by Annie Adams
Holding the meeting at Skinny’s posed a bit of a problem for me. Back in October, K.C. and I had a run-in with Elma, the waitress at Skinny’s café and the daughter of Skinny himself. Elma is LAIC. Large and in charge. She wears a bouffant beehive, thick makeup, false eyelashes and her beauty spot frequently moves around on her face, as if trying to find the perfect home from which to hypnotize her unsuspecting victims. Her lips are heavily glossed and she can always be found puckering them at my boyfriend, whether he’s looking or not. On the occasions when he’s not, she finds other ways to get his attention. Which leads back to my problem.
Just before K.C.’s wedding, Elma had instituted the policy of placing the photos of troublemakers on the wall of shame behind the cash register. Those on the wall would be banned for a term to be determined by the whim of Elma. After our run-in with the Queen of the Triple-chin, K.C. and I received a warning. We were let off the hook only because Elma had the hots for Alex.
At K.C.’s wedding reception, I interrupted Elma trying to play find the blue ribbon under the kilt while she danced with Alex. I cut in, and as Alex rubbed the sore spots on his bum where she’d pinched him, I heard the word “banned” hiss off of her forked tongue. I hadn’t dared return to Skinny’s since.
Zombie Sue wouldn’t have enough time to get the windshield defrosted on the short drive to Skinny’s. And not being the early riser type, I hadn’t had time to let her warm up in the driveway, so I drove with the windows cracked to keep the windshield clear. The foggy edges remaining on the glass gave a nice Christmas card ambience to the streetlamps adorned with giant silver bells and garland that swooped between lamp posts emitting a soft glow in the dark morning fog. I had to admit, I didn’t really hate Christmas decorating when someone else had done it.
Skinny’s parking lot was packed, just as it was on any morning of the week. I found a spot over in the neighboring town and carefully made my way to the building on the slippery black top.
I snuck in the front door, careful not to let the bells jingle, lest they announce my arrival. I slowly helped the door to close so it wouldn’t slam shut either. I searched for Elma’s beehive, which added about eight inches to her height, just high enough to stick up above the partition between dining rooms. I located the committee members in the corner of the room not occupied by Elma, and slid into a seat.
“Good morning, Quincy,” several voices called.
I returned their very audible greetings in the grim awareness that my sneak arrival had all been for naught.
“Elma,” Jan Jorgenson, the paint store owner called out, “you’ve got a new customer over here.” My face felt the fiery blush and I vowed never to be enamored by Jan’s Swedish accent again. “Quincy, get yourself a hot chocolate and a plate of hash browns to warm up,” he said. He was very handsome for an older man and that accent…well…it used to do things for me.
The scent of AquaNet grew in intensity, warning of Elma’s approach and my imminent ousting.
“Well, hello, Quincy,” came the familiar yet, unfamiliar friendly voice, behind me. I turned in my seat to see who was playing a trick. It was no trick. There she was, gripping a coffee pot, her purple, sparkly, two-inch press on nails sticking out like spikes from a medieval instrument of torture.
“Hello, Elma?” I said.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Can I get you your regular?”
“Um…sure. Thank you, very much.” I meted my words carefully. Some kind of changeling must have possessed Elma’s body and I didn’t want to scare the nice side of it away with sudden movements or loud speech.
“How is your family? It’s so good to see your dad back in town and your parents so happy together.”
I glanced from side to side, looking for the hidden camera from one of those secret attack shows that aren’t funny, just humiliating to the victim.
“Everyone’s great. H…how about you?” I stiffened, thinking I had gone too far.
“Never been better. Thanks for asking.” She poured refills of coffee into the mugs of those who imbibed. Being a Jack-Mormon, one might have expected me to be a coffee drinker, but I’d never learned to drink it. And despite what my mother believed, I really wasn’t that rebellious. At least not enough to go ordering coffee at restaurants like my friends in high-school had.
“Let me go and get a hot chocolate for you. Oh, by the way. I haven’t seen that fine man of yours around lately.” There she was—the Real Elma. I wondered what she’d been leading up to. “You two sure looked sweet together at your delivery driver’s wedding.”
That was it? No put-downs, no scowls, not even a lascivious remark or gesture?
“Um, thank you.”
She left to retrieve my hot chocolate. I definitely couldn’t drink it. She was probably in the back room now, filling it with peppermint flavored, liquid laxative.
“That new boyfriend has sure given Elma a new smile,” said Shirley Davis from the bowling alley.
My eyebrows slammed up so fast I feared whiplash. “Who?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Her daddy told me she’s been going out at night, leaving him alone. I think he kind of misses her,” Shirley said.
“Wow.” There were no other words. Who was this mystery man? Just who would be the type to have Elma as their type?
“So, Quincy,” said Duff Schneider, owner of the Putt-Putt Palace of Indoor Miniature Golf. “It seems everything is falling into place for the rest of us. How are things on your end? Do we have a replacement for Santa Sal?”
“Yes!” I said, with the over-enthusiasm of a guilt-riddled liar. We didn’t actually have a Santa, seeing as how my dad had been stolen by my mother for the ward party. “We’ve got a great replacement for Sal. Well, no one could replace Sal, of course. But we have a great fill-in. No worries there. I’ve got my traditional collectible ornaments and Pam here is providing goodies.”
I was talking way too fast.
Pam owned Tasty Treats Bakery and she made the best cinnamon rolls in town. And I’d heard from the ornament company, who said they would ship me some replacement ornaments ASAP.
“Yesterday I spoke with the quartet who will play traditional Christmas music on the corner of the town square and they will be dressed in their Dickensian costumes,” I said. “There are also carolers coming with them who will stroll from shop to shop along Main Street.”
“Sounds great, Quincy,” Duff said. “But the real lynch pin here is Santa Claus. He’s got to arrive in the helicopter to start everything off.”
“And we can’t forget the TV appearance,” Pam said.
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “Absolutely. Santa’s going to be great. We’re planning on the TV interview and everything’s a go.” I tried, futilely, not to show any signs of stress. I felt my neck and cheeks blazing.
I was in so much trouble. Not only was Santa supposed to be on TV, but so was his elf. And usually Sal brought along Gwendolyn the kinda-too-sexy elf. Gwen wasn’t going to be there either. She would be Santa’s “Nursemaid,” I believe that’s what she’d called it. I got the impression there would be a sexy costume for that role as well.
As far as the committee knew, all the pieces were in place. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Yet.
My family always found a way to make things work. Good florists always found a way to make things work. Once I got back into Zombie Sue, I asked a prayer that something would turn the switch on my “make it work gene” and that I wouldn’t let my Aunt Rosie, my town and my family down.
***
After work, K.C. and I traveled to the nearest warehouse club store which was in Salt Lake, about thirty-five miles away.
“So I’m in kind of a mess with this community celebration,” I explained. “Santa Sal isn’t going to make it this year.”
“No Santa Sal? I love Santa Sal. That’s a real shame. Who is his replacement?” she asked me.
“Well, it was supposed to be my dad. But without saying anything to
me, my mom volunteered him to be Santa for the ward party.”
“Can’t the ward find someone else? And why is their party the same night as the community celebration?”
“I guess there was a last minute change because of a scheduling conflict with the church house. And I don’t know why my mom’s request trumps mine, but it does. That’s just the way it works,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to find a Santa for the media appearance which is in a few days and for the day of the celebration. We need a lap for kids to sit on!”
“Did you say media appearance?”
“Yeah, it’s new this year. Channel Seven News is letting us do one of their personal interest stories and it will run several different times on one day. I think it’s going to give great exposure to the whole celebration and get more people from out of town to come shopping here. Which is why I’m up you-know-what-creek without a paddle.”
“Boss, don’t you worry about Santa. I’ll take care of it. Say no more, it’s done.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Yes, I’ve got the perfect person in mind to play Santa. Like I said, say no more. It’s taken care of.”
K.C.’s new husband, Fred would be the perfect Santa Claus.
“Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you how much that helps me out,” I said. “He’ll be perfect.” I suddenly felt twenty pounds lighter. Kind of like losing a bunch of hormonal water weight, only this weight had been caused by stress. I could worry about Santa’s Elf later. Santa Claus was the biggest concern.
We were picking up supplies for the open house like clear plastic cups, and holiday themed napkins and plates. After a stop at the unmentionable feminine products aisle we could leave. An open flower cooler sat at the end of the aisle, where pre-made holiday arrangements had been boxed and shipped in from a central warehouse, most likely in Florida.
“Would you look at these,” K.C said. “They’re all wilty and limp.” I cringed, waiting for the inappropriate joke. “It’s not Christmas yet. Why would anyone buy one of these?”
I waited a moment, felt relieved when the joke never came. “I guess they just don’t know about the better options like we do,” I replied. When I started in the flower business as a teenager, nobody but florists sold flowers. Now, even the hardware and home improvement stores sell them. It’s easy to feel like the picked on little guy, but I figure it’s healthy to have a little competition to keep a person on their toes. Plus, I know that the local florists like me can provide the one-on-one special customer service that the big guys just can’t.
“Well, I haven’t seen anything that limp since my first husband—”
“Would you look at those alstromeria,” I said.
I pointed to some unarranged bunches that had actually survived their long journey. I remarked at their intense true pink color when a man about my dad’s age came up to the flower cooler. He watched us out of the corner of his eye for a moment, then his wife came up to his side. They were both dressed in sparkling new Columbia sportswear, probably having just been to Park City or one of the ski resorts dotting our mountains. The pill-free polar-fleece vest in rich Moab-clay-brown he wore and the pristine daffodil-yellow jacket emblazoned with “Ski Utah!” practically shouted we are tourists.
“Say, you ladies seem to know a bit about flowers,” the man said to us. “Hope you don’t mind my eavesdropping. My wife and I are visiting and taking in some skiing and we were thinking about taking some flowers to our hosts. Which of these do you think would be suitable?”
“Well, if you’d like a holiday theme, I would pick these.” I pointed to a mixed bouquet of red carnations, white chrysanthemums and cedar, with its soft, cascading green fronds. “But if it’s just for every day, I’d pick these.” I indicated the rosy pink alstromeria we’d been admiring. “I’d stay away from those,” nodding toward the flowers K.C. had complained about. “But if you don’t need them for an occasion tonight, I would go to a florist near where you are staying.”
The wife leaned in. “Oh, you should never buy flowers from the florist. They’re too expensive.”
“Mmm…” I replied and then smiled at them both. I gave a slight nudge to K.C. with my elbow as she started to let them know how she felt about the woman’s advice. She was a pitbull when it came to defending her own. I was honored to be considered part of that group, but it wasn’t worth starting a fist fight with some tourists over their uninformed opinions.
“You girls seem so nice,” the woman said. I heard a dismissive snort from K.C. “You know, I have an embarrassing question, and I hesitate to ask, but…”
“Ask away,” K.C. said. “Don’t be shy.” She leaned in between me and the floral case so that we faced the couple.
“Are you—Mormon?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the husband grumbled. He looked at us penitently. “You don’t have to answer. My wife is being nosy.”
“No, it’s quite alright,” K.C. said. “It’s a natural curiosity. You are in Utah after all.”
“We both grew up in the faith,” I answered, which was true, and I didn’t want to add confusion to what was probably an innocent question by talking about degrees of activity and participation within the religion
“When I was a teenager, my grandfather told me that Mormon’s had horns,” the woman said. I immediately looked sideways at K.C. who sported a knowing grin.
I decided that if someone was naïve enough to believe humans had horns growing out of their heads because of their—well for any reason really—they should be shown someone’s horns.
I looked again at K.C. and said, “Well, I had my horns removed when I was a teenager, which was really kind of late in life. So I have stumps. It’s quite embarrassing really. That’s why I have such long hair—to distract from the bumps. Luckily, I’m quite tall, so most people don’t see them—when I’m standing, that is. Now my friend here,” I looked at K.C., whose eyes twinkled with delight, “she had hers removed as a young child, so she doesn’t have any stumps. Isn’t that right?” I turned my head and looked at K.C.
“Mm, hmm,” was all that she said, probably to keep from laughing.
Both the husband and the wife were mesmerized at this point. I ducked down to whisper to them as if conspiring with my gang. “You know, I don’t usually do this, but you’ve both been so understanding about my—deformity. Would you like to feel my horns?”
“Oh, no we wouldn’t want to—” the man started.
“I would love to,” the wife interrupted.
“Go ahead,” I leaned down, “they’re right here.” I guided her hand to the top side of my head.
“I don’t know if I feel anything,” she said.
“Here, just to the left.” I moved her pointer finger to a new spot. “Right there. You can feel it now, right?”
“I think I can! I feel it.” She removed her hand from my hair. “I never would have believed it.”
“We’ve bothered these ladies enough now,” the husband said. His face was red and his brow furrowed over his brown eyes. He tugged his wife’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Have a good evening ladies.” He nudged her down the aisle and she protested the whole way.
“Good night now.” K.C. wiggled her fingertips at them, and then let loose the laughter she’d been suppressing. At least she kept the volume down until they were far enough away. “I never thought I would hear someone ask that question again.” She wiped tears from her eyes with her sleeve. “You are a naughty, naughty girl,” she said. “But she kind of deserved it.”
“Revenge of the florist,” I said with a shrug.
We finished our night of naughty behavior and shopping and I arrived home in great anticipation of the new gifts from the Elves. I put Zombie Sue to bed in the driveway and shivered as I walked around to the front gate to let myself in the yard. I’d worn a fleece pullover, but it proved not to be enough against the chilly, snowless air.
My outlook warmed when I stepped up to the porch because beside the various and
sundry homemade treats was a beautiful sapphire blue box tied with silver metallic ribbon. No label this time, but it looked very inviting.
I carefully scooped up the two paper plates, one of them with caramels individually wrapped in wax paper, and the other with what looked like pumpkin cake and I hoped—cream cheese frosting. Balancing the cake on top of the caramels, I tried to distribute the weight of my bag on my other shoulder while kneeling down to pick up the special blue package. It took quite a while to stand up without dropping anything or having my bag slide off my shoulder and disrupt the whole process, but one can never be too careful when picking up free delicacies from the porch, can one?
My mouth watered at the thought of what could be in that lovely blue box. And this time I was eating my treats for dinner. None of the nonsense about eating real food first anymore!
Once I put the paper plates on the table and dropped my bag on the floor, I greedily slid open the silver ribbon and tried to pierce the clear seals with my thumbnail to no avail. I grabbed a knife from the chopping block and realized I was acting just a little crazy and slowed down. Once the box was unsealed, I carefully lifted the lid to find a Styrofoam block. Not food maybe? What had my wonderful boyfriend—I mean Secret Santa—left for me? After cutting more seals made of clear tape, the anticipation about to burst me open from the inside, I lifted the Styrofoam block to find…a bottle of perfume.
Shalimar. I recognized the name and the bottle for some reason. Hmm. Alex had sent me perfume. Odd that. I’d never worn perfume since meeting him and long before that, really. Perfume makes me cough and sneeze when I smell it. And if I wear it, my eyes get red and itchy and my nose runs. But, it was a…nice…gift. Thoughtful? Kind of?
Maybe I was looking at things from the wrong angle. Maybe I smelled bad and he didn’t have the heart to tell me. He’d bought me perfume in the hopes I’d dab some on.
I tore open the plastic wrap from the spice cake with abandon and stuffed my mouth full while I dialed Allie’s phone number.
“You’re leaving soon, are you excited?” I asked.
“Quincy? Is that you?”