“There’s something else I’ve been thinking about that I’d like to discuss,” she added. When she sat taller, he followed suit. “I’ve been thinking about something you said in the car when we first met.”
Now she had his interest. “Truthfully? What?”
“You said you’re a turtle, that you have a hard shell, that you can take rejection. Is that true?”
“Are we breaking up?” he asked, causing her lips to half curl.
“Don’t be silly. Here’s where I’m going. I’m working on a manuscript for a writer and she told me today that she didn’t expect to ever have it published—and it made me sad.”
“Why is she writing it, then?”
“She said it was only for fun . . . but I think she’s kidding herself. I’ve had the same conversation with scores of other writers. Their chance of being published is miniscule, as is yours, Carter. But rather than embrace the possibility of failure, they tell themselves they don’t want to be published because they’re scared of the pain and rejection. I wonder if it’s smart.”
“It sounds like human nature,” he said.
“Likely, but shouldn’t human nature also push us to hope, to take chances? Let’s look at it this way. Do we really need one more Christmas story?”
“Are you talking about my book?” he asked.
“Sure. Does the world need Carter Cross’s Christmas book, or do we already have plenty?”
His palms turned up. It was a hard point to argue. “There are already thousands of them. I’ve discovered that much. Perhaps more than one person could ever read.”
“So why do we keep writing them?” Every word carted a question mark.
“This is more about philosophy than writing, isn’t it?” His whole body tipped toward her. He couldn’t help himself. Her dimples were working overtime.
“It’s why I love my job,” she said. “Writing is a metaphor for life. Every year, we—the human race—write thousands of books. I would suggest it’s because we thrive on creation. We’re wired with a craving to matter, to make a difference. So while it’s true there are plenty of books already—Christmas or otherwise—there’s a constant need for more hope in the world, more love, more enlightenment. If writing and reading stories help us to achieve that, even to a small degree, then perhaps we can never have enough.” There was a softness strapped to her voice.
“So I should keep writing?” Carter asked.
“Suggesting the opposite would cause one to wonder how many Jane Austens or Albert Einsteins or Billy Joels or Oprah Winfreys didn’t reach their dreams because they were too afraid to get hurt?”
Sun broke through the window, added warmth to the moment. “Is that my lesson for the day?” Carter asked, gathering up his notes.
“Yes it is,” she said. “Embrace failure!”
Carter stood with open arms. “Embracing!” he exclaimed. “Finally something in this conversation that I can get my arms around.”
Had Carter not spent time with Rosa, Seven, André, and the rest of the staff at the ReadMore when stopping in to get Abby’s writing help, he may have assumed all bookstore Christmas parties to be dull and utterly forgettable. After all, wouldn’t they consist of librarian types sitting around sipping milk as they discussed their favorite lines from Dickens?
Instead, Rosa was dancing on the counter in full period costume, recreating a scene from The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood, the work that had inspired the movie Cabaret. Everyone else’s arms were linked, and they were all laughing, circling, watching Rosa as she sang, waiting for her to belt out a key word or phrase—currently the word marvelous—at which point all would reach to the center counter for a waiting shot of André’s eggnog. It was a race to throw it back without snorting or spilling and then slam the empty glass to the counter while yelling Kabarett! in their best sultry-German-girl accents. The last one to do so lost the round, sat, and the game continued.
Not surprisingly, Carter was the first one out. But he was oddly content since it was one of those games in which watching was truly as much fun as participating. Besides, who knew full-figured Rosa could dance and sing?
He parked himself beside Mannie, who had feigned an ankle injury so he could peacefully observe, and only he and Carter knew why.
Mannie watched with reflection, Carter with amusement. Minutes passed before Carter grasped the irony: Carter was experiencing their game Eggnog Shots—an apparent tradition—for the very first time, but for Mannie, it was his last.
Once everyone was eggnog-logged, as Seven made all repeat ten times, they gathered in a circle on the floor for a game Abby called Rename Jane. It was a game she’d devised using Jane Austen novels—but one that quickly spread to other classical works—in which the book titles were twisted into creative alternatives. The made-up titles were written on slips of papers and waiting in the middle of the circle in a large ceramic bowl.
“The game is simple,” Abby explained. “A person selects a paper, reads the name, and then has ten seconds to yell out both the correct book and author. You garner a point for each answer, and as long as you guess correctly, you continue to draw. If you miss either the title or the author, then the turn moves clockwise to the next person. We’ll start with Seven.”
Abby scooted in beside Carter. She wouldn’t be playing but would serve as the final judge for any disputations.
Seven drew the first paper and read: “The Art of Getting Men to Read Jane Austen Novels.” It was confusing, having Jane Austen’s name in the fake title, but only for a moment. “I believe the real title is Persuasion, also by Jane Austen,” Seven said, and she was right. Everyone laughed, including her new boyfriend, Rick Levin, whom she’d brought along to the party.
She proudly drew again. Her next was harder. “No Babies Made,” Seven read. It took her longer than the first, but she still yelled out her guess with time to spare. “It’s Men without Women by Hemingway!”
She scored again and drew her third, “The Condensed History of Portland and Miami.” The gleam in her eye said she thought this one would be easy. The expiring time soon confirmed that it wasn’t. Her boyfriend gave her hand a squeeze and then took a shot.
“Would it be A Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens?” Rick asked. He was a graduate student in engineering, unquestionably smart, and when Abby confirmed he was correct, a glance crossed between Rick and Seven—an exchange best described by anyone watching as an endearing mix of surprise and satisfaction.
Rick’s next challenge was more difficult. He read, “Did Anyone See Where My Dog Went?” Time passed with no answer, and so the turn passed to Mannie. Although he didn’t guess correctly—the correct answer being Across the River and Into the Trees by Hemingway—it remained Mannie’s turn since that title had been a free guess for Rick’s selection.
But then Mannie schooled everyone on how the game was played.
He picked Grandpa Bought a Yacht, and promptly nailed it with The Old Man and the Sea. His second read Hunting for Rude Fowl, which he correctly solved as To Kill a Mockingbird (a turn everyone called too easy). And though his third try took a few seconds longer—Very Late Schoolchildren, for which he answered For Whom the Bell Tolls by Hemingway—it was during his fourth turn that Rosa accused him of cheating. The fictional title read The Earl of Deep-Fried Ham Sandwiches, and, with steeled control, Mannie waited until the last moment to blurt out The Count of Monte Cristo by Dumas.
By his fifth turn, the group began to cheer him on. Amidst the praising, Carter leaned to Abby. “I guess it’s one benefit of owning a bookstore.”
“True,” Abby confirmed. “That, and having a master’s degree in English Literature.”
Her words spooled out, waited for Carter to make the connection.
“English Literature?” he repeated. “What was his undergrad degree?”
Her words almost eye rolled. �
�English, of course.”
“So I’m guessing he writes pretty well?” Carter asked, but he already knew the answer.
“Very!” she confirmed. “It’s where I get my love of editing.”
Carter turned back to watch Mannie, but with a silent question rising, one that would have to wait for another day, when he could corner Mannie alone. It was a question about why an accomplished writer needed help from an amateur with his obituary.
Mannie continued. His next paper read The Newest TLC Special about Midgets, and he guessed Little Women. Next, it was Good-bye Appendages, which he matched to Farewell to Arms. He was not stumped until Boxers Lack This, for which he groaned when he learned it was Sense and Sensibility.
It was Rosa’s turn next, but even before she read the title on her paper, she belted out a laugh so deep and constant it appeared she may have forgotten how to breathe. She’d been sitting beside Seven and Rick all evening, but when she turned sideways, it was as if she’d barely noticed them together. As she laughed, she held fleshy hands tight against her stomach, hugging herself until words wedged out.
“Your name is Rick Levin!” she announced, pointing through her hilarity at the poor man, as if he didn’t already know. She thrust her finger in his direction as if it were loaded and he may want to take cover.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
“That means if you two marry . . .” It looked like she was going to die of the giggles before she finished. “ . . . her name will be Seven Levin!”
It was obvious that someone had had too much eggnog.
By now Rosa’s tears had joined in the fun, and as they rambled down her cheeks, they took as much mascara with them as they could carry. Everyone in the room was soon laughing, more at Rosa than at her revelation—and through it all, Carter could simply wipe at his eyes and admit that this was the best Christmas party he’d ever attended.
As expected, no one came close to catching Mannie, who was declared the undisputed winner. The night ended with more of André’s desserts that mercilessly begged from the table to be poked with a fork and eaten.
“Has everyone got their dessert?” Carter asked, as he dolloped cream on a crusted tart baked with sugar plums and currants.
It was Seven who answered first. “His or her,” she replied.
“I’m sorry, what?” Carter asked.
“I believe what you meant to say was, has everyone got ‘his or her’ dessert?” Seven explained. “Your pronouns should agree.”
Rick, who’d been rather quiet for most of the evening, must have been feeling comfortable because he chimed in next. “I don’t claim to be an expert, but wouldn’t it also be better to say, ‘Does everyone have’ rather than ‘Has everyone got?’”
Abby hadn’t appeared to be listening but must have been since she piped up next. “Yes, and I would suggest that dessert should be plural, not singular, since Rosa has more than one.”
It was Abby’s instant wink that conveyed they would never correct a stranger. Like it or not, he had officially been accepted into the tribe. Carter faced the group like a man facing a firing squad, except he was holding a cream-laden tart.
His reply was quick. “Improper grammar!” he declared with a shot. “No less at a bookstore! Ain’t nobody got time for that!”
Laughter filled the room again like warm sunshine, and it took minutes before the place approached a level of quiet. When it did, it allowed Mannie, seated two people away from Carter, to hear Rosa’s question.
“Carter, have you made a decision about the job?” she asked as casually as nosy-mother-Rosa was able.
Carter’s head shook. “Not yet.”
Mannie straightened, stood, edged closer. It was a question that seemed to have knocked the wind out of him. “What job?” he asked directly.
Carter fidgeted. When his words finally surfaced, they were tiny and far away. “I’ve been offered a job in Sunnyvale.”
Mannie’s twitch joined in. “California?”
A joke lined up on Carter’s tongue, but he swallowed it. “Yes.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“Several days. I’m considering the position, that’s all,” Carter explained to him.
The grilling ended as quickly as it had started. Mannie grunted without uttering another word and stomped away. And despite the uncomfortable moment, when Carter drove Abby home, he had to admit it was the best time he could remember ever having with friends.
“That was seriously one amazing party. Thanks for inviting me,” he said to Abby.
“We’ve already sold one of your pictures. How could we not invite you?” she answered. “But let me ask you a question.”
“Sure,” he replied, assuming it was about his photography.
“Something’s wrong with Mannie. Did you notice him tonight?”
Glaciers melted before Carter finally spoke. “Not really. He was probably just tired.”
She seemed surprised he didn’t see it, nearly begged for understanding. “No, it’s more than that. It’s like he’s worried about something—and when he handed out Christmas bonuses, he was almost teary. And Carter, I saw Rosa’s. It was double what Mannie usually gives.”
“I don’t think it’s anything unusual,” Carter said. “It’s nothing to worry about.” But as soon as he spat out the words, he wished he could reel them back.
“I’m telling you,” she repeated, “there’s something wrong with Mannie, something that he’s not telling us. Carter, he’s hiding something!”
Carter Googled Sunnyvale and was pleasantly surprised. While there was nothing on the city’s website about an award for safety, they rightfully boasted about everything else. The average summer temperature wasn’t too hot—71 degrees; the average winter temperature wasn’t too cold—51 degrees. There were restaurants and shopping centers, movie theatres and parks, golf courses and tennis courts. It was close enough to a big city—San Francisco—for convenience, but far enough away to still retain its small-town charm. Carter was waiting for the pages to roll off his printer when the phone rang.
“Carter? This is Mannie. Listen, can you come an hour earlier today? Abby’s taking me to visit a friend, and I want to make sure you and I have time to finish. Plus I’d like to hear more about this California job.”
Carter checked his watch. “That’ll be perfect because I have something I’d like to discuss with you as well.”
“I think we’ve got the obituary all but wrapped up, but I need your help picking out pictures of Abby. I’ve found two obituary websites that will allow extra photos. Since Abby is my greatest accomplishment, I want them to be of her.”
Carter glanced at the photo taped to the edge of his computer, the picture he’d kept of Abby ever since he had found it in her car.
“I’ll be there, and I’ll bring a picture also. The one I have is perfect.”
When Carter dropped the obituary file onto Mannie’s coffee table, Abby’s photo slid out. Mannie stooped over it, picked it up. He looked like he was about to comment, but Carter didn’t give him time. “Mannie, you told me that you needed help writing your obituary.” He aimed his words between Mannie’s eyes.
Mannie shot back a puckered scowl, like he was about to be arrested—or worse, shot. “Yes.”
Carter squeezed. “Abby told me that you majored in English, that you’re a terrific writer. So I ask, what am I doing here?”
Mannie’s hands lifted; they waved a white flag. “Fine. Truth is, when a guy is short on time, he has to cover his bets. And for me, that means Abby.”
“Explain!”
Mannie rocked back into the couch. It was a full surrender. “I needed to know you better, to be sure about you. I needed to see if I was going to have to haunt you from the grave.”
Carter’s voice rose. “Are you? Because that doesn’t sound ver
y pleasant to me.”
The query was interrupted by the squeaking of door hinges. Before Mannie could jump up, before Carter could pull himself forward to retrieve the folder waiting naked on the table, Abby stepped into the room.
“Carter?” Her whole body turned. “What are you doing here?”
He reached for the folder, but it was too late. The place was already seething with guilt. Mannie answered for him. “He’s helping me with a writing project.”
If Carter was trying to hide their work, he was doing a poor job. She was already beside him, taking the papers from his hand. She flipped through them, scanning the notes.
“What is this?” she asked of Mannie.
He coughed. There was no sense lying to the girl. “I asked Carter to stop over . . . to help me write my obituary.”
Her eyes squinted. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
Mannie made the mistake of trying to be funny. “He seemed like a capable writer, and . . .”
Abby would have none of it. Her chin firmed. Her face flushed. Her neck muscles tensed. “Don’t mock me, Mannie. You know what I’m asking. Why are you writing your obituary?”
Mannie released the air he’d been holding in his lungs. He leaned back and motioned for Abby to sit. “I’m sick, honey. I have a . . . a disease that I didn’t tell you about.”
Abby didn’t sit. She took a step closer. “What disease?” she demanded.
“It’s called amyloidosis,” he said sheepishly, as if that would make the news easier for her to hear. “It’s enlarging my heart. Eventually, my organs are going to give out. There’s no cure, there’s no treatment, there’s nothing they can do.”
The truth was heavy. Her bottom lip now trembled, shaking with surprise, distress, anger. “How long have you known?”
His timid words begged they not be pushed from his lips. “Since October.”
“How long . . . how long do you have?”
“I’m taking some pills that help. . . . They don’t know, exactly. Maybe another three or four months.”
Christmas by Accident Page 10
