Two Tickets to the Christmas Ball

by Donita K. Paul

  Cora Crowder. She made Sandy smile, but she gave him acid indigestion. Though to be fair, maybe the chili caused the burn in his esophagus.

  Why couldn’t she just relax, commit to going to the ball, go back to the store, and choose a dress? She had said she had to pray about it. Was that just an excuse, or was the woman really going to go home, read her Bible, and pray about whether to go with him to the ball?

  If his arms weren’t laden with this huge cloth bag containing yards and yards of satin and gauze, he’d kick himself. What right did he have to mock this woman’s desire to ask God for direction? Praying was something he did, but he didn’t talk about it. And if he prayed about going to a dance, it would be one of those quick “this is what’s going on” prayers. Who needed heavenly guidance over whether or not to accompany a nice man and his little sister to a ball? Maybe Cora Crowder didn’t consider Simon Derrick a nice man.

  Simon stewed, and the girls talked.

  At the bus stop, Simon reassured Sandy that Cora would indeed get a dress and go to the ball, all the time casting sideways glances at the noncommittal Cora. After they said good-bye and put his little sister on a bus home, he and Miss Crowder walked in silence to their office building. She thanked him for lunch and stepped into the elevator going up. He took the next elevator going down.

  He stashed Sandy’s dress in the trunk of his car and stood for a moment, looking at the car in slot eighty-eight.

  On the cement wall between their two cars, someone had fastened a poster. The colorful glossy print looked very much like the front page of the Wizards’ Christmas Ball Web site. What an odd place for an ad. He chuckled. The genius who designed this ad had again left off the purchase information for the tickets. Simon returned to the bank of elevators, wondering who else would come to this crazy dance.

  He walked to the elevator. He hoped Cora decided to come. If she didn’t, Sandy would be disappointed. Simon rode up alone. He looked at himself in the mirrored elevator walls. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair, and checked his teeth for vestiges of chili. He caught his own gaze in the reflection.

  If Cora didn’t come, he’d be disappointed. Now that was something he hadn’t planned on.

  Hours later, Simon sorted the files on his desk into piles. He glanced up, through his glass walls, and down the aisle framed by the sales-team cubicles. A few employees still wandered the office pool, probably those who would take off time between Christmas and New Year’s. No one wanted to come back to a desk with overdue work, so they tried to get ahead.

  Cora Crowder passed into and out of his narrow corridor of vision. She had a strong work ethic. She had had a long lunch, and she was going to make up the time. Mrs. Hudson had told her to go home. He’d told her to go home. She didn’t.

  Stubborn woman.

  She glided through the half light of the after-hours office. She turned to look down the middle aisle directly at him. The instinct to avoid eye contact fled. Seeing her at the end of a tiring day actually lifted his spirits. Cora Crowder was kind, attractive, sweet. No, Cora wasn’t sweet. Sandy was sweet. Cora had something deeper than sweet. She blinked, and Simon realized he’d been staring. He smiled. She turned quickly away, and the moment lost its hold on him. Somehow Cora didn’t bring out as much awkwardness in him as did the women he’d tried to date in the past. He didn’t feel like he’d had a close call, a narrow escape. Like any minute he would make a fool of himself.

  He flipped his pencil through his fingers and tapped the eraser on his desk. Flipped it again and tapped the lead tip. Pursuit. That’s what he wanted, not flight. He grinned and returned to putting his desk in order.

  Cora pushed the GL button in the elevator and leaned back against the mirrored wall as the door swooshed shut. She closed her eyes and allowed the vibration of the moving car to soothe her shoulder muscles. She had finished all of today’s work, and the clock said 6:45. When she’d seen her full in-box after the long lunch, her heart had nearly stopped. How could the thing overflow when she’d only been gone two hours and twenty minutes?

  The extra hours this evening hadn’t been too bad. Several co-workers also worked late. Jeff Stockton pulled out his CD player, and they listened to some modern renditions of old Christmas favorites. And Simon had been in his glass office.

  The elevator bell dinged, and the door slid open. Pushing away from the wall, Cora reached into her bag for her keys. Once she had them tight in her right hand with one protruding from her fist to gouge an attacker, she stepped into the well-lit garage. She rounded a corner, keeping alert as they had taught her in the defense course she took, and squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them and shook her head. The car tilted. The money pit had a flat tire.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she looked around suspiciously. Disabling the car was one of the ploys the instructor had listed. She looked at the sign right by her head. “Security 24/7.” Supposedly, no one could drive into this lot without a pass card. But what about walking in? Turning around to head back to get one of the men to lend a hand would be a smart move. The elevator dinged. She heard the door open and then Simon Derrick’s voice.

  “No, I’m just now leaving the office, but Sandy couldn’t have made it to her Bible study tonight anyway. No need to send someone to give her a ride.” Pause. “Thanks, Spence, but I talked to Mom, and she’s already gone to bed.” Pause. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Simon rounded the corner, and Cora jumped out of his way. “Oh!” He looked from her to her car and back again. “Looks like I’m going to change a flat tire,” he said into the phone. Pause. “Have you ever tried to change a tire in a suit of shining armor?” He laughed, said “Good night,” and flipped his cell phone shut.

  Cora relaxed. The cavalry had arrived. No, wrong era. The knight had come to rescue the fair maiden’s trusty steed. Simon smiled, eyes crinkling, and his gaze connected with hers. She smiled back, just enjoying looking at him. Then, as if someone popped a bubble, they both started and looked away.

  “Um”—Cora pointed to her car in a halfhearted gesture—“I can change a tire, I think.”

  He looked back at her with his eyebrows raised.

  “We had to change one when I took a driver’s ed course.”

  He was smiling again.

  She grinned back. “I’d much rather help someone than do it all by myself.”

  Simon bowed. “I volunteer for the role of someone.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cora handed him her keys, and he opened the trunk. “Ah, an old blanket.”

  “In case I’m caught in a blizzard.”

  “And a spare tire.” He pushed the covering of the bottom of the trunk aside. “And the jack. May I use the blanket to protect my clothes?”

  “Of course.”

  Cora watched as he took off his overcoat and suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He didn’t talk. But it was a comfortable non-talking. He opened the driver’s door, sat down, and did something.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “Made sure the car was in park and set the emergency brake.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked around in her trunk again. What did he need besides the tire and the jack thing?

  “What are you looking for now?”

  “An air-pressure gauge. Do you have one?”

  “Umm …”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” He went to his car and opened the trunk. Sandy’s dress-in-a-bag took up the entire space, but he reached to one side and pulled out the right tool in one try. He checked the pressure on Cora’s spare. “Okay. We’re good to go.”

  He pulled a brick out of his trunk and went around to the front of the car, where he wedged it against a tire.

  “You carry bricks in your trunk?”

  “Helps with traction. I carry a couple of bags of sand too. We have some hills in our neighborhood that don’t always get plowed.”

  He popped the hubcap off with the tire iron in one sure motion. She l
iked the way his hands worked the lug wrench. Muscles rippled under his shirt across his shoulders.

  Oh my! Cora looked around the garage. She needed a distraction.

  Only a half-dozen cars still sat in their slots, and that included hers and Simon’s. She glanced at her watch. Seven.

  Skippy would be hungry. Cora looked down as Simon placed the jack under her car. He lay down on the blanket and firmly gripped the jack and gave it a little tug. He straightened and began to pump the jack handle.

  “I’m so glad you’re doing this.” Cora blushed when he looked up at her. “I think I probably would have dropped the car on my foot or something.”

  He winked at her. “We aren’t done yet. Maybe I’ll drop the car.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He laughed and went back to work. He finished removing the flat and put on the spare with no difficulty. Cora studied the diagram on the inside of her trunk lid and decided she would have spent a great deal of time with her head twisted sideways to read the directions and not much time with the tire before she would have given up. But Simon seemed to have practice in this area. Or maybe men just came with a chromosome that made it easy to change a tire. With the jack locked in place and the blanket refolded and put away, Simon closed the trunk.

  He nodded and said, “That’ll do, Pig.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from a movie Sandy likes. Well, in truth, we all like the story.” He picked up his overcoat from the backseat of his car and shrugged into it.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

  Simon gazed past her. “It’s gone.”

  “The movie?”

  “No, the poster.”

  Cora looked at the wall where Simon stared. “I don’t think anyone’s allowed to put posters down here.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right, but there was a Wizards’ Christmas Ball poster down here earlier.”

  Cora lifted her eyebrows. “Really? The ball that has no advertisements had a poster right between our two cars?”

  Simon shook his head, a look of amused bewilderment on his face. “They still didn’t have any information about where to get tickets, how much they cost, and come to think of it, where the ball will be held.”

  “They seem to be a rather flighty bunch of organizers.”

  “If I hadn’t seen pictures of past balls on their Web site, I wouldn’t be taking Sandy.”

  Cora waited. Simon buttoned his coat and rummaged through his pockets for his keys.

  “They’re on your dash,” she said. “You left them there after you opened your trunk to get the air-pressure gauge.”

  “Ah! Thanks. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.” She fingered her keys as she circled her car. “I appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome.” He got in his car as she got in hers.

  His engine roared to life, but he waited a moment for her to turn the key in her car. Then he waved and backed out.

  After he had driven away, Cora shoved her gearshift into reverse.

  And that’s another reason why I don’t want to go to a romantic ball with you, Mr. Simon Derrick. Sandy wants me to go, and I think it would be fun to spend the evening with her and you, big brother. But you, big brother, are clueless. You could have said, “If I hadn’t seen pictures of past balls on their Web site, I wouldn’t be taking Sandy and you.”

  Cora continued to fume as she approached the street.

  But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t because he didn’t think of it. He didn’t think of it because I’m not the one he’s interested in taking. He’s not interested in taking me to the ball, because for him it’s not about romance and dinner and dancing and your destiny. It’s about giving his sister a delightful time and a good memory to cherish. And that’s a good and noble thing, right? I don’t need to be so hurt.

  It’s not all about me. It should be about Sandy.

  Snowflakes fell on her windshield as she nosed out of the underground parking.

  “And I don’t begrudge Sandy that,” Cora said as she waited for a light to turn from red to green. “But I want more for me than a haphazard, ‘Oh sure, she can go along too.’ ”

  The light changed, two straggling pedestrians scurried out of the road, and Cora stepped lightly on the gas. Her cell phone played the opening notes of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. “Duh duh duh duhhh.” Her mother.

  She liberated the phone from her purse and flipped it open, keying the speakerphone button. She laid the phone on the console next to her seat.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Your sister Guinevere is going to Jamaica for the holidays.”

  “That sounds … sunny.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask who’s taking her?”

  Cora grimaced as she turned right onto a more crowded street. “Who’s taking her?”

  “Bobby!”

  “As in Aunt Sara’s Bobby?”

  “Bingo!”

  “Aunt Sara’s current live-in boyfriend is taking my older sister to Jamaica? Where’s Aunt Sara going to be for the holidays?”

  “Not here. That’s for sure. I don’t need her moaning and wailing and accusing me of being a bad mother, your sister of being a harlot, and you of abandoning the family.”

  Not going there. “Did you get the package I sent?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t need a blouse like that.”

  Cora wasn’t surprised the Christmas present hadn’t been saved for the actual day. Impatience led her mother around by the nose. She also wasn’t surprised her mother didn’t like her gift.

  Mom’s voice whined through the car. “Did you get it on sale? Do you have the receipt? Pink is not my color. I’ve gone from ash blond to raven red.”

  “Ravens are black.”

  “Not the bird raven. The raving as in wild.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  “You have the receipt. I tucked it in the box, under the tissue. You can take the blouse back to the store there in town.”

  “I hope I can find it.”

  Cora bit back a nasty retort. Her mother knew where the store was. Shopping and credit cards had a stranglehold on most of the females in her family. “I always put the receipt in, Mom.”

  “Don’t you tell me I should have known that. Don’t you say I should have looked for it. You have no call to be nitpicking at me.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Oh yes, I know. You’re too kind and generous and forgiving to actually say something negative to your mother. But you don’t fool me, sister. You got too holy to say those things, but you still think them. And don’t think I don’t know enough about the Bible and God to know you’re still guilty. If you even think something bad, you’re crispy critters. Guilty as charged—thinking nasty things about your mother and your sister and the rest of your family. You might as well give it up, Cora Belle Crowder. You’re no better than the rest of us once the paint peels off the banister.”

  “I’m getting on the freeway now, Mom. Too dangerous to talk and drive at the same time. Merry Christmas.”

  Cora reached down and pushed the End button. In five seconds her mother’s bell tone rang again.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Cora said under her breath. “Traffic is treacherous on the interstate loop tonight. I need to concentrate on not smacking into disaster.”

  She snapped the phone shut and tossed it over her shoulder to the backseat.

  8

  Simon cruised through the holiday traffic with a grim attitude. How could he be such a klutz? He had the perfect opportunity to invite Cora to the ball without Sandy as an excuse. And he blew it. She’d looked at him with those big brown eyes, and he’d developed a lump in his throat the size of his fist.

  One of these days, he was going to leave the horror of high school and college dating behind him. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say “attempts” at dating. With his family’s enthusiastic sup
port all his life, he hadn’t realized what a stretched-out, unattractive nerd he was until he’d asked Susan Pilcher out. She didn’t mind telling him that he looked like a lizard, sounded like a squeaky wheelbarrow, acted like a robot, and moved like an unfocused rubber band. He’d wondered for years what a focused rubber band moved like, then decided Susan Pilcher hadn’t had as much of a flair for insults as he’d always assumed. Now he could laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it had made him wary.

  His long, gangly frame hadn’t filled out until two years after college. By then he was the head of his household and happy with his work. Every once in a while, a woman would catch his eye, but who would want to marry him and his odd family? And even more important, was there a woman out there who took a commitment to Christ as seriously as he did?

  Perhaps Cora Crowder could accept his situation. He’d seen a Bible in her apartment. She had a few books by the authors he read on her bookshelves. As he turned onto his street and drove down the steep hill, he wondered what her family was like. If she’d been nurtured in the importance of family, they might share some common ground. Wait. What had she said about a soap opera? Her family lived Tomorrow’s Sorrows. That didn’t sound promising.

  He came to the bridge at the bottom of the lane. The winter warning sign had been posted. “Ice on bridge. Proceed with caution.” The sand truck had been by, but Simon slowed down and crossed the bridge safely. He eased up the hill and into his driveway, into his garage, out of harm’s way, secure on his own territory.

  He turned off the engine, then walked outside, closed the garage door, and stood breathing the cold air. He looked up at the glow of his house, each rectangle of light a beacon. He marched across the crusty snow to the back porch, opened the door, and listened to familiar sounds. Granddad humming, Aunt Mae’s beads rattling, and Mom washing dishes. He didn’t hear Sandy. She’d be in bed. He sighed and stepped over the threshold.