What Happens During the Holidays: A Holiday Anthology

by Lucy Gage

  “So, you want to tell me why you’re in such a bad mood after to having such amazing sex?”

  “You know there is more to life than sex.”

  “Of course, but sex is the funnest part of it. No, there’s more to your mood than that. Talk to me.”

  “Seriously, nothing is going on.”

  June looked me over. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.” I looked down at the table. It was annoying how well she knew me.

  "You still haven't answered my question. Does it have something to do with Mark?" Leave it to June to hit the nail on the head.

  “Why her? What does she have that I don’t? Am I not marriage material?”

  June shook her head. “Look, they may be together, and they may even be engaged, but trust me, it was you who dodged the bullet there, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I mean, really, could you picture waking up next to Mark for the rest of your life?”

  I tried to picture it, but all I could think about was Armand. Just recalling last night had my body tingling. “See,” June added, “you’re thinking about Mr. Tall—”

  “Stop right there.”

  June laughed as I blushed. “Told you sex was the funnest part. Now eat so we can get back to my place and you can organize my closet.”

  June really was a good friend.

  I paced in front of my bed. I was wearing my brand new heeled Maryjane's, a black pencil skirt, a pale purple blouse that accentuated my chest, and my hair was in flowing waves down my back. I paused in front of the mirror to look at myself. I looked good. I could do this.

  Today was a new day. The past was the past, and that was where I was leaving it. I grabbed my purse, ready to head out, then doubled back to my room. In the back of my closet, I found what I was looking for—a black shoe-box. I pulled it from my hope chest and walked into the kitchen with it.

  Today is a new day, I reminded myself. In order to focus on the future, I needed to let go of the past. I opened the box. Inside were the last things I had of Mark—a picture of us from our trip to Miami, a t-shirt from our first concert together, and a few other miscellaneous things. It was over. He was engaged. I was moving on and letting go.

  “The past is in the past,” I said before dumping the box and everything in it down the garbage chute. “Goodbye, asshole.”

  With a smile on my face, I put on my gray wool pea-coat, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and made my way downstairs. Outside, in front of my complex, I took a deep breath of the cool morning air. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and this was my new beginning.

  When I arrived at ID Works, my palms were sweaty. I reapplied deodorant on the elevator ride up. I tried to calm my nerves reminding myself that I could do this. When the elevator doors opened, I entered into a foyer. At an oval desk, a woman with red hair was seated with a phone piece hooked to her ear. Another woman with blond hair wore a blue suit and stood in front of the desk looking over a tablet.

  I walked over to the desk, ready to ask where I was supposed to go, when the blond woman stepped in my way. “Desiree Ashton?”

  “That’s me.”

  She held out her hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’m Ashley, your PA. Follow me.”

  I swallowed. I had a PA? How cool. I followed Ashley, who, in spite of her small stature, had me jogging to keep up with her. “I’m sorry. We’re in kind of a rush, so I won’t get to give you a thorough tour.”

  “A rush?”

  She stopped and I almost ran into her. “Yes, you have a meeting in thirty minutes with Mr. Scott. You’ll be designing his penthouse and main office. If he likes your work, then you’ll be designing his hotel.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed.” Ashley started moving again. We walked down a hall with windows and glass doors. She motioned to a door to our right, “That’s the board room, where we have most client meetings. For Mr. Scott’s meeting, however, we’ll be gathering in the back room since it’s bigger.”

  We turned a corner and she paused in front of an office door. “This is us.” She pointed to the desk to the right of the office. “This is where I work and,” —she pushed open the door and moved inside the office— “this is yours. You just need to pick your color palette and theme, and I’ll get right on finding you samples.” I took a walk around the room. It was amazing. The back wall was all windows and offered a great view of the city. Fairy tale meet hookah lounge that would be my theme. I hung my jacket on a coat hook.

  “Sorry, but we have to go, only twenty minutes,” Ashley said, ushering me from the office. My office. At IA, all I had was a cubicle. I smiled and followed Ashley down another hall. She pointed to a large, open room with chairs and couches. “That’s the employee lounge. And the restrooms are right next door.”

  “Cool,” was all I got out before Ashley was, once again, feet ahead of me. This girl was definitely going to give me my workout. We turned a corner, and she stopped in front another room. “This is the meeting room.” She held the door and ushered me inside, where six people chatted and laughed. They paused their conversation when we entered. “This is Dennis, Greg, Monica, Skylar, Kyleigh and Tom. They’re your team. Dennis and Greg work with our contractors. Skylar and Kyleigh work with our manufacturers, and Tom and Monica handle accounting. Everyone, this is Ms. Ashton.”

  “Hi,” everyone said at once. Each person took their turn to shake my hand. “Please, call me Desi.”

  Ashley started pushing me from the room. She said, “Sorry guys but we have a meeting with Mr. Scott to head to we’ll catch up after.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” I said as Ashley pushed me from the room. I gave a wave and the group waved back at me. I thought, I'm going to love it here. Around another corner was a giant set of double doors. Ashley slowed. “That’s Mrs. Winehouse’s office, however, she isn’t here because her sister went into labor. So you’ll meet her tomorrow.”

  “Awesome.”

  “You are going to love her.”

  On the other side of the hallway was another set of doors. Ashley pointed to them. “That’s Mr. Jackson’s office. He’s at a doctors appointment but will catch up with you this afternoon.” Mr. Jackson was the man who'd hired me. I was excited to be working with him. He had a great eye. “After our meeting we’ll go over how we code each client’s file.” Ashley’s phone rang. She excused herself and stepped aside to answer. The woman was efficient. Maybe even more organized than me. Was that even possible?

  I looked around, taking it all in. This was my new digs. The place was open and inviting, elegant, yet fun. Some of the same qualities that made me like Mr. Jackson instantly.

  “Mr. Scott is here and waiting for us.”

  I looked at my watch. “But we still have—”

  “I know, but he has to return to the studio, so he’s early.”

  “Okay, studio?”

  Ashley stopped and turned fully towards me. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to scare you, but Mr. Scott is like, big time Hollywood.”

  She started walking again. I hustled to keep up. Outside the board room, a woman with a pinched face and tight bun was pacing while talking furiously. Who was she talking to? Herself? Then I noticed the bluetooth hooked on her left ear. “I have to go,” she said when she saw Ashley and me.

  “Hey Lydia. This is Ms. Ashton.”

  I held out my hand to shake. Lydia smoothed back her hair. “He’s in a foul mood. You’ve been warned,” she said, then opened the door and walked inside.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I wasn’t until now.”

  “Don’t worry; you’ll do great, and if not, Mr. Scott will eat you alive.” Ashley winked. She placed a file in my hands. “In there, you’ll find our budget, pictures of the spaces, and some of Mr. Scott’s ideas. Take a quick peek.” She followed Lydia inside.

  I could do this.

  I would do this.

  I took a deep breath
and straightened with my head held high, though my palms were sweaty. I opened the folder to look over the information as I stepped inside the room. I started to speak, but no words came out when my eyes landed on him. I tripped over my own feet as I took a seat next to Ashley. My heart raced.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Scott, but please call me Armand.”

  The other night flashed in my mind. Shit. No one could know I’d slept with my new client.

  Again, I was struck mute. Ashley saved me. This is Ms. Ashton. She’ll be handling your redesign. Trust me, you’re in great hands.”

  A devilish smirk crossed his lips. “Believe me, I know.”

  I was so screwed.

  THE END

  Elle Jefferson lives up in northern Arizona with her two beautiful sons, wonderful husband, and her German Shepard, Dorrie. When she's not reading or writing, she's painting or enjoying the great outdoors.

  Connect with her at:

  Blog: http://ellejefferson.blogspot.com

  Facebook: ElleJeffersonAuthor.com

  Twitter: @oohlalakrysa

  Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Elle-Jefferson/e/B00DVM1UHQ

  A Gift from Fate

  Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl McIntyre

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any form without prior written permission by the author except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real persons, events, or places are used fictitiously. The characters are the work of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or deceased, events, or locales are coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status, as well as ownership of products referred to in this work of fiction. The uses of these trademarks have not been authorized, nor are they associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  The roads are slick with a fresh layer of snow. According to the forecast, this is just the beginning. Most of my co-workers and classmates have voiced their concerns, dreading this storm. It’s nothing more than an inconvenience for their holiday trips home, but it’s been years since I’ve had snow on Christmas. Five years to be exact. Not since my last Christmas with my parents.

  I have the next two days off and I’m going to enjoy every second of this gorgeous weather—even if I’ll be spending it by myself.

  Memories flash like lightening. My brother’s gap-toothed smile as he pounced on my bed with the excitement of a kid who still believed in Santa Claus, shaking me awake so we could rip into our presents. Mom curled into the corner of the couch sipping her mug of coffee while she watched us take in the sight of gifts under a glowing tree. Dad wrapped in his robe, laughing at us as we fought over which is better to receive—large or small packages. I preferred small. My brother always dove straight for the biggest ones. A small chuckle slips from my lips now with the reminiscence and moisture blurs my vision.

  I miss them.

  Every day.

  It’s late in the evening when I pull into my complex parking lot. The snow crunches under the thin Keds I wear for work. They were the cheapest white shoes I could find that didn’t hurt my feet during ten-hour serving shifts, but they’re terrible in the snow.

  On the sidewalk, I find a fresh set of footprints and step inside each one, keeping my feet as dry as possible as I make my way toward my apartment. I’m already fantasizing about a hot bath, maybe some bubbles, definitely a glass of wine, and either a little Netflix or one of the books I picked up from the library. Then the rest of the evening will be spent in front of my window, finishing off the bottle of wine and watching the snow fall.

  My feet slide to a stop, my gaze tracing the continuing prints leading up to my door. Terror grips my chest, my throat, my voice. By themselves, a set of footprints near my door wouldn’t have this effect on me. But the fact there are no retreating tracks, and worse, only half a print—the heel half—on the outside of my door has the instincts that kept me alive these last few years taking over. Because I know the other half of that imprint has to be a melting puddle of water on my entryway tile.

  Someone is inside my home.

  Someone who shouldn’t be there.

  And I’m standing here, just steps away, frozen in place.

  Shivers of awareness skate down my spine. I grip my purse tighter to my side, turn on my heels, and book ass back toward my car. My breath comes out in pants, frosting the evening air. I think my heart is about to beat through my ribcage.

  They found me.

  I don’t know how they found me. After all this time. I had hoped they’d stopped looking, but somehow… They’re here.

  Fresh tears pool in the corners of my eyes. Part of me, for a moment, contemplates turning around and allowing whoever has come to finish the job to just do it. To get it over with and put me out of the misery of living in a world where my family no longer does. We could be together again.

  My father’s voice flutters through my head as if he were standing beside me now. Run.

  And so I do. Again.

  It takes me two tries to get the key in the ignition as I engage the lock with trembling fingers. The engine roars to life and I punch the gas, tires spinning on the slick pavement.

  “Shit.”

  My gaze darts to my apartment door, still closed tight. The Christmas wreath offering a deceptive sense of holiday peace and cheer.

  “Get it together, Lonna,” I whisper to myself, softening the pressure on the pedal. I move forward slowly and make my way through the parking area, barely pausing before pulling onto the street.

  My father speaks to me again, his wisdom sticking with me at twenty-two just as it did when I was sixteen and learning to drive. “If you ever think someone is following you, circle through the neighborhoods. If the car makes the same loops as you, then you’ll know you’re being tailed.” I do this now, my eyes flicking between the road and my rearview mirror.

  I have tonight’s tips. Another couple hundred dollars in the duffle bag in my trunk. A few changes of clothes. My most prized possession, though, is the picture in my visor. I flip it down now and caress the family photo.

  If the men who murdered my family found me, they probably know my car. I’m going to have to ditch it soon. And my phone. I reach blindly into my purse, fishing around until my fingers connect with the familiar cool metal. There’s nothing of importance on my cell—no social media, no pictures, nothing identifying me as the real me or the life I left behind—but I know it’s traceable, so I roll the window down and chuck it.

  This cannot be happening. I was so careful. It cost me every cent of my inheritance to buy this new life, this new identity. I refused to testify against the men responsible for my family’s deaths, abandoned everyone and everything I knew, and fled, moving further and further across the country, never staying in any one place for too long. Arizona, Texas, Missouri, Florida, Virginia, and, Connecticut. Now… I have no idea where I’ll go. Connecticut was supposed to be it. Where I finally settle in. Make a fresh start. Go to school. Allow myself to build friendships. Leave my past where it belongs—far behind me.

  It was supposed to be over. It was supposed to be left back in Montana.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misread the situation at my apartment. My eyelids close, blocking the road from view as I replay what I saw. My mind’s eye follows those footprints again. No, someone was definitely inside my place.

  But what if it was a friend from school or maybe Mr. Stanton bringing over more homemade cookies from his daughter?

  But Mr. Stanton wouldn’t break in to give me cookies. Neither would the few friends I have. Normal people leave a note or something—they don’t let themselves into someone else’s home.

  Maybe it was a burglar. Not something I want to walk in on, but it’s also not something I would have to abandon my whole life over, either.

  But I can’t afford to take that c
hance.

  My eyes flutter open and I have a beat to register the pickup truck’s flashing hazard lights in front of me. I jerk on the wheel, swerving out of the way. My tires can’t find purchase on the slippery street and the car slides several feet, the back fishtailing from one side to the other before I regain control and slam to a stop.

  “Holy shit.”

  Okay. I’m okay. My car is okay. The other car is okay. Everything is okay.

  Except it’s really not.

  There is possibly someone still hunting me. That’s not okay. Not at all.

  I look over my shoulder, trying to see inside the dark truck. It appears empty, nobody rushing out to yell at me for nearly sideswiping them, so I take a deep breath, attempting to calm my racing heart. It doesn’t work. I take several more before I feel ready to move again, switching the radio off first, because I can’t concentrate with Bing Crosby’s crooning in my ears right now. The car moves forward and I sigh with relief when it finds traction.

  I need to make a plan. Figure out where to go. How I’m going to get there—I can’t keep this car no matter how much I need it. If they found me, they know my alias and I’m sure they know what I drive. My grip on the steering wheel tightens. All my education is gone. I can’t take that with me into a new identity. Hell, I can’t even afford a new identity.

  What am I going to do?

  Time escapes me as I run it all over and over in my head, coming up with nothing time and again. I’m screwed any way I look at it. A quick glance at the clock makes me realize I’ve been driving on autopilot for a while. I’m not even sure where I am anymore.

  As I round the approaching curve, my headlights illuminate the figure of a man walking quickly up the road. His shoulders are hunched close to his ears, his hands tucked into his armpits. His hat is coated in a thick layer of shimmering slush. He turns, waving me down and I can see the desperation in his stiff movements.