Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  He ducked down to peer at her. "Are you a Holiday Celebrations competitor?"

  "Yes."

  He pointed to the right. "You can park in that lot then take your things inside yourself. There are carts available at the door. Or, if you would like to wait a bit, the hotel is offering a valet service. Under the entrance awning there are people to help unload your supplies and then park your car, free of charge."

  "Okay. Thank you."

  Fancy schmancy. A valet service. But the line almost stretched into the street. She had hauled stuff around competitions by herself many times. So she came prepared and dressed to stay warm in a bulky, down coat that made her look like a troll, complete with crazy hair courtesy of the wicked wind, in anticipation of a hike across a parking lot. Most importantly, she just wanted to set up the table and get back home. The ballroom was open to all competitors from six to eight p.m. to set up props and decorations on their tables. She looked at the motionless valet line and calculated that it would take much longer than fifteen minutes, the time until the setup session began, to make it through.

  Amy veered to the right and found an open parking spot next to a light pole. It was getting darker by the second, and a bit of extra light would help make sure she got everything out of Mimi. She wouldn't be happy if she got inside, took off her coat, and then had to bundle back up again because she forgot a container of props. Amy got out and pulled her coat zipper all the way up to her chin. The evening wind was even more brutal than when she'd left the house. She opened the rear door of the car and began pulling out bags of props. Two cross-body messenger bags full of scarves and ornaments went over her head in opposite directions. She swung the bags around so they were positioned behind her. Then she stuck her arms through the handles of two tote bags and hung them from her elbows. Last came the box full of clear, Lucite stands. She set the plastic storage bin on the ground while she shut the hatchback. Then she began the careful shuffle through the parking lot, while trying not to drop or break any of her holiday decorating cargo.

  Ten minutes later she arrived at her assigned table near the center of the ballroom. The first task was to un-bundle herself. Carrying an extra twenty pounds of gear through a toasty warm building while wearing a coat designed to keep a person comfortable in temperatures up to thirty degrees below zero left her feeling like a steamed figgy pudding. After shedding her winter gear she deposited all of the bags on the floor around the generic, five-foot long folding table and took a deep breath. There would be time to refine the layout the next day when all of the food and containers were present. For now she just needed to place everything in its spot. Of course, she had already worked out the configuration, so it was just a matter of getting everything out of the bags and onto the table. She smoothed a white cotton cloth over the scratched plastic table then covered it with a sheer square of silver tulle. The feather garland on the tree at Halo Restaurant would've fit perfectly with the items she had chosen for her table, but feathers were not a good thing around food. Flyaway, inedible fluffs weren't a good garnish. She opened one of the messenger bags and pulled out the cardboard cutouts of the platters she would be using for the food the next day. No need to risk breaking the actual dishes when silhouette stand-ins would do the job. After those were arranged it was time to add some height. Her shoulder bumped the edge of the tabletop when she bent to pick up one of the clear cubes that some of the platters would be perched on. The table wobbled like a newborn colt.

  She lifted the tablecloth and peered at the legs underneath. Two of the brackets that were supposed to hold the legs in place were dangling in mid-air instead of being attached to the bottom of the tabletop. Not good. She stood and looked around for someone to help. The table needed to be replaced. There's no way it would hold up the weight of glass platters, ice, and food.

  "Excuse me," she said to a convention center employee hurrying up the aisle. "My table is broken. Do you know who I can speak with to get a new one?"

  The woman shook her head. A swath of tangled blonde hair swept over her shoulder from the movement. She was wearing a wig. A cheap wig. Amy cringed to think of what kind of hair disaster the poor woman was experiencing if she preferred wearing a wig that looked like it belonged to a well-used life-sized Barbie doll.

  "I don't know," she whispered as she practically sprinted away from Amy. What was that about? Yes, her hair looked strange, but she didn't need to run away like a spooked rabbit. Everybody had bad hair days at some time. Considering the gale force winds outside, only the women who bought hairspray by the case had made it into the ballroom that evening sporting hairstyles that looked remotely normal.

  Amy hurried up the aisle, searching for a person carrying a clipboard and wearing a stressed-out, teetering-on-the-edge-of-sanity expression. That usually signified the person was part of an event's management team. It felt like it took forever to track down someone, and the woman spoke like her voice track was stuck in fast forward, but within twenty minutes the broken table had been replaced with a stable, all screws intact one.

  As Amy arranged the cardboard placeholders on her table for a second time there was a muted thump, accompanied by the crash of breaking glass and quickly followed by a scream. Two rows away another table had collapsed, its legs splayed out like a squished, 4-legged spider. A pile of glass shards glittered on the carpet near one corner. As people rushed up the rows to see what had happened, there was another crash and anguished scream. Talk about bad juju. A tablescape contest using rickety tables?

  Her competitive side kicked in, and she forced herself to stop gawking and get back to work. She placed a few more of the ice-like platforms in the center of the table and then snaked long strips of gray silk between the pedestals, adding shiny and matte silver ornaments to fill in open areas between the platters. As she worked, several more crashes and tortured cries echoed through the ballroom. Suddenly everybody seemed to be peering under tablecloths or pushing on tabletops to check for stability issues. The vibe in the room bordered on full-out chaos by the time she took a step back to study her work. Her table looked as good as it could. Tomorrow, once the food and cut-crystal platters were added, it would look spectacular, in her biased opinion. Hopefully the judges would think so too. She stashed the bags with extra supplies under the table and pulled out her coat. The night wasn't over yet. Dressing for the fruit salad and a couple gallons of non-alcoholic punch still needed to be made. Time to hit the road so she could at least get a few hours of sleep.

  A woman dressed in black from head to toe careened through the doorway as Amy was exiting the ballroom. The wheels of the luggage cart stacked with cardboard boxes that she was pushing rumbled over the hardwood floor like thunder. Since the woman wore a high-collared chef's jacket, there was a good chance she was in the professional division. Nothing like cutting it close, gliding in a half-hour before the setup period was scheduled to end.

  A group was gathered in the hallway outside the ballroom. Amy recognized two faces in the knot of worried people that included event staff and hotel workers—Bea and Rayshelle. Had they been some of the collapsing table victims? She wanted to make sure Bea was okay, but Rayshelle's prickly personality was about as pleasant as moldy Limburger cheese. Concern over Bea won out. Amy turned and walked toward the group, instead of out the door to the quiet, stress-free parking lot.

  "She had blonde hair, just like her!" Rayshelle screeched as she pointed at Amy. Yay! She hadn't said a word, and Rayshelle was already in full witch hunt mode. "I didn't really look at her face. I bet it was Amy and she just changed her clothes after stealing my stuff."

  Amy froze as a dozen people turned to look at her. What was going on? Bea stepped forward and came to the rescue. "I did get a good look at the woman. She was at least four inches taller than Amy and had a different body type. I'm positive Amy wasn't the thief who took our props."

  Took their props? That was even worse than damage from unstable tables. Rayshelle growled like an angry dog and stomped her f
eet in response to Bea. If her head started spinning, Amy was taking cover in the nearby lounge area. The couch there looked sturdy enough to act as a demon shield. Another woman, wearing a name tag sticker like the ones that had been given to all competitors, raised her hand. "I agree. She obviously isn't the person who took my cart. That woman was much taller and skinnier. So could we please get back to figuring out who really took our things?"

  An hour later, Amy cupped her hands around her face to protect her eyes from the icy snowflakes that felt more like miniature spears, pelting her cheeks. Rayshelle had already attacked her enough for having the same hair color as the woman who had taken the props. Now Mother Nature was pretending to be a ninja. Amy knew how to apply blush. Rosy cheeks via bad weather was not a beauty effect she needed.

  As she stepped onto the porch, she could see Alex through the kitchen door's window. The site of her husband still made her heart go bump, badda, bump. There was a gym set up in the basement, and he knew how to use it. Coming home to be greeted by a rear view of him in perfect-fitting, butt-hugging jeans was good, but he was standing at the stove stirring something in a pot. Oh, baby. That was so not good. He had admitted to ruining canned soup before he met her. Not a promising sign that her dinner would be tasty, since adding a can full of water was apparently too complicated. There wasn't a single can of soup in her pantry, so what was he doing? What if he had decided to whip something up using the ingredients she needed to use for the competition?

  "Hey, honey. What are you making?" she asked as she opened the door. It smelled wonderful in the kitchen, like lemon and chicken. Not the burnt aroma she had expected. She hung her coat up on the rack next to the door. "It smells good in here."

  "I know. What a surprise, huh? Especially considering it's me." He laughed as he gave whatever was in the pot another vigorous stir. "It's chicken and orzo soup."

  Amy ran through the ingredients she would need to make everything for the next evening and decided he probably hadn't poached any of her supplies. At least he shouldn't have if he made the soup like most people would. "You made chicken soup from scratch?"

  "Hell, no. I got it from Columbo's Market." He grabbed a couple of bowls out of the cupboard next to the stove. "You never eat well when you are in battle mode. Have a seat and fuel up a bit before you run out of energy. I bet you still have things to do tonight, and you'll be up early tomorrow."

  He knew her well. She couldn't deny that was exactly what she had planned. She also couldn't deny that she was exhausted. As she scooted onto the bench in the breakfast nook she could feel her back muscles quiver as they relaxed. Steam rose from the hot soup when Alex set the bowl in front of her. The scent of the rich broth was comforting and energizing before she even took a bite. Hopefully not too energizing, since she just needed to do a couple of simple cooking chores and then go to bed. Sleeping soundly would be nice, but that prospect was sketchy considering the tsunami of thoughts that always invaded her mind when she tried to sleep before a big contest.

  "How did the setup stuff go?" Alex asked.

  Amy took a fortifying spoonful of the lemony soup and dove into an explanation of the strange happenings of the evening. When she was done with the twisted tale, she rubbed circles on the side of her forehead. "Of course, since the thief had blonde hair, the ever-obnoxious Rayshelle Applebee was trying to blame the thefts on me. Bea Perkins, along with a couple of other people that got a good look at the woman, assured everybody that it wasn't me. Apparently the woman was tall and thin, not something I could fake if I wanted to. The thing is—I wonder if I saw the thief myself. I asked a tall woman for help, and I could tell she was wearing a wig. A really cheap, ratty, blonde wig."

  Alex reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry. You had so much fun at this event the last couple years. It doesn't sound very enjoyable at all now."

  "Not really. I would much rather concentrate on making a perfect fruit salad than worrying about defending myself against Rayshelle's wild accusations. I'm not behind the shenanigans, but I sure would like to know who is trying to spoil things. This contest is getting bigger every year and makes a lot of money for the Presents For Kids charity. I'd hate to see it harmed by a Scrooge."

  * * *

  "I made a sausage and green chili strata for you," Amy said as Alex walked into the kitchen in search of his morning cup of coffee the next day. He didn't need to know he was pouring his mug from the second pot of coffee she had made that morning. "I set a couple of new hot sauces I picked up last week on the island, if it isn't spicy enough for you."

  "You didn't need to make breakfast for me when you have so many things to do for the contest." He winked as he spooned sugar into his mug. "I'm perfectly capable of breaking out my credit card and hitting a drive-thru."

  "There's no reason for you to go hungry just because I'm a little busy." Alex was a successful, but insanely busy, entrepreneur who treated Amy like a cherished queen. He loved her unconditionally, so she cooked for him whenever she could, as a little way to show how much she loved him. "I had a loaf of bread that needed to be used up. Besides that, you've always told me you hate fast food. Have you been lying to me?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Do you have a secret addiction to greasy burgers and over-salted fries?"

  "Nope. I have an addiction to making you happy, and if I have to eat a greasy breakfast sandwich, I'm willing to make the sacrifice so you can give the contest your best shot."

  He used a fork to push the small, single-serving casserole dish onto a silicone hot pad and carried it to the kitchen island counter. As he settled onto one of the stools, Amy opened the oven to check on the muffin tops. She was still trying to decide what to call the bite-sized baked goods. A moist, orange muffin batter was dropped onto a cookie sheet, instead of spooned into muffin cups, so the results were closer to a tender cookie than a muffin. A coating of sugar would make them sparkle like glittering coins. "Which sounds better, Orange-Kissed Mini Muffin Tops or Citrus Coins?"

  "Citrus Coins. It's more unique. Might make them stand out with the judges if they have a catchy name." He squirted a spicy stream of hot sauce onto the eggy casserole. "When did you get up? I see at least three things that look to be fresh out of the oven, and it's barely eight a.m."

  "I don't know. I couldn't sleep well thinking about all of the things that are going on at the hotel." Amy donned oven mitts and pulled the cookie sheets covered with little orange mounds from the oven. She set the sheets on cooling racks. "I suppose the problems could be coincidental, a random cluster of bad luck, but I barely slept last night wondering if it's something more sinister. What if everything is connected?"

  That was a headache-inducing question. If the incidents were linked, who was causing the trouble and why? That was another loaded question that was heavier than a pan of lasagna from Popper's Pizza. Both the food and the prospect of facing more snafus made her nauseous. Adding a bottle of antacid to her bags would be a good idea for the day.

  She jumped when Alex's warm hands slipped around her hips and settled on her stomach. He gently guided her to the second stool at the island. While she'd been yammering about muffin names and thinking about strange happenings, he had placed the second strata there, along with a knife and fork. She had been so busy connecting the destructive dots she hadn't even noticed him preparing the spot for her.

  "It looks like you have enough done. I think it's time to take a break and eat some breakfast. It's even more important for you to eat since you didn't get much sleep." He patted the stool in front of her breakfast. "Sometimes it helps to talk things out. Tell me what you think is happening, get it off your chest, and maybe you'll feel better. The holidays are chaotic enough without worrying about things that are out of your control. I want to enjoy the holidays with you. Not worry that you'll have a nervous breakdown."

  Could anybody not be stressed out at Christmas? Maybe a man could, but a woman…not a chance. Party planning, gift buying, cleaning, cooking…cooking, cleaning, figh
ting crowds to discover the perfect gift sold out hours ago, engineering parties that would make a professional planner envious. Amy was spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl run by a psychotic carnie. She hopped onto the stool. Hopefully Alex was right. Putting her ideas about what was happening at the contest into spoken words would help empty out the mess of thoughts clogging up her brain. She needed to concentrate on preparing food.

  "Tell me what you're thinking about," Alex prompted again.

  "Bea said she thought it was odd that the tablecloth at Halo Restaurant caught on fire. It looked to her like someone had purposely flipped over the candle in the middle of the table. Then, speaking of tables, all of the missing screws on the tables last night. Could they have fallen out from being moved around, or did someone take them out?"

  Alex raised his left eyebrow. Then his right eyebrow. "If the tables are from a rental company, they could be iffy. Lots of moving around from venue to venue and not a lot of maintenance. Although I wouldn't expect quite so many faulty tables at one place at the same time."

  So maybe those things did have a rational, non-villainous explanation. Amy took a deep breath and plunged on. "The prop disappearances were definitely a case of thievery. Was it the contest as a whole or specific contestants being targeted? Did someone just think the things would look nice at their house? Rayshelle was trying her best to pin the thefts on me, but what if she did it and was trying to divert attention to me? She enters all of the local contests that I do, but she has never even placed, let alone won. Maybe she's come up with tactics to win, beyond developing recipes."