My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  She hopped from drawer to drawer making a mess, flinging utensils, chip clips, Scotch tape, and batteries everywhere.

  Heather grabbed her arm. “Would you slow down?”

  “We have three minutes.”

  “Until?”

  “The call.”

  “What call?”

  “The one you’re going to make.”

  “To who?”

  “My boss.”

  “Why would I call your boss?”

  “Because I need you to be me.”

  Lucy managed to rip away from her friend and chuck sofa pillows on the floor in search of the cordless phone. Why should she have to marry a terrible man when she could bathe in her own success? She’s the one who wrote the book. She did the research, the work, and put her heart into it.

  This would work.

  It had to.

  Heather closed the front door from cold that wafted in the smell of somebody’s fried food. “You’re not making any sense. Did Mark turn you down?”

  “Forget Mark.”

  Ah ha!

  The phone.

  Heather’s home phone wouldn’t track to a voicemail with her real name. At this point, her mad craze felt more about proving Mark wrong than getting her mom’s surgery. By George, she was somebody worthy, and he was going to see it.

  She shoved the phone at her friend. “I need you to call and be Bibi.”

  Heather’s blue eyes opened to the size of Frisbees. “Um, whaaat?”

  “He said if I don’t have Bibi call him tonight that the deal’s off.”

  “What deal?”

  “Five million dollars, a three-book contract, a movie, a series, a theme park. Triple that in two years.”

  She gasped, “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh yes, I am. Do this, and I’ll give you five percent.”

  “Five percent of five million dollars? That’s like five grand.”

  Lucy shook her hard by the arms. “That’s two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars. I’ll pay you to be me.”

  “But, you already are you.”

  “I can’t be Bibi and be me. He knows my voice.”

  Heather screeched, covering her mouth in horror. “I’ll be rich!”

  “No, I’ll be rich. More importantly, I won’t have to marry Casanova. My mom will get her surgery. But, they’ll stop the contract if I can’t get Bibi on the phone with him tonight.”

  “So, then what?”

  “Then somehow we sign the contract. I don’t know yet.”

  “This is like fraud or something. I’ll be at Riker’s Island.” Heather’s sculpted eyebrows arched to her bangs. “Do they allow co-ed cells at Rikers? That would be so unfair to deny us access to guys.”

  Rolling her eyes, Lucy grabbed a notepad that she spotted on top of the fridge. “Get real.”

  “You want me to pretend to be you?”

  “I want you to pretend to be Bibi.”

  “But, you’re Bibi.”

  “Then pretend to be me with a different name. You’re French, you like café au lait. Your mother had an accident and lost her sight, your day job’s a mystery, you like pineapple pizza and peppermint.”

  “I hate peppermint.”

  “As meeeeeee….” cried Lucy, aware they were out of time. “This is like a job.”

  Heather beamed. “An acting job, you mean.”

  “You’re going to be Bibi Roquette, mystery woman, fiction author who loves Christmas and books and wants to build a book town.”

  “Bibi Roquette totally sounds like a stage name, too.”

  “You’re perfect for this. I know you can do it.”

  As if up for the task, her best friend snapped her spine straight. Tucked her sleek golden hair behind her ears, rolled her neck, then shook out her arms while taking deep breaths. “I’m a professional.”

  “Consider it a rehearsal for Hollywood.”

  “What if he asks me something I don’t know?”

  Lucy tapped the pad. “I’ll jot down a note. Play the call on speaker so I can hear.”

  “What if he wants to know about the book?”

  “Get off as fast as you can. Remember, you don’t like phones or people. Short and businesslike. Don’t ask anything, don’t make it easy. Just find out what he wants from you.”

  “You mean you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Oh, my gosh, this is like The Parent Trap and I’m Haley Mills.”

  “No, I’m Haley Mills. Get it?”

  “They were the same person, so we both are.”

  “Exactly, now you get it.”

  She scratched her head as Lucy dialed William Harcourt’s phone number. “Please don’t mess this up,” she uttered under her breath, which at the moment wouldn’t catch in her lungs. “Can you handle this?”

  Heather pushed her fists into her hips in superhero position. “I’m a professional.”

  “Just remember you’re Bibi, not me, not you.”

  “It’s like I’m trying out for the Emmys.”

  The phone rang out on speaker to the air. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” cried Lucy.

  “I’ve totally got this. I played Stephanie’s sister in Guiding Dreams. People love me.”

  The ringing stopped. Then, “This is William” to the air.

  Lucy plopped the phone into Heather’s hand. She could barely contain the adrenaline pounding out her ears that made her fingers shake while trying to clasp tight to her pen.

  “Hello?” William called out.

  Heather cleared her throat. “Oh, hi, hello. This is hea…uh…Lu…uh Bibi.”

  A long silence made Lucy drop the pen. Her head went woozy bending over for it. At that moment, she’d rather fly up the chimney as Santa Claus than stick around for impending disaster.

  “Ms. Roquette?” William again.

  “That’s meeeee,” boasted Heather, flirty and smiling. “Ms. Bibi Roquette. Boonheur, moonsieur.”

  Lucy smacked a hand over her forehead. Yep, disaster.

  “I must say I’m thrilled to hear from you, Bibi.”

  “Me too.”

  “To hear from you? Yet, you called me.”

  “Right, I mean you wanted me to call you, so I’m calling per your request, which is thrilling.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, how are you? I mean, you’re good, right?”

  Lucy chomped a lip. So much for getting him off fast.

  William laughed, warmly. “You don’t need to be nervous, Bibi.”

  “Oh, goodness, not at all. I just hate phones, uh, or people, well, the world. Talking, you know.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s just, I never know what to say.”

  “Quite unusual for a writer of your talent.”

  Lucy could barely hold her bladder from all the bunny hopping she was doing. Anxiety shot out her limbs like orange flags waving down pilots to land bomber planes.

  Heather added, “Social anxiety, you know.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Although, we make the best writers.”

  “Then I’m very pleased with your introversion.”

  “Oh, me too. Diversions are really helpful at times like this.”

  Lucy dropped her forehead on the counter. Diversion, introversion, duh. Leave it to Trixie McBimbo to hold an intellectual conversation on behalf of Big Apple Book’s rising star.

  William didn’t seem to notice. “Bibi, I really need to meet you in person. I long for it, in fact. Yet, since I know you’re uncomfortable, I thought a phone call would help.”

  “Great.”

  “I think you’re truly incredible.”

  “Wow, that’s, well, just so sweet of you.”

  Heather’s pacing in front of the windows made it harder for Lucy to breathe. Her friend wasn’t looking toward her where she frantically scribbled notes on a notepad what to say. In fact, Heather seemed to radiate pride as if the compliments were really meant for her.

  Ask
him to email the contract. She practically waved it in the air.

  “Ms. Bibi,” continued William, practically. “The emails you sent me have meant a great deal.”

  A melty feeling soothed over Lucy. She meant something. She was somebody.

  “Oh, is that right?” clarified Heather.

  “I find myself eagerly awaiting your emails day and night. I hope I haven’t shared too much personal information. Something about writing to you feels like we’re long lost acquaintances.”

  Heather finally looked at her curiously. “Good to know.”

  “Your prose is beautiful, both in your book and emails. I feel like every email you send me is deep-felt from the heart, like you put your soul into every word and bring me in to join. Thank you!”

  Now Heather’s brow went up. “It’s what I’m good at.”

  Lucy knew that her friend had a million questions about what they’ve been writing about. Likely the matchmaker wheels spun rapidly in her fuzzy, flighty brain.

  “Where did you learn to write?” he asked.

  Lucy jotted on the notepad self-taught.

  “I taught myself,” said Heather casually. “Watched a lot of YouTube videos.”

  Did she really just say that? Riker’s island here I come.

  “Tutorials,” Heather added.

  “Amazing what you can find on there. Any you recommend?”

  “Oh, just the ones about writing. And Christmas, too. Like holiday videos.”

  Lucy held her gurgling gut; shook her head no no no and no some more.

  “Did you go to college or have formal training?”

  “Why do you ask?” Heather again.

  “It’s just that it must be a natural-born talent. Few untrained writers can create prose like yours. Not just that; your imagination’s out of this world, incredible. An entire town made of books, about books? Brilliant!”

  “I thought so.”

  “Can we discuss your book now?”

  Lucy axed her fingers under her neck to indicate ending the call. Then patted her belly.

  Heather followed her hands. “I have a stomachache.”

  Mouthing, “Throat,” Lucy pointed at her neck.

  “I mean, my throat hurts. I have strep throat,” said Heather.

  “Oh, no, I’m so sorry.”

  Lucy now punched her own gut, splaying out her fingers outside her mouth like a rupturing fountain in a full-blown game of charades that Candid Camera would get a really good laugh from.

  “I mean, I’m puking,” said Heather.

  William sounded worried. “That’s not good.”

  “I have the flu, so I can’t really talk.”

  “Maybe you need to get looked at.”

  “Nothing a little Nyquil can’t cure. I’ll be right as rain soon.”

  “I was hoping to ask your goals for the book.”

  Lucy dodged for a stack of romance novels near the sofa. Waved one in the air.

  Heather took the cue. “You know, just to make it into a book. Publishing it is good.”

  “Beyond that though. Would you be interested in writing two more?”

  “Books?”

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking grocery lists. So yes, books in a series.”

  “What kind of series?”

  “Snowdrop Valley.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Now it was Lucy’s turn to be throwing up. She hopped up and down, mouthing my book.

  Heather waved her off. “Just kidding.”

  “Good one,” chuckled William. “You know what I mean. The first book in the series, then the second. I’d like to offer you a contract.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  Crawling with excitement, Lucy ached to take the phone back and tell him the ideas she had for future books. One would be about a woman who comes back to the town when her father who owned the antiquarian bookshop, passed away unexpectedly in his shop. Desperate to sell the store and get back to her new life in Boston, she hires a marketing agent to help remodel and generate publicity to make the sale.

  Romance.

  Books.

  Magic.

  The perfect idea bundled cozy in her head waiting to share with anybody who cared to know. The fact that the ice-fish of the publishing industry was interested in her ideas meant more than he could ever know.

  “I can’t discuss finances over the phone,” said William.

  “Sounds exciting, either way.”

  “I’d like to discuss it with you in person.”

  “Email is better.”

  When her boss didn’t say anything, Lucy’s mind scrambled for solutions. She needed time to figure out what to do while at the same time, she needed her first paycheck as soon as possible or no surgery.

  She jotted on the pad contract over email.

  Heather scanned it, then pressed a hand into the frosty window. “Could you send me the contract over email? I’m not sure I’ll be well too soon.”

  “We have a bit to discuss first. Perhaps a dinner?”

  “Dinner?”

  “We can talk about your book. I’ll present you with a proposal.”

  “You know that new Italian place on Broadway has vegan options for—”

  Lucy smacked her friend on the arm. Mouthed noooooooooo.

  “Well, email me if you can,” Heather again.

  “Certainly, I’d love to learn more about you. Email’s nice for that.”

  “I agree. Like you can say anything even if you aren’t wearing your makeup.”

  Somewhere inside Lucy’s head were eight little Minions jumping off a cliff.

  William laughed. “Quite true.”

  “So, email it is.”

  “The thing is, I can’t proceed with your book without a meeting. I need some signatures and a witness.”

  “I can take it to the post office.”

  “Take what?”

  “The contract.”

  “To mail it?”

  “No, silly, for a note of republic. You said a witness.”

  “Oh, you mean a notary.”

  “That too.”

  “No, we need to hold a business meeting and I need to be there.”

  Despite Lucy’s sign language for Heather to hang up, the conversation drawled on. Heather made some jokes before saying, “Le Champagne, that’s the name of that restaurant.”

  “If you prefer meeting there. Sunday night?”

  Lucy’s heart sank into her boots. No way, she mouthed.

  “I’d love it,” replied Heather, offering silent apologies.

  Oh, coffee beans.

  The notepad, pen, her scarf, soul, ethics, and values, glopped at Lucy’s feet. She wondered if Riker’s Island could accommodate writers with typewriters to pass the time between getting worshipped by guards.

  William’s tone darkened. “Ms. Bibi, there’s one thing I’ll need from you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know you won’t like it.”

  “Try me anyway.”

  When Lucy heard the request, she fell back flat on her hind end. Stayed there staring up at the ceiling as Heather ended the call with “I’ll so totally think about it.”

  Oh yeah.

  It’s the time of year, all right. And, it was for going to prison, or maybe to the loony bin for successfully pulling off the most brilliant mastermind publishing hoax of a lifetime. Not for the world falling in love.

  Chapter 8

  “Christmas is silent magic, but wouldn’t a magic thunderstorm be more fun?”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  A solar flare hitting earth would have been better than this. William rapped his knuckles on his neighbor’s penthouse door, already an hour late for her holiday party. A broken subway was to blame.

  “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he groused.

  The blue-trimmed double doors opened to an old English butler in a sharp tuxedo.

  “You’re late,” said the st
iff crank. “Your name, sir?”

  “William Harcourt.”

  The man pushed glasses onto his face and scanned the guest list. “Ah ha, there you are, sir.” He opened the doors wide enough to let William pass into a swallow of strangers mingling to Tony Bennett’s Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town. Whoops of delight wafted through the place, indicating a right jolly old time.

  The butler pointed to a wall table. “Your cheese plate, sir.”

  William wasn’t in the mood for festivities with strangers. On the way to deposit his Epicurious contribution, he was greeted by a server carting mulled wine in glasses. “Take one while they last,” she said.

  He did just that and chugged. “It’s good!”

  A shattering crash echoed through the penthouse just as he deposited his snack tray. Most were too busy drinking or making glamour rounds to care. He heard an “oh dear, oh dear,” from the kitchen.

  Investigating on approach, his shoe mooshed something squishy. A plump server crawled on her hands and knees to pick up hors d'oeuvres around the island.

  “Everything okay?” William asked Iris, who appeared to be fretting over the scene.

  “Oh, darling, my salmon puffs.”

  “I see that. Can I help?”

  “Oh no, my dear, you’re my guest. But, these are everybody’s favorite.”

  The server apologized profusely as she dumped the food in the trash. William escorted the distraught elderly woman back to her party and a good forty people who he had no desire to meet.

  “You did bring a date I hope,” Iris said.

  “No date.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s the holidays. You have to have a date.”

  “I’m perfectly fine alone. Don’t worry about me.”

  They stopped near a nine-foot artificial tree twinkling with white lights. He spotted another tree half its size in the far corner near a crackling fireplace. A group of ladies in cocktail dresses cozied up next to it.

  “I have many solutions,” said Iris.

  William smiled. “No solutions, Iris. I don’t plan on staying long.”

  “Certainly, you’ll stay for our white elephant gift exchange. My young man has made a white chocolate peppermint cake to die for. Please do have a slice.”

  Somebody’s noxious perfume made his eyes water as wet dots drizzled on the back of his neck. He jumped back, then eyeballed up the stairs wrapped in brightly lit garland. A woman leaned into the railing above laughing hysterically with an empty glass.