chocolate. Past that, several street-like lanes branch off with shops lining either side.
“This place is unbelievable.” I spin in a slow circle to take it all in. Given the fantastical sight of this place, the people rushing past us, and the Christmas music filling the air from unseen speakers, I think I’m about thirty seconds away from sensory overload.
“That’s one word for it,” Celia says. She gives my arm a tug and sets out in the direction of one of the food carts. “Ice cream?”
“It’s November.”
She shrugs. “We’re Canadian.”
She has a point. There’s a chill in the air, but as we draw closer to the food carts, I feel heat coming from…somewhere. Like the music, the source of the warmth is a mystery. Celia orders a chocolate cone for herself and a mint chocolate chip one for me. I guess I’m predictable enough she doesn’t need to ask. I feel like a little kid as we begin to wander, my head whipping back and forth to take in everything around us. There are shops with toys and games, an arcade, a chocolatier, and even a store dedicated to Christmas tree ornaments.
Smiling elves roam the street, stopping to take selfies with people and hand out candy canes. Laughter and happy voices fill the air, making me feel lighter than I have in weeks. This place is magical. What I can’t understand is how Celia is tolerating all this merriment. Just a few days ago, she was fired for complaining about Christmas music, and now she’s here in this fairytale-like place, surrounded by cheerful people, which usually makes her gag and roll her eyes.
“Why are we here, Celia?” I ask, stopping abruptly.
She nearly plows into me. “I thought you’d enjoy this place.” Her voice rises at the end, making it sound almost like a question.
“I love it, but this type of thing usually makes you crawl out of your skin. Why are we really here?”
She opens and closes her mouth wordlessly. Finally, she blows out a long sigh. “Okay, okay. Let’s get some hot chocolate and I’ll fill you in.” Without waiting for a response, she ducks into a building and motions for me to follow. Inside, I’m greeted by warmth and the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods. There are mostly adults in here, sitting at tables or the counter that overlooks the street. Celia tells me to grab a seat while she goes to the front counter, where a middle-aged man—the first employee I’ve seen who isn’t dressed as an elf—takes her order.
She joins me a minute later at the small table I’ve chosen, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of sugar cookies. She sets one of the mugs in front of me. I can’t help but grin at the mountain of whipped cream and the scent of mint that tickles my nose. I’m so relaxed and content, I’m half tempted to tell Celia to forget it and we’ll just carry on with our evening as if I don’t know she’s keeping something from me.
She chooses the moment I bite into a cookie to blurt, “I’m going to be working here.”
Crumbs slide into my windpipe, making me splutter and cough. Celia watches with wide eyes as I take a sip of cocoa, which luckily isn’t scalding because of all the whipped cream. I clear my throat and start to laugh quietly. “Thanks for that, Ce. Next time save your jokes for when I don’t have a mouthful.”
Her brows form a V. “I’m serious, Ivy. I’m going to be working here.”
Her insistence, paired with her serious expression set me off. This time when I start laughing, it rolls out of me in uncontrollable giggles. Celia, working here. Here! The Canadian Christmas equivalent of the Happiest Place on Earth. A place where elves wander the streets greeting people with smiles, and an undeniable feeling of cheer and goodwill fills the air.
Tears collect in my eyes from the force of my laughter, which I’m trying and failing to contain. The couple at the table a few feet away eye me with amusement, which doesn’t help. Finally, I manage to suck in a few deep breaths without lapsing into hysterics. As I wipe the moisture from my eyes, I glance at Celia, freezing when I see her sour expression. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”
She gives a jerky nod. Her lips are compressed tightly and her cheeks are flushed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Celia blush before.
“Wha—how—wh—” Shock prevents me from forming a coherent question. “How did this happen?”
Celia picks up her hot chocolate and takes a long drink, avoiding my eyes. When she sets the mug down, she plucks a sugar cookie from the plate. Instead of eating it, she begins picking it apart, letting the crumbs collect in a pile on the table. “The employment agency wasn’t much help,” she says, still avoiding my gaze. “They didn’t even bother to hide their disdain when I went in. Let’s just say after going through my résumé, realizing I don’t have references from my last few jobs, and eliminating the things I’m not qualified for, there were slim pickings.”
Celia is usually full of bravado—chin up, eyes blazing, ready to take on the world. Always ready for a fight, even when a fight isn’t necessary. Now, though, her shoulders are hunched and her chin has dipped so far it’s nearly touching her chest.
“An older woman in the office took pity on me and offered me a ride home,” Celia continues. “We drove around for a bit and ended up passing by here. She asked if I’d ever been, and I told her this is the type of place my nightmares are made of.” She raises her head and gives me a small, rueful smile. “She didn’t say much after that. When we got to the apartment, she stopped me before I got out of the car and told me an attitude adjustment might go a long way in helping me get my life together. I was kinda pissed at the time, but then her words spun around in my head all night, and my thoughts kept coming back to this p
lace.”
She’s dismantled her cookie into a heap of fine crumbs. I expect her to leave it or maybe collect them in her napkin to dispose of later. Instead, she scoops the crumbs into her hand and pops them in her mouth. Okay then.
“So on Saturday, I found the number for this place and I called,” she says, bits of cookie flying out of her mouth. “I asked to speak to whoever was in charge of hiring new people and I told them I was exactly what they never knew they needed. They were intrigued enough to agree to meet with me.”
My mouth nearly drops open. “That takes more backbone than I thought even you had.”
She snorts. “Right? I surprised myself too. Anyway, I mustered up all the confidence I could manage and I marched into management’s office and told them my idea.” She pauses and I swear it’s for dramatic effect. She’s finally meeting my gaze again and the light is returning to her eyes, so I wait patiently for the big reveal. “I told them all the happy, smiley, sparkly-cheeked elves were great. That fairytale quality is what people expect when they come to a place like this. But every fairytale needs a villain. I told them what they’re lacking is a character like the Grinch or Scrooge. Nothing too scary or sinister—I’m not suggesting they add a Krampus to their roster of employees—but someone to wander the Village and spread a little bah humbug, you know? They could make it interactive and get the word out that if you ‘catch’ the character, they’re forced to spread some good cheer by handing out a ballot to enter a daily or weekly draw for a gift basket from one of the shops. Winner’s choice—one for adults, one for children, and one for families.”
She pauses again, this time to take another sip of her hot chocolate. I’m speechless. Her idea is absolutely brilliant. “You came up with this all on your own?”
“Yeah! My mind was spinning, desperately trying to think of what I could do for a job. I don’t want to work in retail. I’m not good with people, plus the repetition is so boring. I’m not qualified to start my own business or work from home, and I don’t have experience for an office job. Even if someone was willing to train me, my résumé is a joke. Between thinking about that and what the woman from the employment agency said about my attitude, this idea popped into my head. I figured at this point, what do I have to lose, you know? And it paid off, because they were interested in my ideas.”