My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “Tourist…you…I mean…how or what?”

  “I want Snowdrop Valley, a.k.a the fictional literary town, to be a real place people can go.”

  “What does that have to do with the book?”

  “The movies from the book will be filmed there. People can come stay there, too.”

  “And, you get money for that?”

  “It costs money before there can be profits. But yes, and the author gets a cut.”

  Of all things in the world Lucy could think right now, her thoughts stayed on one thing only. Her father’s great-grandmother’s A Christmas Carol book. “Hold on,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. “Get my book back.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hurry, I’ll wait here. Tell him I changed my mind.”

  She pushed the cash wad into Heather’s hands. When her friend’s blonde wafts flopped from view, Lucy thought of her mom. Everything she dreamed of to redeem her mistake was just offered to her in a sparkling golden Christmas goblet. Too good to be true?

  “Miss Carpenter,” called her boss.

  “Here, that’s me. That’s soooo me. But, still, isn’t this all moving a little bit fast? It hardly seems realistic.”

  “There’s no time to lose. I need to discuss all of this with the author, of course. I’ll need her contact information.”

  Crash.

  Her dream just landed on a deserted beach in a ball of flame. It never occurred to her that he would really like the book, much less turn it into the next Harry Potter Land at Islands of Adventure. There was no way she could pull off the prank without author involvement.

  He’d find out.

  Lucy would lose her job and William would halt all promises just made on the phone. William Harcourt would feel ashamed and disgusted with her ruse. Maybe even bad mouth her to every publisher in New York.

  Game over, baby.

  “But, why?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why do you need to talk to her?”

  “I can’t make a woman a millionaire without making the deal with her.”

  “Mill…”

  Okay, this breathing thing was getting trickier. She inhaled snowflakes up her nose.

  “I’d like to know more about her,” posed William, slurping something. “It’s more than just contracts.”

  “Learn more?”

  “To find out how to exploit her talents and traits to reach this goal.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Can what?”

  “Talk to her,” said Lucy, thinking on the fly. “You can’t talk to her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The thing is, she’s super reclusive. She has arachnophobia.”

  “She’s afraid of spiders?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. What gave you that idea?”

  There was a long pause where he may have been amused, but most likely was thinking of all the ways he should have hired Pinocchio as a manuscript reader over her. “Are you toying with me?”

  “She doesn’t leave her house, really,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, so you mean agoraphobia.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He chuckled with amusement.

  “Mr. Harcourt, she’s super shy and anti-social. Introverted really, like in the worst way possible. In fact, she’s so shy that she said she’d only talk to me.”

  “So, she doesn’t like men?” he clarified.

  “Well, most of them are narcissists who…” She caught herself talking about herself when she was supposed to be herself talking about herself as if a different person entirely.

  “What else do you know about her?” was his next curiosity.

  “Oh, jeez, so much. Like, she hates businessmen.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Loathes them entirely, and publishers, too. And, meetings, and banks. Well, everything and everybody she hates in the whole world. She even hates air!”

  “That’s a lot of hate.”

  “Which is why she’s an introvert and won’t leave the house.”

  “I just need her number.”

  Lucy spotted Heather tromping through the snow her way. “She doesn’t have one.”

  “Surely, she has a cell phone.”

  “Nope, just email. Everything is in writing.”

  “I see.”

  “I mean she’s a writer, right? She writes things.”

  “Trust me, I know that now, thanks to you. Tell you what, have her email me before Monday. If it comes from me, she could prove difficult and I don’t want to ruin this chance of ours.”

  Heather came back empty-handed.

  It occurred to Lucy that she couldn’t achieve her goal and make it big as an author if nobody knew that she was the author. Could she even cash a million-dollar check made out to Bibi Roquette?

  Guilt lodged in her throat.

  “Will you have her email me?” asked William.

  “Actually, Mr. Harcourt, I really need to tell you—”

  Boop. Boop. Boop.

  Her phone died.

  Lucy squealed to the air like a hyena. “This is soooo a sign.” She stared down at her phone like it contained black voodoo magic. “I’m going to be punished for sure.”

  “He already sold your grandma’s book.”

  “Whaaaaat? But, that’s impossible!”

  “After we left, he called a collector who paid for it with a credit card. He’s already wrapped it up for Fed Ex. He said he got eight thousand for it.”

  Balling her fists, Lucy sprung like a slingshot for her mom’s doctor. “Highway robbery.”

  “They’re publishing your book, Lucy. Right?”

  “No, he’s publishing Bibi Roquette’s book.”

  “But, that’s you. It’s your book.”

  “He doesn’t know that, genius, that’s the point.”

  “Why does he need to?”

  “Because there are lawyers and book contracts to sign and bank accounts and publicity appearances and book tours and roller coasters and screenplays and t-shirt shops and…oh boy…”

  Heather opened the door to the doctor’s office. “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, just wait here.”

  She took the flights with bannisters wrapped in fresh pine garland and red ribbons all the way up, as her mind roiled over the news. All of her dreams were coming true and she wasn’t going to be able to accept them. There was no way she could do it as herself.

  The hoax too far along.

  First thing Monday morning she was going to tell William that Bibi Roquette changed her mind and decided to scrap the manuscript and withhold all rights. She smiled wide entering the doctor’s office.

  But, somebody liked her book.

  “Mom?” she touched Mary’s shoulder.

  “You’re late, dear.”

  She sat next to her in a chair across from the doctor’s desk. Felt a twinge of worry seeing her mom’s glazed eyes staring into nothing, as if a gorgeous man just proposed to her.

  “Are you all right?” Lucy asked.

  The doctor came in from a side door. “Lucy, hello. We have news.”

  This man was blonde and sexy; a real Luke Wilson type. Every man under thirty was sexy to Lucy since her love-life dry spell far surpassed vacationing in the Sahara Desert after a drought.

  “Oh no, please don’t tell me there’s more swelling,” said Lucy.

  “Your mother’s brain is fine. In fact, all of the swelling from the accident receded enough that it removed some of the pressure on her optic and trochlear nerve. This is good news.”

  “So, no more surgeries? Oh good!”

  The doctor pumped hand sanitizer into his palms. “Not exactly.”

  Mary Carpenter reached for her daughter’s hand. “You haven’t heard the best part.”

  More good news? So far, it felt like karma gave her a Christmas present that she nowhere near deserved considering the mistakes of her
past.

  The doctor explained, “The scar tissue around the nerves is more visible with the swelling down. This means I can do a surgery to remove the scar tissue.”

  “What would be the point of that?”

  He gave an encouraging nod to her mom.

  She said to Lucy, “Honey, the doctor thinks he can restore my eyesight.”

  A cry leapt from Lucy’s mouth that she promptly covered with her fingertips.

  Dr. Jameson linked his fingers. “Lucy, it will take three surgeries, but I can restore vision in your mother’s right eye probably ninety percent. Her left eye, forty, maybe fifty.”

  Tears gushed down her face. “She’ll be able to see again?”

  “Like when you wake up in the morning with goop or fog in your eyes, but yes. Enough to get around on her own with limited help. She’ll never be able to drive, but she’ll be able to see the kitchen stove and cook without lighting it on fire.”

  Mary laughed, “I’ll never hear the end of that.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  Could it be true?

  Lucy’s mistake that ruined another’s life had a solution that wouldn't rely on selling her book to the world as a fake person. Certainly, not one under the veil of the great Manhattan heist of 2019. No, this was even better.

  “I’ll be able to get around by myself,” beamed Mary.

  “So, what are we waiting for?” Lucy exclaimed.

  Her mom swallowed loudly and looked away.

  “Lucy…” coaxed the doctor in more severe pitch. “We do have one problem.”

  Chapter 5

  “At Christmas there are choices, and they all involve food, money, or Internet shopping.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  “Would you close that window?”

  Heather popped a squishy molasses cookie into her mouth. “Isn’t it exhilarating?”

  “If you’re a penguin with a hot flash, maybe.”

  “Winter is just so dreamy, isn’t it? And, the clothes are fantastic.”

  “I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life and you want my hands shivering?”

  “You’re a writer. Your hands are just fine.”

  Lucy jumped from her chair and cranked the window shut. “I’m trying to think.” A garbage truck blared its horn from the alley below. Some genius left his car blocking the cans. “You said you’d help me.”

  “I am helping.”

  Heather put on a new record that could only be Josh Groban’s operatic Noel album. “How’s this?”

  “Better than all that racket wrapping presents for your family.”

  Her friend sliced scissors over shiny red paper. “The cold makes you more alert.”

  “And, more likely to type the wrong words from delirium.”

  Scotch tape rolled off Heather’s kitchen table. Lucy caught it, settling back in a chair in front of her laptop. There was nothing more depressing than watching her friend wrap Christmas presents when so far, the only holiday shopping Lucy had done included a new set of orange coveralls for her impending jail time.

  She gazed at the blank email. “How will I do this?”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “But, should I do this? I’m not being myself when I’m pretending to be somebody else. If I do this, it would be the total opposite of being myself.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Have you seen The Shawshank Redemption?”

  “I don’t watch religious movies.”

  Lucy pondered ghastly possibilities while watching Heather battle with a stiff ribbon wrapped three times around a box the size of a nail file. It was a good time to take a step back and decide how to proceed.

  “You realize I have few options,” she confessed.

  “But, if it works, your mom will get her surgeries.”

  “For twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “At least the doctor will do it pro bono. You can’t expect the hospital not to charge for the materials and space. So what if the insurance won’t pay for it? He’s giving you a bargain.”

  “A bargain if we had twenty-five thousand dollars. Which we don’t.”

  “Then send the email.”

  “Maybe I should just tell him the truth and he can fire me, then we can go forward with publishing the book and making the movies as me being me.”

  Not realistic.

  She knew it could take time to receive royalty profit after getting the book on shelves. There would be no rent money in the meantime.

  “I’d do it,” bragged Heather, downing a spiked eggnog. “Totally do it.”

  “You’d marry him if it meant getting an acting role.”

  “Is that a real option?”

  Lucy placed some packages under a white tree with blue lights. She took her time arranging them while thinking on her mom’s silence since the doctor’s visit the day before. Nothing like winning a get-out-of-jail-free ticket only for it to fall down a sewer grate.

  Heather suggested, “Maybe you can borrow the money from Mark.”

  “Maybe I can sell my talents to a band of gypsies.”

  There was still the dreaded date tomorrow night. Who was she fooling? Of course, she thought about asking her ex, which would have to include offering herself in a garter belt on a silver platter.

  “I’d owe him then,” replied Lucy, back at the laptop. “My life would be over.”

  “I can think of worse things than being married to Mark Roland.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then write the email as Bibi. What could it hurt?”

  Lucy knew the decision had to come from her moral compass. Falsifying a claim for personal gain felt like fifty shades of slimy human in her book of values. “This could fix all my problems.”

  “Your mom will be able to see again.”

  “And, I’d get my life back.”

  “You could finally get your own place.”

  “I wouldn’t feel so guilty anymore.”

  “You know how some people say money doesn’t buy happiness? Well, those people must really be on drugs because I can tell you that I’m so totally happy every time I get paid.”

  The statement couldn’t be truer. Her friend landed a role in a soap opera as somebody’s sister. It didn’t require much talking, and all she had to do was look pretty. That got her a five-thousand-dollar advance.

  Already spent.

  After getting her mom settled in bed, Lucy had snuck over to Heather’s apartment next door for a girl’s night. For two hours they baked cookies, gave themselves holiday pedicures, and wrapped presents. The recipients were mostly charming male friends of Heather’s that made her more money.

  “What is this?” Lucy held up a strap.

  “A whip.”

  “A what?”

  “You know Chris, he’s going to be in a western. I got him a real leather whip from an antique store.”

  “Don’t you realize that set directors provide the props?”

  Heather shrugged, getting on her feet to snap it at her purse. “Maybe I have other plans for it.”

  “I thought he was getting married.”

  “Not for a few more months. Get it?”

  Lucy clicked open a blank email screen from her fake Yahoo account registered to Bibi Roquette with the password “fullofit” to remind her of the stupidity before logging in. Still, her mom’s needs came first. It came down to a clean slate with the mistake that left her mom blind or a dirty one in Lucy’s place of business.

  “I don’t want to embarrass him,” said Lucy.

  “How could you embarrass him?”

  “If he finds out I played him. I get the feeling he’s sensitive underneath.”

  “The ice-fish? Maybe from plucking off his scales.”

  “He’s not so bad, really. In fact, not at all like I first thought.”

  Heather was back in the kitchen for more snacks. Likely a three-hour treadmill would be in order t
he next morning, which was her norm. Lucy’s idea of exercise included a marathon typing spree where her wrists required Advil from the twisting and cramping.

  Like this one.

  “Somebody has a crush, da da,” hummed Heather, tinging a spoon in a bowl. “Roses are red, violets…”

  “Would you shut it? This is serious.”

  “Look, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t pull some unethical strings.”

  Lucy bopped her fists on the table. “That’s it, I’m telling him as Bibi that I’m not selling.”

  “Then I guess it’s wedding bells for Mark and Lucy.”

  Cringing into her leather boots and curling her toes, Lucy realized she’d rather go bald than ever sleep with Mark Roland again. Or, make millions from a publishing lie instead of just enough for one surgery.

  Oh, snowballs.

  She had to prove her book was good enough. That would be the best part; a stunned look on Mark’s face when she turned him down and presented her movie contract.

  “Heck with it,” she announced, sitting tall in the chair. “I’m doing it.”

  Heather plopped down on the sofa with a magazine like she already knew Lucy would. “Tell him he has a nice butt and I’m willing to have his babies in exchange for a shopping allowance and a few nannies.”

  Lucy’s fingers typed away to her deliberate thought. Flattery came to mind.

  What to say? I’m a big fat finking fake. Is orange still the new black?

  Nope.

  Backspace.

  Lucy has informed me that you…

  Nuh uh.

  She decided to avoid any deliberate lies if possible. Saying Lucy has informed me implies that she is a separate person. It was one thing to give the illusion, but was quite another to actually admit it.

  She started again.

  It is my understanding that you’d like to publish my book. How kind of you. I find it miraculous that you have such a strong vision of taking it to great heights. I am touched that you have so much faith in me and honored that you believe in me. Mostly, I am surprised that you have an interest, considering my buckets of rejection letters. I am wondering, why do you want my book over all the others you must receive queries for? Not that I am complaining. It just seems to me that a Christmas novel isn’t par for the course of Big Apple Books.