by Sara Celi
It seemed like a decent way to get a least a little holiday cheer, and I certainly needed it as much as anyone.
I slipped into the church a few moments before the program began, took a bulletin from the basket near the entrance, and found an open pew near the back. Soon the organ began to play, high above the worship space in the balcony.
The organist had just made it through the first few notes when Scott Parker crept up the side aisle, passing the hundred-year-old stained glass and carved support beams as he went. It had been so easy talking to him that morning . . . For the first time in days, I’d been able to forget about the damn rent. Before I gave it another thought, I motioned for him to join me in the pew.
What would it hurt if he does?
And to my surprise, he sat down next to me.
SIX
SCOTT
I wasn’t a churchgoing man.
Never have been. I would have called my relationship with organized religion casual at best. I had a moral compass, and a passing, cursory knowledge of Jesus based on sporadic childhood attendance at a Methodist church, but I wouldn’t have said Christianity had much of an influence in my daily life.
After Monica’s death, it had even less.
Still, the Advent season always had an impact on me. In the space between Thanksgiving and the New Year, I always got swept up in the enchantment of it all, and the emotion that came with the intersection of celebrating the birth of Jesus and the acknowledgement of yet another calendar year coming to an end.
That was how I came to find myself parking my car in the lot outside Watch Hill Community Church, ready to attend their annual cantor music concert. Since moving to the area, I’d heard several people talk about it, and as I was driving back to my house with yet another night of nothing to do, the large sign advertising it in front of the church pushed me over the top.
Besides, Christmas carols and holiday music were two of my favorite parts of the season. Monica had loved them too and had purchased tickets several times to the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra’s holiday concert and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s annual traveling show. She would have loved something like this. That fact bruised, but I pushed aside the pain.
Once inside the church, I placed a small donation in the gift box near the door, took a program from the front narthex, and slid into the back of the sanctuary. I made it inside just as the music began, and I marveled at the packed house. The size of the crowd alone told me this would be a good concert.
And then I saw Nora Shaw.
She still had on the same outfit she wore earlier at the fashion show and must have gone back to the store in the afternoon to make a few more sales. She caught my eye and motioned for me to sit in the space next to her, one of the few unoccupied rows in the historic church. With a smile I followed her request and sat between her and a family with two young girls wearing plaid holiday dresses.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said to her just under my breath as the music swelled and filled the space above us. “Twice in one day.”
“A Christmas miracle,” she whispered back, and I thought I saw a hint of pleasure in her eyes.
The concert lasted about an hour, and it lived up to all the comments and praise I’d heard. Candles, white lights, evergreen garlands, red ribbons, and gold crosses decorated the sanctuary, their warmth a stark contrast to the crisp December night. A small choir sang a seamless medley of Christmas classics, and at one point a bell choir played a gorgeous rendition of “O Holy Night”. All the while, the organist moved the concert from one carol to the next, and between songs, a narrator interspersed lines of the Christmas story from the Bible. As a finale, the Cincinnati Children’s Chorus sang a few ballads that showed off their acapella skills.
“That was amazing,” I said to Nora when we stepped out of the church and into the cold. “I almost didn’t want it to end.”
“They do a phenomenal job.” Even in the dim streetlight, her eyes were brighter, her face more relaxed and less strained than it had been earlier in the day. She pulled her turquoise wool coat around her body and tied the sash. “I can always count on that concert to put me in the Christmas mood, no matter how I am feeling about the rest of my life.”
“I understand why.”
And I did, I really did. In fact, for the first time that holiday season, I was enjoying myself and participating in it instead of watching it pass in front of me. This is a nice feeling. I could get used to this. In fact, I want more . . .
More of Nora.
I pointed at Sam’s Deli. “Want to get some dinner? I’m hungry.”
“Yeah. Okay. Let’s get some dinner. I would like that.”
“Me too.”
We set off for the local watering hole and I marveled at that too—the relative ease of it, the unexpected flow of conversation that came with spending time with her. I liked seeing more of Nora, and it felt almost as if she was being placed in my path, put there for me to run into her time and time again.
Sam’s Deli was packed with customers, but we found two open seats at the end of the bar, a short distance away from the large screen TV playing one of the many college football bowl games. Nora made a few comments about that, too, and surprised me with her knowledge of the game and the standings, another thing I wouldn’t have figured just by looking at her. We ordered two beers, a small charcuterie board, and two of Sam’s Deli’s famous hamburgers.
“To holiday concerts.” She tipped her glass toward mine. “And spending time with . . . new friends.”
“Absolutely. I’ll drink to that.”
I clinked my dark ale to her light craft brew, then took a sip. It went down like smooth dark chocolate. We drank in silence for a little while, both of us relaxing as we watched Kansas State play Georgia in a place much warmer than Cincinnati. When halftime began, she turned to me.
“This is really nice. I was just thinking about it, and I haven’t allowed myself to relax like this in a long time.”
“Me neither.”
“I’ve spent the last eighteen months or so focused on the store, and that hasn’t left a lot of time for much else.” She gave me a shy smile over the rim of her pilsner, in which only half of the beer remained. “And it’s really hard. Harder than I thought.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s so much competition now. People are shopping differently, and I feel all this pressure to do everything at once.” She looked back at the TV screen, which played a commercial for last minute car deals from a local dealership. “My parents made running the store look so easy. I wish they were here.”
“What happened to them?”
“Until recently, it was so hard for me to talk about.” Biting her bottom lip, Nora studied me for a moment. “They died in a car accident on Columbia Parkway almost two years ago. They were coming home from seeing the Cincinnati Ballet, and a drunk driver crossed the median and hit them.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah, it was really bad. Horrible. Both cars were crushed, but the other driver walked away.” She gulped the rest of her beer as if it would give her some liquid courage. “They didn’t suffer—at least that’s what I heard. I don’t really know. I lived in New York, working as a photographer for Le Mademoiselle, and we were on location in Tucson at the time, doing an editorial shoot for an upcoming issue. My mom ran the store after Dad had made the initial investment. It was her dream, and she loved it.”
“Which is why you keep it going.”
Nora nodded. “Even though I’m finding out I’m terrible at it. I’m not like her. I don’t have . . . I don’t have the ‘it factor’ for success. The knack, you know. I can’t get a lot of customers in the door, and I can’t get the few I have to keep coming back.”
“I’m sure it’s not you.”
Our food arrived, but neither of us touched the hamburgers.
“It’s me,” she said instead. “I’ve come to realize that, and everything about the state of the business right
now is telling me that. Sometimes, it really is.” She glanced down at her cooling burger. “But it feels nice talking to someone about it . . . someone who would get it.”
“And while it’s not the same kind of thing, I get the loss.”
Her expression fell and her eyes softened. “I can’t imagine.”
“It’s been hard for me to move on without Monica sometimes. It’s why I moved here. I wanted a different place to come home to every night—one that didn’t have Monica written all over it.”
“I’m glad you came,” she replied, and then her cheeks reddened. “I mean—”
“It’s okay. I’m glad, too.”
Our conversation broke off, and Nora finally ate a few of the fries that accompanied her meal. I took that as a signal that I could eat, also. I bit into the large burger and let out a satisfied murmur. Sam’s Deli always hit the spot, and this was another classic meal.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out after the new year,” I said after we’d eaten several bites of our dinner. “Besides, things always settle down in January when life is a lot quieter.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of—things settling down and being even quieter on the sales front next month.” She put down what remained of her hamburger and gave me a sad smile. “But I’m also out of time. In addition to the lack of sales, I got a notice about my rent from Chadwick Properties. They want to raise it when my lease is up next month.”
“That doesn’t sound like a lot of notice.”
She frowned. “I probably should have seen this coming in some way.”
“Meaning what?”
Her shoulders slumped. “’I’ve run all the numbers, and they don’t match up. I can’t fix this, no matter how hard I try. So, I’m looking at unwinding the business.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry.”
And I was, even though I didn’t know her well at all. I’d been around enough small business owners through the years to know how heartbreaking it felt when all their effort produced almost no reward.
“Thanks. I’ve thought about what my parents would say,” she replied. “At first, I thought they would be devastated. But the more I think about it, I believe they’d tell me that I’ve tried, and they know how hard I’ve worked. They would also say it’s time to hang it up. It’s just time. And that’s the way it is.”
“I know this was a really hard decision for you to make,” I replied, my mind already turning with a few ways that I might help her. Wouldn’t it be fun to try to help the beautiful woman in front of me? Besides, what had my grief counselor said at our last visit? Help someone who needs it. “I’m sorry you’re going through this right now.”
“Me too,” she said, and I could tell she was offering me a standard reply, the kind of thing people would have expected during a general conversation between two friends.
But maybe I could change things for her. Maybe.
SEVEN
SCOTT
When I returned home, I ducked upstairs to the bedroom I’d converted into a home office and fired up the large desktop computer I kept in the corner. This was where I often did my best work, away from the endless grind of the office and the push of the usual suspects demanding my attention. Here, I could get creative. I could brainstorm. I could make something beautiful.
And I often did.
Cracking my knuckles, I slid into the swivel chair. My mind raced with ideas that had bubbled almost as soon as I’d walked away from the restaurant. Soon, I was so lost in my work that the ping of a fresh text message on my phone made me jump. It was from my brother, Ryan, who wanted me to call him.
“What’s up?” I asked when he picked up the phone. “This is later than usual.”
“Are you busy?” Ryan asked. “Surely you’re not still working.”
“Just going over a few things.” I studied the screen in front of me, satisfied with what I saw. “I guess you’re wondering what the plan is for Christmas.”
“Actually, I wanted to update you about the gift for Mom. Laura found the perfect necklace earlier today, so all you need to do is send me fifty bucks for your share of it. Simple and easy.”
“Perfect. I’ll send it over when we get off the phone.”
“Good.” Ryan paused. “I’m glad to see you again this year. I know last year was . . . it was the worst. But this year . . . I don’t know. I’m just hoping it’s a fresh start.”
“Me too,” I replied. The fresh start wasn’t just about me this year. “I’ve been thinking about the holidays, and we can choose how we feel about it all. We have each other, and that’s . . . that’s what Monica would have wanted.”
“She would. I’ll see you in a few days, man. Mom’s going to be really happy to have us all together again.”
After we said goodbye, I worked for a few more hours, tweaking and refining until I liked what I saw on the screen. I also sent a few important emails and text messages before dragging myself to bed around one.
I checked my phone when I woke up. And for the first time in a long time, I was satisfied.
EIGHT
NORA
Normally, I didn’t open The Pink Box on Sundays.
My mother always had the philosophy that she needed at least one day of rest when running the store, and I applied that same principle most of the year. I worked as hard as I wanted on the other days, but Sunday would always be a day of rest.
Except when it came to the holiday season.
Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I opened the store every day, driven by the chance that the extended hours might lead to more sales during that critical time of the year. I got to the shop by ten and put the open sign out at ten thirty.
And then, I prayed. Prayed that someone would decide to shop local instead of at a mall or on their phone. And prayed they would choose my store instead of one of the other small businesses around town.
I was fairly sure no one was hearing me.
“What if we run some different ads on social media?” Tara called down from the top step of the ladder. She moved a collection of beanies from one side of the shelf to the other, making room for new stock. “My brother-in-law ran a couple ads on Google and Facebook back at the end of Thanksgiving, and he got a lot of clicks for his insulation business.” She moved a few bracelets on the shelves, running over them with a small feather duster as she went. “Maybe if we did a few good ones, that would drive decent traffic to the shop.”
“I’ve tried that a few times with different websites,” I replied from the cash register area, where I was gift wrapping an online sale that had surprisingly come into the shop’s website overnight. A man in Illinois had ordered two graphic T-shirts and one of the chunky gold necklaces I’d found during a trip to Soho in September. “I got horrible results. The cost-per-click was awful, and before long I was blowing my budget. I just couldn’t figure it out.”
“Yeah, that can be a major problem with that kind of advertising.” Finished with her cleaning, Tara climbed down the ladder. “Graham said he was basically flying blind for a couple weeks while he tested the ads. It was a whole process.”
“That was probably my problem,” I admitted. “I didn’t have time to be patient.”
She closed the ladder and brought it back to the office, where she stored it against the wall. “I just don’t want you to have to close this place.”
“Me neither.”
We stared at each other glumly, the air of defeat filling the room. And maybe that was the worst part of all of it—I had lost, and I knew it. Days of one sale, or maybe two, wouldn’t work any longer. I’d put in my absolute best effort, and tried my hardest to keep going, but the reality of the situation had finally caught up with me.
But then the front door jangled, signaling a customer.
“I’ll be right with you,” I called as I tied the bow on the online order gift box. “Welcome to The Pink Box.”
“Glad you were open,” a familiar male voice call
ed, and I looked up from the ribbon to find Scott walking toward me. “I figured you might be.”
“What can I say?” Blood rushed to my ears, and I was already off kilter from the sight of seeing him again. We’d had such an amazing dinner the night before, and I’d enjoyed our conversation, which had felt more honest than the ones I’d been having lately with other people. “It’s the holiday season.”
“And every sale counts.” He stopped near Tara and extended his wide hand. “I’m Scott Parker, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Tara. Nice to meet you, too.”
When they were done shaking hands, I moved closer to him. I just couldn’t help myself. “Is there . . . is there anything I can help you with?”
“Sure is.” He smiled. “I was hoping you could help me find a really great outfit for an upcoming cocktail party I need to attend.” He surveyed the sales floor. “Maybe some sequins.”
“Satin,” I said, catching his joke right away. “And feathers. Anything with satin and feathers will really make a splash.” A laugh escaped my lips. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, what are you really doing here?”
“After last night, I got to thinking about what you said, and the situation you all are in right now.” He glanced from me to Tara and back again as if making sure he had our full attention. Given that we had depressingly little going on, he definitely did. And as I stared at him, I noticed the file folder he carried beside him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had a few ideas.”