My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “Rotten fish,” snarked Lucy, plugging her nose to Heather pumping blue Eau de Toilette on her neck.

  “You can’t spend your life not having a life just so your mom does.”

  “Easy for you to say when your mom’s surfing in Hawaii right now.”

  “And think of how many hot guys we’d find there. Ooooh la la!”

  Lucy moved her thoughts back to the envelope. Her sweet Calico hopped up on the dresser and booped her head against Lucy’s hand that gripped tight to her future.

  “Do you think it’s a contract?” she said to her kitty.

  A sweet meow came out with a lick.

  Heather filed her nails. “I think we should start dinner before your mom turns into a menopausal Cruella De Vil. Is she seriously listening to more Christmas movies? Personally, I recommend the Gilmore Girls. I just finished the series for the bazillionth time. You know, Lorelai Gilmore and I have a lot in common. Although I have to say, I never would have ditched Max at the altar. Hubba hubba.”

  “They never made it to the altar. And, you would have ditched him the minute he started rattling on about Marcel Proust.”

  “Why would an English teacher talk about a clothing designer in his classroom?”

  Lucy bit her cheek to stifle a laugh. Not going there. “Anyhow, Walton and Cartwright. I submitted this eight months ago.”

  “I hope you told them that I’m going to play Luella in the movie version, right?”

  It was just like Heather to think only of her fame.

  “You never even read my book,” Lucy griped, flipping the prongs up on the envelope.

  “You told me what it’s about. That you want it made into a movie.”

  “Not just any movie. A Hallmark Christmas movie.”

  Her dream.

  Having her story brought to life on the screen would make millions of hopeful romantics smile at Christmas. It would make her mom smile, too, and that in turn would make Lucy be able to finally sleep again. A true measure of success.

  Sucking in air, she ripped it open, holding her breath. “Heck with it.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  She tugged out papers that could offer money to improve her mom’s life. One that was destroyed from a simple mistake involving Lucy, a pay phone, and a dozen mojitos with extra salt on the glass.

  Heather picked up kitty who gave a quick hiss. “Oh poo, Cujo.”

  A white ball of fur shot out of the room like Superman to a broken dam. Otherwise, the moment was going perfectly until a startling crash made the papers flutter to the floor. “What on earth?” groaned Lucy.

  An agonizing shriek from the kitchen made her guts slide into her shoes.

  “What now?” Heather cried, nearly choking on her sangria.

  Lucy beelined for the living room, which didn’t take long since their pad was no bigger than a Cracker Jack box from 1964. “Mom, are you all right?” her entrails bounced like a pogo stick.

  “Fine, honey, I’m fine.”

  Smoke poured from the stove where her mom knocked over balsamic vinegar on the burner. A waft of fumes slapped Lucy in the face as she darted in. “Oh, Mom!” She flipped off the burner and turned on the fan. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to help you start dinner. You have your envelope.”

  “You can’t cook, Mom. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Heather already laid everything out. I’m just prepping.”

  “Burning down our apartment won’t help our problems.”

  “I wanted you to have your moment.”

  Heather waved smoke out of the air with a dish towel while coughing her brains out.

  “You know better than this,” lectured Lucy.

  “I may be blind, but I know how to cook.” At fifty-one, Mary Carpenter didn’t take her blindness easily. It had been a year since the accident and no improvement with daily living since they couldn’t afford blind school or therapy. Government services had a waiting list as long as Florida.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” cried Mary, smacking into the fridge. “Look what I did.”

  “It’s fine, Mom. I appreciate the thought.”

  Lucy helped her back to her rocking chair.

  She didn’t miss the cruel irony of Debbie Macomber’s newest novel now a holiday movie on the Hallmark Channel. Lucy read the book Mr. Miracle. She could use a miracle of any kind, man or not, especially earlier that evening when trying to get home to Brooklyn through the current Arctic blast.

  Heather rubbed dripping mascara off her face. “Holy smokes!”

  “Can you open the door, Heather?”

  Her mom pulled a crochet blanket over her lap and watched the TV like there was something to see. Reaching into a high cupboard for a box of tortellini, Lucy felt a hollowness in her belly.

  Her fault.

  She filled a pot with water and set it to heat on a different burner. Cold bananas. That would make her mom happy. She grabbed one from the fridge and put it in her mom’s lap.

  “Lucy won’t look at what’s in envelope,” Heather confessed.

  Mary looked toward the kitchen pinpointing her daughter’s location with maternal radar. “Don’t be silly, darling, it’s what you’ve worked for.”

  Lucy wanted to say that what she worked for had been to buy her mom a Seeing Eye golden retriever that would take more burden off her shoulders. To pay her dues for a mistake that put her mom in the path of a drunk driver. To make amends for demanding her mom come and pick her up in a blotted state as she acted the nincompoop. To gain forgiveness for getting her mom’s head smashed under a truck.

  “Heather,” Mary Carpenter called for attention. “Bring the letter here.”

  “Don’t you dare!” warned Lucy, chopping an onion.

  “All this fuss for one silly envelope? Your mom’s right, you worked for this.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “But, it’s a big package.”

  “You said the same thing the first time you met Mark wearing a tight pair—”

  “Oh dear,” gasped her mom, tucking stringy red hair behind her ears. “Girls, please.”

  “Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?” Heather teased.

  “Big ego, big mouth, big stupid jerk.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “Did Scrooge ever have a daughter? Because I think you’re it.”

  So far, it wasn’t feeling too much like the Christmas season. Normally, it was Lucy’s favorite time of year with hot toddies, hot chocolate, cookie cutters, baked casseroles, holiday parties, seasonal concerts, the Rockettes, street vendors, and pretty packages. What was not to love?

  The reason for her book.

  Mary Carpenter joked often about how she married Lucy’s father because he had the same last name as her favorite holiday singers. The Carpenter’s Christmas album still a daily staple in their house through December.

  “Lucille, open the envelope. I didn’t raise a coward,” demanded her mom.

  “Somebody has to take care of you and this mess.”

  Her mom muted the TV and chomped the banana. “Speaking of darling Mark, he called again.”

  Lucy bounced an onion off the cutting board. “Um, what?”

  “He said you won’t answer your cell and he’s been calling.”

  “So, he called you? But, why?”

  “He wanted me to tell you that Harcourt Maxwell and Co. just published his fourth novel. They’re buying the rights from the first two and are thinking of selling it into a mini-series for HBO.”

  Heather’s interest piqued in a way that she’d happily spout wedding vows to Lucy’s ex-boyfriend and offer her dedication if it meant getting a role in his TV show. “You’re kidding!”

  Lucy chop-sawed the onion. Of course, she’s not kidding.

  She bludgeoned it until juices stung her fingers. Tears poured out that could have just as easily been from the onions as from her rage. Mark again; an imbecile she’d love to give a one-way ticket on the greaseball ex
press. His stupid fantasy novels weren’t even that good.

  “He’s only calling to brag about his stupid book,” grumped Lucy.

  J.K Rowling could have done better writing as an infant. Literature had enough talking dragons and butt-scratching ogres who ruled the land by devouring young princesses alive, much like Mark Roland did her soul.

  “Look what I can do,” Heather bragged, shaking noodles into boiling water like she just discovered penicillin.

  Her mom pushed. “He said his editor is interested in meeting you as a favor to him.”

  Heather clapped her hands with bulging blue eyes. “Awesome sauce, Luce.”

  “No,” snapped Lucy. “Forget it.”

  “A connection on the inside? That could be your ticket.”

  “Then I’d owe him, and he’d forever rub it in my face. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Who cares? It’s your book, your royalties, your success.”

  Lucy knew that when it came to the gorgeous gladiator Mark Roland, it was always about his success even if it meant patting the underdog on the head like a 1980’s plush Pound Puppy.

  “I never want to see him again,” Lucy said, adamantly.

  Her mom reminded, “He was always so good to you.”

  Sure.

  So good that all he did was complain about what a liability it was to have a girlfriend with a mother who lost her eyesight because that same girlfriend got herself arrested on her college graduation night. So good that he laughed at Lucy in the face when she was telling him about the little Christmas novel she wrote.

  “About as good as a rattlesnake in prairie grass,” mumbled Lucy.

  “Oh, Lucille,” guilted Mary in that shameful mom-guilt voice. “Give him a call.”

  “I practically feel my soul dying thinking about him.”

  “I don’t like how you’re so hard on the man.”

  “And, I don’t like Mondays, but unfortunately they still come around.”

  “He has money now, Lucille.”

  “We don’t need a man to support us. Taking care of you is my job.”

  “Or, I can go to the state facility and you—”

  “No way!” she yelled sharper than intended. “I won’t do that to you.”

  “I want you to live your life the way you want to.”

  A fist beat on the apartment door as a welcome reprieve from a rapidly crashing argument. If Mary Carpenter had her way, wedding bells would have sounded over Central Park a year ago when the cheating cad gave her an ultimatum to give up writing and be his show-pony wife or take a hike.

  She did better than hike; she ran.

  “You know dear, when your father left us…” her mom started.

  Heather zipped to the door. “I’ll get it.”

  Lucy rammed her off the track, eager for an excuse to avoid more painful memories. Henry Billings Carpenter had been a rotten drunk guitar player who packed his bag in front of Lucy when she was twelve and never came back. The last they heard he was living in a double-wide on welfare in Arkansas.

  A winning toothless yokel.

  She opened the door and felt her backside jump down her front side. The bald shrinking landlord was back for his rent, open-handed and smirking as if he knew they didn’t have it. “I gave you two days.”

  “I told you, Mr. Phelps, I’m getting a holiday bonus.”

  “Christmas isn’t for a month.”

  “It’s just turned December, so not really. You’ll get it when I get paid.”

  “And, you didn’t get paid on the first like most people?”

  “My mom had medical bills and—”

  “If you want a shrink, then you can pay for one after you pay me my rent.”

  Lucy looked over her shoulder to Heather who draped her body over the sofa. When the landlord peeked in, she hiked up her skirt. “Hellooooo Mr. Phelps.” Heather lived in the building and even though she never paid her rent on time, had no trouble getting extensions.

  Lucy only had size-fourteen folds and freckled Irish skin to offer. Whereas her mom remained slender, Lucille Esmeralda Carpenter carried the body of a week-two Weight Watchers failure.

  “How are you today?” Heather winked at the man.

  If only it was that simple. The slouchy middle-aged dwap slunk into the apartment. Drool practically slid down his chin as Lucy considered offering him a napkin. “Sweet girl, there you are.”

  “Would you like to stay for dinner, Mr. Phelps?” asked her mom genuinely.

  “One minute.”

  He waddled out like a penguin, only to reappear with a little Christmas tree in a blaring shade of Barbie pink. “I brought this for you.” He plugged it in next to her mom’s chair. “What do you think?”

  Mary smiled as if she could see the lights. “How thoughtful.”

  Lucy had no doubt the tree was really for Heather. The Humpty Dumpty man was as loony as a proverbial fruitcake for always chasing single young women since his wife left him for a golf pro.

  Mary pointed in the direction of stacked boxes in a corner. “We were going to decorate tonight. Would you like to join us, Richard?”

  Lucy balled her fist. “Yes, please do.”

  “You can put the star on top. We need a strong man for that,” Heather again.

  He pulled up his pants at the belt like he was all the news this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Lugged down the first box with a weak grunt. “Sure, I do love helping you ladies.”

  Heather rolled her eyes when his back was turned. “So lucky.”

  “And, don’t worry about the rent, Ms. Lucy. Christmas Eve is fine.”

  Lucy had enough.

  She stormed for her bedroom and locked the door. Understood exactly what the three women gave up in order to survive once again. Another man to hold his power high and manipulate them.

  A lonely trollish one.

  Like a woman with her britches on fire, she charged for the envelope still flat on the floor. Her patchy kitty sprawled across the top with a deep yawn as if trying to dissuade her. “Enough of that,” Lucy moaned, yanking it out from under her. “Time to rip off the Band-Aid.”

  The remaining papers slid out into her hand.

  Her lungs stopped working as she pulled off a red paper clip to read the top page. It started out hopeful. Love your book. Beautiful story. Strong characters. Pages are alive. Can smell the chestnuts.

  Oh no.

  There they were.

  The words.

  She knew them in her bones. In her empty heart chasm that some days felt as dark as the world she plunged her mother into that terrible night. The same words that made her the bottom dog of the literary world.

  Rejection.

  Sorry to inform you…saddened to tell you…Christmas novels aren’t our norm…

  Lucy dropped like a sack of apples onto her bed. “I knew it.”

  They included their free booklet How to Get Published with Walton and Cartright with a Beginner’s Guide to Revisions just to plop more slop on the dilapidated chuck wagon that was now her heart.

  Your craft needs work.

  Thanks for another refusal from the Big Five of New York City. Lucy thought it was a nice touch when the letter ended with the suggestion to rewrite the book according to their standards and resubmit.

  Kitty nuzzled her leg.

  “Mark was right,” Lucy whispered, picking her up. “I’m a joke.”

  No next time.

  No revisions.

  No tears.

  What right did she have to cry when her mother lost her career as a photographer and her playwright boyfriend because of Lucy’s mistake? Guilt locked up her throat. There would be no forgiving herself until Mary Carpenter had some semblance of a decent life. No more pipe dreams.

  “I’m done.”

  Setting kitty aside, Lucy dumped the papers into the trash. Unwrapped a Hershey’s Kiss and shoved it into her mouth. How would she ever give her mom a better life now? Without the money from her book there wo
uld be no Seeing Eye dog or braille school or caregiver staff.

  What kind of life would it be for Mary Carpenter?

  Her mother’s idea of adventure was knocking over a strawberry jam jar while reaching for a spoon to smear it on a sponge thinking it was toast. Lucy’s dream of making it big sank as hard and fast as the Titanic. Soon they’d spend Christmas in a dumpster with nothing to dine on but rotten apple cores.

  She wouldn’t let that happen.

  Couldn’t.

  Then she knew; only one option.

  Mark Roland.

  Chapter 2

  “When all else fails, pretend to be somebody who has it much worse at Christmas.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  A lump of coal in his stocking.

  That’s what he’d get this year. A dry and cracking, dusty old lump of nasty bitter crumbling coal. Lucy read the company email for the tenth time. No holiday decorations, period, without ramifications.

  Really?

  It was just like their boss, Managing Editor William Harcourt, to keep his employees’ noses to the grindstone. So much for her plans to add some twinkle to her sterile work box. She promptly dragged the email to the trash and swiveled around in her chair.

  “Hey, Luce!” Her favorite male intern winked as he breezed past her cubicle.

  “You may want to take off that reindeer sweater.”

  That got a chuckle.

  Christmas at Big Apple Books felt more like cuddling a cactus in an ice storm; stark white walls, sleek grey desks, and barren beige cubicles with all the severity of a dentist’s office.

  Work. Work. Work.

  She chomped a few holiday M&Ms from her desk. Was candy allowed? Geesh! Lucy planned it all out during a snowy trudge into the city that morning. If she had to take back her sleazy ex, she would darn well deck out her cubicle like the Disneyland parade at Christmas.

  “One more Ebenezer,” she mumbled.

  Her eyes shifted to the iPhone screen playing the final scene from It’s a Wonderful Life. She turned up the volume on her headphones to her favorite line. Bells ringing, angels getting wings. At least little Zuzu Bailey had the sense to find joy in the season.