Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  I gasped. “I can dance . . . on Broadway?”

  He frowned and flipped through my file. “That I can’t say. I’m a surgeon, not a producer.”

  I squinted at him, and he cracked a grin. “Kidding! If you’ve got the talent, you’ve now got a healthy ankle to go with it.”

  Before I’d even given Dr. Riddle’s receptionist my copay, I was on the phone with Mrs. Atwater, making an appointment for January 2, figuring I’d need next week to work out with my dance coach to hit my mark again.

  “This might develop into a situation mutually convenient for us both,” she said sternly, and I could imagine her penciling me in on her ever-present clipboard. “I’ve had three girls down with the flu all week, and you know how that goes. You can dance with a cold, but when it hits the lower G.I. tract, no good.”

  “I’d love to be a stand-in,” I said emphatically.

  “We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”

  When I returned to my apartment, I saw the place with new eyes. Suddenly the hole in the wall exposing insulation didn’t bother me, nor did the clanging pipes that indicated heat was pumping into the already hot space. None of it mattered now; it was all temporary.

  It’s all temporary. . . . Hadn’t I told myself that a thousand times?

  Now that I believed it, I realized the work ahead of me. I needed to pack, ship some clothes up to my friend’s apartment, cart the rest of my stuff off to Mom’s basement to store until I knew where I’d be living. If I was taking the train on the twenty-sixth and working through Christmas Eve, I would have to move most of my things on Christmas Day.

  Crazy, but doable, especially with the fires of motivation burning my ass. I changed into sweats, collected some boxes from behind the Wawa on the corner, and started sorting sweaters and books, lingerie and CDs. I had taped off two full boxes when someone rapped on the door.

  “It’s me!” squealed Mrs. Scholinsky.

  I opened the door, surprised to see her hair unfettered by curlers. It was artfully combed out, the gray covered with an attractive shade of gold that might have been called caramel corn.

  “This letter came while you were gone, special delivery.” She held the envelope level under her chin. “I had to sign for it, but I told the postman I don’t mind. I’m your landlady, for godsakes, I can sign.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering who’d want to track me down. “You look nice today.”

  “I’ve got a boyfriend,” she said proudly. “A Belair man. Alan down at the Stop and Shop introduced us. He works the deli counter.”

  The information passed over me; I was focused on the return address—New York City.

  Mrs. Scholinsky noticed the boxes. “You’re packing? So you’re really going to be out by the first of the month?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Heading back to New York, hon?”

  I nodded. “I’m trying to hook up with the Rockettes again.” If that didn’t pan out for me, I had saved enough money to last a month in Manhattan, maybe two. With costs so high in that city, my share of the rent had been more than one thousand dollars. I had spent the afternoon working on budgets, a little more leery of the adventure this time around, now that I knew what it cost to live in New York. All afternoon my excitement was twisting inside me, a ball in my chest that was surprisingly similar to stress. The pain spiked whenever I thought of the logistics and the expense of moving back to New York. It was not a thrifty move, but a dancer needed to be in New York.

  Not Pigtown.

  Mrs. Scholinsky mentioned something about bringing in a construction crew to finish all the renovations—just my luck, fix up the place as soon as I leave!—but I only half heard, eager to close the door and open this odd letter.

  Inside, one page was handwritten on notebook paper, as if torn from a school binder.

  Miss Olivia, I hope you don’t mind that I track you down through your friends the dancers. Everyone here, my Gia and my brothers, we worry about you and your career since that day you fall on our steps.

  We are sorry to hear you had to move from New York, but we wish you good luck and good health there.

  Miss Olivia, we feel your accident is our fault. Thank God you are a good person and do not sue me and close down my business. Please accept this check, as some compensation for the loss you endured. My lawyer calls it a bad idea, but I tell him he don’t know you. You are a good person, Miss Olivia. God bless you, and come see us next time you visit New York. My Gia will make you that eggplant you like.

  Very truly,

  Mario D’ellessandro

  Inside the envelope was a cashier’s check, payable to me in the amount of twenty thousand dollars.

  Within fourteen minutes all my friends knew my fabulous two-part good news.

  Virtuous Kate focused more on healing than the cash. “That’s so wonderful about your ankle,” Kate said. “I knew this injury wouldn’t derail you for long. See? It was just a temporary setback.”

  When I called Lanessa, the lawyer emerged. “The twenty grand was a very smart move on their part. Saves everyone court expenses and spreads goodwill all around.”

  “But I wasn’t going to sue Mario,” I said for the bazil-lionth time.

  “Whatever. Take the money and run, hon.”

  Bonnie was more pragmatic. “I can’t believe the pizza man sent you all that money,” she said. “What are you going to do with it? You need an investment strategy. Let me get you my advisor’s number. And most important, did you really see Mrs. Scholinsky without her pinwheels and scarf?” My landlady was a Dippity-do legend in Pigtown.

  “There is hair under those rollers,” I said. “And an even bigger scoop, she’s got a boyfriend in Belair. She’s considering shacking up with him, leaving Pigtown for good.”

  Bonnie gasped. “No!”

  “Uhm-hmm.” Maybe it was true; maybe our lives didn’t have to be defined by outside events. If Mrs. Scholinsky could get the hairpins out and meet a beau, there was hope for the rest of us.

  17

  “Oh, would you quit being so maniacally happy,” Lanessa said as she stabbed a cube of pineapple with a toothpick. We’d all been invited to the aquarium Christmas party as guests of Kate and Turtle, and to everyone’s surprise Bonnie had walked in arm in arm with Jonah, her soon-to-be ex-husband. So far Jonah had kept a quiet distance, studying blown-up photos mounted in the “Marsh Life” exhibit.

  “I’m not as blissful as I look,” I said, backing into a couple in a three-quarters snuggle near the recessed glass of a Chesapeake marine life tank. “Really, I’m a bundle of contradictions. Not that you could tell in this light.”

  The National Aquarium had always struck me as being a surprisingly dark, shadowy place, a welcome break during the hot summer, but this time of year I often came upon couples in bulky sweaters and jeans taking advantage of the pockets of shadow. Stolen moments. I’m not sure what bothered me more, seeing these people breathing heavy and entwined while I had no one, or the fact that it had never occurred to Bobby or me to head over here when we were teenagers in search of make-out locations.

  “Where are the clown fish?” I asked Kate. “And the blue one that looks like Dory?”

  “Aren’t you a little old to be finding Nemo?” Bonnie teased as Kate motioned our group toward the display of tropical fish.

  “It’s her lucky day,” Lanessa said. “She could probably find Waldo in that display of brain coral. Can you imagine, hitting the mother lode and finding out your ankle is whole all in one day? It worries me to think what you might do tomorrow. Cure cancer and win over Simon and Paula?”

  “Nessa, first of all, my good luck was accidental, not something I earned or achieved. And you make it sound like I’ve actually got a career. Remember, I haven’t danced in months. I still have some trepidation over returning to New York, auditioning all over again.” If I did make the cut, I would be dancing three shows a day, two when we went on tour in the spring. It would be great to have the work,
but I would have to dance, dance, dance my little butt off.

  “You don’t look scared,” Turtle said. “Besides, you’ve done this before, so you pretty much know the deal. Kate and I are looking at moving to an unknown place. Imagine not knowing where to buy milk. Or maybe you’re heading home from work and you don’t even know how to get there. You can’t find your apartment. That would be wild.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Kate said. Her hair was pulled back into a tight French braid, and she was still wearing a wet suit from the final performance of the dolphin show, in which we’d all watched Kobee the dolphin propel her through the giant pool. Of course, I’d seen the show a half dozen times before, but who else could see their best friend play fetch with two dolphins?

  “So what have you heard from San Diego?” Bonnie asked. “Are you guys going to be leaving us, too?”

  “They’ve made me an offer, and they really want Kate, too. She’s just got to go through the formality of an interview after Christmas.” Turtle rubbed his chin, his eyes sparkling. “Let me tell you, I am psyched.”

  “And Kate?” Lanessa prodded.

  “I’m psyched . . .” Kate pulled her braid in front and fiddled with the end. “And very nervous. A move across the country . . . It sort of feels like jumping off a cliff . . . backward. . . without a bungee cord.”

  “We’ll come visit you,” Bonnie said.

  “We’re definitely getting a place with a guest room, so you all have to come,” Turtle said, and I realized this was the most I’d heard him talk without bringing up reducing traffic mortalities of turtles or combating the Asian turtle crisis.

  “Two of Turtle’s friends from college live in San Diego,” Kate said.

  “And they love it,” Turtle went on. “One of them specializes in the preservation of Indian star tortoises. He’s a very cool guy, trying to set up a symposium in Singapore and . . .”

  And so ended Turtle’s nontortoise streak.

  Jonah rejoined us, carrying two glasses of red wine. Without a word he handed one to Bonnie, and she nodded, thanking him in that unspoken language lovers have.

  Lanessa was into a story about a convention she’d attended in San Diego, and I turned to Jonah. “Hey, whatever happened with that photo contest you were entering?” I asked him.

  “I haven’t heard anything yet,” he said quietly. “But actually, I used the photo you chose.”

  “Oh, good.” I nodded. “That way, you can blame me if it doesn’t win.”

  Bonnie’s jaw dropped in horror. But Jonah let out a nervous laugh. “True. It’ll be all your fault, Olivia.”

  “No problem.” I pointed a thumb to my chest. “I can take it.”

  In one of her usual social feats that demonstrates her lobbyist prowess, Lanessa convinced the two guys to go off to the sea horse exhibit so that we could dish for a few minutes. Kate hurried us along the shadowy spiral walkway that displayed coral reef fish, then various types of sharks, their prickly overbites cruising by the glass just above our heads. As we hustled along, Bonnie did her usual survey of Jonah’s response to us.

  “I think he’s really warming up to you guys, especially you, Liv.”

  “I admit, I’ve seen a flicker of emotion there the last times I saw him. Warm may be an overexaggeration. More like a warming trend. A thaw—”

  “Can I ask you what the hell he’s doing here?” Lanessa cut in. “Aren’t you guys doing the divorce thing?”

  “We were separated, but actually, that changed, just this week. Jonah moved back. I asked him to, and he said that’s what he wants, too.”

  Kate let out a little squeal. “Bonnie, that’s so great! I mean, it’s what you want, right?”

  “Are you kidding? I was looking at my third divorce.”

  “Hardly motivation for a reunion,” Lanessa said.

  I linked my arm through Bonnie’s. “We really want you to be happy, Bonnie. But Nessa’s right. Don’t patch things up with him just to avoid the divorce stigma.”

  “I’m not afraid of getting divorced,” Bonnie said, “but I am afraid when I think of living the rest of my life without Jonah. Not that I wouldn’t survive, but I would feel unbalanced, unfulfilled. We complement each other when we’re together—”

  “And you’re both oddballs on your own,” Lanessa cut in. “You get so darned sentimental and he’s such a cold fish. Honey, you two need each other.”

  Bonnie scowled at Lanessa. “Thanks . . . I guess.”

  “I mean it in the nicest way.” Lanessa rose on her toes, kissed Bonnie’s cheek, and gave her a hug. “Good luck to you.”

  “You’ve got to come back this spring and we’ll all go to a game,” Bonnie said. “The O’s are trading like crazy. Scuttlebutt says we might be getting Sammy Sosa.”

  Bonnie lifted her wineglass to me. “Woody is a big Orioles fan, isn’t he?”

  “Woody who?” I took a deep sip of wine. “I’m telling you, I scared him away. In baseballese, I invited him to third and he decided to forfeit.”

  “Liv . . .” Bonnie’s eyes opened wide, as if her face were about to pop. “Before you completely embarrass yourself—and don’t turn around—Woody is here, standing right—”

  I was already twisting and peering around one bubble cylinder to find him.

  “I said don’t turn around!” Bonnie hissed. “Nice, Liv. Very subtle.”

  “I don’t see him, and what’s he doing here, anyway?”

  “Bonnie invited me,” he said, joining our group from the ambient darkness. With his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his tie loosened in that studious disheveled look, he was cute in that rebel-nerd way.

  “Oh, hi.” My voice sounded sprite and chipper, as if I were going out for the pep squad at Spaulding.

  “Livvy . . . How’ve you been?” His brown eyes locked on me, so intense and edgy, as if my bullshit answer to the bullshit question really mattered.

  “Busy. You know how it is, the Christmas rush.”

  He nodded.

  “And how about you?” I moved closer, so that everyone in the aquarium wouldn’t have to hear us. “To cut through the crap, I was a little surprised not to hear from you the past few weeks. I mean, if you’re not interested you could have called with some made-up story. Like you have to go get hair implants or your dog needs surgery.”

  “I don’t have a dog,” he said.

  I pointed from my eyes to his. “Honesty, remember?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Liv. Honestly, you scared me. You sound so cavalier, but really, for the two of us to get involved, it’s a really big deal for me.”

  “Really? So, are you telling me you don’t sleep around?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you and I can’t be friends with benefits. It wouldn’t be just sex with you.”

  I swallowed hard at the sudden image of the two of us naked, in each other’s arms. A smoky image that made my knees go weak. I tried to look away casually, but he caught my arm, did the eye-to-eye thing right back at me, forcing me to connect.

  “We’ve got to be careful, Liv. I’ve got this really dangerous pattern of falling in love with people I can’t have.”

  I nodded, still heated at the thought of how his skin would feel, what we could do to each other, with each other . . .

  18

  When he asked me if I wanted to go with him to check out a property nearby, I didn’t hesitate. I would have preferred a trip straight to his apartment, but I was beginning to see that for Woody the route from point A to point B zigzagged to various landmarks around Baltimore.

  Tonight’s project was in Canton, a harborfront community east of Fells Point and walking distance from my mother’s neighborhood, so I knew a little bit about it. Canton had undergone a more recent renaissance, so its prices were still affordable, but perhaps not for long. Much of Canton had been canning factories and small row houses built to house the workers. Now the refurbished American Can Company held bookshops and restaurants, café
s and small boutiques.

  Woody’s project was a smaller warehouse, only two stories, a brick structure with very few windows, though the glasswork that remained was set in brick arches.

  “I never noticed this building before,” I said.

  “It was run down, almost torn down till the developer and I convinced the city we could do a historic renovation that wouldn’t compromise the neighborhood. The first floor is currently a pottery shop, doing well so far.”

  “Not surprising,” I said as we passed the windows decorated with bright green glassware and curling gold ribbons. The shop was bright and cheerful, one of those places you enter in search of a gift and exit with three heavy shopping bags for your kitchen.

  “Upstairs isn’t completely finished yet, but I use it as a makeshift office.”

  He opened the door to a wide, deep room of low-gloss wood floor and craggy brick walls. “Kind of bare, I know. I just wanted to grab two files.” He went to the corner where a sofa faced a coffee table overwhelmed with newspapers and files that toppled onto the floor.

  “Love the filing system,” I called to him as I tested the open space. Only one wall held windows, but the rest of the space felt safe and very familiar to me.

  Music wafted up from downstairs, classical Christmas music, and as I listened closely I realized it was the Sugar Plum Fairy’s dance. I laughed out loud, hugging my waist.

  “What is it?”

  “Downstairs in the shop they’re playing The Nutcracker.” I lunged into a hamstring stretch. “This would make a great dance studio.” I gathered spine tall, shoulders down, arms aloft, and pirouetted gracefully.

  “Very nice,” he said admiringly.

  He watched as I did a few steps, a short sequence. Balanchine’s choreography is difficult, but every dancer knows at least a part of The Nutcracker. For a minute or so I lost myself in the music, transported, moving without thinking about the parts of the dance.

  Woody’s silence brought me back to earth. Pausing, I pressed a hand to my chest. “It’s been a long time. Phew! What a relief. I can still do it.”