A Cinderella Christmas Carol (Suddenly Cinderella)

by Tarr, Hope

  Starr crept closer so as not to startle her. A few steps in, understanding struck. “Oh my God, she’s me!”

  Flanking her side, Matt nodded. “On the Christmas you turned ten.” He strolled over to the old-fashioned radio alarm clock set on a rusted snack tray, the room’s only table. “Looks like you have another seven and a half minutes to go.”

  A jingle of keys announced the apartment door opening. A red-haired woman in a shapeless coat stepped inside, her arms weighted with bags and her weary young face wreathed by a big smile. “Merry Christmas Birthday!”

  Starr turned toward her, a lump lodging in her throat. “Mom?”

  The Spirit touched her arm. “She can’t see or hear you. She’s only a shadow. They both are.”

  “And yet they—we—look so…real.”

  Child Starr whipped around. “Mommy!” she cried out, aquamarine eyes shining. The TV forgotten, she shot to her feet and flew across the room. Heedless of her mother’s full arms, she hugged her hard. “I thought you had to work all night. I didn’t think you were coming.” Between her mother’s day job at the deli and moonlighting nights at the 24/7 diner, they hadn’t had much time together.

  Her mother’s roughened hand stroked Child Starr’s curls. “I told them I needed to take off early, that Christmas is my baby’s birthday.”

  Child Starr lifted her head and looked up. “It’s almost midnight.”

  Her mother took a step back. “In that case we’d better get cracking. We’ve got a tree to decorate and a birthday pie to cut.”

  “It was Boston Crème,” Starr said aloud, remembering. “She couldn’t afford to buy a birthday cake, but her boss let her bring home one of the day-old pies so I would have…something.”

  Standing beside her, Spirit Matt laid a warm hand atop her shoulder. “It looks to me like you had quite a lot.”

  “Yeah, I guess maybe I did,” she admitted, watching the scene.

  “What tree?” Child Starr asked, her puzzled gaze searching the room.

  ”Ta da!” Her mom held out one of her bags, a burlap-bagged spruce, the tree so tiny and misshapen it was little more than a twig. “I was lucky, the tree seller gave it to me for free. It was his last one left, and he wanted to go home and be with his family. What do you think?”

  Child Starr stared at the tree, her face falling, and Adult Starr remembered struggling with her disappointment. She’d seen the big, beautiful trees for sale earlier in the week, and her mom’s little tree in no way measured up. “It kinda looks like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree,” she finally answered, biting her bottom lip.

  Her mother propped the tree against the wall and put down the other bags beside it. Still wearing her coat, she turned back to Child Starr and dropped to her knees so that they were on eye-level. “Starr, sweetie, not everything is measured by how much it does or doesn’t cost. It’s the love we put into things—into each other—that matters the most. That’s what Christmas is all about. That’s why I call you Starr, after the star that guided the Wise Men to Bethlehem. You give my life purpose, baby girl. You’re my reason for going on.”

  Child Starr’s mouth curved into a smile. “Beats Cynthia, I guess.”

  Her mother let out a laugh and reached to ruffle Child Starr’s curls. “Naming you Cynthia was, I’ll admit, your father’s idea.”

  “Too bad he didn’t bother sticking around for the baptism,” Adult Starr said, fending off the familiar stab of pain.

  She’d grown up believing her father had died in an accident. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she’d learned the truth; he hadn’t wanted to be a husband or a dad. He’d split a few months after Starr was born, leaving her mom holding the proverbial bag—and the baby.

  As yet blissfully ignorant of that family fact, Child Starr only smiled. “I’m glad you came home, Mommy.”

  “So am I, Starry Girl, so am I. But I don’t want you to ever worry. No matter how late I have to work, I’ll always come home to you, promise.”

  Eyes damp, Starr watched as the salvaged tree was summarily set in its stand and the diner leftovers spread out on the blanket along with plastic forks and paper plates. Her mother punched ten slender pink wax candles into the pie’s wilting whipped cream topping, lit them with her Bic disposable lighter, and sang “Happy Birthday” in her endearingly tone-deaf voice. Child Starr made a wish and blew out the candles, all ten, and they devoured big sloppy pieces of melted, slightly stale pie that, Starr remembered, had tasted delicious. Afterward, late though it was, mother and child busied themselves with stringing popcorn and hanging handmade craft paper ornaments on the tree.

  “Poor in pocket, rich in love,” the Spirit’s voice broke in, startling her.

  Eyes filling, she turned away from the cozy tableau. “Mom could always spin shit into gold. She still can. She has a knack for making something out of nothing.”

  Except when it came to men. By the next year, her mother would have met and married Jeff, AKA Loser Husband Number One. Along with monopolizing her mother, Jeff took over their apartment, including the TV remote, as though he owned it—pretty ironic considering he stayed jobless for most of the six-year marriage. Twilight Zone episodes were few and far between. So were smiles. Listening to him burping back beer and cursing from the couch hadn’t made for a very happy Christmas birthday. Eventually Starr had stopped celebrating it, and Christmas, altogether.

  Spirit Matt lifted a dark eyebrow and studied her with his inscrutable hazel gaze. “You’re a lot like her.”

  Caught off guard, she whirled on him. “I am nothing like my mother.”

  Getting knocked up while still in high school, working for pittance wages and putting up with rich people’s crap, going through men like they were facial tissue—her mother’s path wasn’t one she’d ever wanted to walk down. From an early age, Starr had made certain she set her course for a very different life, focusing on books and not boys, taking shit from no one, and making sure she made the grades to earn a scholarship to NYU’s journalism program.

  Rather than argue, the spirit said, “It’s time to move on.” He held out his hand.

  Still miffed, she stared at the offered hand as though it were a snake before relenting and taking it. “Let me guess, assuming we’re staying at all on script, the second whistle stop on this Christmas Train would be—”

  “Christmas Present.”

  Chapter Four

  They were back in Manhattan, in the East Village, standing outside of Central Bar. Unlike Astoria, still buried beneath sludge from the latest snowstorm, here the streets and sidewalks were pristinely salted and swept.

  Emotionally raw from the recent visit to Christmas Past, Starr turned to Spirit Matt. “A bar, seriously? If you wanted a drink, I have beer in the fridge at home. As it is, I’m feeling a little underdressed, not to mention I’m pretty sure there’s a no-bare-feet rule for patrons. Join me or not, it’s up to you.”

  She turned toward Fourth Avenue. Fortunately, the Irish pub–styled watering hole was only a few short blocks’ walk from her Union Square apartment. He caught her arm. Though his grip was light, he held her in place with no apparent effort. Starr hoisted her head, intending to tell him to go to Hell. Instead she froze, spellbound. Even draped in the silly sparkling suit, the Matt before her was one hunk of human spirit. Drinking in the beauty of his sculpted features, basking in the intensity of his glowing gaze, she wondered what it would feel like to have the real Matt hold her as his spirit form was so masterfully managing. Giving herself a mental shake, she reminded herself that as his boss, she couldn’t afford to find out. Dating a subordinate wouldn’t get her fired, but it could be the death knell to a future promotion. Like her visits to Christmas Past and now Present, any thought of a future with Matt Landry was best left to her dreams.

  “Remember,” Spirit Matt was saying, “no one can see us. Besides, I didn’t bring you here to drink. I brought you here to show you something—someone.” Dropping his hand from her arm, he rea
ched around her to open the door, and then held it for her to enter.

  Grudgingly, Starr stepped through. “Have it your way. The sooner you show me whatever—whoever—it is, the sooner we can leave.”

  The bar was wreathed with plastic holly and twinkle lights and packed with people. Matt—presumably the real one—and several members of her team occupied one of the wooden booths. Judging from the empty glassware littering the tabletop and the slouched postures of everyone but him, they’d been here a while. Matt, she remembered from their office Fine Wine Fridays, wasn’t much of a drinker.

  She whipped around to the spirit. “They went to Central Bar?”

  Expression inscrutable, he nodded. “Indeed, they did.”

  Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that the drinks meet-up might be in her hood, let alone just a five minutes’ walk from her building. She’d been so intent on saying no to Matt that she hadn’t thought to ask where they were headed. Who knew, if she’d agreed to come along, the evening might have ended with Matt, the real Matt, walking her home. The thought had her feeling fluttery—and wistful.

  They edged closer to the table just as Terri slammed her beer mug on the top. “Seriously, Matt, are you like…defending her? After what she’s just done to us, all of us, how can you?”

  Leaning into Spirit Matt, Starr whispered, “You’re sure they can’t see or hear us?”

  Dividing her gaze between two Matts, the spirit version and the man, was disorienting to say the least. Even for someone who’d grown up on fantasies of alternate universes and time bends, it was a lot to wrap her mind around.

  He nodded. “We’re air to them.”

  Starr swallowed hard and returned her attention to the table.

  Matt spoke up. “I’m just saying she’s under a lot of pressure to put out the February issue, especially with Macie gone, and she could use our support.”

  Kent, the production assistant, scoffed. “Since when does the Iron Lady need anyone’s support?”

  Starr turned to Spirit Matt. “They call me the Iron Lady? Like Meryl Streep playing Margaret Thatcher in the movie?”

  He shifted on his feet and stared down, much like the real Matt sometimes did when he was weighing his words—and trying not to hurt someone’s feelings. “I suppose it could be interpreted as a compliment.”

  Sure the reference could be a compliment—only taking in the byplay, the smirking and elbowing and eye-rolling. but she didn’t doubt it was meant as anything but a dig. “Yeah, well, I’m not running for political office. I don’t need to be popular. I just need to get the freakin’ magazine out and to do that I don’t need friends. I need workhorses.”

  The spirit shushed her. “Quiet, you’re missing it—and it’s about to get really good.”

  Reluctantly, she turned back.

  Terri—tongue loosened from several beers judging from the empty bottles parked in front of her—was taking no prisoners. “I guess we’ll all be supporting her bright and early on December twenty-sixth. When I called my folks to tell them I’d have to drive back on Christmas night and miss our annual midnight walk on the beach, my mom cried. She fucking cried, Matt.”

  Jim, the production manager, traveled his bleary gaze about the group. “My twin brother’s on leave from Afghanistan. I haven’t seen Dave since he shipped out. We made a pact to spend the holiday week hanging out in Ohio, just the two of us. Now I’m not going to get to see him, not for Christmas, not at all!”

  Scott, Starr’s head copywriter and silent until now, added, “Look, Landry, I get that you’re a nice guy and a team player, and I respect you, I do. But what you’re not getting here—what’s missing from the equation for you—is that Starling’s not playing on any team but her own. Wake up and smell the coffee, man. We’re nothing but slaves to her. Slaves.”

  Starr swallowed hard. That she’d just said as much to Spirit Matt wasn’t lost on her. For the first time in a long time, she felt genuinely ashamed of her behavior. Knowing that she was hated, more or less universally, was hard enough to face. Knowing that she’d earned it, every snicker and sour word, made it doubly hard to stand her ground and watch.

  She turned to Spirit Matt, but his attention was riveted on the scene ahead almost as if he’d forgotten her. Reaching out, she touched his elbow, solid beneath the glittery garb. “Can we go now—please?”

  Still staring ahead, he shook his head. “Be patient. I told you it’s about to get really good.”

  She forced herself to turn back. What more could they possibly say to wound her? She was half afraid to find out.

  Real Matt pursed his lips—his beautifully shaped, kissable lips—and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s fair or true. Sure, she works the team hard but she works herself hardest of any of us.”

  He was defending her! When was the last time someone had had her back? Other than her mother, she couldn’t think of a single soul.

  “Yeah, well, unlike us, she managed to score a big fat holiday bonus for herself while we get nada. What about that?” Kent growled.

  Starr had stood by silently—or mostly silent—until now, but enough was enough. “That is so not fair!”

  She’d fought hard to get her people bonuses, damned hard, lion hard. Didn’t they get that the final decision wasn’t hers, but that of corporate? She couldn’t help that magazine revenues were down or that the country was still stuck in an economic recession. Her own end-of-year bonus had been slashed by half from the previous year as part of the fallout she was still fielding from Macie’s blown undercover investigation. Starr was the managing editor, as her boss had felt the need to point out at her annual performance review earlier that month. They were paying her to manage her people, not be their bestie. Starr had had no choice but to grit her teeth and take the lecture in silence and the check in hand. She had rent and bills to pay just like they did. What was she supposed to have done, give the money back?

  A sly smile slipped over Kent’s face. “Maybe you don’t have to miss that beach walk with your family after all, Terri.”

  Matt whipped around to Kent. “What are you saying?”

  Kent braced both elbows on the beer-sopped table and leaned closer. “What if we were to go rogue on her? Not in-your-face rogue like what Graham pulled. More like coming down with the Blue Flu.”

  The Blue Flu? They wouldn’t dare…

  Scott straightened. “We call in sick at the same time? You think that’ll work?”

  Kent shrugged. “What’s she gonna do, fire us all? If she wants that precious February issue to make it out of the gate, she won’t dare.” His gaze glinted. “We’ll have Boss Lady by the balls.”

  The girl from reception, nameless to Starr, giggled. “Brass balls, you mean.”

  Terri stopped tracing the water ringing the bottom of her glass and brightened. “That’s genius!”

  Starr sucked in a gasp. Didn’t they understand what was at stake? If they blew February, the biggest revenue-generating issue of the year, the magazine would sink faster than the Titanic and then none of them, Starr included, would have jobs. She swung her gaze back to Matt. Even before he spoke, his expression told her that he alone understood.

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “You all do what you want, but I’m going in on December twenty-sixth, and if I have to eat, shower, and sleep in the office all week to get the February issue out on time, I’ll do it.”

  Kent’s gaze narrowed. “What’s your problem, Landry? Don’t tell me, let me guess—bad bout of ‘hot for teacher’?”

  Kent never knew what hit him, not until it was too late. Matt launched himself across the bar table, grabbed the smirking photographer by the shirt collar, and, freeing up one fisted hand, socked him squarely in the jaw. Spit and blood sloshed out of the agape mouth. Standing tall like the Jedi knight of Starr’s geek-girl fantasies, Matt let go and took a step back.

  Bravado crumbling like a stale Christmas cookie, Kent slid back down into his booth seat, clutching his split
lip. “Jesus, I think you loosened a tooth.”

  Matt flexed his hand, the knuckles already showing bruises. “If I did, you asked for it. Next time, it’ll be a broken nose.”

  Seeing him, normally so mild-mannered and chill, lose control was shocking—and super sexy. Feeling as if her heart were swelling, Starr spun around to Spirit Matt. “Thank you!” She reached out to touch him but dropped her hand before she could, her emotions a tangle of awe, gratitude—and desire.

  He snapped his fingers and the bar scene froze. “Don’t thank me, thank him. I’m just a hallucination, remember?” The grin he gave her was the same she’d by now seen on countless occasions when, even in the midst of magazine mayhem, their gazes always seemed to meet and meld as if they were the only two people in the room.

  Starr felt the corners of her own mouth lifting. So this was what smiling felt like. It had been so long she scarcely remembered. “Not a hallucination—a dream.”

  And maybe, just maybe, her Dream Man.

  Chapter Five

  Another dizzying whoosh carried them to their final stop: Christmas Future. Recalling Dickens’s text—the slender volume had started out as a ghost story after all—Starr steeled herself. She had a pretty good idea of how this last visit would go—grim, definitely grim.

  She opened her eyes and looked around. They were in Manhattan still, on the Upper East Side at 96th Street. The building before them looked to be about twenty stories, neither posh nor poor. They entered the modest lobby. A tidily dressed attendant kept vigil behind the desk. Out of habit, Starr stopped to sign in, and then remembered that she was, for the present purpose, invisible.

  Spirit Matt led them over to the elevators. The doors opened and they stepped on.

  “Traveling by elevator seems like a comedown after flying,” she joked as the doors closed.

  They stopped on the sixth floor and the spirit led the way down the modest, carpeted hallway. Two apartments flanked the far end. Starr started to ask which unit when the door to 6C flew open.