“I’m in the book business. There’s nothing funny about books.”
“Please, this book means everything to me. It was my great-grandmother’s.”
“Then keep it.”
“Don’t you realize I wish I could?”
Grunting, he took a sip of steaming tea from an oversized Christmas tree mug. “I’ll give you a thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred at least. It’s a first-edition of A Christmas Carol limited to eight hundred.”
“A dime a dozen, lassie. First edition or not.”
The book had been passed down from her great-grandmother’s great-aunt who was married to an English man who worked in the publishing house that procured the first batch of the novel.
Her jewel.
“At an auction.” Unfolding the blanket, she opened the book. “It would go for twenty thousand.”
“Then go to an auction.”
She read the inside inscription. One was to her grandmother; another to Lucy from her father who inherited it after his mom passed on. To my little Lucy-Loo, my droopy drawers, all great writers start somewhere.
The only nice thing her dad ever said to her – and that was in writing.
“You have a favorite passage?” asked the proprietor.
Lucy nodded, turning right to the page where the Ghost of Christmas Past lamented. She cleared her throat and read out loud from A Christmas Carol, “I wear the chains I forged in...”
No.
She couldn’t do it; too painful.
Reading the quote to the air resonated with the guiltiest pit of her soul. The chains she wore were the very thing that brought her into the store that day. She forged her own chains in life from a mistake.
By choice.
Now she was bound like the ghost.
There would be no self-forgiveness when Mary Carpenter couldn’t even go to the bathroom without breaking her neck or burning down the house on the way in. The book had to be sold.
“I like that passage, too,” he said.
“One thousand,” she gave a pang with a cracked voice. “I’ll take it!”
He set down the tea mug and stood up. “You’re sure?”
“Not even a little.”
Maybe it was the tears in her eyes or the reluctant way she handed it over. Something prompted the man to give her fifteen hundred in cash. “Merry Christmas!” he said.
“Thank you, and make sure it goes to a good home. That it’s loved.”
“I have a list of collectors who buy holiday novels. Up to them if they sleep with their books.”
Bells over the door dinged as she put the money in her purse. “Lucy!” Heather squealed.
Lucy nodded at the man. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“It’s my collector who will be the lucky one.”
“Seems more like you made out the most here.”
Heather tugged her out the door. “Your mom’s finishing the consultation now.”
They headed for the banks of the Narrows lined with small businesses, medical offices, cafes, and tattoo parlors. The usual bustle of the modern-day Mayberry was now in hibernation. Icicles hung from shop awnings.
Heather blocked her path. “You sold it.”
“I had no choice.”
“Have aliens taken over your brain?”
Lucy dumped a handful of quarters in the Salvation Army bucket. The man nodded, slowing his tune of jingle bells long enough for them to talk. “I’m about to lose my job. I need the money.”
“You don’t know he’s going to fire you.”
She slid her pink gloves back on. “William Harcourt excited about a Christmas book? The man nearly fired my co-worker for putting a porcelain reindeer on her desk. He only asked to read it from suspicion.”
“But, you said he showed unusual interest.”
“It’s Saturday, so he’s probably reading it today looking for confirmation.”
Heather hopped up and down in her knee-high snow boots to stay warm. “Don’t be a goof,” she mocked, looking like she really had to use a bathroom. “He would have just asked you.”
The shrilling storm gave new meaning to the song White Christmas. Blowing snow scratched into her eyes and smothered her lungs with each breath. On the upside, both sides of the street twinkled colorful lights from fully decorated storefronts that made it really feel like Christmas. Maybe she should have waited to sell the book.
“You can go back in right now,” demanded Heather.
“It’s done. My mom has needs.”
“So, do you. It’s called a happy life.”
“The more you give, the more you get back.”
“I gave away an entire box of used pantyhose and old bras and negligees, and no new ones showed up magically in my mail from Victoria’s Secret. I mean, what good is donating then?”
Rolling her eyes, Lucy headed for the medical complex. “It’s too late now.”
“If that hunk of a boss wanted you fired, he’d probably have already called you. It’s not like you embezzled from the company. You just pulled a brilliant hoax over his eyes.”
“Right, because that’s not enough reason to fire somebody.”
They stopped at a street vendor and bought two bags of roasted chestnuts, munching on them as they hugged storefronts toward the private medical offices across from Frazier’s Diner.
“You should’ve seen the look on his face,” Lucy explained with a hot mouthful.
“It’s a yum face for sure.”
“I’ve never seen a man show so much interest in a Christmas book. Isn’t that weird? And, he was so quiet for some of it. I figured it must be because he was suspicious where it came from.”
“Or, he was impressed with it.”
“All three of the novels I presented to him in the meeting were better than mine.”
“Maybe he likes the holidays.”
“He sent out a Scroogy email threatening staff if we put so much as a Santa bobble on our desks. Last week the intern was lectured for getting her Starbucks in a holiday cup instead of the regular.”
“Well, maybe he feels it looks unprofessional.”
Coming to a slide in front of Margot’s Holiday Lane, Lucy pointed through the shop window. “This is irony, you see here? If my boss even knew I was standing in front of a holiday shop, I’d be fired.” She swirled her hips as if warming up for cross-country. “But, I’m perfectly calm and rational.”
“About as much as somebody getting a colonoscopy.”
“Your original idea of signing up as a mail order bride is shaping up nicely. Yet, I hope there are men who pay for fat escorts. The last time I wore a short dress, my thighs stuck to the subway seat and made a real juicy ripping sound when I stood up.”
Heather tossed the nut bag in the trash. “Grapefruit diet works every time.”
It was just like Heather’s vanity to indirectly agree with Lucy’s fat complaints.
“So, you’re extra curvy,” said her friend.
“Is that like extra mayo on top of an artery-clogging hamburger?”
“Yet, Mark is so totally into you.”
“Speaking of Hitler’s prodigy, I invited him to dinner tomorrow.”
“Um, I thought you told him to go choke on a candy cane.”
“That was before I went off my rocker and pulled an Ocean’s Eleven on my boss. I’m going to need all the help I can get when my severance check has a big fat zero on it.”
Together they gazed at a vintage toy display in the window.
“You could do worse,” Heather said, watching a train circle an old Take N’ Bake oven.
Lucy’s phone buzzed in her coat pocket. “Sure, like Jack the Ripper.” She pulled it out and put it to her ear. “If you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“Miss Carpenter?”
A man.
Her eyes snapped up to Heather, who in turn was ogling a Cabbage Patch doll in a Mrs. Santa Claus outfit. “Is my mom ready? We were just on the way.”
The name made it feel like Lucy’s entrails splat at her feet. She gasped, dropping the phone in the snow and hopping back three feet. “Jiminy Crickets!”
“What?” Heather’s brows lifted.
“It’s him, oh sleigh bells. Double double sleigh bells.”
“Who is him?”
“My boss.”
Heather gasped while scrambling for the phone. “Are you crazy?”
“Hang up, hang up!”
“He can hear us.”
Lucy grabbed it while furiously wiping snow from the earpiece. She could hear her boss’ voice calling “hello” over and over. “What does he want?” she mouthed to Heather.
Her friend shoved it up to Lucy’s ear. “Quit being a Smurf.”
“Hell…o…right…hi,” Lucy fumbled her words.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Sure, well, you know. The storm.”
“Oh?”
“Bad signal.”
“It sounds more like you dropped the phone.”
“Well, right, I mean, the storm blew it right out of my hand. Sorry about that.”
He chuckled. “You should hold on tighter.”
“Oh, it’s ruthless out here. We’re talking polar ice cap.”
“Ice caps don’t cause wind.”
“Well, certainly they can.”
“How?”
She scrambled for anything that didn’t make her feel like Malibu Barbie. “If they melt, a tidal wave is formed. The wave comes at you like a tsunami and knocks the phone from your hand like a wind gust.”
“You realize you’d also be dead then.”
“All the harder to make a phone call.”
“So, you’re soaking wet?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Actually, that’s more of an analogy,” he offered, as if enjoying her humiliating display.
“It’s cold.”
Is that the best she could come up with? Smurfette would be more eloquent.
“Actually, Lucy, I was calling to speak with you about the Christmas novel.”
The phone did a ballerina dance in the air when her hand spazzed out. Heather caught it, bouncing it back her way. Lucy sent it right back at her like tethering a volleyball.
“What are you doing?” Heather hissed through her teeth.
“You talk to him.”
“He’s your boss.”
When her now ex-friend jumped two feet back, Lucy put the phone to her own head. “Hello?”
“Ms. Carpenter.”
“Oh, goodness, sorry about that.”
“More ice caps?”
“Actually, that was an icicle. It hit my head.”
“Yikes.”
“Right on my noggin actually. Ouch!”
“Should I call somebody?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Actually, I’m feeling kind of dizzy. I think I should go get checked out.”
He sounded concerned. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come for you.
“Oh, actually…” She heard her own voice quaver. “I think that was hail.”
“Perhaps you should go indoors.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I should since I can’t feel my scalp now.”
People trudging down the street through a snow path stared with curiosity at the two billowy and pink-clad girls hopping around in front of a toy store like halfwit simpletons with bugs in their bras.
“What are you looking at?” Heather yelled at a guy laughing at them.
“Nothing that wouldn’t make a funny Victor Hugo play,” he snarked back.
Heather pushed her thumb into her nose and made a neighing sound at them.
Lucy plugged her free ear. “Mr. William, uh, Harcourt, Mr. boss, um, sir. Can I help you?”
“I hope so because at this rate, I’d happily be in Fiji by now.”
“Actually, Tahiti.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tahiti is like Hawaii times ten and so much cleaner than Fiji. Plus, they're French, and you know what they say about the French.”
“Not really. What do they say?”
Her brain scrambled like eggs. “Just that, well, they hate Americans.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason not to go there?”
“Oh, no, not at all. At least you know they’ll avoid you like the plague, which means you can get plenty of rest.”
“So, you’ve been there?”
“Well, no, but I watch the travel channel.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. For now, I’d like to discuss the book you gave me.”
Not that. Anything but that.
She stuttered, “But you see, I’m about to pick up my mom at the doctor’s.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Weekend hours for those who can’t make it during the week. Truth is, we were about to go to lunch after.”
A car crunched ice zooming past, making it hard to hear. They walked toward the doctor’s office as she prepared to sing like a canary about her deceit. Maybe then he wouldn’t go too hard on her.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you on a weekend,” he offered, sincerely.
“We’re just Christmas shopping, actually.”
“Didn’t you just say you were picking up your mom?”
She smacked her own forehead. Of all lies to tell, why lie about shopping for Christmas to a man whose idea of Christmas is reluctantly giving his employees the day off of work?
“I was shopping for ornaments and lights while my mom’s doing an errand,” said Lucy with a defiant and daring tone that longed for a competitive retort. “For my little office tree. Uh, I mean, I’m doing the errands, you know, for my tree at home.”
Oh dear.
Something about this man made her act the rebellious ignoramus. Or, maybe she was in a foul mood knowing he was about to fire her, and it was her own fault.
“You can have a tree in your office if you’d like,” he offered, sincerely.
Lucy’s clunky snow boots skidded to a halt. “But, the email said…well…”
“That was just to maintain the company image. I can’t have the whole place looking like a small-town America shopping mall at Christmas. Your cubicle is private and not visible to the floor. I’m fine with it.”
“You’re fine?”
“Sure am.”
“Just like that?”
“Certainly.”
She wasn’t buying the Mr. Nice Guy act. Something was rotten in Ricky Ricardo’s Cuba.
“I may play holiday tunes at my desk, too,” she challenged.
“So long as nobody else can hear it.”
“And, I’ll bring my own coffee mug. It has Minnie and Mickey on it.”
“I like Disney.”
“Standing by a tree dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Santa. Hmm? How do you like them apples?”
Heather pulled her beanie down over her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to watch.
Her boss prompted, “I wanted to thank you, Lucy. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I have that effect on people. Have you tried chamomile? Personally, I prefer peppermint cocoa at night since it’s Christmas, but the caffeine would have the opposite effect on your sleep. Unless, that is, you plan on staying up all night working.”
Cram it, Lucy. Gibbering ninny.
“What I mean is the Christmas novel you pushed at me kept me awake all night.”
She dared ask, “Is that a good thing?”
“It wiped the floor with me, Miss Carpenter. I sat stunned in my chair for an hour when I finished it and couldn’t move. Then after that, all I could do is think about how this book is going to change our company.”
Her heart flopped like nine ladies dancing over her chest. Wiped the floor with him? From the talk they had in his office, it seemed the only marker of a good book was a pricey Armani suit used as a dust rag.
“Are you saying yo
u liked the book?” her voice trembled.
“I’m in love with the book. Aren’t you?”
Her tongue flopped, loosely. “I’m sure the author would be pleased.”
“I hope so. In fact, I’d like to speak with her.”
Oh snapadoodle.
“You would?”
“Yes,” was his reply, as he seemed to battle a teapot that whistled. “Do you have her number?”
“Her what?”
“Her phone number. I’d like to call and give her the good news.”
“What good news?”
“That Big Apple Books is going to publish her novel. Not only that, I’m offering her a three-book contract for the second and third book as starters to life in Snowdrop Valley. The Christmas book will be the first.”
Tears swam laps over her eyes. She held her chest.
Heather mouthed, “What did he say?”
“In fact,” continued William, who should be viewed as Saint William, and not the ice-fish. “I’ve already spoken to a writer about turning it into a screenplay. I also spoke with the producer for one of the family channels. Your favorite station isn’t taking submissions, but I know the studio owner of two other networks. Both are interested in hearing my pitch about making the book into a movie or a mini-series.”
The phone slipped out of Lucy’s hand. “Holy frittata!”
It bounced off her boot.
Heather pounced on it once again and gave it back to her. All Lucy could do is open her palm as if asking for a handout, when all she really needed was an oxygen mask and a vomit bag.
“Did he hang up?” Heather asked.
Lucy shook her head ‘no’, so Heather placed it to her friend’s ear. The whole thing felt extreme and unreal.
“Miss Carpenter?” called William.
“Here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I did.”
“I’m going to grow this woman into the next American sensation. Her rise will be the credit of our company which, if we can get it put into a full series of books and movies, will push us to the Top Five.”
Her heart stampeded in her chest. “Top Five, really?”
“Remember how much money the Hunger Games series made the author and the publisher when it hit a three-movie contract? Not only that, I’m considering contracting with developers to buy a plot of land so that we can build our own tourist version of Snowdrop Valley. I’ve also spoken to a developer and investors just this morning. I was on the phone for quite some time.”
My Christmas Darling Page 6