by Rebel Hart
But with every step I took, now all I could see was Chris Palmer’s scowling face in my mind. I imagined him walking around behind me, ho-humming each and every single little thing that might have previously brought me joy.
It didn’t take long for my mom and sisters to pick up on my darkened mood either. Margo, as usual, was the first one to point it out.
“What’s gotten into you?” she huffed. “You usually love it here. Why do you look like you just saw a puppy get run over?”
“Jeez, Margo!” Mom squealed. “What a terrible thought!”
“Well, that’s how she looks.”
“It’s just this article I have to write for work,” I explained. “I was so excited about interviewing the owner here about the big annual display. But it turns out, Jack Palmer is retiring and I was left to deal with his grumpy grinch of a son...Chris.” I made a point to say his name with all the disdain I could possibly express with one syllable.
“What’d you expect?” Margo asked. “The guy’s probably a millionaire. You didn’t think any of them actually cared about Christmas, did you? They only care about how it lines their pockets.”
“It doesn’t help that he’s one of the most eligible rich bachelors in the country,” Payton added. “They just did an article on him in GQ last month.”
“Since when do you read GQ?” I asked.
“Josh has a subscription,” she shrugged.
“I don’t know why,” I scoffed. “He certainly doesn’t look like a guy who has any interest in it.”
Both Margo and mom nudged me from either side, giving me a silent warning about our agreement to stop teasing Payton so much about her terrible taste in boyfriends. They were convinced it was why she kept cycling through them so much, just to get on our nerves.
“Anyway, to answer your question...Yes, I did actually think they cared about Christmas,” I continued. “Why else put so much love and time into their window dressings and make it such a big affair? I thought it was their gift to us. It was part of what made everything about this place so special during the holidays. And now I’m expected to lie and write this stupid article like I don’t know what a greedy scrooge he is behind closed doors.”
“Whew. He’s really gotten under your skin.” Margo widened her eyes, looking amused. “He must be cute.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“A cute asshole?” Payton pressed.
“It’s impossible for me to find a guy like that attractive,” I told them. “A guy who doesn’t like Christmas. Pfft. Who would willingly throw out one of our city’s biggest holiday joys at that! It’s blasphemous. A complete travesty to everything I thought this place stood for.”
“A reminder that this is a department store,” Margo groaned. “Not the magical realm where Hallmark movies are made.”
I ran my fingers up and down the plushness of a cashmere sweater hanging on the rack in front of me with a not so subtle pout. “It felt like that to me though.”
“You never answered our question,” Payton sang. “Is he cute or not?”
I considered it for a moment. That had been my first impression of him, after all. His good looks were kind of impossible not to notice, but they certainly were easier to forget in light of his brooding personality.
“I need the housewares section,” I announced suddenly, desperate to change the subject, which did not go unnoticed by any of them. I scurried off from their teasing giggles and glances. I needed to escape them anyway to buy a few things for them in secret.
The housewares section was one of the best parts of Palmers, with its displays of beds and decked out dining tables. I always liked to circle the place settings, complete with the finest china and linens and very convincing fake foods as an added touch. I always liked to imagine whole families sitting around the table with a perfect home cooked meal, laughing and telling stories, drinking eggnog and decorating cookies.
So to round the corner and see that the usual displays were not there...it was the cherry on top of mountains of disappointment that had been erupting for days.
The racks of bedding and dishes, towels and vases...it all looked no different than it would any other day of the year. In fact, it suddenly looked no different than it would in an ordinary, fluorescent lit supermarket.
I flagged down the first sales associate I laid eyes on. “Excuse me...I was just wondering...what’s going on here? Where are….well, where is everything?” As I waved around the underwhelming display, I noticed the sale signs...which usually didn’t go up until well after the boom of the holiday shopping season.
“Online sale,” she replied. “It’s clearing out a lot of in-store inventory. Would you like to see the ad?”
“No. Thank you,” I murmured, letting her go back to work.
I wasn’t online. I was in the store for a reason, and it was a downright shame to see so much of what captivated in person shoppers ruined by all these changes. Another symptom of Chris Palmer taking over, no doubt.
But then I considered his generally grumpy disposition...the look of stress constantly lingering in the corner of his eyes during the times we met. Was this decision to change so much deeper than I realized? Could it be that Palmers was in real financial trouble?
6
Chris
Pete and I settled into the secret lounge attached to my office - a sitting room with a minibar that had been designed to host more informal meetings. With a business as old and historic as ours, there were plenty of partners and advisors or other men with an interest in Palmers who were both friends and professional affiliates.
Pete Mayer was one of those dual role associates, and also one of my favorite people to consult. His father worked on Wall Street and they owned a considerable amount of stock in Palmers. The father and son team had sold a lot of shares for us too. Pete and I were close in age and grew up with the knowledge that we would one day be expected to attempt and fill our successful fathers’ shoes.
He sat on the couch across from me and listened carefully, swirling a glass of scotch around in his hand.
“Out of all the things I thought I’d be expected to worry about when this time came...My personal opinions on some frivolous holiday was not on the list. Why should how I feel about it even matter? It’s inconsequential to our sales or profits or any of the plethora of other things weighing on me right now.”
“Apparently not,” he said, raising both brows. “Maybe it wouldn’t matter if you were better at masking your true feelings. If you had just put on a smiling face for the girl and lied, you wouldn’t be in this boat.”
“Well, I’m more than happy to do that now...if that’s what it takes.”
He shook his head and took another drink. “Too late for that now. She’s not going to buy it if you pop up with a change of heart all of a sudden. You have to make her think she changed your mind.”
I pulled myself up from the couch and started pacing in front of him, racking my brain for some way out of this. “What do you mean about me masking my true feelings, anyway? So...what, I’m too emotional now?”
Pete burst into laughter so hard he nearly spit out a mouthful of scotch across the floor. “Too emotional!? Hardly! Quite the opposite. I meant you could have pretended to care about the display or the shopping season. Your father always worried about that. You not being able to charm the public. You’re not exactly...the warmest guy I know.”
“Putting on airs is a waste of time. Maybe I’m better suited to work in stocks and investment like you,” I suggested.
“First off, this is a horrible time to sell Palmers. Get it back in good repair, then you can weigh your options. If you’re fine with breaking your dad’s heart, that is. Second off, my job requires me to be good with people too. To gain their trust and make them believe I have their best interests at heart. Not an easy thing to pull off when all you care about is how much money they’re willing to put in your hands.”
I let it all sink in. The reality that I wasn�
��t getting out from under this sinking business any time soon. Like Pete said, I’d have to put it on the mend first, and even then I could never sell off all those years of hardwork from my father and his father before him to the highest bidder. I’d have a whole new level of personal investment before long anyway.
And somehow...This all led to me having to let some flighty, head in the clouds blogger think she could convince me to love Christmas?
“This is absurd,” I blew out a laugh. “And what a waste of time.”
“Not such a big waste if you think about it,” he offered. “Your top priority right now is keeping your company out of the red. You need to boost sales and public interest. A positive write-up from this blogger can only help.”
“There has to be a better way,” I shook my head, chewing the corner of my mouth.
“Look, Chris. If I can be blunt…”
“When are you ever not blunt with me?”
“You’re better off just getting this thing done and out of the way than sitting around trying to find a way out of it. I agree it’s not the most ideal snag to hit the moment you’ve taken over, but it is what it is. If I were complaining to you about this, you’d be even more blunt about it.”
I sighed, knowing he was right. “I would tell you to stop whining.”
“Exactly. And who knows? Maybe it will be good for you.”
That part I wasn’t so convinced of.
“What does this broad look like anyway?” He asked with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
“She’s hot,” I stated without hesitation, but I shrugged it off. That hardly mattered as far as I could see. “But that’s beside the point.”
“Maybe not,” he grinned. “Maybe that’s why you’re so resistant to this. You do have a habit of shutting out anything that makes you feel something. If she’s hot, perhaps you’re more worried about just how far she’ll get under your skin.”
“Short of injecting gingerbread and holly in my bloodstream, she doesn’t seem to have an interest in getting under much of anything...or anyone.”
“Except maybe Santa Claus,” he quipped.
I grimaced. “I really didn’t need that image in my head. Let’s just hope there’s a limit to how fanatical she is about all of this. But blackmailing me to force me to love Christmas...doesn’t sound too promising.”
He stood and slid back into his suit jacket just before throwing back the last of his drink. After walking over and patting my shoulder, he winked and said, “Good luck. Keep me posted.”
I nodded half-heartedly, and quickly poured myself another drink after he was gone. If I was going to have to do this, I intended to be properly intoxicated for as much of it as I could. As someone who usually liked to stay sharp and focused for business matters, this only highlighted just how backwards and bizarre this whole situation was.
Sure, this Hazel chick was hot. But she was also very likely insane. I refused to admit her good looks had anything to do with why this development was irking me more than usual. It probably had far more to do with all the financial stressors hanging over my head.
But maybe Pete was right. Winning her over by letting her think she won me over to her love of Christmas... if that was all it took to get us a positive media buzz going and peak the public’s interest in us again...I had to get it over with. How hard could it be anyway? Just fake a smile, like he said. Maybe sing a carol or two. Put a star on a tree. Voila! You’re so right, Hazel. This truly is the best time of year.
Only when I imagined myself saying it in my head, it sounded every bit as cheesy and forced as a terrible low-budget made for TV Christmas romance movie.
Nonetheless, I tossed back more alcohol, and pulled out my phone to dial her number. My leg bounced and twitched as it rang once...twice...three times.
“Hello!?” she shouted over noisy bustling in the background.
“Ms. Malone, this is Chris Palmer. I’m sorry….Is it Ms. or Mrs.?”
“What!? Hold on…,” she yelled so loud I had to hold the phone back from my ear. “Sorry, I’m at my dad’s Christmas tree farm, helping out for the day,” she explained once she had stepped away somewhere more quiet. “What were you saying?”
“Christmas tree farm,” I scoffed. “Right. Okay. I was just asking if it’s Ms. or Mrs….”
“Just call me Hazel,” she answered firmly.
I shirked off the tinge of disappointment that it wasn’t easier to determine whether she was married or not.
“So,” she continued. “Have you considered my offer?”
“You mean your blackmail?” I huffed, but she was silent. “Yes, I have considered it.”
“And?”
“And…,” I still hesitated in saying what I knew I needed to. “Fine. What can I say...You’ve got me by the balls on this one, which isn’t an easy thing for someone like me to admit. But you win. I give you full permission to try your damndest to convert me to a Christmas lover. As long as you stick to your word about rewriting the piece with a more positive spin.”
“Fantastic!” she shrieked with a gasp. The excitement in her voice was intimidating. “I just know you’ll come around. And who knows? Maybe it will even spark your motivation to fight for the annual display!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That’s definitely not one of our terms. I can’t make any promises there. More than that, our decision on the display is final.”
“Whatever,” she shot back dismissively. “One thing at a time, and I know just the place to start with you.”
“Why do I feel like I’m talking to a demented experimental surgeon with shady credentials all of a sudden?”
“It is a sort of surgery,” she chuckled. “Heart surgery. You’ll be just like the grinch by the end of it, with your heart growing three whole sizes.”
“Great,” I groaned.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked.
“I’m obligated to be, it seems.”
“Perfect. My family is doing our annual Christmas crafting night!” she sang enthusiastically.
“Oh, well if you’re not free tomorrow night, then…”
“No, I’m saying you have to come with me,” she insisted. “You won’t be disappointed. It’s one of the best parts of the season, and one of my favorite traditions. We bake cookies and make ornaments and garlands. By the end of it, my parents’ whole house looks like Santa’s cottage!”
“You can’t be serious,” I laughed.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Look, out of all the ways you could try and pull this off, dragging a guy to a crafting session with your mom and dad isn’t the least bit constructive. If anything, you’re going to make me loathe this stupid holiday even more.”
“I can always publish my article as is,” she threatened. “Or you could just trust me and let me work my magic. The magic of Christmas.”
“You sound like a crazy person, but...I guess I have no choice, do I?”
“Nope!” she chirped. “And anyway, of course my father won’t be there. He’ll be busy at the Christmas tree farm. But my mom and sisters will be. Maybe their significant others, but probably not.”
Once I got over the second mention of her dad and the Christmas tree farm, as if that didn’t sound like a potential full blown delusion from someone who drank way too much spiked eggnog, I was rolling my eyes even harder over her admission about her sisters’ SOs. Of course they wouldn’t be there if they could help it. For Christmas crafting!? No man would if he had his say in it.
But I reminded myself, once again, that I very much did not have a say in any of this. I reluctantly confirmed our first Christmas conversion session for the following evening, then proceeded to get splendidly drunk in my office.
7
Hazel
Chris and I agreed to meet in between our places, because obviously we lived on opposite sides of town. Then we’d share a cab together over to my parents’ house for crafting night, which I was incredibly high on
excitement for. But my buzz started to fade when I looked at my watch and saw that he was five minutes late. I hated it when people were late. One of my biggest pet peeves.
A full ten minutes later, after I felt frozen all the way down to my toes from waiting out in the cold, he finally appeared around the corner. I watched him walk up to me in his nice wool peacoat and designer scarf wrapped stylishly around his neck. He even looked like a guy who would love Christmas, aside from the constant scowl on his face. It only made me that much more confident in my ability to convert him that very night.
“You’re late,” I frowned at him on the corner, already waving to hail down a cab.
“Sorry, I had to take a couple shots to gear up for this,” he explained shamelessly.
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Oh, I wasn’t joking.”
Nonetheless, he followed me into the back of the cab and twenty minutes later, we had arrived at my parents. My heart swelled at the sight inside, while Chris seemed even more terrified than before.
Every table, and even some of the floors, were littered with glitter, ribbon, glue, scissors, and anything else you could think of for a crafting extravaganza. I felt like a kid in a toy store, but some straightening up was in order.
“See what happens when you’re late?” I nudged him. “My sisters are left to setting everything up, and you get this chaotic mess.”
I clapped my hands to get their attention and started barking out orders for making everything a little more tidy and photogenic.
“You all know I have to snap photos to do a blog post. My readers look forward to reading about our crafting nights almost as much as I look forward to having them!”
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” Chris smirked sarcastically as I piled his arms up with clutter to hide somewhere.