by Laura Briggs
Surely it was time to change the subject before someone else remembered a slight difference between her version of events and Marc's. If he had a version at all— she dreaded to think of him blurting bits and pieces of the story without realizing it.
Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? I didn't think we needed a secret pact to avoid the obvious. Why would he want to even think about it, much less mention it to someone else?
She pushed aside the ornament box. "This year I'm definitely looking forward to spending the holidays at home," she volunteered. "No more snowbound ski resorts for me."
"Even when the company's that good?" Janice winked in Deb's direction. Their mutual glance lasted barely a second, but Lisel couldn't help but see it. A feeling of panic rose in her throat.
This idea was starting to capture way too much imagination for her comfort.
*****
Lisel sat up and brushed the snow from her hair. The deep drifts surrounding the Elk Run Lodge were almost too deep for her tastes, especially when being clobbered by snowballs.
"Truce?" Marc's fingers curved around her elbow as he stood above her.
"Truce," she answered. He pulled her to her feet, steadying her against him. She could feel the warmth radiating beneath his coat, the soft fibers of his scarf against her cheek. What surprised her was the missing urge to push him away.
"So, did you get all your pent-up workplace frustrations out of your system?" he asked, releasing her as he trudged towards the ornamental rock she had used as a shield.
"I wouldn't have so many if it wasn't for this really annoying coworker," she replied, brushing the snow from her hair. "He drives me nuts with all the things he does."
"You mean, dragging you out into the snow to have a good time?" he said, brushing off a place on one of the rock's ledges.
"I would have found my way out here eventually," she answered. "On my own terms. Besides, you didn't drag anyone, as I recall. You stomped away like a little boy who didn't get his way."
He settled himself on the cleared ledge. "You didn't have to be so stubborn about it, just because it was my idea."
She waded past him into a clear patch of snow, carefully counting the windows above her. She turned to face the dining room and fell backwards into the snow. Slowly, waving her arms and legs in a flapping motion as she disappeared from sight.
"What are you doing?" She heard Marc's voice, slightly muffled by the snow walls around her. Lying at the bottom, she gazed up at the pale grey sky above as gentle flurries brushed her cheeks and nose.
"Making a snow angel," she answered, scrambling up slowly to avoid destroying the pattern. Carefully, she waded away from the depression in the snow.
"The snow's too deep," he answered. "That doesn't look like anything but a hollow spot in the snow."
"From here, maybe," she answered. "But not from where I stand." She moved towards the woods, brushing the weight of snow from her scarf and hat. His footsteps trudged along behind her.
"Stubborn," he commented. "Every time I make a suggestion, you brush it off. You're always right, aren't you?" His voice was teasing, but the words annoyed her.
"Are you sure we're not talking about you? Because last I checked, it was Mr. Ego Mania who was so right in choosing the beefalo restaurant venue for our vegetarian would-be author." She glanced over her shoulder with a mocking smile.
He looked slightly hurt. "How was I supposed to know that a Western history enthusiast hated the cuisine?"
"Maybe by paying attention to the meticulous research I do." She spread her arms in a helpless gesture. "I don't do all this work just for me, Marc."
"You could've put a copy of it on my desk, instead of holding it hostage so you could control what venue we picked," he shot back.
"That's because—" she began. But he laid a finger softly against her lips.
"I thought we called a truce," he said. She met his dark eyes, feeling warmth flood through her veins as she gazed into them.
"We did," she answered. His hand moved softly from her face to her back, steering her gently in the direction of the woods. She let him lead, allowing the moment of silence to stretch on. Shoving her hands in her pocket for warmth, she slowed her steps until he was forced to move past her, forging a path into the woods with his steps.
Snow hung over the tree branches in a white canopy, decorated with pine cones gleaming beneath ice crystals. Icicles stretched from bare grey limbs, reflecting the cold light around them.
Lisel sucked in her breath. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "It's like a Christmas tree all done in silver and white. I thought places like this only existed in movies or theater stages. I almost expect sugar plum fairies and snowflakes to come dancing from behind the trees." She hugged herself against the cold.
"I don't think any woodland creatures are gonna perform The Nutcracker for us," Marc responded. He brushed the snow away from rails of a bridge crossing an icy creek. "Say, that ice is probably thick enough; we should go skating."
"Yeah, except we need skates," she reminded him. "I kind of left those out of my bag to make room for the ski gear and party dress I won't be needing."
"I could rent a couple of pairs from the pro shop," he answered. "Maybe round up a thermos of cocoa to go."
The way he said 'I' instead of 'we' made her blush unexpectedly. She wasn't accustomed to thinking of him as chivalrous.
"I don't know," she said. She joined him at the rail, resting her elbows on it. It was the first time she had stood this close to him on purpose, barring rides in the elevator or lines to the office coffee machine.
He turned towards her, his dark eyes sweeping across her features. "Too cold?" he asked. "We could go back if you want."
She shook her head. "Let's go a little further. It's Christmas vacation, right? We should enjoy the winter wonderland while we can." She offered him her elbow in an exaggerated gesture of companionship.
To her surprise, he accepted it. "Lead the way," he answered. Wading beside her through the path's deep drifts into the woods.
An hour later, she turned the key in her door's lock. "Yes, sweet, sweet warmth." She practically sprinted to the roaring fire in the hearth, replenished by the hotel maid while she was out. Sinking onto a footstool, she fumbled with the laces on her boots.
A slight cough made her turn in time to glimpse Marc's figure in the door, pulling it closed behind him as he left. She rose from her seat.
"You don't have to go," she called. "I mean, if you want to come in and sit for awhile."
He hesitated. She could see by the movement of his fingers on the knob that he was considering it. He drew a deep breath, preparing to speak.
"Hot cocoa?" she suggested. There was a kettle and twin packs of complimentary hot chocolate on the mantel.
That was enough to break his reluctance. "Well, maybe one cup," he answered.
When dusk settled, the only source of light in the room was the fireplace and the floor lamp Lisel turned on to illuminate the Scrabble board spread across the floor. Its tiles were scattered around her and Marc as they argued over words.
"I'm checking the dictionary on this one," she declared, pulling it from the nearby bookshelf and making a show of flipping through its pages.
"It's a real word," he protested, with a grin. "It's Spanish, my grandmother used it all the time."
"You can't use that!" she said. "No foreign words allowed." She reached over and began picking the tiles off the board.
"Hey, you haven't even let me defend it properly," he said, trying to shield it from her. When it didn't work, he picked up a handful of tiles and threw them at her.
"Stop it!" she shrieked, shielding herself. But she was laughing too hard to fend off the attack. With both hands, she gathered up all the tiles on the board and flung them at him.
It was eerily similar to the legendary coffee bean fight they once had in the office break room, the one that ended with the rest of the packet of gourmet beans smashing to the p
avement below the window. For days, their coworkers discovered beans in corners, Styrofoam cups, even the toaster.
But this time it was different. This fight ended with laughter.
He helped her pick up the pieces before lifting his coat from the sofa. "I should go," he said. "It's late. And you're probably tired."
She didn't answer as she shoved the board back on the shelf. Her peripheral vision could make out his shape as he lifted his shoes and scarf. Her lips curved into a smile as she turned towards him.
"Do me a favor before you go," she said. "Go up to the next floor and look out the hall window. At the woods outside." She nodded towards the side of the building that faced the forest.
He stared at her, puzzled. "Okay," he answered slowly. "I'll do that." He slipped through the door and closed it behind him. Alone in the dark, she crawled onto the sofa, feeling sleepy. She hugged a pillow to her chest and gazed into the fire, imagining him climbing the steps and walking across the carpeted hall to the window. Where he would gaze at the snowy woods, the sky vanishing into the darkness, before looking down at the glowing carpet of snow.
Where the depression of a snow angel was formed perfectly on the ground below.
*****
Marc dialed the manager's number for Hoppy's Hamburger and waited for an answer. It was his third time to phone, with each time ending in an answering machine dead end. At this point, he desperately needed to talk to a real person.
The phone buzzed a few more times before a male voice answered. "Hoppy's Hamburger, Donald Wick's office."
Marc took a deep breath "Hi, this is Marc Romez calling on behalf of Holly Tree Publishing. We're hoping to arrange a private dinner at the restaurant for the twenty-third." His fingers reached for a pencil and pad to jot down the details.
The voice on the other end sighed. "I thought we already resolved this issue," he said. "One of your representatives called this afternoon to discuss the price options. When she told us your budget range, it was impossible for us to provide the venue for that amount."
"Who called?" Marc asked. His fingers froze over the pad. "Wait, did you say 'she' just now?"
"Yeah, it was a woman. A Miss King or something like that."
"A Miss Bishop?" Marc asked, bitterly.
"It could have been, yes. Anyway, I'm afraid we can't meet your budget requirements. We wish you the best of luck with your project; goodbye." The voice clicked off the line before Marc could reply.
He hung up the phone, his confusion fast-melting into bitterness. So Lisel had beaten him to the draw. And she hadn't even been willing to negotiate the price issue—she had dropped the offer the minute it became tough. Probably just to spite him for coming up with it.
With one swift movement, he shoved his proposal notes into the garbage. Wryly, he had to admit she had beaten him this round. No doubt she was prepared to substitute her own idea for his, now that she had defeated his proposal.
He could sneak into her cubicle and look for answers. He could check her business email for reservation confirmations. He could guess what place she probably picked and phone them right now.
With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face. Why did it always end up like this? The childish competition would never stop, pitting the two of them against each other instead of making them true partners. The team the company envisioned when they assigned the two of them to target restless authors in search of a new home for their books.
He looked up from his desk, his gaze falling on one of the photos tacked around his computer. It was partly hidden behind one of a birthday party in Mexico and a spring break photo in college. It revealed a woman in a pink hat and scarf, posed far away from the camera in a snow-filled parking lot.
The image was blurry enough that no one else would recognize it. Except maybe the girl in the photo, that is. For a few minutes, he stared at it, then rose from his seat and pulled his coat from the back of the chair. Instead of crossing the hall to her cubicle, however, he took the elevator to the lobby.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside a small brick house, its red door bare of any ornaments except a wreath of fake cedar branches and clear lights. Avoiding the slick steps, he ducked under the porch rail and stood on the doormat as he rang the bell.
The door opened a thin crack. A pair of suspicious blue eyes peered at him through the space.
He rubbed his hands together, his breath forming a fog in the cold as he locked with her frigid gaze through the gap.
"Truce?" he asked.
*****
She blinked. "What did you say?" she asked. The cold wind drifting through the crack tempted her to close the door without bothering to ask.
He leaned into the frame. "I'm asking you to drop your weapons. To give me a chance, whatever." He glanced at the fireplace crackling in the room behind her. "Could I just come in for a few minutes."
It was freezing cold out there. So no matter how much she might wish him to leave, she couldn't let him stand there. Undoing the chain, she opened the door wide enough for him to slip inside.
She turned to face him, hugging her shawl around her. Her cheeks reddened slightly at the realization that she was only wearing a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants instead of her usual business suit.
"If this is about the burger joint, it could wait until morning," she answered. She was feeling a sense of discomfort that she couldn't explain. Avoiding his dark eyes, any glimpse of his face that might betray her resolve to stay firm.
He sighed. "It's about more than that, Lisel." His tan fingers, icy from the cold, encircled her arms in a gentle but firm grip. "The fighting has gone too far on this assignment. I don't want to ruin this opportunity for both of us."
"So what are you suggesting?" Unable to resist any longer, she met his eyes. His mouth was drawn in a tight line.
"I want us to come up with an idea together. An equal idea we can both share in," he answered. "Just this once, let's try being partners instead of rivals. We did it once before—remember?"
This hint was too much for Lisel. She drew away from his hold. "Yeah, I remember. It worked out well, didn't it?" she answered. "I wish you'd stop bringing this up, Marc. It makes me angry, you know that." Her effort was concentrated on controlling the emotion in her voice.
He didn't answer for a moment. She watched the muscles work in his firm jaw, his fingers comb through his tousled hair in a gesture of frustration at once familiar and endearing. She closed her eyes, trying to resist the strange shift in emotions.
"Look, I'm not asking you to forgive me for all my faults," he said, "just to put them aside for a moment. Just this once," he added.
"Just this once?" she repeated. He held up his fingers, imitating the Boy Scout's sign.
"All right," she sighed. "Take off your coat and have a seat." Dropping the shawl on the sofa, she retreated to the next room. Grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby chair, she collected her laptop and planner.
When she returned to the living room, she found Marc sitting on the floor before the fire, his coat discarded over the back of the sofa. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened at the collar. Glancing away, she sat down cross-legged on the opposite side of the mantel.
"So, what do we know about Levitz and Stacy?" she asked. "Likes, dislikes, etc."
He released a small laugh. "Is this always where you start?" he asked. "I mean, don't you ever look at the author's work? What could be more flattering than an event tailored to their baby, their book?"
She snapped her laptop shut. "I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to work together," she answered, climbing to her feet.
"No, wait." He held up his hand. "I take it back. I'm sorry." She expected to see laughter in his dark eyes, but there was none. Nothing but sincerity.
She sank back down. Instead of reaching for her laptop, she pulled a sheet of paper and pen from the stationary pad in the bookshelf.
"Maybe you're right," she said, after a moment's silence. "I sometimes get a
little ... trapped ... in the same way of looking at things."
She cleared her throat. "Let's try this again. What do we think Levitz and Stacy would absolutely die to experience?" She met his eyes with a challenging grin.
His own lips curved in a similar response. "All right," he answered. "Now we're getting somewhere." Reaching into her briefcase, he pulled out a copy of the duo's first book.
"Take the other one out, too," she said. Reaching inside again, he pulled out a city travel guide.
"It doesn't have to be a scenic venture," he protested. "Let's just start with the brainstorming and see where it leads us."
"Because this is how I brainstorm," she responded, snatching the guide from his hand. "And unless you want to play along, you can get back in your car and discuss this in the morning with me."
He groaned. "Fine. Have it your way." Flipping through the pages of the authors' book, he cleared his throat. "Chapter one—where roller derby meets steampunk."
Two hours later, the floor was covered with crumpled pages. Lisel lay on her side, scribbling designs in the carpet with her inkless pen, while Marc was dozing off against the sofa with the book on his lap.
She reached over and slammed it shut, awakening him. "We're not getting anywhere using your new method," she announced coldly.
"Give it time," he mumbled. She groaned.
"Just go away so I can get some sleep," she answered. "Isn't it enough we make each other miserable at work without doing it at home, too?"
He opened his eyes and gazed at her. "We didn't have to make each other miserable," he said. "We chose that. Remember?"
She shook her head. "No, you chose that," she answered. Shoving aside the pile of papers, she crawled to her knees.
"What about a derby night?" she asked. Pausing for a moment, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Not like the local skating rink. One with all the original features. Like tag team competitions, greasy refreshments—only with strobe lights and techno music and other modern fixtures."
