Lights, Latkes, and Love

by Peggy Bird

  Lights, Latkes, and Love

  Peggy Bird

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Peggy Bird.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8793-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8793-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8794-9

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8794-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Dzianis Mirqniuk and 123RF/mschick

  For Max, who really did say that to a barista once, and for Meg, who refused to wear burning candles on her head. Thank you for letting me mine your lives for my writing. (And thank you, Meg, for that description.)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter 1

  “I hate the public. Hate, hate, hate the public.” Hannah Jenkins spit out the words as she flopped into an overstuffed chair and waved away the glass of wine her housemate Sarah offered.

  “Really? The entire public? Worldwide? Or just Portland, Oregon, and its environs?” Sarah accompanied her question with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Okay, maybe not all the public. Just the ones who’re a pain in the butt this time of year. Which, face it, is a large number.”

  “Sure you won’t have a glass of wine? It might take the edge off your pissed-offness.”

  “If I start drinking tonight, I might never stop until the damn Christmas season is over. Which is weeks away. By then, I’d do in my liver and my tombstone would read, ‘She was right: Christmas killed her.’”

  Hannah was the manager of the flagship—and largest—store in a chain of women’s specialty shops. She’d worked her way up from part-time clerk to sales associate to buyer and now to store manager, all by the age of thirty-two, an impressive accomplishment. She loved working in the heart of the city. Loved her colleagues. Loved everything about working retail.

  Except Christmas. She hated Christmas.

  Sarah settled on the couch and took a sip of her wine. “Maybe if you vent, you’ll be in a better mood for the dinner I’ve spent the last hour preparing. So, tell me, what happened today?”

  Hannah knew her housemate was asking only because she was a good friend. Sarah had heard this particular rant each year at this time ever since they’d moved in together.

  “Not everyone was an asshat,” Hannah admitted, “but there were enough to prove that the idea that everyone has a generous holiday spirit is a huge lie.”

  “Specifics, please,” Sarah said with an annoying grin. “You know me. I don’t like generalities.”

  “Okay, there was this jerk who spent a boatload of money on a miniscule bit of lace the manufacturer calls a ‘nightgown.’ For his girlfriend, he said.”

  “What’s so bad about that?”

  Hannah snorted. “He also bought a pair of bunny slippers and a flannel nightgown for his wife and a second nightgown for his secretary—who, I’m sure, does more than print out his schedule for him.”

  “Oh.”

  Hannah was almost happy to see her housemate’s disappointed slouch. “After him was the woman who thought she could bargain with me for the last bottle of ‘Tragic’ perfume in the entire city. Telling me that since it was the last one, we couldn’t advertise it, so I might as well let her take it off my hands. Like I’m gonna give her a break on the price of the hottest scent to come along since Chanel No. 5. She was so pissed off she filled out an official complaint form saying I wasn’t living up to the store’s customer-friendly reputation.” By now Hannah was sitting with her spine in military alignment, her chin jutting out and her hands in fists.

  “But the topper was the woman who said her two teacup poodles were service dogs, so we couldn’t ask her to leave them outside. She asked one of my sales staff to hold them while she tried on a half-dozen dresses. Said she was looking for something special for her Christmas-card picture. When she finally decided on one she liked, she grabbed the stupid dogs back to see how they looked with what she’d chosen, and one of the little furballs peed all over the five-hundred-dollar dress, which the woman then refused to buy.”

  “Don’t get angry at the dog. It’s not his ... her ... fault.”

  “I’ll apologize to the dog if I ever see it again. But damn it—”

  “I get it. Bad day at the office.” Sarah waved her hand at the bottle on the table. “A bit of the grape might make you feel better about it. Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  “Maybe I will.” Hannah pulled herself out of the depths of the chair and poured a small glass of wine. “I swear, if this job wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, I’d quit. Or at least take a leave until January.”

  If she were honest about it, Hannah would have to admit she didn’t hate everything about working retail during the holidays. For example, she loved the profits. And she didn’t object to some of what went along with the season, like the background music that played endlessly from Thanksgiving through Christmas Eve. Didn’t even mind having to put up the glittery decorations the night before Thanksgiving so the store was ready to greet shoppers on Black Friday.

  It was what happened beginning on Black Friday that she hated—people showed up to shop. There was the crux of her problem. She was ashamed to admit to anyone except her roommate that nasty, stressed, badly behaving customers were the reason she’d come to hate the entire Christmas season. No one seemed to be happy this time of the year. At least not that she noticed. People came into her store, made demands, treated her staff badly, and killed any sense of joy by behaving like—well, like toddlers who hadn’t napped in a week. Or kindergartners deprived of their afternoon snacks. Or infants who’d lost their pacifiers.

  Sadly, those pathetic examples of Christmas cheer she’d just vented about to Sarah were only the tip of the iceberg. She hadn’t even mentioned the shoplifters and credit-card scammers or the people who deliberately damaged merchandise to try and get a discount. Sure, they were around the rest of the year, but the holidays brought more of them out of the woodwork.

  Hannah had tried to tell herself that, as manager, she only had to deal with the customers who were difficult, and didn’t see the nice people who were there every day. Tried to believe that not everyone was a PITA. But the closer it got to Christmas, the more difficult it was to believe when all she ever saw was a long line of belligerent people like the teacup poodle woman. And all her staff gossiped about were people like the man who’d involved her store in his cheating ways.

  If this was what the holiday spirit was about, she wanted none of it.

  Which was sad because when she was younger, she’d loved Christmas—the food, the presents, the anticipation, the lights. She especially loved the lights. She’d grown up on Peacock Lane, a four-block-long street in southeast Portland known for its Christmas
-light displays. Every house on the lane was a glowing celebration of the season. Trees, bushes, rooflines, doors—everything that could support lights was draped in them. When it was lit up for its annual celebration of the season, the street was visible from the international space station, her father used to tell her. She believed him until she was a lot older than she liked to admit.

  Hannah couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment her enjoyment of the season had begun to wane. It could have been the year her family’s beautiful light display, along with several others on the street, was damaged by vandals, leaving her wondering why anyone would attack something her family and their neighbors did as a holiday present for strangers.

  Maybe it was when one too many customers treated her badly on the sales floor, stressed out by the season, and disappointed not to find what they were looking for.

  Or perhaps it was because her first serious relationship had fallen apart just in time for the holidays. When she was twenty-six and had been promoted to buyer, she’d gotten involved with the manager of a sister store in a large regional mall outside Portland. He was a bit older than she was and had surprised her with his interest. After only a few months, she had hopes that the relationship would turn into something serious in the New Year.

  Then she discovered: (1) The man she thought was the love of her life had backstabbed her, blaming her selection of stock for his failure to reach his sales goals; (2) she was just the latest in a long line of buyers he’d romanced to get what he wanted for his store; and (3) he never, ever, kept a relationship going over the holidays, so he could be free to roam various boozy Christmas parties and take advantage of the ubiquitous mistletoe. He became, to her and to her friends, like Voldemort, he-whose-name-was-forbidden-to-be-spoken. She had vowed never again to get involved with a coworker. Running into the dipshit every few weeks had made recovering from the relationship difficult. It was only after he moved out of state that she could breathe easier during company-wide events.

  Whatever the reason—a relationship gone bad, the dissatisfied customers, the ruined Christmas display—by the time she was promoted to store manager, she was fed up with Christmas, and not about to have her opinion challenged by anyone.

  Between sips of wine, Hannah continued to vent to her housemate. “In addition to dealing with teacup poodles and philandering husbands, I got two new assignments today. Angie’s pregnancy isn’t going well, and she’ll have to go on medical leave for the next few months until the baby arrives. So, on top of worrying about her and not having any luck filling the two weekend staff slots we have, now I have to organize the Christmas party Angie always worked on, too.”

  She sighed. “And Mr. Austin has decided to involve the entire chain in a huge Christmas deal for some charity. He’s called a staff meeting for tomorrow before the store opens and I’ll find out then what our store will be responsible for.”

  “Sorry to hear about Angie. I hope it works out okay. But I’m sure you can handle the extra work.” Sarah raised her wineglass, but before she took another sip said, “You know, you could always convert. Being Jewish this time of year is kinda fun. I get to enjoy all the lights and songs without worrying about anything except eating too many latkes and gaining a couple pounds.”

  “What are you talking about? You have to buy presents for eight nights of celebrating.”

  “That’s only if you have kids. The adults just have eight nights of good food and candle lighting. At least in my family that’s how we do it.”

  Hannah cocked her head, a small smile appearing for the first time since she’d come home from work. “It has its appeal, believe me. Although changing religions wouldn’t get me out from under the responsibility of planning the store’s Christmas party. And it wouldn’t make the crabby customers go away.” She finished her glass of wine. “But thanks for listening. I feel better. Let me help you get dinner on the table.”

  “Nope. My night to cook and serve. Yours to clean up. Pour us each another glass of wine while I dish up. I made your favorite lasagna.”

  “The longer I live with you, the more I wonder why I’d ever want to consider marrying some guy who can’t cook, doesn’t pick up after himself, and never learned to do the laundry.”

  Sarah looked back over her shoulder with a smirk on her face. “You have to admit there are some services I don’t provide that make up for the rest.” She ducked when Hannah threw a pillow at her.

  “I’m willing to settle for cooking these days. It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed any of the kind of ‘services’ you’re talking about I’ve forgotten why I enjoyed them in the first place.”

  “Ask Santa. I hear he delivers for good girls. Although maybe that’s just a rumor to make little Jewish girls jealous.” Sarah was yelling from the kitchen by this time, well out of range of Hannah’s pillow-throwing skills.

  “Right. Santa bringing me a hot guy. With my luck I’d end up with one of his elves. Or a reindeer.”

  • • •

  David Shay loved everything about the holiday season—the candles, the music, the decorations, even the crowds out on the rainy streets of Portland. He loved that he got to celebrate two winter holidays—he was Jewish and his family made a big deal out of Hanukkah. But his non-Jewish grandmother always made sure he enjoyed the Christmas season, too.

  When he was a kid and people asked him what he wanted from Santa, David always said he was Jewish and Santa didn’t come to his house. But before anyone could be embarrassed or feel sorry for him, he added, “Santa leaves my presents at Gramma’s house,” as if every Jewish kid had a non-Jewish relative who provided a place for Santa to leave his largesse.

  As the head of the largest children’s nonprofit program in Portland, David was happy to share his love for the season with the kids in the program. Usually it was a struggle to raise enough money so every one of the kids they served got something they needed, something they wanted, and something to read—the gift-giving mantra his grandmother had instilled in him. But not this year. The biggest independent bookstore in the city was donating books, and Simon Austin, owner of the only remaining locally owned retail operation, was underwriting the rest of the program.

  Austin had promised David he and the employees of his eight women’s stores would take care of the other two categories. Austin himself would make up the difference between what his employees collected and donated and what the program needed. In addition, there would be a generous cash donation by year’s end to put the program’s building campaign over the top. And Austin had volunteered to sponsor a holiday party for the program, at his expense and organized by the staff of his flagship store.

  Simon Austin had visited the offices of SafePlace For Children and Parents the previous summer as part of a City Club of Portland committee studying the needs of children and young families in the city. David and Austin had hit it off immediately, and Austin’s interest in David’s program—which provided a range of services, from day care and medical help for low-income families to counseling and shelter for abused women and children—only grew with his work on the committee.

  Thanks to Austin’s interest, it was going to be a great holiday for SafePlace. That meant it would be a great holiday for David, who cared deeply about the program. Not just because it was his job to care, but also because the clients mattered to him. He poured his heart and soul into his work every day. Apparently that passion had convinced Simon Austin to care about SafePlace, too.

  With two social workers as parents, it was unsurprising that David had ended up running a social services program. Growing up, he’d resisted the idea for a while—he couldn’t see himself as an academic like his mother or a therapist like his father. But then he discovered an interest in nonprofit management. A degree in the subject and an internship with a program for victims of domestic abuse led him to SafePlace. After taking his first job there, he knew what he was meant to do with his life.

  And now he was about to end a year of exciting growth and new
opportunities with a bang. There would not only be enough money to make sure no kid was forgotten, but also a contribution for the building expansion, and a party to look forward to. What more could a guy want?

  Well, maybe someone to share the season with. But even if David’s grandmother hadn’t been gone for the better part of a decade, he was pretty sure not even she could make that happen.

  Chapter 2

  “What do you mean, that’s not enough food for two hundred people? I only have fifty employees. Even if everyone shows up and brings a date, that’s still only one hundred people, max. Where did the other hundred come from?” Hannah was trying to get a few of the party details ironed out before she dug into the spreadsheets for the monthly report she was trying to get off her desk by day’s end.

  “And why are you worried about food for kids? You must have misunderstood. This is a party for adults. We don’t include—”

  “Look, I don’t know what you think I was hired to do, but Angie said I needed to prepare menus for her to look at for a party of two hundred, maybe two hundred fifty people,” the man at the other end of the phone call said. “And she was very clear about the need to make sure the food was kid-friendly. Not to mention allergy-free, healthful, and with a few gluten-free platters. Are you saying there’s been some change in the plans?”

  Hannah was too stunned to respond.

  “Hey, are you still with me?” the man asked.

  She shook herself out of her silence and said, “Yeah, I’m still here. I guess I need to talk to corporate and get this straightened out. I’ll get back to you as soon as I do.”

  Without waiting for a response, she hung up the phone and yelled, “Mandy, what the hell is going on here?”

  Mandy Miller, her administrative assistant, stuck her head around the edge of the doorframe. “You bellowed, my liege?”

  “I just talked to the caterer Angie’s been working with, and the guy said we were arranging a party for two hundred people. What’s he talking about?”