by Ashlee Price
“Anyway,” Ricardo said, “if you need any help, I’ve got some time before the holiday. I can do your big man’s shopping if you like.”
“That’s sweet, Ricardo, but I do these things on my own, you know that. John hired me, he entrusts these things to me. If you need work, maybe we can arrange another photo-shoot with Powerplay. You did really well with the cover last fall.”
“Anytime, honey; I need all the work I can get.” Ricardo drank down most of his wine, swirling the rest around in the glass as he swallowed.
Not wanting to intrude but unable to resist, I asked, “I thought you’d be busy this season. What about Michael?” Ricardo waved his hand in front of his face, shaking his head and taking another sip of white wine. “Aw, what happened?”
“What always happens? Reality, I guess. Dreams… they don’t come true, Sheryl. Maybe one in a billion, but… I dunno, for the rest of us? Sometimes I wonder if life isn’t lined up to be just one disappointment after the next, just a boulevard of broken dreams.”
There was a melodramatic pause, and I knew I had to shatter the mood. “Oh, boo-hoo,” I said, raising my glass, “here’s to us broken dreamers. At least we make the others look good!” Ricardo raised his glass and forced a smile and we clinked our glasses.
***
Manhattan was alive with the frenzy of the holidays. Silver and gold streamers hung across the boulevards, and horse-drawn carriages were more common than ever. Salvation Army Santas were ringing bells and asking for contributions. Those endless seasonal tunes chimed out with cheerful female singers and their lifeless male counterparts, power ballads belched out by long-haired rockers from the 1980s trying to remain relevant or at least profitable. Country, reggae, classic rock; it was lovely weather for a sleigh ride together in almost any corner of the world.
The wind blew hard and cold even in the middle of the day, but the snow had abated and the sky was very clear and blue, a thin strip of nature between the tops of the skyscrapers rising up on either side. I felt trapped deep in a concrete canyon, almost like I was buried miles beneath the surface. But around me was where the action was.
And at the moment there was altogether too much action for my taste.
I’d taken care of the first few items easily enough; mostly cashmere sweaters for John’s wife Margaret and her sisters and mother, just teaser gifts for the real treasures to come. As for those, I’d seen the list and hit more than a few: Tiffany’s, Faberge, Gucci.
I felt like a tool, a shill not only for John Alister, but for all these big companies. They thrived because of people like John, and even people like me and every boy I’d ever dated. Looking around at the heaving masses of increasingly tense shoppers swarming in and out of the shops, their faces tired and gray, I couldn’t help but wonder how much joy there could possibly be in a season like this. Is Jesus the reason for the season, I had to wonder, or Santa Claus, or maybe it’s really just F.A.O. Schwartz and Mickey Mouse?
I wondered how much joy any of my fellow shoppers shared with their families during the other nine months of the year. Did they appreciate the simple joy of being alive and being together, of having found each other in this chaotic world and having managed to hold on against all odds?
How long can I hold on? I had to wonder. Will I spend the rest of my life doing this, living in the shadow of somebody else’s life, somebody else’s love, somebody else’s family? Will I ever have my own fashion line, my own company, my own career? Will I ever find my own true love, raise my own family, find my own destiny?
I thought about all my dreams, both the visions of my youth and the nighttime wishes of my adulthood, and everything seemed so far out of reach. I’d given up on romance to dedicate myself to my career, but that was looking more and more like a dead end road. Maybe my folks are right. Maybe it’s time I thought about heading back to Oregon.
But the identity of the man in my dream from two days before still haunted me. I wondered if I would ever meet such a man, or if the dream was just another terrible tease my mind used to taunt me and make sure I’d never be truly happy.
But I was about to find out. And once I did, there would be no going back.
My smartphone rang in my purse and I stopped in front of some fancy restaurant or another to see who it was. I knew our visitor was coming by private jet and what time he was expected, so I thought it might be news of a weather delay, or perhaps John Alister himself with some new and vital information.
When I saw the name Ricardo on the screen, I simply dropped the phone back into my purse. But by then I had the odd feeling that I was being watched, that strange and hateful eyes were fixed on me, and that it was too late to escape them.
I couldn’t have been more right.
I turned to see John and the Alister family, wife Margaret and daughter Bailey, sitting at a table at the window. Bailey was waving eagerly, a broad smile on her little face. Neither John nor Margaret shared her glee. John looked at me as if he was about to turn to stone, and Margaret glared at me as if she hoped I was about to do the same thing. I gestured that I was on my way down the street, but Margaret waved me in with a fake smile as Bailey nodded happily. I shook my head, but Margaret fixed her eyes on mine, curling her index finger toward herself to pull me into the restaurant like a fish on a hook.
“Mister Alister,” I said with deliberate cheer, “Mrs. Alister, Bailey, how are you all?”
Bailey said my name with unabashed joy that almost sounded like relief. “Sheryl!” She reached out with her open arms, and I just couldn’t resist bending down to give her a big hug and receive one just as big from arms a fraction the size of my own.
But I also couldn’t miss Margaret, an aging redhead with too much makeup, glaring at her husband, my boss. A half-empty cocktail glass sat in front of her with what looked like the remnants of a Bloody Mary.
I turned to Margaret. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“It’s a surprise, alright,” Margaret said, glancing at the bags in my hands. “Tiffany’s, that’s pretty ritzy stuff for a girl on your budget, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t possibly give away that these were gifts I was buying for her on John’s behalf. At least that’s who I hoped I was buying them for. “My mother always wanted something from there, and I’ve been saving up. I don’t mind, it’ll make her so happy.”
Margaret forced a little smile, but her reply came out as a snide snarl. “Lovely.”
Bailey said, “Are you going to be with your family for Christmas, Sheryl?”
“Gee, Bailey, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out there this year, but I have a vacation coming up in the spring.” With a glance at John, I added, “I think that’s right.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” John said, “you’ve more than earned it.”
Without thinking to censor herself, Bailey asked me, “Can I come?”
Margaret glared at the child. “If you’d rather not live with us, I’m sure we can find a suitable orphanage somewhere, dear.”
John forced a chuckle, trying to smile at me. “They like to joke around.” But one look at Bailey’s sad, sinking eyes, falling slowly to the floor—never mind at Margaret’s crow’s feet and laugh-less laugh lines—told me that neither one was joking.
I said to Bailey, “The city sure is cool around Christmas, isn’t it? All the lights and decorations and the snow… I think it’d be my favorite time of the year if it weren’t so cold!”
Bailey just shrugged. “I wish we lived in the country somewhere,” her little voice croaked up.
Margaret said, “In the country with the meth and the hillbillies. Ten days, you’d be begging for a shopping mall or a McDonalds or a Pixar movie, mark my words.”
John glanced at his Rolex wristwatch, which couldn’t have cost less than a hundred thousand dollars. “Speaking of that, shouldn’t you be on your way to JFK right about now?”
“Yes, I was… that’s where I was on my way to now, Mr. Alister, of course. I, um, I should
be heading right off then.”
“Company car’s running alright?”
“Yes sir,” I said, “yes, it is, thank you.”
“Alright then,” Margaret said, “no reason for long goodbyes.”
A long tension lingered among us. I was unsure about leaving them, about what they’d be saying about me, about that poor little rich girl under the influence of that bitter, aging hag.
“Right,” I said, clearing my throat, “have a good holiday.”
“‘Bye, Sheryl!”
“Merry Christmas, Bailey.” She nodded, but her smile was a feeble disguise for her youthful sorrow, and she could only look away as I turned and trudged out of the restaurant.
Poor kid, I couldn’t help but think as I made my way to the company town car I’d be using to escort our visiting CEO. She’s obviously miserable. But who wouldn’t be, living with a nasty shrew like that? How could John Alister marry such a person? I mean, I get that he was under pressure, probably not thinking straight, and I’m sure she took full advantage of that. I’ll bet she was all sweetness and light for the first year or two. Now maybe John thinks it’s too late, that it’ll do Bailey more harm than good to lose the only mother figure she’s ever known. Still, what could be worse than being raised by that loveless, bitter scarecrow of a woman?
My mind wandered as I made it down the Van Wycke Expressway toward JFK. The traffic was thicker than I expected, and the more I glanced at the clock on my smartphone, the more I started to worry.
What if I’m late? I asked myself as the clock ticked down the minutes. Fifteen to go, with me still miles from the terminal. Who knows what kind of person this is, this visiting CEO? He’s Australian, does that mean he’ll want to wrestle with me or something? Or will he just be a staggering boozer trying to grab every piece of ass he can get? If so, at least he won’t be too mad if I’m not on time.
Will he?
If he is, I won’t get much mercy from Margaret Alister, that’s for sure. She looks at me like she’d like to cut off my head and turn my neck into a planter. If this doesn’t go exactly right, I could be looking at a one-way ticket back to Eugene. I’d end up dressing department store windows in the Springfield Mall. If it’s still even there.
My smartphone rang and I glanced at the screen: Flynn McGinnis. I wasn’t in the mood for Flynn’s flirtations, but I knew it could be something a lot more important than that, especially with me running as late as I was.
Please tell me the plane was delayed!
I swiped the screen and scooped up the phone. “Flynn, what’s up?”
“Hey, Sheryl.”
“Hey.” After a stilted little pause, I asked, “Something you needed, Flynn?”
He paused before answering. “No, I was just… I was thinking about our little chat today. I want you to know I heard about… what happened in the conference room, but I’m not going to say a thing. Nobody on the floor is.”
I had to shake my head for a second. “I don’t… what d’you mean, Flynn?”
“Right, exactly. But also, y’know, about… that other thing, Central Park and all that.”
“Flynn—”
“No,” he said quickly, “I just want you to know that I get it, it’s inappropriate for the office. Even though it’s not like either one of us is really in the position to help or hinder the other—”
“Flynn, I’m on my to do a very important errand for Mr. Alister, so if there isn’t anything else—”
“Alright, alright, I didn’t mean to upset you, Sheryl, not at all, opposite of my intention.”
I didn’t like the escalation of his tone or the quickness of his voice, but his intention seemed reasonable enough, and it was just easier to say, “Okay, well, that’s fine, Flynn, but now I’ve really got to go, okay?”
“Sure, yeah… hey, anything I can help out with? If it’s company business, I mean, I don’t mean to insinuate myself into your personal scene.”
“If I had one,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”
“Sure, call anytime.” I pushed the button and dropped the phone back into my purse. Flynn, I thought, gonna have to put a stop to that. Great timing, two weeks before Christmas, but I don’t think it’s gonna do him much good dragging his delusions through the whole holiday season.
But Flynn was the last thing on my priority list.
I finally got to the airport. I finally found some parking. After walking for what seemed like another hundred and fifty miles, I finally found the private jet terminal and got to the gate.
I looked around but didn’t see anyone who looked like a billionaire CEO from Australia. With a shrug, I unrolled the sign I’d brought with the name Cane in bold letters and held it up. Besides a few incredulous looks from various travelers and security guards, I stood there without any response at all.
Damnit! He got tired of waiting and he’s in some nearby hotel suite, probably chewing off John’s ear right now. If I blew whatever deal they were cooking up, John’s going to have my ass on a spit and his wife will be sharpening up the carving knives.
Damnit!
But then a distant clapping leaked into my ears over the mumbled announcements and general muttering of conversations and greetings. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but I knew I wasn’t going to find the person I was looking for by standing at that gate holding a sign like some beggar.
I became aware of some kind of chant. It was getting louder, but it didn’t seem to have any words. Not a strike or a protest, I guessed. It was just a vague grunt, uttered by dozens of people at the same time. I took the escalator up to the next floor towards it. As I glided up to the top of the automated staircase, I could see that the source of the sound was the bar next to the Cinnabon.
Chapter 3
The place was packed, and everybody was raising their glasses, filled with beer or wine or cocktails, and swaying them back and forth in sloppy sync, a drunken rhythm they all seemed to enjoy.
“Oye!” they shouted, all at once, “oye!”
Then a single voice rose above them all, clear and strong and rolling with a foreign accent I presumed was Australian. For my sake I hoped it was Australian.
“We’ll make the cradles for to rock,” the voice sang in a sing-song melody reminiscent of an old sea chantey, “we’ll make the bed sheets for to tear!”
I stepped closer, and the man who commanded the voice came into clear view. He was tall, with a lean waste, broad chest and long, strong arms. He stood above the crowd with long, wavy brown hair cascading over a happy smile, strong cheeks, and an even stronger chin. He held up a big, icy flagon of beer, suds spilling over his hand.
“When all of the girls at Peter’s Head say, ‘The Diamond does appear!’” He shouted out, “Sing it with me, you know the words!”
I stood there amazed, and not only by the sight of this man with the crowd in the palm of his hand, leading them through a song I suspected most of them had never heard before. I knew I hadn’t.
“Rise up my voice,” he and half the room sang.
The other half answered together: “Oye!”
What amazed me the most was that this was the man I’d been with in my dream. I recognized him with exact certainty. There was something about the face, the hair, the overall exuberance of the man which I could recognize from a distance not only of several yards, but of several days. It both chilled me to the bone and warmed me to my very core.
He and his half of the room sang, “Let your hearts never fail!”
The others raised their glasses. “Oye!”
“When that bonnie ship the Diamond goes out fishing for the whale!”
The white whale, I couldn’t help but think, the big one.
He and the crowd repeated, “When that bonnie ship the Diamond goes out fishing for the whaaaaaaaale!”
The man called out, “God bless ya, mates!” It sounded more like “moites” in his thick Australian accent, but the cheer of the crowd was a universal language, and their accepta
nce of him was total and complete.
I had to get to him before anybody else did, and that wasn’t going to be easy. I pushed my way through the crowd, once again feeling my height and my slight weight, forever swimming against the human current. I slithered through two frat boys, one of whom gave me a hard pinch on my ass as I passed.
I spun hard, grabbing the guy’s hand and glaring at him. He wore a shocked expression and stalks of dusty blond hair over his steroid-swollen face. “It’s the post-Weinstein era, you dick! Back off!” There was a hushed disquiet around me as I turned and pushed my way with even more strength and determination.
He saw me coming and greeted me with a slightly inebriated smile on his face. “Oye, what a fine little Sheila we got here!”
“My name’s Sheryl, actually. You’re Langdon Cane?”
“Fah’s I remembah!” His accent was striking, hard to understand at first. But the more he spoke, the more comprehensible he became, the more American he sounded. “G’day, Chah’l!”
“I’m here from Alister Fashions, to drive you to your suite at the Baccarat.”
“Yeah?” Langdon looked around at the big crowd. All eyes were on him and me. “Alright, well, no rush! Pull up a few pints and sing us a tune, eh?”
“Mister Cane, we really should get back into the city. With the holiday traffic…”
“Exactly! Why chahge into that mess when we’re having such a good time, nah?”
The crowd cheered for him and booed me, eyes glassy, hands waving me off, expletives and obscene suggestions tossed up over the crowd and into the corners of my ears. Langdon turned and held his flattened hand out to calm them.
“Alright, mates, take ‘er easy, she’ll be apples.” He looked around, scratching his handsome, stubbled chin. “How ‘bout this, gang… a good ol’ fashioned chug-off!”
The crowd cheered, clinking their glasses and chanting, “Chug-off, chug-off, chug-off, chug-off!”
“Wait, hold on,” I said, louder than I realized, temporarily squelching everybody’s enthusiasm. “I can’t sit around here getting drunk. I’m the driver!”