Christmas by Accident

by Camron Wright

  Carter bent forward in his chair. The muscles in his neck flexed. His head tipped. Call him frustrated, complain he was overly dramatic, insist he was out of line, and yell at him for writing descriptions that were too long and even pointless, but was it really necessary to get personal?

  “Look,” he declared, staring down Harold for the first time. “The writing is a bit . . . melodramatic, for sure, but . . .”

  Carter was ready to defend his honor to the death, if necessary, when Harold clicked to the Policy Status Page. A solid red bar blinked at the top of the screen, as if pleased to interrupt.

  Harold stopped. He pivoted in his chair to face the screen. His eyes, already narrow, scrunched tighter. Carter’s eyes followed. Confusion had waltzed in, taken both men by the hands, and asked them to dance. Neither could say why the message hadn’t been noticed before now. It would have negated so much drama.

  Claim denied. Auto policy lapsed forty-five days prior to the accident.

  Harold coughed. He straightened. He looked to Carter for answers. “Her policy lapsed? Why weren’t you alerted when you first entered the claim?” His mouth remained open—gaping. The only sound was the air snorting in and out of Harold’s nose.

  Carter listened, puzzled, pondered. After moments turned to seconds, his lips also parted. “It could be a glitch. I . . . I’m not certain.”

  “We need to inform the claimant right away, before this goes any further.” Harold scanned for the address. “Look, she is here in town. I’ll print a Denial of Claim letter and have Lenny drop it off this afternoon.”

  “Lenny? No, I’ll take it,” Carter volunteered.

  Harold turned. Their gazes locked. “That won’t be necessary, Carter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re fired.”

  Abby fought to stay focused. She edited book manuscripts on the side and had told her client that she’d have his story done by midweek. However, when she inadvertently doodled a frowny clown in the margin, she understood it was time to pack up her things and tend to more pressing matters.

  “Seven? Can you and Rosa cover for me? I’m going home to make sure everything is ready for Mannie.”

  While Rosa was ReadMore’s most tenured employee, Seven was the store’s newest, and the one with the most unusual name. Despite the incessant questions—Is Seven a nickname? Why did your parents give you a number instead of a name? Do you have siblings named One through Six?—she seemed to adore the attention.

  As for the name, the truth was rather simple: she was born on the seventh of July, at seven in the morning, in room seven, at the hospital on Seventh Street, in addition to several other coincidences that even she admitted got a little convoluted.

  She was rake skinny, with bleached hair, tipped red, donning seven back braids, each threaded with seven multihued beads. Despite the focus, she wasn’t hired because of her appearance or her name. She was a top-of-her-class student at Western New England studying Biomedical Engineering—and she loved to read.

  “Not a problem!” Seven replied. “How’s Mannie doing, anyway? Anything new to report?”

  Abby fussed as she gathered papers into her purse. “He’s scheduled to come home tomorrow. Fingers remain crossed.” But she was speaking to the floor.

  “You seem hesitant,” Seven said, reaching for Abby’s arm.

  When Rosa heard them discussing Mannie, she bounded over to join the huddle.

  Abby assembled her words. “I’m only concerned because I don’t feel like I’ve heard a reasonable answer as to why he fainted, why his arms felt numb. Mannie says it’s low blood sugar, but how can anyone who works here . . .” Abby pointed across the room to André’s desserts, “ . . . have low blood sugar?”

  “Did you talk with the doctors?” Seven asked.

  “They wouldn’t say anything. They told me I had to speak with Mannie.”

  Rosa’s glossy eyes widened. “Yes, it’s because of the hippie laws!”

  Seven chuckled. “I believe you mean HIPAA.”

  Rosa’s head couldn’t nod any faster. “Yes, yes, exactly. Doctors won’t tell you anything these days!”

  “But Mannie is feeling better, right?” Seven confirmed.

  “Yes, he seems to be,” Abby answered.

  Rosa’s head was still bobbing. “Please give him our love, dear. Tell him he’s missed. We all wish we could give him a big hug.” The words rolled out with unbridled enthusiasm, as if she were auditioning for the role of a garish German grandmother. All that was missing was a pinch of the man’s cheek. “And take him a dessert,” she added, hurrying to the café’s expansive glass case to pick one out herself.

  Abby and Seven exchanged glances. Seven gave Abby one last squeeze on her arm. “He’ll be fine, Abby,” Seven assured. “He’ll be fine.”

  Harold gave Carter a box when a bag would have been sufficient. As he silently gathered his things, Lenny loitered in the background. As on any other day, Carter did his best to ignore him.

  There wasn’t much to take—his Simpsons mouse pad, a Chick-fil-A calendar featuring monthly discounts, his favorite coffee mug engraved with the words My Life Is Loosely Based on a True Story.

  Why hadn’t he nested here? he wondered. It was true he didn’t care for the job—that much was obvious to any idiot—but why? Was it the environment, or was it him? Would he ever find his purpose in life, his ­passion?

  Lenny stepped from behind—always from behind. “You know Harold is giving me all of your cases, right? At least until they hire someone else to replace you.”

  Carter locked and loaded. He whipped around ready to tell Lenny how deep he could shove his whiny complaints, but then he noticed the man’s pink, puffy eyes, his splotchy, fearful face. Lenny looked as if he might spontaneously burst into tears.

  Carter’s arms dropped. His fingers rolled open. His muscles exhaled. “Are you okay?” he finally asked.

  Lenny’s voice was low, brittle, confused. “You don’t seem sad,” he said quizzically.

  At least the man was observant. Carter motioned for Lenny to take a seat, then sat down beside him. “I’ve never been fired,” Carter confided. “I guess I’m not sure what it’s supposed to feel like.”

  The words must have been heavy because as Carter spit them out, his shoulders lifted. He’d never discussed his feelings with Lenny, which made it ironic to be doing so now, considering it was Carter’s last day on the job—yet he found their talk strangely satisfying.

  “I suppose I should be angry,” Carter continued, “and I guess I am, but part of me wants to climb onto my desk and Snoopy dance. Is that bad?”

  Lenny glanced around. “I probably wouldn’t do that.”

  “On one hand,” Carter added, “I’m excited to find another job, something I’ll enjoy.” For Carter, relief was flowing into the room like a fire hose. “But on the other hand, I’m worried that such a thing doesn’t exist.”

  “Are you fine for money?” Lenny wondered.

  “Money?” It was the first time he’d considered it, now that his paycheck had been cut off. He tallied a quick counting of finances in his head. He had a $1,000 emergency fund—thank you, Dave Ramsey—and enough in his savings to last a few months, if he was careful. Surely he could find another job soon. “I’ll be okay, Lenny. Thanks for asking.”

  “I suppose I should tell you . . . well, never mind. It doesn’t matter now.” Lenny’s shoulders deflated.

  “What is it?”

  “I put your name in to work with me on this year’s Christmas party—even though I know you’ve said you hate Christmas. Otherwise, Eleanor will do it and she wants to play Christmas Sing-Along Surprise again and so I thought if you and me . . . well, forget it, ’cause it won’t be happening.”

  “That’s . . .” Carter’s brain played word search. “ . . . I guess terrible. I detest
that game as well.”

  “If there is anything you need . . . or, you know, if you still want to go to lunch sometime, please let me know.”

  Carter swallowed, pulled a tissue from the box on his desk, and handed it across to Lenny just in case.

  The silence didn’t seem to bother Lenny. “It dawns on me, Carter,” Lenny added, “that we’ve never honestly talked like this, heart to heart. Then you get fired, and now . . . it almost feels like we’re . . . I guess friends. Do you think we’re like the married couples who fight and fight and fight up until they get divorced, and only then do they become close?”

  Carter backstepped. His face blanched. A man had to have his limits. “Lenny!” he demanded. “Please never repeat that again!”

  Still, as a token of the unexpected bonding, Carter opened his drawer to retrieve his favorite pen, a parting gift that he would leave with Lenny. When the drawer slipped open, beaming up at him from inside was the catalyst for the day’s absurdity, the picture of Abby McBride. A gnawing notion shadowed the girl’s grin.

  Carter rocked forward. A plan was taking shape. “Lenny, do you have that Denial of Claim letter yet from Harold?”

  “Yes, it’s on my desk. I told him I’d drop it off this afternoon.”

  Carter let the thought stew and boil, stirring it slightly. “Hey, listen . . . I’m thinking that on my way out the door, I should clean up my own mess. Why don’t you let me drop it off?”

  Lenny stood beside Carter, shifted his weight. “I don’t know, Carter. That’s against company policy, and Harold said—”

  “I’m merely trying to help. Besides, I’m being paid through the end of the day, so technically I’m an employee until five o’clock.”

  Even Lenny couldn’t argue with the logic. “That’s true! I guess it would be all right, but make sure she gets it!”

  Carter handed his pen to Lenny, followed the man to his desk. “You can count on it!”

  Chimes sounded at the ReadMore as Carter pushed through the door. It was an old-fashioned, mechanical contraption where a springy bar attached to a solid brass bell that jingled like a caffeinated elf every time the door swung open.

  Carter stepped inside and scanned for Abby McBride. The place was bustling with customers.

  “Hi, may I help you?”

  Carter turned to the voice—she wasn’t the girl in the photo, but as he read her name tag, his forehead creased. She must have noticed him squinting because her subsequent laugh was plentiful and genuine.

  “Yes,” she said to a question he hadn’t yet raised. “Seven is my real name.”

  “No, I . . .” Carter smothered a smile. “It’s a great name, truthfully. I’m looking for Abby McBride. This is the address I was given. Does she work here?”

  “I’m sorry, she had to go home early. May I leave her a message?”

  Carter grasped a manila folder that contained both the letter and Abby’s photo. He reached in, let his fingertips brush them both, but extracted only the sealed envelope. He passed it to the numbered clerk. “Please make sure she gets this.”

  Seven offered a slight bow. “I’ll put it in a safe place for her.”

  As Seven headed toward the register, Carter pivoted to leave, but between him and the door was a towering, tree-shaped display of books—Christmas books.

  While it was true he had just been fired and may have been overly cynical at the moment, he couldn’t stop his head from physically shaking. “Christmas?” he grumbled to no one. “Never mind it’s still October!”

  The display, while eye-catching, reminded Carter of a party loudmouth, the let’s-talk-about-me type wearing a flashy suit and a false smile—but Carter wouldn’t be intimidated. He reached out and plucked a book at random: The Christmas Angel. It couldn’t be more than a hundred pages. He cracked the cover and skimmed the first few paragraphs.

  His mumbling didn’t stop. “Rubbish writing, simply rubbish.”

  The display, the writing itself, the fact that it was still October, all epitomized Carter’s distaste for the holiday. He could wrap it up with a single word and a ribbon: greed.

  Pure. Simple. Greed.

  He picked up another. The Christmas Wish. Also short, also juvenile.

  “It’s a holiday scam,” he said to himself, this time louder. “Hey, here’s an idea. How about The Christmas Con?”

  He picked up yet another. The Christmas Donkey. Was there no shame? And more. The Christmas Stocking, The Christmas Locket, The Christmas Sleigh, The Christmas Town, The Christmas Bear. As Carter pulled each from the pile, one Christmas truth was clubbing him over the head: “Everyone at Christmas is making a killing except for me!”

  The words crossed his tongue, circled twice around his neck, and then plummeted into his opposite ear. The thought planted itself like a seed in his brain, and who could dispute it? The tree-shaped pile with its silly star made of ribbon flaunted the evidence: publishers, retail stores, and writers all were raking in Christmas cash.

  His fingers reached out a final time. He plucked another book from the stack like he was picking fruit. The Christmas Candy. He flipped it open to the first page. As his lips licked the words, the corners of his mouth turned up. Each syllable wrapped in realization.

  The seeds had already sprouted, leafed, and were now flowering. “I could write this crap,” he said. Although he needed no further convincing, he repeated it again with swelling conviction. “Yes, I could absolutely write this crap!”

  “Hi, do you still need help?”

  Carter turned. Seven was back.

  “Actually, I do have a question.” Carter’s breathing had quickened. “Tell me about these Christmas books. Do you sell many?”

  Seven didn’t hesitate. “Christmas books? Sure, as the holiday gets closer they sell like crazy.”

  Enthusiasm was pulsing now in Carter’s veins. He didn’t mean to sound obstinate. He just needed to be certain. “Really? Even though most are short, sappy, and printed with big type?”

  Seven smiled. “None of that matters at Christmas!”

  We have a winner! Carter would have reached out and kissed the girl, had he not expected he’d get slapped or arrested.

  He was looking for purpose; he was craving direction. And now, fate had found him, sooner than he’d ever expected. It was time to wrap his arm around opportunity and march together to the land of prosperity.

  “I need a Christmas book,” Carter announced. It was a developing plan, so even he looked a little surprised at his words.

  “Certainly,” Seven said. “Which one can I wrap up for you?”

  Fireworks were going off in Carter’s head. Seven waited. Carter stared back at the pile with determination.

  It was a sign, right? He had been fired that very morning for his creative writing, only to stumble across this brilliant idea a few hours later. It was fate. It was destiny. It had to be.

  He turned to Seven—such a beautiful name—and, in his excitement, he grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “I want one of each!”

  “One of each Christmas title?” she confirmed.

  He was bouncing now on his toes.

  “Yes! I want them all!”

  Seven was shelving books when Abby arrived.

  “You look frazzled,” Seven announced. “Did you take the bus?”

  Abby wrestled her unruly hair until it was suitably tied back. When it finally quit trying to squirm free, she perched on a stool beside Seven to catch her breath and stretch her fingers. “Worse. I’m driving Mannie’s car until I get mine back, and it’s a stick shift. I’m learning from experience that gripping the shifter knob super hard doesn’t help you get it into gear.”

  Seven seemed to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably. “At least you don’t have to worry about anyone stealing it.” And then her expression brightened. “Hey,
I have something to cheer you up.”

  “What is it?”

  “A cute guy came in last night looking for you.”

  “You seem giddy. Did you lock him up in the back?”

  “No, but that’s not a bad idea,” Seven admitted.

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know—attractive. Think Jim Halpert or Matt Damon but with less forehead.”

  “Good start,” Abby retorted, “but does he read?”

  Seven’s eyes leaked sunbeams. “That’s the best part . . .” She waited as if a drumroll would materialize.

  “You’re killing me, Smalls!” Abby prodded.

  A sweeping motion toward Abby would have to do. “ . . . He loves Christmas more than you do!”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he went all yippee-ki-yay over your Christmas display. I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about Christmas books—except for you, of course.” Seven reached out to clutch Abby’s fingers. A vision was apparently blossoming in Seven’s head. “You should call him. I think you two would be perfect. I can see it so clearly. You’ll start in early October, sipping hot peppermint cocoa every night together at home . . . drinking from each other’s cups . . . as Christmas carols play in the background . . . while you watch It’s a Wonderful Life over and over . . . oh, and little Ralphie will play quietly upstairs in his room. Admit it, it almost makes a person weep.”

  Abby was definitely not weeping. She followed Seven’s gaze but could see nothing. “Ralphie?” she asked incredulously.

  “Fine, then, little Kevin,” Seven added. She turned. “Oh, I almost forgot. He left you a letter. It’s in the register.” Seven retrieved it from underneath the till tray and passed it to Abby.

  Abby examined the envelope. “Seven, he’s from my insurance company.”

  She offered a shrug. “Yeah, but he was cute—you still need to call him.”