Christmas in Cactus Flats and Other Holiday Romances

by Laura Briggs

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "That would be great if those places still existed," he answered. "Only now they've been converted into grocery stores and clothing chains." He rose and reached for his coat.

  "But not Strother's," she answered. He stared at her uncomprehendingly as he slid his arm into his coat sleeve.

  "The old roller derby rink just outside the city," she clarified. She flipped through the pages of the book, searching for information. "It must be in here somewhere—it's practically a historic site. The original fixtures are all still in it. It's like a museum, the owners sometimes let people tour it for a few dollars."

  "Are you serious?" He shrugged his coat on.

  She rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you did a little research for once, you would know these things." She opened the book to the right page and smacked her finger in the middle of it.

  He moved behind her, peering over her shoulder. "If we fitted it out with a couple of disco balls, maybe some strobe lights. There's a place that does it for some of the theaters in town. We could get the Chicken Factory restaurant to cater for the night—they used to sponsor a women's roller derby league."

  "Perfect," she said. "We'll call tomorrow and see if they'll agree to rent it for a night,"

  Her face flushed with triumph as she tossed the book onto the sofa. Scrambling to her feet, she turned and bumped into Marc. Their bodies made contact, their faces mere inches apart. Her gaze brushed across his five o' clock shadow and the curves of his face, until she reached his eyes. Taking a long look into those dark pools.

  "I guess my idea worked, huh?" His familiar grin crept back into place. The color vanished from her cheeks in response. She averted her eyes, checking her watch to see the one o' clock hour.

  "Relax, I'm leaving." Marc seemed to have read her thoughts. He turned towards the door, letting his hand rest on the knob. She didn't turn around to watch him go.

  "See you tomorrow." His voice sounded distant.

  "Sure," Lisel answered, as she stuffed the books back into her briefcase. "And Marc," she added, just before he closed the door. "Don't talk about last Christmas anymore, huh?"

  "Whatever you say," he answered. The door closed a moment later.

  *****

  The Elk Run Resort kept its word about entertainment, with a placard appearing in the lobby for a Holiday Ball. Marc studied the paper figures dancing on the poster with a grimace. With only the limited number of guests staying in the hotel— most of them married—would this mean an evening of playing solitaire?

  He debated skipping altogether. He came here to get away from suits and ties, not find excuses to wear them.

  But at seven o' clock he came downstairs anyway, in a pressed suit and green tie that seemed appropriate for the holiday season. The main doors to the dining room were thrown open, revealing a spacious dance floor within, the tables moved into cozy corner settings. A five-piece band played jazz tunes as a few couples took a turn out on the floor.

  He mingled with a crowd of guests busy chatting near the doorway about jobs and daily responsibilities. His eye wandered the room—looking for what? He wasn't sure.

  Until he saw Lisel in the doorway.

  Her dress was a rich shade of plum, shimmering like red wine poured into a glass. It reached the floor in a soft pool, its low neckline above accented by a simple rhinestone choker. Her hair was piled in elaborate ringlets pinned with rhinestone clips.

  She made her way into the room slowly, her lips parted in a smile of excitement. It occurred to him that until this moment, he had never seen her in anything but muted tones designed for business. It occurred to him also that he had never seen her so happy.

  He made his way through crowd, squeezing between a group engaged in spirited debate. Light sprang into her blue eyes as she spotted him emerging on the other side.

  He held out his hand. "Care to dance?" he asked.

  She hesitated, her lip twisting slightly. "I don't actually know how," she answered. "I guess I just thought I'd come downstairs and watch." She shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

  "Hey, I'll teach a little bit. It's easy," he said. He reached down and took her hand, leading her onto the floor. She squirmed slightly at the sight of so many couples surrounding them, so he steered her towards the vacant space near the windows.

  "All right, here we go." He planted a hand on her waist, the other intertwined with her fingers. "Now, feel for my cues. When I step, you step the opposite way. Got it?"

  She nodded. He took a tentative step forward, feeling her body move backwards in response.

  "Good," he said. "Now, to the side—" she repeated the motion, mimicking his movements with a halting grace.

  "Now turn," he whispered. She followed his movement, completing the curve with a sweep of her skirts.

  "This if fun," she said. Her eyes were shining, her voice filled with the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning. Her shoulders straightened gradually as she found her confidence. He moved slowly and steadily to keep her from fumbling. Although he began to think her falling against him might be a stroke of luck.

  "It's a shame we can't operate this smoothly as a team on a regular basis," he said. "Think of what we could accomplish—me the brains, you the organization." He raised his arm, twirling her in a fluid motion.

  When their eyes met again, hers were narrowed. "You can't ever let it go, can you?" she answered, shaking her head. "Always the ego. Did it ever occur to you that maybe your attitude pushes people away?"

  "How?" he asked. "It's just confidence. If people can't handle it, what am I supposed to do? Pretend to be clueless?" Her hand gripped his shoulder in a playful squeeze.

  "That's what I'm talking about," she answered. "It's not the confidence, Marc. It's the bragging and the cockiness. Not to mention the flirtation." She lowered her voice slightly. "You never give anybody a chance to get to know the real you. You know, the guy who has some flaws."

  "What about your flaws?" he asked. "Did you ever think maybe you're a little too controlling? Or maybe a little too set in your ways?" He spun her an arm's length away, her skirt twirling.

  "I'm not saying it's impossible," she admitted, reluctantly. He flicked his wrist and she repeated the twirl to return to their embrace.

  "Then you would be willing to admit that maybe my—confidence—is a response to that?" he asked, slowly.

  Their steps slowed as their eyes remained locked. He could read the emotions in the depths of her blue gaze, a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  "I guess I could agree. A little," she said. “Maybe we could change our strategy. Not by a miracle or anything, but at least a little more communication.” The hand on his shoulder trembled slightly.

  "Sometimes that works," he answered. Unable to resist, he leaned forward, his lips brushed hers, then pressed deeply against them. Her eyes fluttered closed as they kissed, her arms twining themselves around his neck in a soft embrace.

  He steered her towards the floor-length windows, to the privacy behind the red velvet drapes pulled open to reveal the snow outside. She drew away after a moment.

  "We should stop this," she whispered. "We're not thinking straight." She moved a little ways away, her eyes avoiding his.

  "I don't see anything wrong," he answered. "Don't you think we should make up for all that time spent fighting and feuding in the office?"

  "Don't remind me about that right now,” she said, her fingers distracting themselves by tucking aside a stray curl. "I don't want to be mad at you right now."

  "I'm pretty sure we can't escape that," he whispered, taking one of her hands in his own. “But I’m sorry. Not that I kissed you, but for the crowded room part.”

  “It’s all right,” she answered. “Do I look upset?” Her smile was perfectly controlled, but the same tumult of emotions swirled in her eyes.

  "You want to try again?" he asked. “A second dance, I mean.” His fingers brushed hers lightly, giving her plenty of space to pull away.

&nbs
p; "Absolutely," she answered. She moved into place again, taking his hand in hers.

  His familiar grin spread across his face as he steered her onto the floor. Their steps were the same as before, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling of her form trembling against him. Or the pounding in his own chest as thoughts of the last few minutes flashed through his mind. It was the fastest he’d ever leaped from friends to an undefined territory.

  And as surreal as this moment was, he was actually enjoying every minute of it.

  *****

  The secret Santa posters appeared pasted onto the cubicle entrance of every Holly Tree Publishing employee. Someone had designed a cheesy Santa with a big grin, sporting a mystery package covered in question marks.

  “Who’s your secret Santa?” the flyer asked its readers. “Find out what surprises await at the big bash on Christmas Eve!”

  Lisel tore the poster from her doorway and crumpled it into a ball. “Why is the party on Christmas Eve this year?” she asked. “I thought they were moving it to Wednesday.”

  “Change of plans,” Ed volunteered. “Downey’s secretary made a mistake with the caterers, so all the stuff will be delivered at five o’ clock on Christmas Eve. They’re doing Secret Santa at seven, so people with family plans can go home early.”

  She groaned. “That means only a handful of people will be left at nine.” She pictured herself and five lonely coworkers cleaning up the remains of the party. Not Marc, of course. He undoubtedly had a hot date for the holidays.

  She was tempted to ask him, as they drove along the boulevard in search of the rental equipment shop where their costumes and supplies waited for the Levitz and Stacy event. Costumes were Marc’s idea, as she recalled—one she longed to veto, but under the current truce was forced to leave in place.

  “Turn left,” said Marc, reviewing the address he printed off the web. “It’s somewhere on the right, I think. Near the slurpee shop.” She turned onto a side street with a three-level parking garage for the downtown complex.

  As she pulled into a space near the end of the aisle, Marc unsnapped his seat belt and reached for the door handle. He was tossed backwards as Lisel shifted the car into reverse and pulled out again.

  “What are you doing? This is a perfect spot,” he snapped, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “The car’s not straight,” she answered. “I’m taking up part of the one next to us.” She eased into the space again, angling to the right.

  “Am I in my space?” she asked. “Am I still in the other one?” He rolled his eyes before peering out the window.

  “Close enough,” he answered. “Let’s go.” He reached for the handle again.

  Mashing on the brake, she threw the car into reverse again. “I’m not going to take up extra space,” she answered. “Another car will end up peeling off my mirror when it parks next to us.”

  “Nobody’s gonna fight for this space, Lisel,” he protested. “There’s about twenty empty ones down here. Now park the car so we can go pick up our stuff at the shop.”

  “Maybe you don’t care since it’s not your car we’re talking about. But doing this right matters to me,” she retorted. The car jerked as she pushed it into forward gear.

  “This is just another way for you to control all the little details,” he hissed. “So just park it and forget it.”

  “I’m sure an expert like you would do it without any effort,” she replied. “Since we both know how right you are about everything.” With a mocking smile, she steered into the space again and shifted into park.

  He practically leaped from the car, slamming the door behind him. She waited until he stormed in the direction of the street exit before climbing out. If he wanted to sulk about it, fine. She would give him plenty of space to do it.

  The lines at the costume shop were strangely long for the Christmas season, with the clerk spending fifteen minutes searching for Lisel’s reserved outfit. At the sports shop, her skate rental choice was out of stock, forcing her to try on several pairs to find a replacement choice. A pair with hot pink wheels and orange laces, like something she would have worn at eight instead of twenty-eight.

  “These are vintage style all right,” joked the sales assistant. “Now all you need is a pink scrunchie and leggings.”

  “No thanks,” she answered, stuffing the skates into a box. The phone rang and the sales assistant lifted the receiver. After a moment, he hung up.

  “Are you Lisel Bishop, by any chance?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered, slightly confused.

  “A guy just called to leave a message for you. Said he was taking a cab back to the office so you could park anywhere you wanted.” He swiped her business credit card in the register.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She grabbed her packages from the counter. “Thanks for the message.”

  I’m sure he’s laughing all the way back to the office. I hope his cab doesn’t show and he ends up walking there. In six-inch deep snowdrifts. She jerked the car into gear and slid out of the parking space, glaring through the windshield at the sight of a man in a suit strolling towards the exit. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed a stranger on a cell phone.

  In the office, she stormed towards her cubicles, shifting her packages onto the desk the moment she entered. A red carhop-style dress with a pleated skirt crumpled to the floor in its plastic garment bag. She glanced in the direction of Marc’s cubicle to see if he had returned yet. It was empty, his briefcase and personal laptop gone. He was probably taking the rest of the afternoon to order a latte and spend time lounging in a downtown coffee shop.

  How could she have ever thought he was capable of being mature?

  “Can Janine borrow your skis for her trip this weekend, Lisel?” Deb leaned inside the doorway. “You said you’re not using them this Christmas—”

  “No,” Lisel snapped. “I mean, yes. Fine. She can borrow them.” She pulled the reservation sheets for tonight’s event from the tray of her printer.

  “What’s gotten into you this year?” Deb crossed her arms and surveyed Lisel suspiciously. “You’ve had a big chip on your shoulder since the beginning of the holiday season.”

  “Stop bringing up how much I dislike the holidays,” Lisel retorted. “You know I love Christmas—I’m just swamped with work this year, that’s all.” She tried to sound nonchalant about it as she glanced over her paperwork.

  “Come to think of it, you weren’t so happy after last Christmas, either,” Deb continued. “When you got back in January, you spent most of your time holed up in your cubicle with a box of chocolate. You never even brought your vacation photos to work. And you love vacation photos.”

  “There weren’t any worth showing off,” Lisel answered. “And I love chocolate, so what’s the big deal?” With a false smile, she met Deb’s stare.

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “And once this assignment is done, I’ll feel much better.” Unconvinced, Deb slid away from the doorway and returned to her cubicle.

  Once this assignment was over, it might be time to change partners, Lisel decided. Maybe she would feel less crazy once the cause of her problems was assigned to somebody else.

  *****

  Strobe lights flashed bright colors over the smooth wooden floors of the roller derby. Instead of the modern spraypainted walls of the urban skater’s hangout, the sides surrounding the rink sported vintage-style posters and framed music records.

  A soft glow issued from the concessions booths, now occupied by the Chicken Factory’s catering crew. Battered dipping strips, cheddar fries, even crisp and greasy hamburger patties served with ketchup and onion.

  The sound of techno and remixed eighties-era pop thundered from the sound system as a group of kids piled onto the wooden floor. A crew of goth, punk, and even pirates, they were participating in what looked like an electric slide on wheels.

  “This is totally rad,” Stacy informed Marc. “I mean, hip off the charts with lameness. Eighties music? She
er genius, bro.” She inspected her nails, painted with glow in the dark glitter.

  “Hey, anything for the biggest alternative sport on the web,” he answered, dipping a few French fries in mustard. “Any requests, just see the DJ in the booth by the milkshake stand.”

  “Awesome,“ Stacy said. She glided away on a pair of skates with mismatched laces. In the corner, Levitz was deeply engaged with a crowd of multi-pierced youth, chugging milkshakes beneath a disco ball.

  “Not exactly what you picture when you think of celebrity, is it?” Lisel sailed towards him on a pair of old-fashioned roller skates. She grabbed the rail to stop herself in a halting motion that suggested it had been years since she visited a rink.

  His eyes took in the sight of her red flouncey skirt and waterfall ponytail. Somewhere she had found a matching red hat like carhop waitresses wore in old burger ads.

  “You look great,” he said, in a tone softer than he intended. Its affect was a slight hardening around Lisel’s eyes and mouth.

  “Well, I’m not sure what decade you fall into,” she answered, gesturing towards his flowered Hawaiin shirt and washed-out denim.

  “I’m thinking somewhere in the eighties,” he answered. He popped another fry in his mouth. “Want some?” he asked, holding out the paper tray.

  “No thanks,” she said. She leaned her weight against the rail, facing the floor to watch a series of skaters snap glow sticks in brilliant colors.

  He cleared his throat. “It was a great idea, Lis. In fact, it’s almost as good as anything I’ve ever thought up.”

  She looked at him, her mouth twitching into a slight smile. “Almost?” she repeated. “Not on par with the Irish pubfest for the leprechaun series author, huh?” He winced slightly at the memory of a snafu involving a plaster shamrock crashing onto the dance floor.

  “Okay, okay. Every bit as good.” Her skates skidded on the wax floor and he caught her arm to steady her.