Case of the Holiday Hijinks

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Do you know which color to get her?”

  I nodded and offered Hannah a smug smile.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. If I’m looking to get her carnations solely based on color, then it’d be red. If I’m looking for the most aromatic, then it’d be white or yellow.”

  “You’re good,” Hannah observed. “If you ever need to get her flowers, come see me. I’ll give you the friends and family discount. Now, as you may have guessed, she loves cookbooks. Even if they’re in a different language, she’ll still love them. Oh. Purple bling. If its purple, and it sparkles, you can rest assured that Jillian will like it.”

  I was writing so fast that I was sure smoke was coming off the paper.

  “She recently confessed to me that she absolutely loves corgis.”

  I grunted, “I don’t have any plans on getting another dog, thank you very much.”

  Hannah suddenly laid her hand over mine to stop me from writing. Startled, I looked up at her and saw that she had tears flowing down her cheeks. Confused, I looked down at my notes. I had just scribbled a side note that she likes corgis. That was it. What had happened?

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  “You said you don’t have any plans on getting another corgi,” Hannah sniffed.

  I sighed, “Does that mean she really wants a puppy? Oh, man. That’s not what I…”

  “Zack, let me finish. You said that you don’t have any plans on getting another corgi, remember?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’re already thinking ahead. That tells me that you can already envision the two of you starting a life together. That’s so sweet!”

  “Whoa, wait. Hold up. We were talking about dogs, that’s it. No one was talking marriage.”

  Hannah pulled the last napkin from the dispenser and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  “But you’re at least thinking about it or else you wouldn’t have objected to her getting a corgi for herself.”

  I was silent as I digested this. From one little comment I had made Hannah had envisioned both Jillian and I married and caring for a pack of corgis? I wasn’t ready to get married again. I know Jillian wasn’t. But… maybe there was something there. Maybe Hannah was right. Was I already picturing the two of us starting a life together?

  I shook my head. It was too soon. And wayyyy too fast.

  “Okay, you’ve told me what she likes,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “What doesn’t she like?”

  Hannah sat back in her chair and was silent for a few moments.

  “Smokers. She doesn’t like anything having to do with cigarettes, or cigars, or even those new electronic smokeless cigarettes. I think she’s just anti-smoking.”

  “That’s fine by me,” I assured her. “I can’t stand it in any way, shape, or form, either.”

  “Black licorice. She detests it. Don’t make jokes or try to slip a piece in to something else. It’ll make her sick.”

  “No black licorice,” I intoned as I jotted it down. “Got it.”

  “Horror movies. Anything that scares her, or makes her scream, she avoids.”

  “She doesn’t like to be scared?” I asked, surprised. “So is she okay with blood and guts in a movie? I would have thought that would have been the clincher.”

  Hannah vehemently shook her head, “Eww, no. Of course not. Look, it’s simple. Avoid anything that falls under the ‘horror’ genre and you’ll be fine, regardless of what the movie actually contains.”

  “What about psychological thrillers?” I asked. “Those are bound to make you scream.”

  “I know there’s a lot of gray area in there,” Hannah admitted. “The only advice I can give you is that as long as it’s not ‘horror’, then you’re fine.”

  “Got it. A bit vague, but I’m good.”

  “Still at a loss?” Hannah prompted.

  “Completely.”

  “Well, we’ll have to think of something soon. It’s less than two weeks before Christmas. You’ve waited until the last minute to ask for help. If you would have come to me sooner then I could probably have come up with… wait a moment. How good are you on a computer?”

  “I’m a writer. I’d say pretty damn good.”

  “Then I have an idea for you. You’ll have to work fast, but if you can pull it off, I guarantee you’ll make Jillian cry. In a good way.”

  I nodded, “You’re on. What do I need to do?”

  A few minutes later I tucked the napkin I had taken notes on into my pocket. I polished off my soda and tossed it into the trash bin. Hannah did the same for her drink. Together we headed outside. It was a balmy 58°F today. I say ‘balmy’ because for us, it is. I’m told it’s usually in the mid-40s by this time of year. Either way, I had a light jacket on while Hannah had bundled herself in a winter coat and had even wrapped a scarf around her neck.

  I held the door open for her as we left the café.

  “Where are you off to now, Zack?” Hannah asked.

  “I’m headed back to the house. I need to edit the rough draft to my latest book. My editor is waiting for it and, as she keeps reminding me, if I don’t get it to her within the next four days then I won’t be able to get it published by Christmas.”

  Hannah looked at me and all but squealed with excitement.

  “Tell me you’re talking about the sequel to The Misty Rains! Tell me! Is it? Oh, tell me it is!”

  I found it extremely unsettling, being able to talk to someone besides Samantha about my writing. I was so used to hiding under my alias that I wasn’t sure how to handle talking about my work to someone that was, in essence, a stranger to me. Then again, I saw how excited she was and I smiled.

  “The Misty Moors is set to be released a week before Christmas,” I confirmed.

  Hannah clapped her hands excitedly.

  “That’s wonderful news! Tell me, how have you handled the disappearance of Megan, Amanda’s little sister?”

  I grinned again.

  “If I told you that then that’d give it away, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, come on! Give me a hint! Just a teeny, tiny, miniscule clue. Give me something!”

  I leaned forward and dropped my voice to a whisper.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course!” Hannah nodded eagerly.

  “Good. So can I.”

  Hannah swatted me on the arm.

  “Spoilsport. Very well. I’ll wait just like everyone else. This is so exciting. You’ve given me so much to look forward to this Christmas!”

  I had to be careful to keep the surprise out of my eyes. It was just a book. News about an upcoming title shouldn’t be that exciting. Clearly Ms. Bloom needed all the distractions she could get her hands on.

  It was a sad way to live, if you ask me. I felt bad for her, but I couldn’t let my face show it. Thinking quickly, I turned to her and smiled.

  “You said that you’ve read all my books?”

  Hannah nodded, “Every one. Many of them more than once.”

  “Do you have hard covers on all of them?” I asked.

  “No, only a few. I’ve read most of them on my tablet.”

  “Tell you what. As a way of saying thanks, I’ll give you signed hard copies of whichever books you don’t have, so it’ll complete your collection. I’ll even personalize them, if you’d like. Plus, I’ll give your name and address to my publisher so you can be added to a very small group of people who receive ARCs.”

  “Omigod! That’d be so awesome! Thank you so much! Umm, what’s an arc?”

  “An ARC, in this context, is an acronym. It stands for advanced reader copy. It’s a pre-release of the novel before it hits the stores. The understanding is once the book is officially published then the ARC team would go in and leave reviews. Some online retailers really do look at the number of reviews and it plays a significant part on how often my book is ‘recommended’ when you’re looking at other titles.”
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  “Is that how that works?” Hannah asked, amazed. “I had always wondered about that.”

  “Some do, some don’t. It’s a real mystery. The only thing we know for sure is what has worked for us in the past. So, if you’re interested, I’ll add you to my ARC team. What do you say?”

  Hannah lunged forward to catch me in a hug.

  “Thank you so much! Of course I accept!”

  An elderly couple, who just happened to be walking by, stopped next to us and smiled.

  “Congratulations, you two,” the older woman said. “You look so happy together!”

  Right about then I’m sure Hannah and I looked like matching Coke cans. She blushed, I blushed, and before I could correct the friendly older couple, they had continued on down the street. I shook my head.

  “Well, that was awkward. Apparently we’re engaged now.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Hannah apologized. “I shouldn’t have hugged you.”

  I waved off her concerns, “Forget about it. I’m not concerned with what some old man and woman think about us. You’re married and I’m seeing Jillian. All is good.”

  An hour later I was busy pecking away on my computer when I heard a knock at the door. Sherlock and Watson, who had been asleep on the couch, were on their feet in seconds. Frantic barking sounded from across the hall as I hurried to the door. Sherlock was running laps around me while Watson followed discreetly from behind.

  I opened the door to find a young kid holding a big heavy suitcase and a bottle of wine.

  “Zack. Good. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got something to run by you.”

  I let the kid in. This kid, however, wasn’t really a kid. He was Caden Burne, winemaster of my private winery, Lentari Cellars. My eyes narrowed as I saw the bottle. What did he have up his sleeve? He knew I hated wine and, thus far, hadn’t been able to find one – be it red or white – that I could stomach. I managed to catch sight of the label. It was one of the types of white wine that Lentari Cellars made, Gewürztraminer. Swell. He was going to pester me until I tried it, and knowing me, I’ll probably cave. Might as well get this over with.

  Caden followed me back to my office. I have a small fridge next to my desk, for extreme emergencies. This one qualified. I pulled a soda out, cracked it open, and eyed the bottle.

  “Ready.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. I swear, dude. I’ll get you liking wine yet.”

  “Not likely. What have you got there?”

  Caden carefully set his suitcase down on the ground and opened it, revealing rows of small bottles. Curious, I spun in my chair and scooted closer. The two corgis also came in the room to see what I was doing. Sherlock sidled up to the open luggage and stuck his nose in amongst the bottles.

  “What’s in there?” I asked, concerned. “Anything a dog shouldn’t be around?”

  Caden shook his head, “No, it’s fine. I’ve got some ideas for creating a new recipe for our next harvest.”

  “What’s with all the bottles?” I asked as I pointed at the neat rows of tiny vials sunk into thick black Styrofoam.

  “They’re ingredients,” Caden explained. He pulled one of the vials out, unscrewed the lid, and offered it to me. “Smell this. Careful. It’s strong.”

  I took the small glass vial and studied the contents. I could see dried twigs of some flowering plant. I cautiously sniffed. I was instantly reminded of pine trees, with a floral undertone.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You don’t recognize it? It’s lavender.”

  “And you want to put that in a wine?”

  Caden shook his head, “Heavens, no. No flowers in our wine. That was just an example. I was thinking about making a special holiday mix.”

  “Just in time for Christmas,” I said, nodding. “Smart.”

  “Christmas of next year,” Caden clarified. “You don’t rush making wine. In fact, here at Lentari Cellars we allow our wines to age…?”

  My winemaster trailed off and looked expectantly at me. The little punk was testing me. I sat back and thought about it.

  “One to three weeks.”

  “Nope. One to three months.”

  “Damn.”

  “Once it ferments then it’s really up to us to determine how long we’ll allow it to age. I typically give them a month before we crack into a bottle to see how it’s doing. If all goes well, we can release our holiday collection just before Thanksgiving. What do you say?”

  I nodded, “It sounds good to me. What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing, really. Well, that’s not true. I need to borrow your taste buds.”

  “You’re so barking up the wrong tree for a respectable opinion,” I muttered. I took a large swallow from my soda and swished it around my mouth.

  “Relax. I think you’ll actually enjoy this. Remember those tempranillo vines I ordered last month?”

  “Tempra-what vines?”

  “Tempranillo. They’re a variety of black grapes that originated in Spain. They can grow all over the country. I could have picked some up in California but I wanted us to have an edge. So I ordered a dozen vines straight from a buddy of mine who owns vineyard in Barcelona.”

  “Impressive. Wait. Was this why you needed me to approve a $1500 agricultural purchase last month?”

  Caden nodded, “Right. You can get the vines a lot cheaper locally, but I wanted the real thing. So these are imported vines.”

  “How are they growing?” I asked.

  “Quite well. They should be ready for harvesting next year.”

  “Wait. Didn’t you tell me that vines take longer than that to mature?”

  “Nicely done, Zack. They do indeed. That’s why we paid extra. Our vines were already well on their way to maturing. Now, I’d like to add a few things to the Tempranillo.”

  For the next hour and a half Caden pulled various bottles and presented them to me. He even had me sniff some of the ingredients in a very specific order while others were sampled at the same time. Once Caden was satisfied with our choices he packed up his vials and left.

  Shaking my head – and still not really knowing what I just agreed to – I returned to my writing. Or, more specifically, I returned to my editing. I glanced at the clock and groaned. I really needed to finish polishing my rough draft and, at the rate I was going, I would never make my deadline. Time to buckle down.

  As was typical whenever my nose was plastered in front of a computer screen, huge chunks of time would manage to slip by me. Three hours cruised by. However, at least I could say that it was finished. I saved a copy on my computer and emailed a copy to my editor. That ought to keep her off my back for a while longer.

  My cell rang. A quick glance at the display had me frowning. It was my mother. I knew immediately what this call was about and how it was going to end.

  “Hey, mom. What’s up?”

  Dana Anderson was a retired psychologist who had spent many an hour dealing with clients at her own private practice. To say I had been thoroughly analyzed when I was a child would have been a serious understatement. I honestly didn’t know how my father put up with it.

  Speaking about my father, let me tell you about him real quick. Even though my mother made enough money for the both of them, William Anderson insisted on contributing to the family, so he had taken his love of sports cars and made a business out of it. Like my mother, he had clients, too, only these people were all over the world. Thanks to the help of modern technology, people would simply call him up, or contact to him through his website, and tell him what their dream car was. My dad’s job was to find it.

  Now, it may sound simple, but once he tracked down the car then he had to oversee the sale, shipment, insurance, and a slew of other things I never knew about before the car could be delivered to its new owner. At the same time I was moving out of Phoenix he was overseeing the shipment of a 1967 Shelby Mustang to a buyer in Melbourne, Australia. Sweet car.

  But, I digress. Back to
the phone call.

  I’m certain my mom was going to try – yet again – to get me to agree to come home for the holidays. It just wasn’t going to happen. It was still too painful for me to be in Phoenix. The memories of Samantha were still too recent. I couldn’t do it, and it galled me to know that my mother was still trying. I took a deep breath and returned my attention to the phone.

  “Is everything okay with dad?”

  “Your dad is just fine, Zachary. He sends his love.”

  I laughed, “Dad would never say that.”

  “Not in those words, no, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do. What’s on your mind, mom?”

  “What? Nothing, of course. Can’t a mother call up her son to see how he’s doing?”

  “Not when you’re trying yet again to get me to come home for Christmas,” I pointed out. “I told you before and I’ll tell you again, I’m just not ready for that. So I will have to pass, thank you very much.”

  “Zachary, you belong home,” my mother quietly told me. “Your father and I both agree. You shouldn’t be living by yourself so far away. It isn’t right.”

  “Mom, we’ve been through this. I inherited a winery from Samantha’s family. I’m keeping it open in her honor. End of story.”

  “But you’re all alone out there!” my mother protested.

  “Who says I’m alone?” I automatically responded. A split second later I groaned as I realized my mistake. I had yet to tell my parents that I was seeing anyone. Knowing my mother as well as I did, she was going to go ape-shit on me.

  “What? You’re not?! Who are you seeing? Why haven’t you told me? Why would you hide this from me?”

  “Mom, please. Don’t read too much into this.”

  “Why haven’t you told me about any of this?”

  “Because I’m over 18 and I don’t have to.”

  “Who is she?” my mother demanded. “What’s her name?”

  “For the sake of everyone’s wellbeing, she will remain anonymous,” I cryptically answered.

  “Why? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because the last thing I need you to do is to get involved. Look, mom. I’ll be honest. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to think about dating again once I lost Samantha. Now, all of a sudden, I find that I’m open to the idea. So I’m taking baby steps. I… totally sounded just like you. That’s just great. Well, I hope you’re happy.”