The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “Good evening.”

  A saleswoman materializes my elbow, her tread silent on the store’s plush carpet. She’s decked out from head to toe in Beyond Beauty apparel and looks fabulous. She’s fashion model tall and thin, with artfully applied makeup and her hair pulled back in a severe twist. I know this is supposed to accent the dramatic tilt to her eyes, to emphasize cheekbones that appear to be carved from stone. But I’m not sure it works as a look. Because in addition to radiating all the warmth of the headmistress of a Russian orphanage, there’s something vaguely insect-like about the result.

  She says, “Good evening. Shopping for a gift?”

  “No, for myself.”

  “For yourself.”

  “Yes. For myself.”

  “I see.”

  Her lips thin and she makes eye contact with another store associate.

  “In that case, we have a lovely selection of scarves and jewelry near the front counter.”

  She turns away with a vague air of disapproval and neatens a nearby rack of clothing, as though she doesn’t want to waste any more time on me. As though I can’t afford the merchandise. Yeah, it’s pricey, but I have the money. I wonder if this is why Esme was so flat on the brand. Maybe she came here too, and received the same frosty reception.

  I take a quick visual sweep around the shop. Unlike the retail associates and other clientele, who look like they would fit right in the store’s catalogue, I came directly to the mall from work. Dull clothing and not a speck of lipstick on me. Puffy coat and purse bundled awkwardly under my arm. Granted, I’m not at my best, but I’m still a paying customer.

  I hold up the ruby blouse. “Actually, this should work. I wonder if you could recommend a skirt to go with it.”

  She eyes my wrinkled pants. My frumpy blouse. “I don’t think so.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, ma’am.”

  I blink, confused. “Are you telling me there’s not a single skirt in this entire store that goes with this blouse?”

  “Of course not.”

  “All right, then. I’d like a skirt to go with this blouse.”

  I’m not normally shrill. But I’m hungry and cranky. Hangry. I haven’t had dinner yet. And unless you count that stripped-down salad I had at lunch as food (which really isn’t fair of you), I haven’t had lunch yet either. So this is definitely not the time for this exchange.

  The saleswoman’s eyes dart around. We’ve attracted an audience. The store is crowded, and somehow I’ve become the difficult customer who’s disturbing the other shoppers’ Beyond Beauty experience. Obviously this behavior is not to be tolerated.

  “What I am saying,” she grits out, enunciating each word as though she’s speaking to someone too dumb or unstable to catch her drift, “is that I don’t believe our clothing would suit you. Perhaps you would be more comfortable shopping elsewhere.”

  “Your clothing wouldn’t suit me?”

  “I’m simply suggesting—”

  “Don’t bother. You’ve helped me enough. I’d like to speak to the store manager.”

  The woman’s face ices over. She draws herself up. Lean, steely, impossibly elegant. Very aware of our audience.

  “I am the store manager.”

  Perfect. Of course she is. Unwilling to back down, I thrust the ruby blouse at her, along with a black knit skirt that I grab at random from a rack. If she’s the store manager, how about she actually does her job and helps a customer purchase the merchandise?

  “Wonderful. In that case, I’ll take these.”

  Her eyes flash victory. “Certainly, ma’am. What size?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen?” she repeats for the benefit of our audience. “I see. Sixteen. I’m terribly sorry, but our garments are only available through size twelve.”

  Our eyes meet. I open my mouth to say something, then clamp it shut. I hear a faint tittering of back-handed snickers coming from somewhere behind me, an echo of thready whispers. We’re putting on a little show, this woman and I. Aren’t we entertaining.

  “As I suggested earlier, our scarves and jewelry are one size fits all.”

  “I’m not shopping for scarves or jewelry.”

  “In that case, as I said, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  I think back to Esme’s cool reaction to Susan’s glossy catalog mock-ups. Her obvious dislike of the brand. It wasn’t a money thing. The beautiful women of every race and every age lounging in the photographs, looking effortlessly chic, are equally represented. But not every size. Women of a certain size are excluded from Beyond Beauty’s trendy little club. My ignorance of that exclusion is shocking. It just didn’t occur to me that I couldn’t walk in and buy whatever I wanted.

  The store manager continues, “I understand there are a few plus size shops on the east side of the mall. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable shopping there.” One slim shoulder travels upward in an elegant shrug as she delivers a patently false smile. “I’m just saying.”

  As though I’ve committed a huge social gaffe by stepping foot in this store and she’s trying to help me recover from it. Except she’s not. She’s enjoying every obnoxious little second of this. I feel the gazes of the other shoppers on me, read various sentiments on their faces. A few are sympathetic, mildly embarrassed for me. Others look strangely triumphant.

  I raise my chin, muster as much dignity as I can, and march to the exit.

  But the raging humiliation that motivates me to leave is quickly replaced by anger. Are you kidding me? Are you effing kidding me? I am a mature, intelligent woman with a Master’s degree in Public Policy. I am the mayor of an entire town. I am the ex-wife of a cop, the daughter of a minister, and the mother of an incredible teenage boy who pulled an A- on his last chemistry quiz. I have wonderful friends, a decent income, and a retirement plan.

  Fine. I don’t fit here. I’m too big. I get it. But I am not someone to be rudely shooed out of the store as though I were slopping hippopotamus dung all over their prissy white carpets.

  I do an abrupt about-face and stride back to the store manager.

  “You know, that’s not a good look, your hair pulled back like that. It doesn’t look chic. It makes you look like a praying mantis.” I pause, mimic her shrug. “I’m just saying.”

  Her mouth drops open in shock. My satisfaction at my petty vengeance is both deep and instantaneous. Not a healthy trait, I realize. But I’ll have to examine that later because I’m still not done. I head to the exit, wheel around at the mall threshold and address the store at large.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  Now I’m ready to leave.

  FIFTEEN

  Friday night, tree lighting ceremony on Eaton’s town green. The weather’s been awful all day. Gray and gloomy, spitting sleet off and on. Fortunately for us, the clouds cleared when the sun went down. The night is damp and cool, but the sky’s spectacular. A dome of bright, glittering stars hangs above our heads.

  We’ve got a strong turnout. All the town regulars are in attendance, as well as tourists and families from nearby communities. And of course the media. Which means Jym Granger’s here, too. He’s hamming it up, signing autographs and passing out samples of his latest nutrition bar, a seasonal treat he’s calling Peppermint Cringle. (I suspect it tastes like mouthwash flavored tree bark, so I site dinner plans and turn down the sample he offers me. After my run-in with his Cocolicious bar, I’m giving his so-called treats a wide berth.)

  The park looks beautiful. There’s enough snowfall on the ground to give it that magical winter wonderland appearance. Eaton’s official tree, a towering evergreen, was donated by Mitch Cranwell. He’s got a working farm outside of town but harvests and sells Christmas trees to make a little extra income. In return for giving us his largest tree, the town gives him twenty young saplings to plant in the spring.

  Eaton’s gardening club takes pride in coming up with an annual theme for the town tree and decoratin
g it accordingly. (Thank God the theme is selected in June, rather than closer to the holidays. I’m convinced Jym would have talked them into wrapping the tree with little yellow tape measures and hanging tiny scales and mini workout gear from its branches.) But no.

  This year’s theme, in a nod to raising climate awareness, is a ‘Celebration of Trees.’ Which sounded very odd when I heard it (and not very festive) but now that I see it, I’m in awe of the love and creativity that went into decorating this tree. Its branches are bedecked with ornaments that reflect the myriad of creatures that call trees home or depend on them for their survival. Birds, squirrels, and chipmunks, of course, but also pandas, orangutans, snakes, tree kangaroos, frogs, insects, and the forest elephant, just to name a few. Then there are tiny bouquets of the food we get from trees: fruits and nuts, figs, spices, and olives. Scattered throughout are tiny blue globes, which are meant to represent what trees do for the world’s atmosphere. Unlike most years, there’s no switch to light it up. It’s strung with tiny solar lights, so it’s already glowing.

  I absolutely love it. And I’m thrilled the press are in attendance to broadcast images of Eaton’s tree to the folks who’ve been following Jym’s challenge. Finally they get to see a side of us that’s not weight-related. With that in mind, I step up to the makeshift podium and begin my mayoral duties, officially welcoming everyone and wishing them happy holidays. Then I announce the opening of Eaton’s first annual winter carnival. Kicking off tomorrow at noon with sledding, ice skating, and a snowman building contest. A schedule of activities is posted on the town’s website and everyone’s welcome to attend. My announcement is greeted with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm.

  I step off the podium to find Mike Capella waiting for me. We stroll the trail that meanders through the green, stopping to appreciate the smaller, planted evergreens that fill the grounds year-round. There are fourteen in total, and each has been decorated by a different organization. The nursing home, the Kiwanis club, the soccer league, high school math society, and so on. Each is charming in its own way.

  A choir sings carols outside my father’s church. There’s a bonfire to warm folks while they listen, and a donation box to collect gifts for needy families. I introduce Mike to my parents, which feels waaaaay too early, given that he and I haven’t had our first date yet, but it would be awkward not to.

  On the opposite end of the green, closer to Church Street, a brass quartet entertains with bluesy versions of the same carols. Santa’s working overtime tonight. There are a few little ones getting their photo taken, but mostly it’s groups of giggling high schoolers and playful adults crowding Santa’s lap. Buzz doesn’t seem to mind. Matthew, Hannah, and the other elves look like they’re having fun, too.

  Vendors have set up tents. Most of them are local craftsmen, selling everything from jewelry to candles to photography and clothing. Ribboned wreaths and blue spruce trees. The Pardoe brothers are here, too. Peter, Paul, and Marty. They’ve brought their carved wooden bears with them—the chainsaw ‘before and after’ bears that were such a hit at the weigh-in—but what people are oohing and ahhing over this time is an intricately carved manger scene. They’re taking orders like crazy for replicas.

  I spy Audrey strolling through the crowd, hand-in-hand with a tall, good-looking guy whom I’ve never met before. We catch up to say hello and she introduces me to Griff, who’s holding her hand in a boyfriend kind of way. Nice guy. I see Councilman Brett Alper, too, but he moves away. I suspect his avoidance of me is deliberate. He’s guiding around two men in business suits. I’m dying to find out who they are and what he’s up to—smart money would bet these are his prospective tenants. But short of ditching Mike to race after them, there’s not much I can do. It’s also too late to invite Guy French and other members of the Canine Cuisine team to tonight’s event, which I realize now I absolutely should have done.

  Mike says, “Well, I would say this definitely qualifies as a homerun.”

  He’s right. It does. I decide not to worry about Alper. Enjoy the moment. Everything else can wait.

  The truth is, I’m feeling pretty good. Like I’ve finally got a handle on how to be mayor. The town is looking great. Church Street is fully leased, we’ve got a potential tenant for the warehouse space who will bring two hundred and fifty new jobs to our community (We sent him a revised proposal yesterday. C’mon, Guy French! Sign that lease!), and there’s a strong possibility we’ll win this challenge and earn a $100,000 bonus for the schools. Not bad for someone who’s been in office for less than a month.

  He asks, “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Great. Pasta Factory or Morgan’s Seafood?”

  It’s seven o’clock on a Friday night. “Which one’s more likely to have a table available?”

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I made reservations at both places.”

  Smart man. On the way to Mike’s car, we’re stopped by Rob Urso.

  Rob says, “Hey, Rachel. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Therese around tonight?”

  Actually, I haven’t. Whis is strange because I know she wouldn’t want to miss this. Or miss Rob. But given her new fixation on her looks, I suspect she’s still at home, fussing with her hair or deciding which pair of skinny jeans to wear. Naturally I don’t say any of this to Rob. I just text Therese that Rob’s looking for her, and off we go.

  SIXTEEN

  “Table or a booth?” The Pasta Factory hostess asks us.

  “Booth, please,” Mike says.

  We settle in. I have a mini-crisis when the hostess hands me my menu. What I should order is a piece of grilled fish with a side of vegetables, no butter. But if that was what I wanted, we’d be sitting at Captain Morgan’s and we’re not. Because what I really want—what I’m craving, actually—is pasta primavera with Alfredo sauce.

  I’m slipping. Badly. You might even say I’ve fallen off the saddle.

  After that incident at the mall, I left Beyond Beauty and went directly to the food court, where I indulged in a heaping order of bourbon chicken, fried rice, and an egg roll. Classic frustration, low blood sugar eating. Exactly what I’m not supposed to be doing. Exactly what Kami and Jym warned us about.

  Do not reward yourself with food. You’re not a dog.

  I know. I know.

  But I figured, one time, no big deal, right? Except I haven’t stopped cheating ever since. No getting back up on that horse. Not for me. I’m craving everything. Just like there’s frugal fatigue when you’re on a strict budget, I’m suffering from food fatigue. I’m tired of living in a state of constant denial. Who cares if I eat a cookie after lunch, or have a burger instead of a salad for dinner? I’ll do better tomorrow. Except I keep shoving tomorrow back another day.

  I wonder what Mike will think if I order the pasta. He knows I signed up for Jym’s challenge. He’s on the school board and has made it clear the school really wants that prize money. Will he chastise me if I order pasta? Suggest a low-cal option instead? If he does, how should I respond? Make a joke of it, or get up and walk away? I’ll have to leave, I decide. It’s a moral obligation. Contest or no, I’ve never allowed a man’s opinion to influence what I eat, and I don’t intend to start now.

  Maybe I should just order the damned fish.

  Being on a diet is so much fun! Said no one. Ever. In the history of the world.

  All this craziness is going through my mind when the waitress returns with our wine. Pinot Grigio for me, merlot for Mike. She asks if we’re ready to order.

  “I’d like the pasta primavera with Alfredo sauce,” I say.

  “Great choice.” She scribbles it down. “Full order or half?”

  “Half, please.”

  “Soup or salad?”

  “Salad, oil and vinegar on the side.”

  “Excellent.” She takes my menu and tucks it under her arm, then shifts her attention to Mike. “How ‘bout you, hon?”

  “Lasagna with meat sauce.”

&nbs
p; “Full or half?”

  “Half, please.”

  “Soup or salad?”

  “Salad, house dressing, no onions.”

  “Got it. Any appetizers to start?”

  Mike looks at me. I shake my head.

  He says, “Not tonight, thanks.”

  “Okey-doke. Thanks, folks. I’ll be back in a minute with your salads.”

  She swings away. And just like that, we have navigated the minefield of ordering off a dinner menu. Or at least I have. Mike appears completely unaffected by what just transpired. Not even slightly rattled. He must be one of those lucky people who just think of food as food.

  He says, “I’m glad we’re here.”

  So am I. We share a small smile as silence falls over the table. Let it linger instead of rushing to fill it, because it’s an easy, comfortable silence. A rare thing for two people who don’t know each other well.

  “So,” I say after a beat, “Tell me. Did you always want to be a world-famous author?”

  “Who writes books about giraffes’ necks, burps, and the rings of Saturn?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, I certainly did not.”

  “Want to tell me how you got there?”

  “I could, I guess. But I’d rather hear about you. Besides, it’s a long, probably boring story.”

  He actually looks bashful. Bashful. I thought that went out of style with Snow White’s dwarves. I find it immensely appealing.

  “I have time. And I’m guessing it’s not boring.”

  “All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I guess I should start by stating the obvious. You’re talking to a science nerd. I loved all of it. Biology, physiology, ecology, geology—

  “Pretty much any ol’ ology.”

  “Pretty much. Well, maybe not Scientology.”

  I laugh. “Right. Skip that one.”

  “But the rest? I took those courses just for fun. Like I said, science nerd. But I also liked journalism. I had this idea that I could change the world, expose wrongs. I was young and insufferable. So I double-majored. I thought I was headed straight out of college into med school. It didn’t work out that way. For a lot of reasons. Chiefly being that I got married right out of college and the boys came pretty fast after that.”