My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  Her mind went to where it shouldn’t with Heather’s words still ripe.

  “You want something different than what we’ve done?” she tested.

  “Anything, at this point.”

  Her book.

  Would she dare to do something so monstrously foolish? From the disappointment etched in his rugged face, she felt her job slipping away. He likely regretted hiring her. Still, her mind went back to the familiar vision of putting pen to paper, signing her own book contract.

  She tested the waters. “We’re supposed to publish books our readers will like.”

  “If I’m bored, so are our readers.”

  Did she dare?

  The destructive power of last night’s envelope nagged raw on her esteem. What use would she be to her mom if they ended up in a homeless shelter? The only other option was Mark Roland or a state facility.

  This was her chance.

  “Something different.”

  William Harcourt looked at his Rolex. “I’m nearly out of time.”

  It was time to stop punching a clock and watching other authors make it big. Time to reach her goal of becoming published to earn enough money to redeem her mistake. Time to pull herself up by the bootstraps with enough gumption to step outside of her safety bubble.

  “Perhaps we need to hire somebody else,” her boss said.

  Lucy’s hand trembled while imagining her goal never happening. All she could think about was her mom’s terrorized cries waking up from a coma to a world of blackness after the accident.

  “Mr. Harcourt,” she barely choked out. “There is one other option.”

  “Bring it to me then.”

  She thought of Mr. Phelps – the creepy landlord. He watched her that morning from the window as she battled snowdrifts for the subway. No doubt he’d be back for money or hospitality. She recalled Mark’s mocking tone on the phone about her little book fantasy. Time for that Ghost of Christmas Past to get run over by a Goodwill truck.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She sprang for her cubicle, breaking out in a clammy sweat as she pulled her manuscript from the work bag under her desk. Three-hundred pages of holiday cheer with her real name imprinted on the cover.

  “Crazy, crazy!”

  She typed out another cover sheet barely able to breathe. “What am I doing?” Typed out the pen name Bibi Roquette, imagining herself a sexy French blonde living in an Upper East Side penthouse.

  You’ll get fired, Lucy, think about this.

  Rent, food, bills. They’d be dumpster diving for sure. She shivered as if flung into an icy river.

  Are you a total idiot? This will never work.

  She returned at lightning speed. Time to get serious.

  “What do you have there?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “Well, you see, it’s just this charming holiday novel.”

  His hand froze. “What kind of holiday?”

  Uh oh.

  “Actually, it’s a very beautiful Christmas novel. It would make a brilliant series of Hallmark Christmas movies revolving around this one book town where everything in it is about books.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  He slivered his eyes and leaned forward like marking her for his fried-fish dinner. He spread both hands on the desk and swallowed visibly. “A Christmas book?”

  “A literary-themed book. Christmas and books.”

  After a considerable pause, he said, “Tell me more.”

  Fiddlesnaps.

  Did he really just say that? Even the books he approved after her pitches each month resulted in a fast yes before requesting she pass it along to the acquisitions editor. Never once did he ask her to elaborate.

  “Please, Lucy, continue.”

  “It’s a small New England town called Snowdrop Valley. Every business, every resident, is somehow involved in the writing, designing, production, selling, or publishing of books.”

  “A book town?”

  She nodded. “There’s a famous writing school, some publishing companies, a whole street of colonial houses owned by famous writers. There’s the Bookends Café, the Mark Twain Hotel, two dozen bookstores, each specializing in a rare type of book. There’s even a coffee shop with walls made from books.”

  He seemed to cling to her words.

  “There’s an entire row of old houses, each turned into a children’s-themed book interactive experience like the Anne of Green Gables House and the Wizard and Witchery House. There’s even a similar alley with street vendors selling bookish things. There are book clubs and printing houses and book-themed stores. There’s even a French quarter with Belle’s Bookshop and Bakery from the Beauty and the Beast fairytale. There are libraries just for kids; others for seniors. The town hosts writer’s retreats, book fairs, and publishing seminars. Best of all, they host an annual Dickens Christmas festival where people come from all over the world.”

  Catching her breath, she stopped flat.

  Why wasn’t he saying anything? Then she realized that her soliloquy didn’t allow it. Nobody ever asked about her book. Talking about it emerged a rush of positive feelings – like bathing in a hot buttered rum bath.

  “My apologies.” She felt her face burn hot. “It’s exciting.”

  He held out a hand, eagerly. “May I see it?”

  Sweat tainted the back of her emerald green dress that Heather swore matched her eyes. What kind of crazies had taken over her brain? She’d be fired for sure for the lie, if not for the breach of protocol.

  “I’m not sure if it’s what you’re looking for,” was her reply.

  “I’ll judge that.”

  Reluctantly, she pushed it across his desk, closing her eyes against the hopeful expression in his own, which resembled steaming swirly cups of hot chocolate with sprinkles on top; much better than a rum bath.

  She finished, “It’s really about a woman and her father who…well…”

  “Bibi Roquette,” he said, reading the cover.

  “It’s her first book.”

  “Why didn’t you bring this in the first time?”

  “We’ve never published a holiday novel.”

  “Times are changing. New York is all about Christmas and Hanukkah.”

  “But, you won’t even let us decorate our cubicles.”

  “I’m running a prestigious business. Not Santa’s workshop.”

  Could it be that this man was about to play a starring role in her dreams? She held her belly against a strange flutter that could have been nerves, but more likely was from the luscious smell of his cologne that probably cost more than a month of her own paychecks. It was the kind of cologne that Russell Crowe or Sean Connery or maybe even Bradley Cooper would wear on a first date with a runway supermodel.

  “I believe this book would make a charming movie,” she confessed.

  He read the first line out loud. “If you don’t breathe Christmas in your soul, you won’t find it under a tree.” Then sank back into his chair with a deep sigh. Nothing else came from him after that.

  Time to head for the unemployment office.

  “It’s really a story of forgiveness, Mr. Harcourt.”

  This is the man rumored to have all the tender sweetness of a Great White shark. She shook her head against her stupidity. It was the only brave thing she’d ever done. Nobody could accuse her of passivity again.

  “I’d like to keep this,” his gravelly voice uttered in a way that made her kneecaps tense.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tonight, I’d like to read it. I’ll take it home.”

  Lucy’s mouth sagged open. Once a month for a year she presented books to this man. Never had he asked to read one even if he gave a go-ahead for publication. Did he suspect something?

  “Why?” she asked. Stupid. Stupid.

  The hard look was back. “I’m not against considering a new genre.”

  “You want to read this whole book?”

  “Compared to half a book, o
f course. I’ll return it when I’m done.”

  “Are you saying…well…”

  He rose tall and re-buttoned his blazer. “I don’t want to go down in history as the only publishing company in New York never to have considered holiday novels.”

  “But, you hate Christmas.”

  “Next time, come to me with this kind of thing first. Whatever you think I don’t like is what I want you to bring me. And my feelings about Christmas are irrelevant.”

  “But, I’m not sure this is what you’re looking for.”

  He escorted her to the door with a hand on her lower back. It was the most contact she had from a man in a long time. The touch made her want to burrow against his chest. Odd thing to think of at a time like this.

  “Thank you for your effort,” he offered.

  She wondered what other surprises lurked behind his wickedly charming face. Wasn’t it foolish to be attracted to somebody who didn’t even know her name and hated Christmas decorations?

  “You really want to read it?” she asked.

  “Books are my business.”

  The boyish glimmer behind his eyes gave her a fresh view of his insides. Gills or not, he may be a fish, but more like a tropical blue-stripe snapper than an Antarctic cod. Besides, she was a big fan of fish.

  “Not so much a Grinch after all,” she teased. “More like a Cindy Loo.”

  He cracked a half-smile that made it hard for her lungs to rise; a fetching one that reminded her of Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men when he got his winning verdict. The man wasn’t so dismal after all.

  “You’ve really pleased me today,” he said, pleasantly.

  “I have to say, I’m surprised you want to read that book.”

  Surely, this wasn’t going to end well. What if he loved it? Too late now. She was knee-deep in quicksand. Her first stop upon exiting the office would be to call and yell at Heather for putting ideas in her head about breaking the law and lying to her boss. What had she been thinking?

  Not about jail time, obviously.

  “I can’t wait to read it,” he boasted.

  She drifted out like a departing spirit. Somebody wanted to read her book. Somebody was interested. Somebody thought she had talent. That somebody, was William Harcourt; the man who managed to surprise her.

  “Lucy?”

  Oh, cocoa cups.

  Now what?

  She braced her body like a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot. “Yes?” she turned around.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know your first name.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “We change lives together. I should know your name.”

  “And, now you do.”

  “Now I do.”

  “And, Lucy?”

  She held her breath that currently was on vacation in Aruba sunbathing without her. William Harcourt seemed to be admiring her from the tip of her toes, all the way up to the unruly fluff of her hair.

  He then said a little daringly, “That’s a beautiful dress.”

  “Oh…well…actually I got it…”

  When his desk phone jangled, the door closed on her face just as fast.

  She grabbed hold of the wall. Oh, dear Lord, what have I done?

  Her mind hummed the Carpenter’s song again; the one she hummed all the way to work that morning. Lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with youuuuu da ta da.

  Romantic sleigh ride.

  Right.

  More like an out-of-control sleigh that slams into a tree during a pelleting hailstorm, wiping out everybody with it.

  Chapter 3

  “Everyone has books, but the Christmas ones are pretty and more fun.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  Time to get down to business.

  Polishing off his Saturday breakfast, William Harcourt stormed across his penthouse for a book cabinet kept under lock and key. He wasn’t having a good month. Heck, he wasn’t having a good year. He heard through the Pony Express that his father’s press was up for a Publisher of the Year award as a global trade company.

  Of course.

  He stuck a key into the hole and opened the cherry oak door. Scanned his beloved collection of first-edition Christmas novels dating back as far as the 1820s. Thinking about business required his special book.

  1957.

  The Hoobub and the Grinch first emerged as a poem in Redbook Magazine. William had his copy tucked in a plastic sleeve next to the Random House first book edition of his mother’s.

  It was his bible.

  Marvelous decisions couldn’t happen without his Grinch guide to life. He slid it off the shelf before running his fingers over his other treasures. First editions of The Gift of the Magi, Tolkien’s Letters from Father Christmas, A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote, The Fir Tree by Hans Christian Andersen.

  His life’s treasures.

  He took in that crusty old book smell that cooled his jets. Collecting first-edition Christmas novels was a holiday tradition once shared with his mom. When she died, he vowed to continue in her stead. He went back to his leather chair with a marshmallow view of Central Park where kids pulled sleighs over thin drifts.

  At work, the whole office was caught up in a yuletide frenzy. Three requests to put up a tree in the lobby. Four to host the holiday office party. Six asked for time off Christmas week. If he heard one more Santa Baby chorus during work hours, he was going to pack a bag and head for Fiji.

  Hence the company email.

  He got the idea from Tim Allen in Christmas with the Kranks.

  A favorite.

  Skipping Christmas, a holiday novel by master storyteller John Grisham, was the catalyst for William’s favorite holiday movie. Now there was an author who had the right idea for his characters, so long as William’s employees didn’t demand he free Frosty to go on top of his roof as they did to Tim Allen in the film.

  He closed his eyes, clasping the book.

  Tried to meditate against the yap of Melody Bleaton’s fluffy Pomeranian one floor down. Once upon a time, he considered himself liked. Now, his employees looked at him like he had a heart full of dirty boxers. He wondered how many employees had quit due to his hard nature.

  So, what changed?

  His father, Richard Maxwell Harcourt III – CEO of Harcourt Maxwell & Co. Previously Harcourt Maxwell & Son – now without the son.

  That’s what.

  His mind went to the lovely Lucy Carpenter who brought him a solution. He treated her like a bureaucrat who had an empty pillowcase for a soul. Yet, this girl seemed unfazed by his sour mood, which made him fond of her all the more.

  A Grinchy mean rotten nasty old old soul…

  A simple concept with the meaning lost on most. Maybe he loved the story because his mom did. Or, maybe because she died in front of him when he was twelve, and his Grinchy father blamed him for it.

  Cuddles and cactuses…

  He had become his father.

  It took a Grinch to make a Grinch. The concept made his stomach churn. It’s not who he wanted to be. Losing control of his emotions meant losing respect, and if you didn’t have respect, you had nothing.

  Empty chambers for hearts…

  No love.

  No wealth.

  He didn’t need to read the book; he knew it by heart. For years he used it to process issues with his father. Now, it was his emblem for a creature he risked becoming. What would his mom say?

  He thought about her final words.

  Be who you are, she told him.

  Whatever happened that day, that week, or that month that she died, was lost. Yet, he recalled the words.

  What did they mean?

  The Grinch figured out that it doesn’t matter what people see on the outside. Who you really are rests cozy as a caterpillar waiting to grow wings and fly. William longed to fly and experience the warmth of feeling loved. Already, he spent the greater part of his life trying to find out what it would feel like.

  A slimy spider
y intellect and rotting garlic for a heart…

  What he was now was a product of his father. Stoic, competitive, driven. It was the only way to gain his father’s approval and finally feel good enough. Richard Maxwell Harcourt III made sure he never did.

  The yearning was back.

  What would it feel like to be good enough? He failed as a son. As a boss. As a boyfriend. As a human being, all in the name of what his shrink said was discovering self-love.

  He snorted, loudly. “No such thing.”

  His only goal in life now was to soar up the career ladder and land Big Apple Books a spot in the Top Five. The only solution to finally get his dad’s respect and maybe even a kindling hint of love.

  “Enough!” William jumped to his feet.

  He put the book back in the cabinet like an infant in a cradle, locking it tight. Nobody would respect a man who collected holiday novels. He cringed, imagining the looks he’d get if his employees knew he read The Snow Queen and The Polar Express throughout the year.

  It was time.

  Bibi Roquette’s holiday novel was the ticket. A dangerous move on the chess board if he didn’t do it right. That’s why he needed the Grinch to ground him. If the green guy could change, so could his company.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  He opened it to the feisty eighty-year-old widow who lived in the penthouse next door. Her husband once built high rises and left her a fortune with no children down the chain of inheritance.

  “Mrs. Connelly,” he greeted, opening it wide. “Don’t you look sharp.”

  “It’s Iris to you, young man.”

  “Of course, Iris. This is a surprise.”

  The tiny old woman worked her way to the center of the living room and glanced around. He heard it from her more than once how it needed a woman’s touch. Even a few tossed shoes to make it look lived in.

  “No tree, my dear?”

  “No time, Iris, no time. Did you finish the book?”

  She handed him his copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “It’s dark and dreary.”

  “It is.”

  “An unusual choice for holiday reading.”

  He wanted to say he suggested the book because it was more of a story he identified with. Who he was on the inside didn’t match his monster’s Frankenstein exterior. “It’s classic literature, Iris.”