The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “The point is,” I grate out, “if this isn’t working, we need to fix it. Now.”

  We quickly agree the problem isn’t the food. Jym’s got plenty of healthy eating menus online, the town library set up a massive display of low-cal, low-fat cookbooks, and we’re even getting recipes sent in from people around the country and sharing them on the town web page.

  Additionally, as to how to handle the grocery store, fitness instructor Kami shared what she called the ‘O’ shopping experience. (No, it’s not what you think. There’s no getting naughty in the produce aisle.) Think of the layout of a grocery store and envision a trail that leads your cart around the outer walls. A big O, in other words. Stick to those outer walls—don’t go down the aisles where the cookies and pasta and chips and ice cream are displayed—and you’ll end up with a cart full of fruits and veggies, meats and dairy. She swears it works like a charm.

  “So what do you suggest?” Jym asks. I don’t miss the note of peevishness in his voice.

  Audrey says, “Easy. Make exercising fun.”

  “You have something in mind?” I ask.

  “I go to an African dance class that’s amazing.”

  “No, not gonna work,” Jym says flatly. “You introduce something too wild, you’ll drive folks away.”

  “I got news for you,” Audrey snaps back, “fifty sit-ups in a row isn’t exactly reeling ‘em in.”

  “So we change the music,” Jym says with a shrug, “break up the routines a bit. But folks still gotta show up and do the work. Cutting calories alone isn’t enough. Plus, this is a collaborative venture, remember? Folks got to do this together, help each other along. That’s the whole point.”

  “But—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I hold up my hand for silence. “You’re both right.” An idea is percolating in the back of my mind and I need a second for it to fully form. I think about what Guy French said in our meeting yesterday. About the town looking bad. About Myra Kushner and other media sites broadcasting the same stale clips of our workouts. Then I think about how happy I was to see Church Street all decked out in its holiday finery.

  “It’s Christmas season,” I say. “Two nights ago, we had our first snowfall.”

  Audrey shrugs. “So?”

  “So let’s get everybody together this weekend and go out and have some holiday fun.”

  Slym Jym stops pacing and looks at me. “Wait a minute, now. Just wait a minute…” A slow smile breaks across his normally gaunt features. “What’d you have in mind, Mayor?”

  “I’m thinking of all the fun activities there are to do during the holidays. Like… decorate a Christmas tree.”

  “Bake cookies,” volunteers Audrey.

  “Sing carols.”

  “Decorate gingerbread houses.”

  “Kiss under the mistletoe.”

  I am not thinking of Mike and our forthcoming date when I say that. It just sort of slips out.

  Audrey says, “Eat pecan pie.”

  “Walk through a snowy wood,” I counter. “Snuggle in front of a crackling fire.”

  Again, no thoughts of Mike there. None at all.

  Audrey says, “Sip rum and eggnog.”

  Jym looks at her. “You, Annie Oakley, can stop anytime. But you,” he swings his gaze toward me, “you might just be onto something. Keep going.”

  “Sledding. Ice skating. Building a snowman.”

  Jym’s grin widens. “Perfect, perfect, perfect.”

  And just like that, we have a plan. The annual tree-lighting ceremony is happening downtown Friday night. We’ll make an announcement then. Saturday at noon the town of Eaton’s first official winter carnival begins.

  THIRTEEN

  I share the idea with Therese, Esme, and Susan over lunch. Not only do they love it, they’re more than a bit relieved to take a break from Kami’s workout classes.

  “I know working out’s important,” Susan says, “but I can’t wait to change it up a bit. Do something different.”

  Esme says, “Actually, I burned 2,000 calories yesterday.”

  We all look at her, impressed.

  She waits a beat, then finishes dryly, “Last time I leave a pan of brownies in the oven unattended. Sorry,” she says, as the rest of us groan. “Baker’s humor.”

  The waitress steps in to deliver our lunches. Now, this is a local diner and one of my favorite places to eat in town. I used to come here to enjoy a hearty Reuben with a side of coleslaw and sweet potato chips. Not anymore. Today we’ve all ordered the same thing. It’s called the Slym Jym special and is basically a chef salad minus the cheese, olives, bacon, and croutons. In other words, anything that might make the salad actually worth eating.

  What’s left is a bed of romaine lettuce embellished with a few skinny strips of turkey, hard-boiled egg, tomato, and a sprinkle of cubed avocado for what Kami calls ‘good fat’. A squeeze packet of low-cal ranch dressing rests on the side. We all nod approvingly as though this is exactly what we want and dig in. Because what the salad lacks in gastronomic appeal (even Julia Child once quipped that the only reasonable time to eat a salad was while waiting for the steak to cook) is more than made up for by our unifying display of dietary fortitude and self-sacrifice.

  Ha! And you said we lacked motivation, Jym! Take that.

  I ask Esme how things are going downtown.

  She proudly informs us that as of tomorrow, Nelson will have the stores filled to one hundred percent occupancy. Church Street is officially open for business. Temporarily forgetting where we are, the four of us break into a rousing cheer, which draws curious glances from the diners around us, which leads me to make an impromptu announcement to the other patrons to let them know what we’re celebrating, which leads, incredibly, to a rush of accolades for what I’ve accomplished in my short term as mayor.

  I have to tell you, it feels pretty darn good. Therese reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. I feel like a fool, but I can’t stop smiling. I’m optimistic for Eaton’s future. And my own. Maybe campaigning won’t be so bad. Not exactly smooth sailing from here on out but maybe, just maybe, the choppy waters are behind us.

  “Well, since we’re all sharing good news,” Susan says, “I guess it’s my turn.”

  We pivot our attention to her.

  “After a short career break to be a full-time stay-at-home mother,” she announces dramatically, “followed by a humbling stint in which my valuable talents as a graphic artist were forsaken by an industry I knew and loved…” she pauses to beat a soft drumroll against the edge of the table, “I have a job! A job with a paycheck!”

  Another round of congratulatory cheers, (a little quieter this time, so as not to disturb the other diners) followed by a bombardment of questions regarding what she’s doing now.

  “Beyond Beauty!” she says. “I got the job! It’s just freelance work right now, but the assignments keep pouring in. My boss is great and he loves everything I’ve done so far.”

  “Oh, my god. I love Beyond Beauty,” Therese gushes. “I can’t get enough of it. Their stuff is to die for. You’re modeling for them?”

  “Hardly. Those days are long over. I’m doing graphic design work for their print catalog—.”

  “Congratulations,” Esme says, in a tone that’s not unfriendly, but nowhere near as enthusiastic as Therese was.

  In fact, Therese isn’t through gushing. “Please tell me you get an employee discount and you’ll share it with me.”

  Susan glances around the room, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “You want a sneak peek at next summer’s line?”

  Therese’s hand shoots across the table. “Gimme.”

  Laughing, Susan reaches into the portfolio case she’s brought along and passes a series of glossy photographs to us. Each photo is essentially the same thing: beautiful women lounging in stark urban settings (or lush tropical ones) looking effortlessly chic. Women of every race are represented, as well as every age. The only thing that unifies t
he models is the sophisticated look that the brand must be known for.

  And Therese is right. The clothing is to die for. Neutral shades of tailored linens that drape meticulously over a woman’s body. Somehow it manages to be both feminine and powerful. The kind of stuff that could go from work to a cocktail party to a dance club in Madrid. Fantasy clothing, elegant and expensive.

  Esme gives the photographs a cursory glance and passes the pages on to me.

  “God, I love this stuff,” Therese says, poring over each page as though committing it to memory.

  “You’re in luck,” Susan says. “They just opened a new store in Crossroads mall. Although I don’t know how they’re going to handle it all. They’re growing so fast they can barely keep up with demand. Half the online inventory is on backorder.”

  Therese nods. “I’m not surprised. If I could afford it, I’d buy everything.”

  Feels like a little celebratory road trip might be in order. “Maybe we should all go to Crossroads together and check it out,” I suggest. “I know my wardrobe could use a little boost.”

  Esme leans back in her chair. Looks pointedly across the table. “That’s a great idea, isn’t it, Susan? How about this weekend?”

  Susan purses her lips. Suddenly flustered, she gathers up the glossy photos and returns them to her case. “Sure,” she says. “That’d be great. Only, I’ll have to check the boys’ schedules. They’re pretty busy with peewee hockey. And Drew’s been working overtime. Which means I’ll have Bebe with me, and you know what a nightmare it is to get a stroller through the mall this time of—”

  “Hey, Therese,” a friendly male voice calls from over my shoulder. “I thought I saw you come in.”

  I swivel around to find Rob Urso standing at our table. My head snaps back to Therese. Rob Urso. Therese’s high school crush. I cannot count the number of hours she and I spent in our room, when we were supposed to be doing our homework, instead dissecting Rob’s every move and utterance. They never actually dated, but that wasn’t a necessary element for our obsession. One casual nod or a ‘hey,’ as they passed in the hall was worth twenty hours of deep dissection.

  “Did you get my message?” he asks her.

  “Oh. Hey, Rob. I did.”

  A beat. A long, awkward beat.

  Rob says nothing, and neither does she. Finally Therese blurts out, “I meant to call you back, I just… I’ve been so busy helping my parents. You know, church. Christmas. This time of year. The holidays, I mean. So busy. And Rachel. Mayor now. Imagine that. And this challenge, my god!”

  She stops abruptly and stares expectantly at Rob, as though having finished her part of this scintillating discourse, she is now handing over the conversational reins to him.

  “Right,” he says. “Well. You have my number. Maybe I’ll see you at the tree lighting ceremony. We could grab a drink afterward.”

  Therese rewards that invitation with a deer-in-the-headlights stare. Then, “Sure. That’d be great.”

  “Great.” He nods politely to the rest of us. “Good to see you all. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

  My sister waits until Rob exits the diner to plant her face in her hands.

  “Oh, my god. Did you see that? Did you hear that? Gahdah, gadah, gadah, idiot.”

  “Oh, please,” I say. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  I make the mistake of glancing at Esme and Susan for confirmation of my lie. We can’t do it. We know each other too well. The second our eyes meet, the three of us burst into hysterical laughter.

  “What the hell was that?” Susan gasps.

  “Thank God I’ve got Nelson,” Esme says, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. “I don’t think I could go through that dating shit again.”

  Therese shakes her head. “Thanks, guys. Thanks very much. You’re all very supportive.”

  “Look,” I say, “it’s no big deal. Wear something fabulous to the tree lighting ceremony and Rob will forget that ever happened.”

  With that, it’s time to go. We’ve got work to do, kids to pick up, dinners to plan. We pay our tab and say goodbye. On the sidewalk outside the diner, Esme pulls me aside.

  “Rachel, there is one thing I could use your help with. As mayor, I mean.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “The yoga studio is sending their clients downstairs to use my bathroom. Which means they’re crowding out my customers. My landlord says I have to allow it.”

  “I thought the studio had its own bathroom.”

  “It does, but the plumbing’s not working. Something about the pressure being insufficient from the water main intake for the system to work. He said it’s a town problem, not a building problem. All I know is that now it’s my problem, and it’s become a real pain. Could you look into it?”

  Echoes of my conversation with Ratnor flash through my mind. Now that we’ve got tenants on Church Street, we’re putting even more pressure on the plumbing system. A natural offshoot of success, but one I really didn’t consider. Once we get through the holidays, I’ll make repairing the water main a priority budget item. In the meantime, I promise Esme to touch base with the town engineer and see if there’s a temporary fix we can put into place.

  FOURTEEN

  Matthew texts as I’m about to leave my office on Thursday. He’s heading over to a friend’s house. A group of kids from his chemistry class are getting together to study for their upcoming final. The friend’s dad offered to pick up pizzas for the group, so he probably won’t be home until eight o’clock or so.

  I know the parents involved, so I’m pretty confident he’ll be fed and looked after. I’m less confident any actual studying will be done. I know how these study groups work—especially if there’s a mix of girls and guys. The night will break up like this: two hours and forty-three minutes of flirting and goofing off, six minutes eating pizza, capping off with eleven minutes spent frantically flipping through their chemistry books.

  I text back: Fine, so long as you Focus On Chemistry!!!

  He texts back an image of a chimpanzee holding a pencil and looking deep in thought.

  Cute. Nice to know I’m being taken seriously. Just as I’m about to play tough mom and nix the whole thing, he follows up with this: Settle down. Got an A- on the last quiz. All good.

  Sigh. How did I not know that? I should have known that. Chemistry is Matthew’s toughest subject. If he pulled an A- on a quiz, I should have congratulated him. We should have done something to celebrate. But the past two weeks have gone by in such a flurry of activity I feel like I’m barely keeping up.

  There’s the usual Christmas hustle, of course. The parties, church activities, social obligations. Jym Granger and his corollary madness. The unforeseen task of building a campaign. Matthew’s weekend job and my obligations as mayor haven’t helped any either. I haven’t had a chance to nose around and ask him how things are going at school. Or with Hannah. (Treacherous ground there. If he’s been rebuffed, he’ll bite my head off. If things are going well, he’ll ice me out. But to not ask shows maternal indifference to things that are important to him. Can’t have that either. I’ll have to tread lightly and feel him out.)

  So. Thursday night and three hours to kill. I glance at my desk. I could hang around and catch up on paperwork, but everyone else has gone home and staying by myself feels lonely and punitive. Office detention. I glance at my calendar. Tree lighting ceremony tomorrow night, followed by my first official date with Mike. We’re going out to dinner. A note of nervous excitement shoots through me at that. Followed immediately by what to wear, what to wear. It has to be something that bridges both worlds. Festive and appropriate for the ceremony, yet feminine and attractive for the date. Nothing in my wardrobe qualifies.

  But I know where I can get something that does.

  Here’s a confession for you: I love the mall at Christmas time. I know the parking is a hassle and the crowds are exhausting. I know it stomps on the true spirit of Christmas and turns it into nothing but crass c
ommercialization. I know the mall doesn’t have the charm of Eaton’s newly renovated downtown core. But the decorations are gorgeous and there’s something inspiring about watching hundreds of strangers rushing around buying gifts, determined to show their love for the people in their lives. That’s kind of beautiful.

  I consult the mall directory and find Beyond Beauty on the upper level. Unlike other stores, whose windows reflect a brightly colored, artfully rendered bounty of merchandise, Beyond Beauty is stark and serene. A single musical note versus the blaring cacophony that is the rest of the mall. Everything calm, pale, and impossibly elegant. Shimmering icicles hover above the mannequins’ heads and glistening faux snow dusts their high-heeled, booted feet.

  The look is carried through the store itself. Stark gray walls, minimalist displays of clothing, white carpets underfoot. Redolent of exclusivity. Gorgeous, but highly intimidating. At least to me. (Case in point: near the front entrance they have a gorgeous fake wolf, all yellow eyes and erect fur, fangs caught mid-snarl, as though daring anyone to enter its lair. Again, maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking greeting customers with a snarling wolf might just be just a teensy bit over the top.)

  That doesn’t stop other women from rushing inside, then proudly strutting out carrying bags monogrammed with Beyond Beauty’s logo. In all honesty, it’s not the sort of place I’d normally be drawn to. But I want to treat myself to something special, while at the same time show my support for Susan and her new position. Two birds, one chic stone.

  I head inside and begin to browse through the racks. The clothing is lovely, but somehow I can picture Susan wearing it, more than me. Or maybe Therese. (The shiny new, look-at-me Therese, that is, not the sister I grew up with.) I’m not convinced that I have the confidence to pull this stuff off. This is statement clothing. There’s something slightly indulgent about it. I check the sleeve of a lovely ruby silk blouse for a price tag and am pleasantly surprised. Pricey, but not too bad. A piece or two won’t break my budget.