by Sarah Jio
“Morning,” I say to Lo, who looks up from the counter and pushes her dark-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. We met in a college geology class and bonded over the fact that rocks made us drowsy. And so we took turns keeping each other awake on Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch, at one o’clock, which is the very worst time to take a course that’s focused entirely on limestone and tectonic plates. Miraculously, we both managed to finish the semester with a pair of B minuses.
“I hate poinsettias,” she says with dramatic flair.
I hang my coat on the hook in the back room and reach for my apron. “So do I,” I say, glancing at the orders on the computer screen behind the counter. “But look at this. This may be our highest-grossing holiday season yet.” I roll up my sleeves. “Let’s do this thing.”
“Best-case scenario,” Lo says, “we finish up by five so I can meet my date at six.”
“A date on Christmas Eve? Lo!”
“Why not?” she says. “Who wants to be alone on Christmas Eve?”
To the average assessor, Lo could be (a) a hopeless romantic, (b) a dating genius, or (c) addicted to love. The number of men in her life is staggering, and she, not unlike Flynn, never seems to find any kind of lasting satisfaction with any of her conquests. Over time, I’ve begun to see that it’s the game, the pursuit of love, that Lo enjoys. I have decided that she does not love love, but rather the idea of love.
“Oh, come on, Lo,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with being alone on Christmas Eve. And besides, you could always come over to my house.”
She grins coyly. “If all goes as I hope, I’ll be spending the evening at Eric’s house.”
“You know,” I say, shaking my head, “you’re going to get coal in your stocking this year.”
She smiles. “Oh, I’m tight with Santa.”
I open the cash register and eye the till, then say with unabashed sarcasm, “Yeah, because he’s an ex-boyfriend.”
Lo lets out a laugh. “He couldn’t be. I don’t date men older than forty-two, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, smiling. “I forgot about your rules.” I sort through a stack of checks from yesterday. “You like to write—you should write a book about dating.”
“Like a memoir, you mean?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Or maybe you need a talk radio show. It could be called Lo on Love.”
She nods. “I’ve thought about that. I mean, I do have a lot of material.”
The bells on the shop door jingle. An older man walks in and pauses to look at the arrangements in the window. At first I don’t recognize him, but when he turns around, Lo and I exchange glances. “It’s Creepy Christmas Customer,” she whispers to me. I nod.
And, to be fair, creepy might not be the best word. Unusual, maybe, for his presence is a bit of a mystery. He comes in every year on Christmas Eve and orders the most expensive arrangement in the shop, utters no more than five words, and tips heavily.
“He looks like the kind of person who killed his wife and keeps her body parts in his basement freezer,” Lo had said once.
“No,” I’d said. “He just looks lonely.”
“I don’t know,” she had replied. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
And, I suppose, it’s what gives me pause this morning, and every Christmas Eve before this. This man pays attention only to me, not to Lo.
I take a deep breath and smile at him as he approaches the counter with a slight limp. He wears a pair of khaki pants and a rain slicker. “Hello again,” I say cautiously. “Another Christmas Eve.”
He nods.
“Will it be your usual arrangement?”
He nods again, and I immediately get to work on his flowers, snipping and blending until I have just the right mix.
“Will this do?” I ask, holding the vase out to him.
“It’s perfect,” he replies, eyes fixed on me.
“Good,” I say, ringing him up.
“Merry Christmas.” He hands me a wad of cash. He doesn’t smile, just stares at me for a long moment, and for a tiny second, I can see a flicker of feeling in his eyes. Sadness? Regret? Flowers have a way of stirring up emotion in people. Memories of love found and lost, Christmases past, new beginnings and finish lines—all can be conjured up by petals and greenery. Perhaps that’s why he comes every year. To remember.
“Merry Christmas,” I reply as he walks out the door, bells jingling as it closes behind him.
Lo leans over my shoulder as I count out the one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “One thousand dollars?” she says, annoyed. “The dude is weird.”
I shrug. “He’s definitely odd—but hey, I’m not complaining.” I tuck the cash in the till. “This will pay for those two windowpanes that need fixing up front.”
Our mysterious customer is forgotten the moment a man in his midforties enters the shop. He’s tall, with slightly graying hair and a strong-looking face, a bit weathered, as if he’s spent too many summers at the beach, but the look suits him somehow.
“Can I help you?” Lo asks, walking toward him. He pauses, the way most men pause when in Lo’s presence. She’s beautiful in an old-fashioned way: porcelain skin; dark, perfectly straight hair (a unique combination passed down from her relatives in the Basque region of Spain); an ample chest and tiny waist.
The man rubs his forehead. “Yes,” he says quickly. “I’m stopping in to pick up an arrangement of flowers for . . . Christmas. My . . . we . . . we have a lot of family in town. I thought we could use something for the table.”
Lo smiles and points to a display of decorative urns filled with red roses, white tulips, and greenery. “Definitely consider one of these,” she says. “It’s a statement, but won’t overpower the table.”
The man casts a quick glance at the arrangement, before his eyes fix back on Lo’s. “You’re perfect—I mean . . .” he stammers, “you definitely know flowers. It’s perfect.”
She grins as she carries the arrangement to the cash register, where she rings him up.
“Merry Christmas,” he says slowly, before turning to the door.
“Merry Christmas,” Lo says with a grin.
Once he’s left, I place my hands on my hips. “Lo, he’s way too old for you.”
She pretends to busy herself with an arrangement.
“And I know you’re going to hate me for confronting reality, but there’s the tiny, inconvenient fact that the man is married. Don’t tell me you didn’t see the gold band.”
She shrugs. “Oh, I didn’t notice.”
“You’re impossible,” I say, half-amused, half-annoyed.
“Oh, Jane, stop being such a prude. You know I’d never go out with a married man.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “But it could make an interesting chapter in the book.”
I scowl at her.
“Kidding,” she says.
“Good.”
Bing Crosby’s voice croons over the speakers as we turn back to our work. Earlier, Elaine suggested that I make myself a flower arrangement, and in spite of the orders I have to get to, I find myself reaching for the green roses in the bucket behind the counter, which I intersperse with winter greens. For me, for Mom.
I send Lo home at a quarter to five so she can get ready for her date, and after Juan, our delivery driver, picks up the last batch of arrangements at six thirty, I decide to call it a day myself. I zip up my coat, attach Sam’s leash, and step out to the curb, where, on a whim, I decide to toss one of the last fir wreaths on my arm. I reach for the flower arrangement I made earlier, then lock up the shop.
The market is quiet, but it’s not the usual dinnertime calm. It’s a lonely quiet. It’s the sound of people who are elsewhere—drinking warm drinks beside roaring fires, seated next to loved ones, where they belong. It’s the sound of people belonging.
I sigh and walk ahead. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be with anyone on Christmas Eve. I am not like Lo. I am not like Flynn. I am not like, well, anyone. I am content with Sam and a good book, a glass of wine, and then bedtime. Holidays are overrated, especially this holiday.
I pass the newsstand and wonder what Mel’s doing tonight. The lights are dim in Meriwether Bakery, and I wonder if Elaine finished the pie orders for the day. I imagine her on Hamlin Street holding a platter with a turkey or a roast, or whatever people eat on Christmas Eve, presiding over the family table, beaming with love. I walk through the empty lobby to the elevator. Bernard has gone home for the night, and I think of him too. I think of him settling in with a hot toddy beside his wife, Sharon, thinking about the snow clouds.
The elevator doors open, and I press the button for the fourth floor. A moment later, I unlock the door to my apartment and walk into the dark entryway. Sam laps up water from his bowl, and I set down my keys. I lift the wreath from my arm and hang it on the nail inside the door, then set the vase of flowers on the mantel, where Mom would have placed them.
“Merry Christmas, Sammers,” I say. He’s the only one who can hear the weakness in my voice, the tiny tremor. I reach into my pocket to locate my cell phone, which is when I find the pink envelope I tucked away this morning.
I turn on the light in the kitchen and eye the unfamiliar handwriting. There is no return address, but the envelope is postmarked Seattle. Curious, I tear open the flap and lean against the counter as I survey the birthday card, then begin to read the message written inside:
Dear Jane,
You don’t know me, but I met you on the day of your birth. On that day, you were given a gift, a rare and special gift, passed down to a select few through the ages, one that affords you the ability to see love in all of its forms in a way that others cannot. But with this gift comes great responsibility and a task that must be completed before your next birthday, before sunset on the day you turn thirty. The rest I must tell you about in person. Will you please meet me at my apartment in Pioneer Square the day after Christmas? We’ll have tea at two. I’m in the Waldron Building on Main Street. Apartment 17. I’ll be expecting you.
Yours,
Colette Dubois
I set the card down on the counter as if it could quite possibly be contaminated with anthrax.
I shake my head, then slip off my shoes and walk to the window seat in the living room that overlooks Elliott Bay. It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. I hear Bernard’s voice in my head then. “Four inches of snow tonight . . . See those, snow clouds . . . They show us what we need to see.”
The sky is dark, but in the glow of the streetlights below, I see a flurry of snowflakes in the air. A layer of white is just beginning to stick to the street below.
I think of the birthday card on the counter and the cryptic words inside: “. . . you were given a gift . . . one that affords you the ability to see love in all of its forms in a way that others cannot.” I think about how foggy love has been for me, so unclear. And how, even though I deal in a business of love and help people express theirs through flowers, I know nothing of it myself. Nothing at all. I think of my college boyfriend who broke up with me for my roommate; the chef who criticized my cooking, then called it off after tasting my apple tart (which I secretly bought from Meriwether); the medical student I dated last year for two weeks, who turned out to be also dating every third woman in Seattle.
Me? A person who can identify love? Some joke. I consider calling Flynn right now and telling him off. This is absolutely something he’d do. And if I do go to that apartment in Pioneer Square, it will surely be a setup. I’ll knock on the door and one of his single guy friends will be there ready to take me on a charity date. I cringe.
Sam nuzzles my leg, and I scratch his neck. “You’re all I need, Sammers,” I say, then press my nose against the window and watch the snow fall from the sky like flour, coming from a great sifter in the sky. That’s when I remember the image I saw in the clouds this morning. I didn’t tell Bernard, of course; nor will I tell anyone else. But it was there, as big as life: a heart. A perfectly formed heart, dangling from the sky like a Mylar balloon.
Chapter 2
2201 Hamlin Street
Christmas Day
Jack and Ellie wake up their parents the way most young children do on Christmas morning, with unmeasured exuberance. Elaine is jarred from a deep sleep by a child jumping on her bed. There’s a knee on her chest and a pair of small hands tapping her cheeks. She opens her eyes and tries her best not to groan. The sun has not yet shown its face, and she was up until two a.m. wrapping presents after a long day at the bakery. But it’s Christmas morning; everyone knows that children make the rules on Christmas morning. And somewhere in the kitchen there is an espresso machine that will produce a double-shot Americano with her name on it. She yawns and turns to her husband. “Here we go,” she whispers with a smile.
The two of them follow their children downstairs and Elaine is struck, as she sometimes is in quiet moments of family togetherness—at the breakfast table on Saturday mornings, for instance, or on the random Tuesday night before bed when the kids are brushing their teeth together—at how perfect her life looks. They could pose for a picture on a postcard of the beautiful American family, the type you see in a magazine, in which the husband wears a polo shirt and tucks his arm around his wife, who looks effortless in a wrap dress and heels, while their two towheaded children smile with angelic expressions. And in that moment, as she watches her husband and their two children bound down the stairs, she is overcome with the feeling of being on the outside looking in. She is suddenly a stranger, standing in the three inches of fresh snow outside, wiping the foggy window with her mitten, and peering into the life of a perfect family, in a perfect house, in a perfect world. But Elaine does not feel perfect, and she has not for a very long time.
“You coming, Laney?” Matthew says.
Elaine, standing motionless at the base of the stairs, snaps out of her frozen state and nods. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Let them get started on their stockings. I’m going to go make some coffee.”
Christmas morning comes and goes like a tornado. An hour later, Elaine and Matthew are surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper, and the children have run off to play in other rooms with whatever toy has captivated them most. Quiet descends on the house.
Elaine looks at her watch. “I should call Jane; it’s her birthday. Do you think I should insist that she come over for dinner tonight? You already mentioned it to her yesterday, but I know she’s cautious about intruding, and I want her to feel welcome. I—”
Matthew places his fingers against her lips. “Jane will be fine,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Remember our wedding day?”
Elaine and Matthew were married on Christmas Eve twelve years ago, during a candlelight service at a Presbyterian church on Fifth Avenue. The pews had been decorated with holly and boughs of cedar, and they’d had their guests join them in singing “O Holy Night” before the close of the ceremony.
“Yes,” she says, reminiscing. There was snow on the ground, and her white ballet slippers got soaked when she walked up the steps to the church. As a result, she walked down the aisle barefoot.
“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “I forgot your anniversary present this year.”
Matthew smiles. “I didn’t forget yours.”
He never does, this husband of hers. He remembers every holiday. Every occasion. And marks them with a card, a vase of flowers, or a gift. Without fail.
“There’s one last present under the tree,” he says.
Elaine frowns. “You’re a better human being than I am.”
“Perhaps,” he says cheekily. He reaches beneath the festive branches, then hands his wife a small white box tied with a red ribbon.
She pulls the ribbon free from the box and le
ts it fall to the floor. Could it be? Did he remember? They’ve talked about it over the years, casually, but she mentioned it to him just a few months ago. The charm bracelet she had as a girl, the one she lost at the top of a carnival Ferris wheel when she was twelve. She’d decorated it with charms representative of the moments of her life—a tiny wedding cake from her grandmother, a garden spade from her father, and that little half of a broken heart from her best friend, Angela, that every girl in the 1980s had in some fashion or another—and in a moment of horror, it had slipped off her wrist. When she went to look for it, it was as if the earth had swallowed it up, and with it, all of her childhood memories. For her whole life, she’s hoped to find a replacement for it. Has Matthew finally found one? Did he remember?
Her eyes sting with tears as she lifts the lid of the box and pulls back the double layer of tissue paper. And in an instant . . . her heart sinks.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” he says, smiling confidently, pointing to the old bureau ahead, the one with the glass knobs that the kids shattered accidentally, years ago, when they attempted to “fix” the house with a hammer they’d found in the garage.
“They’re . . . yes,” Elaine says breathlessly. Tears well up in her eyes, and she forces them back as she lifts one of the antique knobs out of the box. “Perfect.”
Matthew kisses her lips lightly, then stands up to stretch. “Time for some coffee,” he says, making his way to the kitchen.
Elaine hates the way she feels. Ungrateful. Idealistic. Childish, even. But something has stirred inside her. Inside her perfect life, inside her perfect home, and her perfect marriage, there is a disconnect that she cannot ignore. She feels it in small moments and big. And as she looks at the glass knobs in the little box in her hands, she feels it once again.
The doorbell rings at four, and in the whirlwind of Christmas Day and cooking, Elaine has almost forgotten that they are entertaining guests for dinner. She looks up from the sweet potatoes she’s mashing when Ella bursts into the kitchen grinning from ear to ear. “Mom, look who came! The new neighbors!”
