Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  “I heard you talking about Baltimore. You’re that Olivia from TV, aren’t you?”

  I folded my arms. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cheesecake behind your back, would you?” When he seemed confused, I went on, “Cocktail fork? Olive skewers? Any sharp objects at all?”

  He lifted his hands innocently. “You know, you’re downright nasty on that show. You treat people like dirt.”

  “Am I? First, let me tell you that it’s not my show, and it’s fiction. And I didn’t see last week’s episode, but I read the synopsis in TV Guide and I heard some people discuss it.”

  Apparently, in last week’s Nutcracker Olivia had fired one of her dancers after he’d missed a rehearsal to attend his father’s funeral. She had told a little ballerina that she’d never have a career and suggested that the kid try some other venue, like cooking or nursing or cleaning hotel rooms. Olivia had stormed into the mayor’s office—with a cameo from Hizzoner, the mayor—and complained that the mayor should not have a personal parking spot right outside her studio, telling him that his car ruined her view of the Charles Center.

  “And you know what I decided? Although the TV Olivia and I don’t have a lot in common, I’m beginning to find her amusing. Hurray for a woman who stands up to a man. Three cheers for someone who tells people what she’s really thinking. I find that shocking but refreshing, don’t you agree?”

  Beside me, Lanessa made a growling sound. “From the ashes, a Phoenix rising.”

  The man shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “I guess.” As he moved back to the bar to brag to his friends of how he’d braved the wrath of Olivia, I felt myself grinning.

  Bonnie nudged my shoulder. “You really turned that one around.”

  “How’d that happen?” Kate asked.

  I thought of my conversation with Woody, about letting events shape our lives. “Something I learned over a bowl of oatmeal,” I said. “That show isn’t going to get to me anymore. From now on, I own it.”

  Once the month of December began, time seemed suspended, as if I were a tiny Mrs. Claus figurine inside a snow globe hanging on the tree. Although I worked long hours—sometimes ten to ten, seven days a week in Santaland— those hours were a whirlwind of giggles and carols and wide, waiflike eyes. Not that we didn’t have our share of nervous tears and whining children flinging themselves down to pound the floor, but somehow we managed to dry the tears and circumvent the tantrums and keep the children moving on to their meeting with Santa.

  Every morning when I slipped on the deep red velvet jacket of the Mrs. Claus costume, a feeling of contentment fell over me . . . one big smile. Although I was getting more and more accustomed to the role of Mrs. Claus, my enthusiasm wasn’t fading with time. Silly, I know, but I’d gotten more attached to this role than any part I’d ever danced with the Rockettes.

  Through portraying Mrs. Claus, I had found some surprising qualities within myself. I could be nurturing, soothing, whimsical, or lovingly firm. Not that I’d been thinking of having kids any time soon, but if I decided to go there, at least now I could hold my own with the little rug rats I’d once found so mysterious.

  A few times Woody popped into the store and I managed to have a quick bite with him at the restaurant in Rossman’s. I sensed that he wasn’t ready for more than that, which bugged me a little. What did it all mean—that he wanted to be with me, but only for brief spurts, in public places? Sometimes, at night in bed in the minute before I fell asleep, I wondered if he was holding back for some strange reason . . . like, he was secretly married or engaged. Or maybe his one bad marriage had pushed him over to the other side. Or maybe he just felt sorry for me because my ex had dumped me with a broken ankle and launched a show that pinned a scarlet letter O to my chest—and we are not talking about the Baltimore O’s.

  I would have been overcome with self-doubt, but I was so crazy busy that the only time I had to worry about Woody was in that last second before I fell asleep.

  One rainy night when Santaland was fairly quiet, Woody appeared around dinnertime. ZZ graciously told me to take a long break, and Woody and I made the short walk to Little Italy, where the scent of garlic hung heavy in the wet air, making me long for the whole night off, time to take off my damp boots and slip on warm, fuzzy socks. Time to stretch out on a blanket beside Woody and really talk, along with a few more horizontal activities. We settled at a small table near the window in Caesar’s Den, where a small cistern candle drew us both toward the center of the table. Woody joked that I was a cheap date when I ordered spaghetti marinara, but I tried to stay focused, not wanting to get derailed from my question.

  I waited until we were sipping red wine, breaking apart crusts of garlic bread. “I have to ask, are you avoiding me?”

  “What do you mean? We see each other a few times a week. I’m always dropping in on Santaland.”

  “But it’s always on your terms, always brief conversations in very public places.” I leaned closer to the flickering flame. “Are you embarrassed to be with me?”

  “Of course not. How could I be?”

  “I was thinking maybe the red suit and suggestion that I’m married to a man with flying reindeer who sends toys sailing down the chimneys of anonymous homes.”

  He grinned, and tiny laugh lines emerged beside his eyes. “Actually, Mrs. C., that’s one of the things I find strangely attractive about you. I dig the costume, and you wear it well.”

  Okay, I could strike “team defection” from the list. “So what is the problem, then?”

  “I’m moving too slow for you?”

  I glanced away thoughtfully, then faced him. “Well, yeah.”

  “And you have no sense of what’s been going through my mind.”

  I shrugged. “I have a million theories, most of them ludicrous.”

  “It’s because I can’t afford to get trounced again. You might have forgotten the details, but you split with me before, and I spent a year serenading you on the phone, trying to win you back.”

  “When we were in seventh grade. We weren’t really dating, Woody. We were like, twelve, and all ecstatic that someone had invented cookie-dough ice cream. The vice president was freaking out over Murphy Brown’s baby. What the hell did we know?”

  “It mattered to me. It was an important part of my life.”

  I covered his hand with mine. “I don’t mean to minimize it, really. But I was totally dumb back then. Indecisive and insecure. I had no idea what I wanted, which is obvious from the fact that I followed Bobby Tharp around for ten years.”

  “So here we are, all these years later, and honestly? It’s not the kind of thing you rush.”

  “A pacing thing, Woody. You’re running into the tide in slow motion. Which is actually more difficult than just leaping in.”

  “So what are you saying?” He glanced down at his plate. “That you want more involvement? More time together? A deeper involvement?”

  “Two from column A. Twenty zillion from column B.”

  He laughed. “Aw, Liv. You’re going to make me blush.”

  I slurped long noodles in and wiped my mouth not too seductively. “That is exactly what I had in mind.”

  14

  Just as it seems to go with every new television show I loathe, Nutcracker found its humongous audience immediately. Bobby’s luck, my curse.

  So in our own unique form of boycott, Bonnie, Lanessa, Kate, and I made Tuesday night our girls’ night out. While the rest of the world was watching The Nutcracker, my friends and I had our run of Baltimore city, and we took advantage of every freebie we could find. Lanessa got us passes to a party at the Museum of Industry, where she pointed out her great-grandaddy in a photo of the Platt Oyster Cannery. We attended Bonnie’s company Christmas party at the Walters Art Gallery, where we ended up on our backs in a small room that was part of the illuminated manuscript exhibit. When a docent showed us the illuminated ceiling panels, each one depicting a different fable, Bonnie insisted we all play the game. We l
ay there with our heads together like girls at a slumber party, calling out as we identified scenes: “A bird in the hand beats two in the bush!” “The grass is greener on the other side!”

  One Tuesday when the later Christmas hours had kicked in, I finagled some late-night ice time at the new Rossman’s rink, and afterward we did a quick sweep through the store, searching for presents to buy with my employee discount.

  Lanessa found a fabulous dress with a short plaid jacket with fake fur lapels—perfect for her family Christmas celebration. The Jones sisters had a tradition of dressing up for the holidays, trying to best each other and scolding anyone who dared show up with chipped nail polish or reinforced-toe stockings in open-toed shoes.

  “Do you think this makes my ass look fat?” Lanessa asked us, backing toward the mirror. “Daria just lost ten pounds and she’s a twig. Making us all look like elephants.”

  “Your ass fits with the rest of your body,” Bonnie said.

  Lanessa’s brows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We love the dress,” Kate insisted, “and we love you in it. Just buy it, will ya? I have six nieces and nephews to shop for, and the store closes at midnight.”

  Down in the toy department I helped Kate find some awesome kits—chemistry experiments and rocket building, robot assembly and stained-glass baking. “Very cool,” Kate said, stacking them on the counter. “Can I blame you when my sister-in-law’s eyes bug out?”

  “They encourage creativity!”

  “Creativity comes with a price. Like the carpet cleaner’s bill.” Kate winced, but she managed to hand over her credit card and buy the inventor’s kits.

  Next stop, the main sales floor, where a group of carolers dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing got us into the spirit. I found two possible gifts for my mother—a Hermès scarf and a white cashmere sweater set.

  “Ooh!” Lanessa touched a finger to one cheek. “A little pricey, aren’t they?”

  “There’s my employee discount,” I said. “Besides, I’d like to do something special for Mom this year.”

  “Admit it,” Lanessa prodded, “you just don’t want to make a decision. Olivia’s lament.”

  Bonnie sampled the texture of the cashmere. “Nice. I’m sure it’s been a relief for Claire to have you here, with everything she’s been going through.”

  “Thank God you were here and able to get her into therapy,” Kate said.

  “And do I sense a little romance brewing between your mother and that biker Santa?” Lanessa asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but they’re definitely friends. From the start he backed away from being her therapist. I guess that means something.” ZZ had removed himself from Claire Todd’s “case” the first time he met her, explaining that he thought another therapist would serve her better. “Besides,” he’d told me, “it’s really not ethical for me to treat her if I’m a friend.” Which made sense to me. I folded the scarf and took it to the counter, adding, “ZZ has become a good friend to Mom, and to me. But the other thing I’ve realized is that she still has lots of friends. Oh, she may call me to pick up shiitake mushrooms or crabmeat from Lexington Market, but that’s just because she’s accustomed to asking. She’s got at least a dozen neighborhood friends who would be happy to do her favors and run errands. Besides that, it’s not as if her social life has ended, it’s simply moved inside her house.”

  “So, basically, you’re off the hook?” Kate cocked her head to the side, that special way she lets you know she’s listening. “After your ankle checks out and you pack your bags for New York, will you feel guilty leaving her stuck in that house?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t expect me to stay and take care of her. My mother has never been one to be dependent, and this new therapist has been coming to the house. She doesn’t need me.”

  “Oh, Livvy!” Bonnie blinked rapidly, her eyes shiny with tears. “I can’t believe you’re leaving again. Just when we were all getting into such a great groove again.” She puckered her mouth, trying to keep from crying.

  “I’m not out of here yet. There’s still a few weeks. I’m committed to work through Christmas Eve.”

  Bonnie hugged me close. “I know, but it’s coming, sooner than later.”

  “Jesus H.” Lanessa rolled her eyes. “Can we save the tears for the bon voyage party?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “It’s just that this Christmas reminds me so much of that last year of college, the last year that we were really together.” She turned to Kate. “And don’t even get me started on you, because if I really believed you were going to hightail it across the damned country, I’d be bawling like a baby.”

  Kate shrugged and glanced away, as if trying to avoid her own future. “I’ll know for sure in January.”

  “You’d just better not leave us like this New York girl!” Bonnie pointed an accusing finger at Kate. “No pressure, though.”

  “Oh, please.” Lanessa pressed her fingers to her temples. “Can we skip the blood oath and go straight to a round of beers at the Cat’s Eye before I blow it and start shouting out secrets of the divine yahoo sisterhood?”

  15

  “Got some exciting news, everyone,” Charley said. He opened his hands to the group assembled at his feet, reminding me of a preacher blessing the Rossman’s congregation.

  He’d asked us to assemble in front of the big stone fireplace, its flames dancing warmly on this frosty morning less than two weeks before Christmas, and although Charley’s request pushed us to be in costume and out on the sales floor ten minutes earlier than usual, a cheerful mood prevailed. Skinny Stu had brought in a cinnamon coffee cake baked by his wife that very morning to be shared by all and had made charming glitter pinecone ornaments for Santa Squad members to take home. Although we were quickly moving toward the week before Christmas, our yuletide workforce had pulled together, a sprightly, festive family.

  “Rossman’s is going to have a special visitor on Wednesday,” Charley went on. “A television show is set to film here next week, and they want to set their cameras right here in Santaland.”

  “I love it!” cried Debbie, one of the elves on winter break from University of Maryland. She waved her hand in the air, as if waiting to be called on. “Is it AM Baltimore? Or someone from the Today Show?”

  “No, no, it’s not interviews.” Charley pointed his pen in the air, ready to burst the rumor bubble before it spread. “No, we’re going to be part of a dramatic comedy on BigTime Cable. It’s called Nutcracker . . .”

  I nearly snorted a cinnamon crumb out my nose. Had he said . . . ? No, I had to be dreaming. A feverish nightmare.

  “The Nutcracker production team handpicked us for a location shot,” Charley went on. “They want to pretend their characters are actually shopping here, going to Santaland, all that great stuff. Of course, the Rossmans are thrilled.”

  “Oh. My. God.” I backed up and felt something probing my ass—a branch from the artificial tree. I moved right to catch my balance and stepped on the edge of a foil package. ZZ and Regis reached out and held me up from either side before I went down, taking the tree display with me.

  “Easy there, Red,” ZZ muttered.

  I gaped at him. “Tell me they’re bringing in the Nutcracker ballet company.”

  He winced, his eyes small slits in his crinkled, weathered skin. “Nnnno. That would be wrong.”

  “You’re telling me it’s Bobby?” I asked. “He’s really coming here with a camera crew?”

  “And his wife and all the producers’ kids and the entire cast of the show.”

  “Fu—” In that millisecond I caught four pairs of Santa eyes slant my way. I was one consonant away from having my name slashed from the “Nice” list.

  “—dge. Fudge!” I finished. “Can’t eat it,” I told Carlos and Archie. “I’m totally allergic.”

  The Santas lost interest in my outburst and turned back to their conversation of TV appearances, big breaks, and loo
king chubby on camera.

  “Sorry, Olivia,” Regis said, his lyrical Australian accent such a delight to hear. “People seem to have forgotten what an ass the bloody producer is. Shall I fill Charley in on it all?”

  “No.” I sank down a few inches, bone weary. Charley had a job to do, just like the rest of us. Even if he cared enough to try, he would be powerless to stop this freight train from roaring through another aspect of my life.

  ZZ clapped a reassuring hand on my left shoulder. “Tough break, kid.”

  “Give me the day off.” I turned away from Charley and the others, zeroing in on ZZ as if my eyes held hypnotic powers. “I can’t be here when Bobby and his wife and his crew come blazing through. I need next Wednesday off.”

  “No can do. You heard Charley. They want the whole Christmas enchilada—Santaland, Mrs. Claus, elves and all.”

  “Mr. Claus . . .” I looked ZZ right in the eye. “Do you have any idea how uncomfortable this is going to be for me?”

  He patted my shoulder again. “What can I say? Adversity builds character.”

  “Oh, please, if that were true we’d all be superheroes.”

  ZZ crossed his arms over his belly, his feet planted wide apart in a bounding stance. “And who says we’re not?”

  16

  As Christmas week began, the pieces of my life were coming together quite neatly. On Monday I was early for my ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Riddle, the orthopedic surgeon, who examined my ankle and my X-rays and uttered those words I had been longing for: “Looks like you’re good to go.”

  “You really mean it?” Why did I sound like a contender on American Idol? I knew doctors were not in practice to give a false prognosis.

  Dr. Riddle scratched the thin hair on his forehead. “You must have gone wild with physical therapy. There’s no sign of muscle atrophy at all.”