’TIS THE SEASON
My heart did a little flip when I caught sight of Greg looking GQ gorgeous in his classic tuxedo. The jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and from his spot at the dining room entrance, he seemed to rule the buffet table like an ancient emperor.
Although I didn’t want to undermine his professionalism by kissing him in public, I couldn’t help but scurry over to him.
“Hey, you,” I said, smiling up at him.
The look he gave me just about melted my panties. There was nothing quite so wonderful as being the center of Greg’s universe. “Merry Christmas, Madison.”
Warmed by his presence, I glanced over the buffet queue and smiled. Why was I beating myself up over the tiny events of the evening? Greg was here, and I was going to spend the rest of the evening with him. My honey. My guy. One of San Francisco’s most desirable bachelors.
Santa had been generous to me this year, and here I’d been moping about a few family dysfunctions. Lifting a glass of champagne to my lips, I saw the holly-strewn path to glory with sudden clarity. This was going to be the best Christmas of my life.
Books by Carly Alexander
GHOSTS OF BOYFRIENDS PAST
THE EGGNOG CHRONICLES
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past
Carly Alexander
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
’TIS THE SEASON
Books by Carly Alexander
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One - I’ll Be Home for Christmas
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Part Two - Blue Christmas
15
Part Three - London and Environs
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Part Four - Merry Christmas! Well, I Guess I’ll Miss This One This Year
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the people who helped with my research: to Judy Blundell for leading me up the hills of San Francisco, to Maureen Hartley for the insiders’ guide to Britain, to Ailsa Winroth and her “Mum” for the grand Edinburgh tour, to Susan Noonan for the enlightening tours of the Walters Art Museum, to the retailers of New York City for those inspiring Christmas displays.
Special thanks to Julie Abbott, coffee guru and able reader, and to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for keeping me on track while letting me run wild.
Prologue
Rockefeller Center
December 8, 2003, 5 P.M.
You can’t beat New York City at Christmastime.
Passing through the smoke of chestnuts roasting on a vendor’s cart, I dropped a dollar into the bucket of a street-comer Santa and continued down Forty-ninth Street.
The Santa tugged his beard. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I said, feeling a swell of holiday spirit. I loved Christmas, really, I did, but at the risk of sounding desperate, I was getting a little skittish at the thought of spending this one alone, sans boyfriend and marriageable prospect. At thirty-one you do not want to be without prospects. You want to be planning your wedding, registering at Tiffany’s and Bloomingdale’s, and picking out quaint houses in the suburbs with cozy dormered bedrooms ideal for nurseries. And somehow, Christmastime points all that up, making you feel like you have a drab, pathetic little life if you don’t have a sweetheart to help you put up your tree.
I paused as the huge Rockefeller Plaza opened up before me—the line of silver flags flapping in the wind, the bright egg-sized lights on the tree, and the clusters of tourists posing for photos. How the hell would I find Sugar and Leo in this mess? Leo should have been the first one here since he worked right above Rockefeller Plaza, but he was probably peering out of an office window trying to think of a way to avoid this crowd scene.
I flipped open my cell phone, speed-dialed Sugar, and got her voice mail; she was probably in the dead zone of the subway. “I’m here,” I said. “You were right, the Plaza is a zoo. Meet me at the bar in Morrell’s,” Feeling very Double-Oh-Sevenish, I tucked my tiny phone away and dodged the flashing camera focused on a group of women—about two dozen of them, all blond. I moved past them, wondering if the blond connection was just accidental or if it was some sort of club. Blondes from Billings? You never know.
Rockefeller Center is always crowded, with tourists mugging for the morning shows that are broadcast from studios inside the street-level windows, but this time of year, the place is really hopping. People come from near and far to pay homage to the mecca of Christmastime, the giant tree. Fifth Avenue gets more clogged than ever with out-of-towners in limos and SUVs doing drive-bys, and the Plaza itself teems with pedestrians, like ants swarming a cake crumb. On weekends, you have to bob and weave and push past puffy coats to get near the tree.
But it’s worth it. Come December, New Yorkers grow a little nicer. Not that they’re giving it away, but I have seen doors held open at Bloomie’s on more than one occasion. And once, in the theater district, just as the shows let out, some guy let me have his cab. I swear to God. And it was starting to rain, too. A cab in the rain is worth its weight in gold. It’s truly the miracle of Christmas. Everyone gets a little warm and fuzzy, and I admit I’m the first one to get misty eyed. Or maybe it’s because I can mark each Christmas by the guy I was seeing that year.
Passing by the window of Teuscher Chocolates, I paused to let my eyes feast on the display in the window: a pyramid of tiny boxes, each one wrapped with foiled ribbon and festooned with red bells, tiny pinecones painted gold, or Christmas angels with ethereal blue wings. Love those little boxes! For my money, Godiva is the best chocolate, but these boxes are so damned cute!
Sean used to buy them for me. One year he sent me a different box for each of the twelve days of Christmas. I pinned them up in my cubby at the museum, which made the other girls in the office insanely jealous. “Your boyfriend is so romantic!” Nicole used to sigh. Of course, I didn’t tell the chicks that despite his fabulous taste in gifts, Sean was a little on the cold side. Distracted. Workaholic.
When I broke up with him, he barely blinked. I wanted to think that he was covering his emotions, but maybe there was nothing to cover. You know that saying: “Lights on upstairs but nobody home”? I’m afraid that was Sean Keenan. Bright and handsome on the outside, dim and emotionally blank within. At the time, I thought he was exactly what I wanted. I mean, when a guy isn’t emotionally blank, he’s loaded with baggage or angst or strong opinions, and let’s face it, all of those things are way too hard to live with. But Sean outlived his usefulness last January when we went skiing together in Vermont and I decided to end our trip early because of total boredom. I couldn’t face one more snuggle by the lodge fireplace with Mr. Emotional Vacancy. Big yawn.
Besides, the mountains drive me crazy after a while. Way too rural. Nope, give me this blessed, s
melly city any day. And speaking of smelly, I was standing on the corner at Forty-ninth, waiting to cross over to Morrell’s, and the grate of a sewer was dangerously close. Wincing, I started to step away. It wouldn’t do to lose one of the metallic heels of my strappy new Chanels in a city sewer. As I moved, the grate seemed to move, too. I gasped as a fat rodent poked his head up, ready to emerge.
Right there on the crowded sidewalk of Rockefeller Center at Christmas!
Do city rats have balls, or what? I stumbled back quickly, shuffling my feet to scare him off. Why is it that, in a city full of people, when you encounter a rodent you feel so utterly alone? No one else noticed as the rat’s whiskered nose twitched in annoyance, as if I’d disturbed him.
“Get in there!” I ordered, stamping my Chanels. A man turned to study me cautiously, obviously wondering if I’d just escaped from Bellevue.
“There’s a rat!” I said, pointing.
The man looked at the grate, then shrugged as the vermin crawled back inside. I guess he considered rats unremarkable, but that did it for me. Deciding not to wait for the light, I crossed between cars and ducked into the candlelit opulence of my favorite wine bar.
I pushed past the heavy velvet drape, my mouth watering for a buttery glass of chardonnay. Damn, it was crowded in here, too. No seats at the bar, and people were two bodies thick. I moved as elegantly as possible toward the back, hoping to claim a little pocket of space. There was a slight break in the area by the phone, and as I cozied up to a wall and unbuttoned my coat, I tried to decide which wine to begin with.
That’s when I noticed him—Mr. Middle-age, and I say that with the knowledge that statisticians claim that middle age begins at forty-five. At thirty-one, I figure I still have a few good years before total panic sets in. Anyway, Mr. Middle-age caught me in his sights and tried to woo me with his reptilian manner. The not-so-subtle lift of the eyebrow, the cagey smile. His smarmy expression reminded me of the rodent I’d met on the other side of the street. Was he wearing a rug or had he simply oversprayed? I didn’t want to look too long to find out, since looking at him would only encourage him. Don’t get me wrong, I like men, really I do, but I was in no mood to fend off Austin Powers III.
Damn, I would have to leave. I pretended not to see his big smile as I buttoned up and pushed toward the door, all the while wondering who in the bar had allowed admittance to this lounge lizard. Morrell’s had always been a safe haven, one of those places that you could walk into alone and not feel like a piece of meat. I made a mental note to call my friend Lisa, who waitresses there, as I stepped out into the cold air and wondered about an alternate meeting place.
“Madison!”
Leo walked toward me with his usual sullen expression. Not that he doesn’t wear it well. Tall and thin, with a perfectly shaped shaved head and green eyes that always seem to be focused off in the distance, Leo wears his discontent like fashionable ennui.
Sugar bobbed along beside him, her dark hair sculpted in wisps around her chocolate face. With that hairdo, she resembled a Christmas elf, albeit a rather tall one. Sugar had legs up to her neck, one of those coltish shapes that seemed to be improving now that she’d hit her thirties.
“I’m freaking out here!” Sugar exclaimed. “Did you see who just walked by in that fabulous patchwork duster? It was Steve Tyler!”
“No, it wasn’t,” Leo said through clenched teeth. “That was Steven Cojocaru, fashion guru. He does spots on the Today show, and their studio is just across the street.”
“Steven Cojocaru? I love his red-carpet reviews,” I said.
Sugar pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Shit! I am so bad at star-spotting! One of these days I’m going to totally flub it on a show.” Sugar was a radio deejay on a very hot show—Mornings with Cream and Sugar—and while she possessed a knack for yack, she often mismatched names and faces. “I’ll call Matt Damon, Matthew Perry, or Matt Lauer, or something.”
“And who can keep those Olsen twins straight?” Leo said. “Ashley . . . Mary-Kate . . . I think they switch off just to confuse us.”
Sugar reached toward the wine bar with one arm and clasped her neck with the other. “I’m parched. I figured you’d be deep into a cocktail by now.”
“It’s crowded,” I said. “And the clientele isn’t very promising tonight. Too many rugs and tanning-booth victims.”
Laughing, Sugar peered in the window. “Phooey! I was so in the mood.”
“This is insane,” Leo said. “I can’t believe you talked me into coming out here when I can see this whole mess from my office. Well, from my boss’s office. But really, all these people converged on this concrete square of land to eyeball an electrified dead tree.”
“You’re a big, fat liar and you know it,” Sugar said, rolling her eyes. “You’re just as excited about this as any old fella here.” Sugar is from the South, and though she’s been in New York for more than ten years, she loves to lapse into Southern belle mode. “Why, I swear,” she went on, “I see a blush of color on your cheeks!”
“From the cold.” Leo took a fleece hat out of his pocket and tugged it on. “I’m freezing my chimichangas off here. If we’re not going into Morrell’s, let’s go ice skating.”
“You’re cold and you want to hit the ice?” Sugar questioned him. “What’s that about?”
“I look down from the office every day and see the rink. It seems like such a fun thing to do, but I never can bring myself past the onslaught of tourists.”
“I wouldn’t mind skating,” I said as we made our way toward the skating rink. “It’s been a long time since I was skating here. Three or four years ago, with Henry.”
Henry—that was a relationship that didn’t end well. He’d wanted to get married and be settled, while I’d wanted him to visit an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist and figure out how to stop that snoring. I lost so much sleep while I was with Henry, and it wasn’t because we were having sex all night.
“Whatever happened to Hank?” Sugar asked.
“Last I heard he was married and living in Brooklyn, attending Baby Gymboree classes with his infant daughter,” I said. “I guess he found a woman who could sleep through the rumbling tides of his snoring.”
“Maybe he found a woman who also snores,” Sugar said. “Duets.”
I nodded. “Sounds like a new musical. See Duets—A Love Snore at the Vivian Beaumont Theater!”
“Jealous?” Leo asked. “You, too, could be living in the outer boroughs with a husband and baby.”
“It’s not exactly jealousy,” I said. “More like regret.”
“Get out!” Sugar nudged my arm. “You’re too young to have regrets.”
“I just . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to get into it.
“Oh, you can’t stop now,” Leo prodded. “You can’t just dangle the bait and reel it in.”
“Really,” Sugar insisted. “Throw us some chum, honey!” Spoken as the true Southern girl who used to go shrimping on her daddy’s boat.
“Chum . . . now there’s a savory image,” I said, wondering if that man in the leather jacket was Rick Granger, my adorable cameraman. “Oh, wow, is that Rick?” I grabbed Leo’s coat sleeve. “He used to work for NBC right here at Rock Center. Do you think?”
The leather jacket turned, revealing a sloping face with a rather large nose. Not Rick.
“Have you gone mad, girl?” Leo said.
“Maybe,” I admitted. “See, that’s the problem. Lately I’ve been haunted by my old boyfriends. Every time I turn around, some Christmas memory pops into my head. Skating with Henry. Shopping at Bendel’s with Philippe. Desserts with Logan at Serendipity . . .”
“How do you remember all those men?” Sugar asked. “I mean, I’d remember an old flame if I ran into him. At least, I hope I would. But I don’t revisit the relationship every time I pass a street corner where we kissed.”
“Really,” Leo chimed in. “Do you have a directory of dates, Madison? A list on your computer?”
“I can’t help it.” I grabbed the lapels of Leo’s coat and launched into a fit of drama. “These men are haunting me, I tell you! I’m being visited by ghosts of boyfriends past!”
“Easy, Ebeneeza,” Leo said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Is this just another ploy to get us to watch your old tapes of A Christmas Carol and It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Actually, I have them both on DVD now,” I said. “But don’t try to sidetrack. It’s creepy. Thirty-one years of dating, and what do I have to show for it?”
“Let’s hope you had some fun doing it,” Sugar said.
“Wait.” Leo frowned at me. “You were dating since birth?”
I shrugged. “I was an early starter.”
“We’re missing the point here, people,” Sugar insisted. “Dating isn’t about putting in time or getting practice. It’s about having fun with another person. You know—being in the moment?”
“But now, when I try to be in the moment, I realize that I’m alone. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about making each Christmas special, with someone special, and for what? So that they can all come back to haunt me? Because this year, since I don’t have anyone for the first December in a long, long time, I have to admit, I’m quaking in my boots. Christmas alone.” I crossed my arms, shivering.
“You don’t have to be alone. You’ve got us, honey lamb!” Sugar reached over to give me a hug. “Tell her, Leo.”
“Yes, of course.” Leo patted my shoulder. “Your dysfunctional urban family will always be here for you, supporting you in our bass-ackward way. Doesn’t Sugar continually fix you up with guys? I’m sure she can bring you a date for your tree-trimming party. And doesn’t Jenna give us all psychotherapy for free? Am I not going to sneak away from work to help you deliver all those toys so that you can keep your job?”
The toys—I’d almost forgotten. “That reminds me. I need you tomorrow. We’ve got to pick up, like, a thousand bears from FAO Schwarz and deliver them to Roosevelt Hospital.” Leo had agreed to help me deliver toys for a charity drive I’d organized at work. It was one of those things that had sounded good when I’d started it, but somehow it had blossomed into a Christmas nightmare.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 1