Tinsel and Temptation

by Eileen Rendahl

  “This time of year is hard, I know,” she whispered in Julia’s ear. “But we have your back. You know that right?”

  Julia found herself hugging Gaby back, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “Yes,” Julia said. “I miss him. I miss him so much. But I have fruitcake.”

  The women laughed. “Come in,” Gaby said, stepping aside. “I’m just, you know, nursing this damn baby for the eight thousandth time today. I swear, girl, my nipples are going to make a run for the hills.”

  “Maybe you’ll get new ones for Christmas?” Julia said, with a giggle. Oh, she liked this Gaby! She really liked her! “I can’t stay. I’m on my way home. Just wanted you to have a fruitcake. Because, like, I don’t want a fruitcake and the thong people gave it to me.”

  Gaby took the cake and grinned. “We still on for tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yup,” Julia said although she had no idea what Gaby was talking about.

  “Great,” said Gaby, hugging her again. “I love you. Go straight home. Call me when you get there.”

  “You’re such a mom,” Julia said.

  “Oh my God,” Gaby laughed. “I so am. I’m even annoying myself. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The door closed and, reeling, Julia stumbled down the brownstone steps.

  “We’re friends?” she asked Nick.

  “BFF’s,” Nick said. “She took care of you when, you know, I died and all.”

  “A small act of kindness,” she said. “Great impact.”

  Nick smiled at her. “Yes. You’re getting it. And at some point the acts become second nature and not about our need to feel good about ourselves. It’s a continuum. And now you’re on it.”

  They were somewhere in the upper 80s and began drifting slowly back downtown. Nick seemed deflated, quiet, although it’s hard to properly gauge the emotions of ghosts.

  “So now what?” Julia asked. She was hungry and tired and thought she might have a slight hangover from the bottle of wine she chugged when Nick first showed up.

  “Now we wait,” Nick said.

  “For what?”

  “For the sun to come up.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How do we know it worked?” Julia yelled. “How do we know if I righted the right wrongs or whatever?”

  “Stop yelling,” Nick said. “You look like a crazy person.”

  “There’s evidence to support the fact that I actually am a crazy person.”

  “Such drama,” Nick said.

  They walked in silence for a bit before Julia said, “Did you love me? Back when we were married, I mean.”

  “I thought I did,” Nick said. “But I didn’t really spend much time thinking about anything other than myself, to be honest.”

  “What changed?”

  “I died.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What? That’s not enough for you?”

  “I…miss you,” Julia said. Her heart, which she had always considered an efficient muscle designed to pump blood through her body, felt like a chasm. A look of pain drifted across Nick’s see through face.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “The sun,” he said pointing to the east. “It’s coming up. It’s time for me to say good-bye.”

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she cried. “Please! Can you stay? I can do better. I know I can.”

  “I was only here to guide you along,” Nick said. “Now it’s time for me to rest. I’m very tired. Being dead is a lot of work.”

  “But….”

  Nick’s already vague outline wavered. “Remember Julia, keep your heart wide open.”

  “Nick!” But he was gone and all that remained in his place was a slight sheen to the snow piling up on the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER 10

  Standing on the corner, Julia was overcome with exhaustion. The first rays of Christmas morning light appeared, snaking around the buildings, pushing out the darkness. The snow had stopped and the sky was clear. After considering her situation, Julia did the only thing she could think to do: she headed for home.

  “Merry Christmas,” yelled a man cruising down the middle of Broadway on cross country skis.

  “Merry Christmas,” Julia croaked. Her voice was off, as if she’d spent all night in an airconditioned hotel room. Moments later, she passed the small coffee shop she frequented. The owner, a middle aged Indian man, waved to her as he unlocked his shop. She waved back. And her feet stopped.

  “Good morning,” she said to the man. He’d served her coffee every day for years and yet she didn’t know his name. He looked startled.

  “And to you as well,” he said finally. “Do you celebrate this holiday?”

  “Kind of,” she said.

  “Me too,” the man nodded. “Kind of. I like the decorated trees. Would you care for some coffee this morning? You look…tired.”

  “I just spent the night with the ghost of my husband and I didn’t get much sleep,” she admitted. Instead of looking concerned, the man nodded gravely.

  “That can do a person in,” he said. “I’m Kishore.”

  “I’m Julia. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Twenty minutes later, the sun was mostly up and Julia was on her way again, a steaming hot latte in her hand. Along the way, she searched for evidence that her future was different, that she’d chosen the right wrongs. But in truth she had no idea what she should be looking for.

  When she arrived at her building, she stepped over a sleeping Lady Di and climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Inside, everything looked the same. It was so quiet. Dust glimmered in the faint rays of sun. The framed picture of her and Nick sat on the mantle as it always had. She picked it up and stared at it. She had never really known him. Regret left her momentarily breathless. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Why had she been so blind?

  Julia sat on the couch, latte in hand, feet crossed at the ankles. The silence squeezed in on her. The air felt thin and prickly. What had Nick said over and over? There’s power in simple acts of kindness?

  Suddenly, she was off the couch and running for the door. She took the stairs three at a time, practically falling down the last flight. Outside, Lady Di was propped up in the vestibule, yawning and stretching.

  “Good morning,” Julia said. It was so cold her breath made little puffy clouds.

  “And to you,” Lady Di said, her accent strong.

  “It’s Christmas,” Julia said.

  Lady Di looked around, surprised. “Really?”

  “All day,” Julia said. “I’d like to invite you up for breakfast. Nothing fancy. Will you come?”

  Lady Di eyed her skeptically. “Me?”

  “Yes. Please. We could both use some the company, right? Besides, it’s cold out here.”

  The older woman shifted her bulk and rearranged her skirts, finally reaching out a hand for Julia to help her stand. But the vestibule was icy and covered in snow and as Julia pulled Lady Di up, her own feet went right out from under her. This was going to hurt.

  But she didn’t fall. A man’s arms caught her from behind. At the same time, Lady Di grabbed Julia for support and now she was sandwiched between the unknown man and the princess.

  “Well, this is awkward,” the man said with a laugh. Oh, that laugh! That laugh! Her heart just about exploded at the sound.

  “You’re alive!” Julia untangled herself and turned to hug the man. But something in his eyes stopped her. He had no idea who she was.

  “Please excuse me,” she said, flustered. “I thought you were….someone else.” But inside, she was giddy with relief. Somehow, she’d gotten Nick another chance and she didn’t care if she was still going to end up a sad lonely old lady who didn’t even deserve cats. She’d made choices and those choices made a difference.

  “I get that a lot,” Nick said with a smile. “I’m pretty generic looking I suppose.”

  “No!” Julia said. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Well,
thank you for saying so,” Nick said. “So what are you two lovely ladies doing on this wintery Christmas morning other than ice skating on the sidewalk?” Lady Di twittered and blushed at his attention.

  “We were just going upstairs for some pancakes,” Julia said. “Christmas pancakes. Would you…care to join us?”

  “I was just heading out for a walk,” Nick said. “Walking really clears the head. But who can resist pancakes? I’d love to join you.”

  “And maybe after we can walk together?” Julia asked, again breathless. Nick eyed her and for a flash Julia thought there was recognition. But it was fleeting. Nick broke into a broad smile.

  “I’d love the company,” he said. “It’s a date.”

  Slowly, the odd trio made their way up the steps, Julia’s hand under Lady Di’s arm to keep her steady, Nick with his arm around Julia to give her support. And when Julia opened the door, the first thing she noticed was the mantle over the fake fireplace. It overflowed with photographs, all of a good life in progress.

  “I love Christmas,” Nick said, glancing around the neat apartment. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s downright magical.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Elizabeth Maxwell is the internationally published author of several novels, including most recently Happily Ever After (Touchstone). She also writes under the name Beth McMullen. Visit ElizabethMaxwellAuthor.com for information on Elizabeth’s novels and sign up for the Wit’s End Book Blog and Newsletter, a weekly discussion about great books trending right now.

  Orion’s Mirror

  Evelyn G. Walker

  CHAPTER 1

  As a girl, I loved stargazing with my father, even though at first I didn’t know where to look. There was too much for my naked eye to handle. It wasn’t until he bought me a telescope in eighth grade that I was able to decipher that vast, black sky into a navigable graph, each star frozen amongst its lot in the constellations. Up until then, I thought looking at the stars was like looking at a crowd, or a forest; my brain only saw the bigness of it.

  But once I saw a few stars up close, I cared more about the whole thing. I liked that each star had a color and orientation, attracted and repelled other planets and stars, other bits of floating matter; each had a purpose. I didn’t know it then, but this was my first glimpse into how people work. I’m not a fatalistic person, but I think I was supposed to understand the universe before I could handle my own life.

  I am named after Halley’s comet, which Mom and Dad saw together off the deck in their apartment when they were first married and still in grad school. They joke that’s where I get the twinkle in my eye. Lately I’ve worked hard to keep this spark under control, to suppress it to a dormant, smoldering coal. I fed it too much last year, my senior year in high school — I became a fireball, and people got burned.

  Tonight, in my quiet dorm room, the light is dim and uneven, which matches my mood. Finals begin tomorrow, and even though I’m mostly ready, this constant studying leaves me restless. I hear noises down the hall, and I turn up the volume on my speakers so I can’t quite make out their voices, or their enthusiasm. I don’t need that distraction.

  I lean back to stretch and catch an uneasy funk from my armpits. My flannel pants have a coffee stain on the leg, from two days ago, which tells me I’ve worn them for the past two days, even to the dining hall downstairs. Now that classes are over prof’s and TA’s are holding office hours only, and I’ve pretty much holed up here. Haven’t felt the sting of the cranky Boston winter. I’m really not taking great care of myself, but there’s a purpose to it, there’s a victory in here somewhere; this is my chance to prove myself. To restore the peace.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes and I look down to see Mom’s name next to her tiny picture. She launches in, as she does.

  “Halley, I’m glad I got you. I know you’re busy but we need to talk holidays. We’re hosting Christmas Eve, and Grandmother Jordan will be here, in your room. I invited Aunt Sue and Uncle Murray too…” Her voice is high and sharp. It almost flicks my ear over the phone.

  “Mmm.” I say.

  “You need to send me your travel details so we know when to come get you from the airport. I might even need to send Justin. There’s so much going on.”

  “Yep, okay, Mom, I will.”

  “Do that today, please.” There’s a distant click that sounds like she’s setting down her pen. “And Halley, we’re expecting a nice holiday together.”

  The pause is awkward, stretches out time into uncomfortably long seconds, creating a space like it’s a physical thing. What do I even say to that?

  “Mom, I am too. I know last summer things got out of hand, but…”

  “I want to be clear about this.”

  “I’m getting good grades.”

  “No shenanigans.”

  “Mom, if you guys would just listen…”

  “Well, your report card will do the talking for you, young lady. Finals start soon, right?”

  I sigh and roll my eyes and kick my trash can under my desk all at the same time.

  “Yep, tomorrow. I should get back to studying.”

  “That’s my girl. Stick with it. All right then, you’ll email that info tonight. We’ll figure it out.” The line disconnects but leaves her face, ghosted a sky blue, still eyeing me from the screen.

  The idea of home is about as relaxing as an acid bath. I seriously miss its home-ness, the stuff that’s tucked inside me like second nature, like the way you shove a hip into the center of the front door to close it completely. But the real ache, the yearning, the part I wish I could have back, comes from the role I was born with, that essential belonging, the years of Mom, Dad, me and my younger brother Justin knit together as a unit. Recently we’ve been broken apart, disassembled, and it’s unclear if any pieces are missing, or if we’ll even fit together neatly. So I guess going home no longer feels right. Somehow I fear I’ll end up in a trap, airless and two-dimensional, a wildflower pressed into a book.

  I turn back to my textbook. The first of my finals, Intro to Law in the Political Arena, is tomorrow morning. I think it will be tough, like really tough. This course is a requirement for my yet-undeclared major, Political Science, though I’m wavering on that. I like the course fine, but it doesn’t stir me. I know the difference; I’ve had magical moments, where my synapses blaze, unable to stay contained; especially in Art History class, when the lights come down and the images explode before me, two stories high. In those moments, I am rapt. It’s not fine.

  Dad loves Poli Sci, thought I’d love it too — said it was a door-opener. He told me this back when he was still able to look me in the eye. I took the course for him.

  I flip through my notes, and also those of my study partner, Luís. We swapped, and I’m glad we did — he picks up on different stuff than I do. Luís is an unlikely study buddy for me, given that his English is passable but not perfect; however he’ll probably save my butt in this course. He’s a sophomore from Venezuela, also an attorney’s kid, I suspect from a prominent family there. This stuff comes naturally to him, and his interest in me, which frankly feels more than platonic, comes in the form of a patient though unsolicited tutor. Not that I mind. Luís isn’t like most guys I know; he’s got some texture, like he’s lived a life already. He’s that guy — very tall, groomed, dark hair, shirts tucked in, brushed loafers. His cologne, while liberally applied, makes him smell older — like it could have wafted out of the men’s room at my Dad’s club. He has an easy laugh that comes from the barrel of his chest and shakes his shoulders. But he also has this incredible intensity, which I first found off-putting. His eyes consume my face when I talk, jumping from my eyes to my mouth. I suppose this could be because he’s translating what I say, but it feels like I’m being studied. I’ve grown to like it, being somebody’s subject.

  Because when I stepped foot in Boston, I intentionally went invisible. It became my mission: to see what happened if I cut the bull
shit and really tried. I’ve cranked the fun-meter down. I’ve kept away from the boys with their baseball caps and their ridiculous mustaches, the thumping parties up and down Fraternity Row, the girls entering a room in a cloud of perfume. I’m practically the opposite of many of the kids here - I’m discovering what I should have been.

  Back at home, I was a miracle worker. There was an adrenaline rush I got from the shit I was able to pull off. It was a gift of mine, really; the instinctual ability to find the bare minimum threshold and live just above it. It used to drive Mom and Dad crazy. They are both so Type A, so organized, mechanical, precise. They were forever asking me if my homework was done, if my presentations were prepared, if I needed a second set of eyes. And my answer was always, as I raced past them to the driveway, where friends were waiting, a horn beeping impatiently, “I’m all good!” And since my grades held, they had no reason to press.

  But my luck ran out last summer, and I promised myself that I’d be a new person here — that I’d had enough adventure to last some people a lifetime. It was time for the serious Halley, the one who had a plan. To reference my family playbook. By pure chance, I wasn’t assigned a roommate, which is unusual for a freshman. So step one was accidental; I’m living a monk’s life, in solace. I’ve preferred it, it’s been my penance.

  My restlessness suddenly goes exponential, and I know it’s because home — my people, my life, my legacy — is looming. I stare at the phone and flick open the address book. I swipe slowly, knowing where I’ll end up, but in no hurry to get there. When I see her name my heart falters. It’s been four months since we’ve talked. I press the button. After several rings, I hear the rasp to her voice, so familiar, so distant. For more than a decade I heard it every day.

  “Well, if it isn’t Halley.” I picture her in her TV room, where she zones out most evenings. Her hair is dark brown, near black, and spills over her shoulders and onto the back of the sofa in thick, unruly waves. Her body is haphazard, one leg up, one down. She holds the phone lightly to her face, which looks stern, partly because she has a strong nose, but also from the perennial dark circles under her eyes, both hereditary from her strong Italian lineage.