by Laura Briggs
Rae’s face burned as she struggled to think of a stinging retort. None came, so she busied herself digging through the box’s pile of holiday junk. Outdated Christmas cards stared up at her, depicting carolers, Christmas lights, and snowy landscapes. An unfortunate number of them involving couples on romantic sleigh rides and mistletoe.
“Shouldn’t you relax now?” Tippy asked, pouring herself another cup of cocoa. “You won’t see him again until Monday night for the parade.”
“If only,” Rae groaned. “We have to decorate a float at the warehouse tomorrow morning. Not exactly my dream Saturday, if you know what I mean.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Tippy, mischievously. “But then, I’m not fighting an attraction for an archenemy.” As she dodged a well-aimed cluster of plastic mistletoe, courtesy of Rae.
She couldn’t deny part of Tippy’s words were true. There was something about Simon that escaped her reason and even her harshest judgment. She argued with herself time and again, even when she found herself melting beneath the gaze of those dark eyes. How many arguments had she lost during their partnership because of that gaze? More than she was willing to admit.
Over cold tuna fish casserole in her apartment that night, she watched a rented movie to avoid the boring lineup of reruns. When she turned it off and the ten o’clock news appeared onscreen, she couldn’t help but anticipate the commercial’s appearance. Feeling a tingle in her spine at the thought of the moment in the sleigh.
“Oh, grow up,” she told herself, turning it off. As if spending her holiday season trapped with a self-absorbed jerk was anything to feel excited about. She was lucky this afternoon didn’t end with the two of them crossing swords via a pair of oversized candy canes.
How could she let herself get suckered into believing that smile again? Their on-again, off-again partnership taught her a thing or two in the past about where his priorities really lay. Each time an opportunity came their way, Simon was always the first to argue his side of the situation.
More than once, they threatened to break up their partnership over “irreconcilable differences.” And more than once, their relationship threatened to become something more than a morning stunt for ratings. The times they shared a touch or a glance that seemed like something more than friendship.
What mattered, however, was what he did. He dumped their partnership for the first big opportunity that came this way. Now that was loyalty for you.
*****
“If you ruin this day for me, I will kill you.”
These were the words that Rae planned to say when she confronted Simon at the parade float site on Saturday. She would look him in the eye and defy his charms with a freezing glance. Then she could turn her attention to the business at hand.
Funny how those words never made it out of her mouth. Instead, she found herself laughing at his jokes one minute, glowering silently the next as he flirted with the nearest cute volunteer.
When she arrived that morning, the parking lot was already full since parade preparation was in full swing. The warehouse was decked out like Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade on a small scale. Skeletal frames of floats were parked haphazardly in the building, with characters and sets frozen in stages of decoration. Volunteers and designers pounded nails and slapped paint across everything from the Queen of Heart’s court to a small-scale football field.
“Hi there! You must be Rae Randall from the radio.” The head of the volunteers sounded chirpy despite the early morning. Rae almost suspected she must have been a morning drive host at one time.
“Yes, I’m here for our float,” Rae replied. Her smile was partly genuine, since there was no sign of Simon anywhere.
The woman across from her beamed. “I’m Mrs. Michelotti—if you need anything today, just ask me, since I’m the one who coordinates this effort.” She took Rae by the elbow and steered her towards a float in the middle of the building. “I chose an absolute beauty for you two. It’s Aladdin’s Palace, complete with a flying carpet. Practically begging to be Best of Show this year.”
Rae stumbled over a pile of fake flowers as she followed along, her eyes glancing towards the elaborate scenes in progress. Someone was gluing shiny shingles all over Santa’s peaked roof, as pulleys swayed overhead for hoisting the chimney into place.
“Here we are,” announced Mrs. Michelotti. She handed Rae a brush and a can of gold enamel paint. “The photographer from the local paper said he’d be here at eleven. I’m sure Mr. Harte will be here any minute, won’t he?” Already, she peered past Rae as if expecting to see the handsome morning anchor strolling through the doors.
Simon was late, almost a half-hour late. Rae mentally cursed the charm that had the female volunteers practically eating out of his hand in the first five minutes. Already, two giggling college girls had fetched him coffee, while one middle-aged librarian was helping him locate an extra pair of work gloves, her eyes aglow with star fever.
“Excuse me, Mr. Celebrity, do you think we could get things rolling?” Rae’s foot tapped impatiently as Simon surveyed her with a casual smile.
“I think the palace is half-finished, so we’re not exactly launching the Sistine Chapel,” he pointed out. The plywood walls were coated with a single layer of paint, the colorful paper-mache domes mounted atop like upside-down turnips.
Rae scowled and dipped her brush in the nearest open can. “Leave it to you to make every little event a self-promotion,” she grumbled. The words were under her breath, but clearly audible to Simon. For a moment, his face registered a hurt look, which vanished as quickly as the wood beneath his paintbrush.
She regretted it for a split second, until Mrs. Michelotti appeared again. “I hate to trouble you, Mr. Harte,” she tittered, “but I wondered if you would mind autographing this for me?” She held out a pen and notebook, on which Rae could see scribbled various float ideas.
“Sure,” Simon answered. His pen flew across the page in an expert way that told Rae he’d done this before. “Glad you’re a fan of the Early Bird.” He looked at Rae with a helpless shrug of his shoulders that only irritated her further. Why not just wear a neon sign that said “Local Star Here”?
Once they were occupied with the float, things seemed a little better. Simon, in her estimation, was far less obnoxious when his hands were occupied with busy work. He helped the volunteers frame the scaffold inside the palace so the Princess could lean out the window and wave to the crowd.
Rae was busy stenciling an Oriental rug pattern on what she assumed was Aladdin’s magic carpet. It was a curved board affixed to a spring, resembling the preschool playground rides she remembered as a child.
“This thing ready to go for a spin?” Simon hopped up on the platform beside her and crouched next to the carpet.
Rae rolled her eyes. “How about spending some time on those flower gardens, pal?” She gestured towards the crews of high school volunteers, who were helping glue fake flowers around the palace.
“Listen,” Simon edged closer to her. “About all this. It wasn’t my idea, you know.” He reached over and dipped a second brush in the paint can. Something in his smile was irresistible; Rae found her defenses weakening.
“And it wasn’t mine, either,” she answered, carefully avoiding his eyes as she slapped a fresh coat of paint across the stencil. “So I guess there’s no reason to bring it up.” She wasn’t letting him twist this into surrender.
“I realize that the last time we saw each other was ... a little tense,” he continued. “I just want you to know that I didn’t mean it the way it seemed.” He sounded awkward, even a little guilty; something which caught Rae’s ear.
“You mean the part where you dumped our show for a bigger career?” she answered. “Yeah, I guess I always read that part as—well, sort of self-absorbed.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm; now she was in the zone, no danger of being wooed into believing him.
“It wasn’t about the job, Rae.” His paintbrush slowed to a crawl as he spoke. �
�You know what it was about.” He looked at her, those dark eyes trying to read her depths.
Resisting, she inched away from him. “Maybe you should give me a hint. Was it the money—or the fame?” There was nothing teasing about her tone, despite her best attempts to seem indifferent.
Simon’s face registered discomfort. “Don’t be that way, Rae,” he said gently. He slid his fingers against hers, a caress that sent a thrill through her frame. “It’s been over two years now. We’re not exactly the same people we were after the breakup.”
She tried not to listen, but the sound of his voice was so warm, so persuasive. She let her hand linger against his for a second.
“I wouldn’t call what we had a breakup, considering you pretty much called it quits on me without warning.” She glanced sideways at him, with a cool stare she hoped would chill his advances.
“I’ve been meaning to talk about that. Ever since the last time we saw each other,” he added. “But we kind of avoided each other after that, and it seemed like a wall that I just couldn’t climb. You know what I mean?” He glanced at her hopefully, as if trying to read the answer in her face before she spoke.
“You sound like you had plenty of time to practice this speech,” said Rae. Her voice trembled slightly. “I guess I haven’t wasted the last couple of years hoping you’d call and say you were sorry.”
His face grew dark as he listened. Before he could reply, she laid a hand on his arm.
“Let’s just forget about it for today, okay?” she said. “We’ve got a job to do, so it doesn’t matter how we feel personally. It’s just a smile for the camera, and then we can go back to being ourselves.”
She made her features relax and withdrew her hand from its close proximity with his own. No surrender today, she reminded herself; just a truce for the good of the town parade.
Simon sighed. “I guess you’re right,” he said, after a moment’s silence. He reached for the paintbrush again, giving her a camera-worthy smile in the process. “Why waste time catching up when there’s a worthy cause in need of attention?”
She pretended he was sincere, so they could move past this awkward moment. With an equally false smile, she turned her attention back to the elaborate carpet design.
He cleared his throat. “After all, why would you listen to me? You obviously have your mind made up about what happened two years ago.” He whistled under his breath as he popped open a second can of paint.
If he had been trying to make her angry, he couldn’t have chosen better words. Rae sprang to her feet as if the platform beneath her was a trampoline.
“Are you actually suggesting that I’m to blame for what happened?” Her voice rose to a high-pitched squeal before she remembered to lower it. “After practically humiliating me in front of the whole station?”
“Calm down,” Simon snapped, glancing around at the volunteers who were staring at them. “I didn’t accuse you of anything, Rae.” He scrambled to rescue a paint can which her foot nearly upset.
“You only made us equal partners in your treachery,” she said. As Simon climbed to his feet, she turned and jumped off the platform.
“Forget what I said,” he pleaded, grabbing her arm.
Rae yanked it away. “Just leave me alone.”
Pulling out of his grip threw her off-balance; she stumbled over a pile of cardboard boxes and fell into a group of volunteers assembled around Santa’s rooftop float.
“Watch it!” The volunteer she bumped into lost his grip on a rope. It snaked frantically through the ceiling pulley, its load suspended for a brief second before spiraling below. With a sickening crash, Santa’s chimney plunged through the roof, sending splinters of wood and roof tiles flying.
A low wail escaped Rae’s lips in the midst of the chaos. A few volunteers screamed, the ones closest dodging the shower of debris. The crewman struggled frantically to hoist his chimney out of the rooftop, slipping on a glittery roof tile and falling again.
Rae stared in shock, her eyes welling with tears. Santa’s rooftop ruined. All her fault that a cherished parade tradition was in shambles—all because she was stuck doing this assignment with the man she despised the most.
Simon leaped from the platform and disappeared in a tangle of volunteers crowding around the float. Rae felt Mrs. Micholetti at her side, trying to restore order.
“It’s all right, Miss Randall. Please, don’t worry about it, these accidents happen.” The woman’s hands flapped anxiously as she motioned towards the volunteers trying to scale the broken roof. “Wait a minute, everyone, we don’t want to collapse the rest of it.” She offered Rae a brave smile before moving on.
Before her tears blinded her, Rae caught Simon’s approach. Shaking her head, she turned and stumbled towards the door, the float, the charity, and the newspaper photographer forgotten. Nothing could possibly make this day worthwhile. Except never seeing Simon Harte again.
*****
A skill saw sliced through the frame of Santa’s roof, spraying the float with a layer of sawdust. Simon ducked beneath the new support being hoisted into place and pushed his way towards the exit. It didn’t matter that Aladdin’s Palace was neglected, nor that he was on the verge of stumbling into the plaster mixed for the new chimney. This day was over has far as he was concerned.
“Mr. Harte,” called a voice. He turned to spot a man in khakis and a polo shirt, sporting a camera around his neck. “I’m from the Silver Star Gazette, here to photograph you guys with your float.” His fingers toyed with the camera button as if threatening to snap pictures at any moment.
“Yeah, well...” Simon trailed off. He couldn’t think of a good excuse for abandoning the man. “I’m afraid there’s been a little delay. Ms. Randall had to leave.” His tone was vague, his eyes peering past the photographer to see if Rae was possibly still in the building.
“What time will she be back? I could snap some photos around two, maybe.” The photographer sounded disappointed. Simon shook his head and patted the man on the shoulder. “Just forget about the photos. Trust me, it’s not going to work out.”
Before the photographer could ask any more questions, Simon slipped past him and threaded his way through the busy crowd of workers.
How could he be so stupid? He wanted to kick himself for that snide little remark. Sure, Rae had been Frosty the Snowman for most of this experience, but he was the one who pushed things over the edge.
“Rae!” he called, scanning the break area for signs of his co-host. She must have left the building already. A group of girl volunteers gathered around the donut table giggled and stared as he pushed open the door. Exposing a parking lot occupied only by cars.
He slammed his hand against the side of the building in frustration. Rae’s clunker was nowhere to be seen. Muttering under his breath, he cursed this whole experience, from the moment the mayor bestowed the so-called honor of hosting the parade.
All it did was land him in the same trap he escaped before. The compelling attraction that drew him to Rae Randall.
*****
Cold leftover pizza and Love Story. That’s how Rae spent the evening following the parade float disaster. As soon as she hung up the phone with Tippy—who issued a general statement saying Rae Randall was “unwell” and forced to leave early—Rae submerged herself in self-pity and a bubble bath for the rest of the afternoon.
She phoned the parade organizers first to apologize for her absence, and the little mishap involving Santa’s rooftop. They were relatively understanding, especially since Rae volunteered to cover the cost with a donation. At least she wouldn’t have Santa’s float on her conscience for the rest of the holiday season.
Simon Harte was another matter, however. Sinking into the tub, she tried to block all thoughts of him from her mind. She couldn’t keep his words from pounding through her head: words that proved Simon was still the same career driven, insensitive jerk she’d always known.
The worst part was, she let it get to her. She le
t his words control her in ways she promised she never would, not after their partnership crumbled. He pushed all of her buttons and she responded by giving him exactly what he wanted: a solo spotlight.
Scowling, she buried her face in her hands and let the day’s disaster march through her thoughts unchecked. Reliving every moment, right up to the last glimpse she had of Simon’s face. Except the mocking smile she expected to see wasn’t there.
When her pizza arrived, she barely touched it. She stared dully at the TV screen as another classic romance unfolded. Reaching every few minutes for a new Kleenex, she told herself that crying was cathartic, the best way to free herself to face what was coming next.
A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts. Muting the television, she crawled from beneath her blanket. No doubt Tippy had arrived in person for all the juicy details about today. As if Rae really wanted to think about the parade looming in her future.
She cracked the door open. Revealing Simon Harte instead.
Before she could slam it shut, he laid his hand on the frame, pushing back gently. “Rae, wait,” he said. “Please, just hear me out.” He looked at her pleadingly.
“Don’t, Simon,” she threatened. What possible reason could he have for showing up at her apartment, other than to make her angry? Pushing her buttons in person was more fun than doing it over the phone.
“Just listen to me,” he insisted. “I want to talk about what happened between us so we can get past this.” His eyes were locked with hers, forcing her to read those dark depths. “Let me in, Rae. Please.”
“Which occasion do you want to talk about?” she answered coolly. “The one where you broke up our partnership, or the time you laid all the blame on me?” Despite her bitter tone, there was a tremor in her voice she couldn’t control.
“That’s not what happened and you know it, Rae,” he answered. He leaned closer to the opening, the scent of his aftershave making her knees weak. “There were bigger issues at stake when I left. There was something between us that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard we pretended otherwise.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “I think you know what I mean.”