Cinderella Christmas

by Shelley Galloway

  Going through someone else's old clothes didn't have much appeal. "I don't know...I was kind of thinking I'd go to the mall, see what was on sale."

  Warren actually winced. "Surely not. There aren't any gowns there that would fit your personality, in my opinion."

  "My personality?"

  He waved a hand at her. "Yes. You positively sparkle. Yet is a certain cautiousness to you, as if you've been hurt by someone in the past."

  Once again, Brooke Anne thought of her ex-boyfriend, Russell, and how his rejection of her had, indeed, hurt her badly.

  But Warren's "sparkling" reference made her smile. "The sale racks at the mall may not meld too well with my personality but I have a feeling they'll be the perfect match for my wallet."

  Warren clasped his hands behind his back and rolled forward on his heels. "I think not. You'll find a lovely dress, full of flair, at Time Worn Treasures, for much less than two hundred dollars," he said. "You might even have money left over too, uh, do something with those hands of yours."

  Brooke Anne stared down at her fingers in wonder. Never in her life would she have expected the state of her hands to draw a comment from a shoe salesman. Of course, never in her life had she ever encountered someone like Warren. He was in a shoe-salesman class all his own.

  "My hands?"

  He sighed. "Your nails are chipped and cracked. You've got cuticles that look as if they're in a race to climb up your nails. And your skin - " He looked away, as if he couldn't even bear to continue. Brooke Anne knew better, but she went ahead and asked.

  "My skin?"

  "Red."

  "Red?"

  "Red and scaly. You need to get dipped."

  "Dipped?" This conversation was the strangest one she'd ever had. "In what?"

  "Paraffin wax, dear." At her complete look of bewilderment Warren held up a hand. "Wait here."

  Then, in a flash he returned, carrying a fine leather notebook and a Montblanc fountain pen. "Here. Call this lady. Tell Patricia that Warren sent you and that you need the works."

  "The works? But I thought I only needed a manicure...and maybe some help with my hair?" Images of her hard-earned money floating toward a phantom Patricia filled her mind.

  "You're going to need more than that. Your hair needs to be colored, your eyebrows waxed, and your feet - " He sniffed again. "Let me just say that they are in dire need of a pedicure."

  "But they're just feet!"

  "Feet that are going to be ensconced in these exquisite shoes! You don't want to ruin the effect with unkempt-looking toes, do you?"

  Warren made it sound as if her feet were radioactive. What could she say? She shook her head slightly overwhelmed.

  Warren nodded. "Actually, with everything we need to do, there's no time to spare." He glanced at his gold Rolex. "I'll call Patricia right this minute. She'll take care of you, I promise. And she always has one or two beauty-school students she privately trains - they do all the work for half the price. Your money should more than cover the dress and the treatments." Like a fairy godmother...,uh, godfather, he waved a hand. "Go on, now. You've got a hundred things to do."

  Brooke Anne did as she was told. Warren knew fashion, and he knew the right places to shop. It was obviously in her best interests if she just nodded her head and followed his directions.

  *****

  Chapter Four

  That Friday found Morgan sitting in front of his laptop, trying to sort through the fifty-three e-mails he'd received in the last twenty-four hours, when Breva, his assistant of two years, wandered in, her arms laden with files.

  "M.C., we've got a whole stack of paperwork to go through if you want to be ready for that conference call on Monday."

  Since her voice brooked no room for argument, he clicked off his e-mail and turned to her. "I'm ready."

  Breva was old enough to be his aunt, though she was completely different than any female currently in the Carmichael clan. Where the women in his family worried about their homes, tennis games and appearances, Breva worried about world peace, her three children and keeping Morgan on task.

  In her usual no-nonsense manner, she pulled up a chair and sorted through the files until she found the latest draft of his fomentation. She also slid a thick leather folder full of letters that needed signatures across his desk. Morgan looked at the packet with distaste. "Things never seem to ease up, do they?"

  Breva glanced at him over a pair of very stylish angular frames. "Do you want them to?"

  The question caught him off guard. "I don't know. For once I'd like to have my desk cleared off."

  "When you figure out how to do that, call me," Breva responded dryly. "My stack of papers is as high as yours. Of course, with my luck, you'll just push all your papers off your desk and onto mine."

  He had to laugh at that. "Who, me?"

  Breva grinned. "The sad part is that I really wouldn't even mind...as long as you keep all these boxes full of hotel stuff out of my space."

  Morgan gestured to a long line of cardboard boxes with towels and hand soaps peeking out. "Some people actually think that we have a glamorous job."

  "They're wrong. There's nothing glamorous about choosing products for a chain of hotels."

  "We must've done some glamorous stuff in the past..."

  Breva groaned. "Remember when we got stuck delivering Easter baskets to the kids? That was fun."

  It had been anything but. The Easter-candy vendor had left a chip on his shoulder and cat fur stuck to his jacket.

  Morgan played along. "No, I'm sure we actually got to order cool stuff one time. Fountain pens, maybe? That guy was decent."

  "The pen guy was okay." She crossed her legs smartly, her long black skirt flaring out as she did so. "Hey, remember the night when we called in everyone to test toilet paper?" she asked with a smirk. "I'll never forget seeing everyone caress their cheeks with various brands of toilet paper. People using words like 'powder-soft' and 'velvety.' It was so funny."

  "Yeah, it was." Morgan leaned back in his chair. "It was heck of a lot better than sorting through all these account files. I'm glad you're here."

  She gave a long-suffering sigh. "Once again, I feel compelled to tell you -"

  "I know, I know. I wouldn't be anywhere without you," Morgan quipped. "It's true. I can hardly function when you're out of the office. Before long we'll be permanently attached at the hip."

  She eyed him over her frames.

  Immediately, he amended that thought. "Well, I've gotten used to you ordering me around. You're better than my mom."

  The faintest smile formed on her lips. Morgan grinned, as well. Breva was very much a June Cleaver type of mother. She was highly involved in her children's lives, and couldn't say enough great things about them. To call her the exact opposite of his own mother was an understatement.

  "So, is Aaron looking forward to tomorrow night?"

  Breva rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. All the best construction workers enjoy tangoing on their nights off."

  "I seem to remember the two of you holding your own last year."

  Breva smiled complacently. "We did. Aaron may look one hundred percent beefy male, but he's got a tender side, too." Her dark eyes flickered mischievously. "But don't tell him I said that. Is Sheri looking forward to the dance?"

  Morgan couldn't help noticing the remarkably cool tone in which his assistant spoke of Sheri. "No, she's not. She called me last night and canceled."

  Breva dropped her pencil. "What? She can't do that to you.",

  "I guess no one told her that."

  "Let me just state for the record that I never did care for her very much."

  "I got that impression."

  "You have to go.... What are you going to do?"

  Morgan was grateful to be speaking to a person who completely understood the gravity of the situation. Looking good and schmoozing at the Christmas party was a job responsibility, not an optional activity. People who didn't work there just didn't get that. "I got a
substitute."

  "And she is?"

  "Someone I just met." He couldn't bring himself to tell Breva that he was taking the building's janitor. Not that she would think less of Brooke, or less of him for finding such an ill-fitting replacement, but he simply wasn't ready to respond to the speculative gleam in Breva's eye or to her questions, "You don't know her," he said truthfully. Hell, he didn't know her. He hoped he'd even be able to recognize her.

  But Breva wasn't about to let it go. "I might. Who is she?"

  "I'm not telling."

  She drummed her fingers on the table. "I bet I can guess"

  "You won't."

  "Come on. Susan E. down in marketing?"

  "Negative."

  "Danielle in accounting? She's always had the hots for you."

  He bit his lip to keep from smiling at her jargon - then was brought up short as her words finally registered, "Danielle does? Nobody ever told me that. How come?"

  "You didn't need to know." Breva had picked up her pencil again, and rapidly tapped it on his desk. "Jayne in promotions??

  "Nope. Breva, I'm not going to tell you." Morgan held the manila file folder she'd brought in front of her, hoping she'd take the hint.

  She didn't. "Does she work here?"

  "Kind of."

  "Aha! She's an outside vendor, like Sheri."

  "Nope."

  "Hmm. That Crystal girl."

  "Which Crystal is that?" he asked, hoping he sounded as he really didn't know.

  Breva crossed her arms over her chest. "You know. 'Oh, Mr. Carmichael, I just love that tie you have on,'" she purred in a breathless whisper."

  He laughed. "Not Crystal, Breva."

  "Give me a hint."

  "Not on your life. You can be surprised when you see her Saturday night."

  Breva quirked an eyebrow and asked the inevitable. "Can she dance?"

  "She says so. We'll see."

  Finally Breva's pencil-tapping stopped. "Gosh. I hope so."'

  And with that, they got back to business, sorting through his correspondence, making changes to his PowerPoint presentation, completing tasks that were on Breva's to-do list.

  But Morgan had a hard time concentrating. Visions of the tiny cleaning lady kept floating through his mind. That little pirouette. Dusting the chairs, staring at him. He wondered what she'd think of the office politics that seemed to permeate every aspect of his business. For once he'd like to get away from all of that - just do his work without feeling he had to vie for power at the same time.

  Somehow he didn't think Brooke would put up with the game they all played - feigning phony interest in each other's lives, not laughing until the president did, purposely coming in five strokes behind the VP of sales during golf games.

  Pretending to enjoy ballroom dancing.

  Pretending to look forward to a holiday get-together that had grinch undertones.

  Brooke would probably shrug her shoulders at everyone's Petty problems.

  Wouldn't she?

  Shouldn't he?

  He should. He knew that. But for the moment, he was so caught up in all of it, he wasn't sure if he could get out, or would even know how to function in a world where other people weren't after his job, or the next promotion, or the next big account.

  Maybe it was because he'd been raised that way. Expectations were paramount. Appearance was everything. People didn't hug friends or long-lost relatives. Everything was in its place. Contained.

  Something told him that Brooke probably hadn't been raised like that. She was probably a touchy-feely girl. The kind who hugged her parents when she saw them. She probably believed in frank, deep conversations and late-night laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he'd engaged in either.

  Frowning, Morgan realized he was lacking in attributes. No wonder Sheri'd had no problem canceling on him the minute something else came up.

  The phone rang. Breva answered and put it on hold before letting him know it was Jerry, their paper goods supplier. Before he picked it up, Morgan gave one last thought to why he did so well at Royal.

  The formality of the company suited him. He didn't know how to hug spontaneously or give warm fuzzies. He wasn't comfortable having meaningful conversations and forming attachments. The corporate life, with its many idiosyncrasies, was where" he fit in.

  *****

  Chapter Five

  Brooke Anne twirled in front of the mirror one more time. The ivory crepe de chine billowed out, then fell, cascading in a puddle around her ankles. The fabric was soft and airy. Heavenly. She felt like an angel and looked like one too - or as close to an angel as she was ever going to get, she reflected wryly.

  And her shoes... They sparkled like bright beacons, summoning people to take a closer look at her toes, painted a pretty coral.

  Her hair was pinned up, and her lips looked pouty and lush in the berry-colored lipstick. She felt attractive and sexy, alluring and mysterious.

  In short, she felt perfect.

  She could already imagine the look on Morgan Carmichael's face when he saw her. Oh, Brooke Anne, he'd say, unable to tear his eyes from her figure, her intricate up-do...her newly waxed eyebrows. You're beautiful.

  She'd smile gently, telling him without words that she knew she looked terrific. Morgan would pull her into his arms, she'd smell his warm, woodsy aftershave and feel giddy. And then they'd skillfully step across the dance floor, to the beat of an intimate samba.

  No, Brooke Anne amended, they'd spin. They'd spin to life, with laughter in their movements. He'd rub his thumb against her hand, and she'd shiver at his touch, and then he'd say, Brooke Anne, your hands are so soft and creamy-feeling. Nothing like the red, scaly hands you sported only forty-eight hours ago.

  They've been dipped, she would respond. He'd hold her close, and the pounding of his heart would be so strong, so bold, that she'd swear she could hear it reverberate through the room...that it sounded like her own heart knocking in excitement.

  Knocking that was loud and forceful.

  Brooke Anne's vision cleared. She stared at the reflection in the mirror, as she realized the knocking was real-not her heart at all.

  Someone was at her door.

  Brooke Anne hurried across the room, taking shorter steps than usual in the narrow skirt. With a deep breath, she pulled -open the door, then wished she could close it right back again. Tomasina stood in the hallway, looking fired up and completely put-upon.

  Brooke Anne stepped back. Her guest wandered in. "Thought I'd stop on by for a minute, give you an update," she said as she strolled past Brooke Anne, her relaxed gait seeming to take double the time of anyone else's. As usual, her gaze scanned the room for anything new, then finally settled on her friend. Two perfectly shaped eyebrows jumped up in surprise, "Hey, honey," she drawled, "don't you look fine."

  If Tomasina said she looked fine, Brooke Anne knew she must. Tomasina wasn't one to be free with her compliments. "Thanks. How's your baby doing?"

  "Better. Vanessa just had a cold, but with those things, you never know." She stared at Brooke Anne, her expression more telling than a hundred words. Brooke Anne bit back a smile. Tomasina was an eternal pessimist, as well as one of the most cantankerous people she knew. Kind of like Schleprock in the old Flintstone cartoons. Things were never great with her.

  Rarely were they good. Tomasina also happened to be the best friend she could ever hope to have.

  "I'm glad Vanessa's better," Brooke Anne replied. Suddenly feeling a little overdressed, she waved her hands across her front. "Guess what? I have a date."

  Tomasina's dark eyes raked up and down her. "To where, a ball?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact," Brooke chirped, "complete with champagne and hors d'oeuvres and ballroom dancing."

  Tomi did not look impressed. She seated herself on Brooke Anne's brown velour couch and stated, "You'd have a lot more fun at the bar down the street. The beer's cheap, there's all-you-can-eat pretzels and they don't make you wear ball gowns."
r />   "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

  Her friend nodded. "So, who you going with?"

  "No one you'd know. It's kind of a blind date."

  Her eyes narrowed, distrust evident. "How blind?"

  "Well, I've met the guy, I just don't know him very well. His first date canceled on him at the last minute."

  "Nothing too special about that," Tomasina harrumphed as she crossed one muscular leg on top of the other. Tomi favored cleaning office buildings with ankle weights on. "How'd you get the dress and those fine-looking shoes?"

  Brooke Anne didn't want to lie. "He paid me some money to go with him."

  "Oh, Brooke Anne."

  "I know what you're thinking, but don't. This won't be so bad. I need the money...and I've been wanting these shoes."

  Tomi pursed her lips and stared at her for a good long minute. Finally, she started talking again. "Are you worried about tonight?"

  Was she?

  "No. Well, a little. It's at the Willowbrook Room."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah. Obviously. I don't hang out there regularly."

  Tomasina grinned. "I've been there before."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, yeah. It's beautiful .'*

  Brooke Anne was impressed and a bit surprised, though she knew she shouldn't have been. Tomi was beautiful and vivacious, with more friends than she could count. "When did you go there?"

  "Couple of months ago. Ronnie had a delivery, and I went up with him. They gave us a Coke, right at the bar."

  It took Brooke a moment to digest her words. Then she burst out laughing.

  Tomi started laughing, too. "Girl, you should've seen your face. Can you really see me dancing it up at the Willowbrook Room?"

  Brooke Anne almost told Tomi about the paycheck she'd be receiving from Morgan, but didn't have the heart to go into it. She needed that money to pay Tomi her bonus, and didn't want Tomi feeling the least bit guilty about accepting it.

  "I'd better get going," she said. "I can't be late."

  "All right. How're you going to get there?"

  "In my van."

  "Your van? Come on, girl.You've got to do better than that. I'll give you a lift." Tomasina drove a turquoise Pinto just because she wanted to. It had fuzzy, electric-blue seat covers and a permanent collection of head-bobbing animals on the back dashboard. People literally stopped in their tracks when the Pinto came roarings into view. If anything could be worse than arriving in a Jovial Janitor van, that would be it.