Charming Christmas (6 page)

“He could,” Bonnie said. “There's no copyright on your personal life events.”

“Oh, God.” The horrid possibilities hit me with a dull thud. Or maybe that was the sound of a black shell dropping into the reject bowl. “What if he
does
use my life? What if he uses my most embarrassing moments? My secrets? Our sex life . . .”

“You have secrets?” Lanessa licked her lips. “Do tell all.”

“Nessa . . .” Bonnie shot her a warning look. “It's all fun and games for you, I know, but Olivia is in a real dilemma here.”

I was. And since, for once, it was a dilemma I did not create for myself, I was clueless as to how to get myself out of it. “Oh, God.” I tore open a moist towelette. “This is bad. I may have to change my name. Dye my hair. Move somewhere else.” Perhaps I'd be heading back to New York sooner than I'd planned.

“Where can you escape to?” Bonnie asked. “It's a national show. It'll play in Peoria.”

“For those Peorians who have cable,” Lanessa added.

Kate pressed a napkin to her mouth, her eyes huge with worry. “Don't panic. You don't know what the show is going to include. Most likely it has nothing to do with you.”

“But what if it does? What if he mocks me on national TV?”

No one had an answer. I looked from one face to another, Bonnie's nervous blink of sympathy, Kate's fawning look of compassion, Lanessa's cool, what-the-hell flip of a mussel shell.

“Listen up, Olivia . . .” Lanessa dipped a mussel in spicy red sauce and popped it into her mouth. “I know it seems like this man has got you by the short and curlies right now, but there's something you need to remember. He might be a backstabbing, low-life bottom feeder, but you, girl, have your dignity. You got your pride, and nobody can take that away from you.”

Kate was nodding, her eyes burning with staunch support.

“And you have us,” Bonnie said. “We'll do whatever we can to help.”

“Starting with watching that show next week.” Lanessa wiped her hands on a napkin, then pointed one manicured finger in the air, instructing all of us. “Ladies, clear your calendars for Tuesday night. We are going to watch the premiere episode of the
Nutcrapper
together.”

5

“Y
our turn, Rocky,” ZZ said in a gravelly voice that resembled rocks churning in a mixer.

Just my luck. He'd been hired not only as a Santa, but head Santa, the big cheese of all five male Clauses and Mrs. Claus, too. My immediate boss. I didn't catch his name, so I still thought of him as ZZ Top, although this morning he'd revealed a softer side, leading the group gently through introductions. At the moment, the odd assortment of Santas and elves was waiting for me to cough up my name and a few touchy-feely details to be lapped up by our “caring, sharing circle,” as ZZ called it.

I thought of Mrs. Atwater, the manager of the Rockettes, who resembled a Barbie doll and seemed to have been with the dance troupe since its 1932 debut. Mrs. Atwater would not approve of head Santa, nor would she spare the time for flowery employee orientations. In fact, I think she would enjoy frosting over some of these lost elves with her ice queen glare, especially when they crooned of their “Luv fer the little woons,” and their desire to make Christmas special in every heart.

“God bless us, every one,” I said caustically, checking for signs of intelligent life in the eyes of this motley crew. The gawky former exchange student from Australia seemed to catch my drift, as did a well-dressed African American woman who kept her enviable purple leather Coach bag close to her body.

“Care to introduce yourself, Rocky?” ZZ prodded.

I gave him a sour look. Not to be the problem child of the group, but when they said
orientation
I didn't envision hours spent singing “Getting to Know You.”

Well, at least I was getting paid for this.

“Sorry.” ZZ grinned. “I call her Rocky because she was a Rockette at Radio City. Danced in the Christmas show last year. She'll be our Mrs. Claus.” He folded his arms over his belly. Today he'd traded the leathers in for jeans with red felt suspenders, and with his beard looking a little better groomed, white and fluffy, he did resemble St. Nick. “Want to fill in the blanks, Olivia?”

“You want the standard setup? I'm a single white female. I like Broadway musicals and moonlit walks on the beach. My favorite color is blue and I'm a Taurus, so don't get in my way, okay?” I shrugged. “Next?”

“Thanks, Olivia. Let's move right along . . .”

Personally, I wanted to move right out of this windowless conference room in the Rossman's building and scope out the activity in the rest of the store, where scores of employees were scrambling faster than these elves, mounting shelves, lighting up glass display counters, wheeling in racks of merchandise. As I'd peeked in over the two-story main sales floor, I was amazed at how much of a department store is portable; it's all in the merchandise. I wanted to be a part of the action out there, not cooped up in here discussing the dreams and goals of strangers.

Besides, as seasonal employees, we got a 10 percent discount, and I was dying to be the first to rifle through a pile of cashmere sweaters. Ka-ching!

“I'd like to seed one more activity before we break for lunch.” ZZ clasped his hands together and pressed his fingertips to his lips. “When we head over to our ‘space' this afternoon, you'll see that there's a large gas fireplace with a mantelpiece perfect for hanging stockings. Each of you will hang one stocking this afternoon, and inside you will place your ultimate Christmas wish written on a piece of paper.”

“Right, Poppy.” Carlos, the youngest Santa, a short, dark-haired Latino man stretched out his legs, his untied construction boots dangling. “And you're going to make our wish come true? I can save you some time if you just deliver a Porsche to me now.”

“Ah ah ah! Don't speak too soon.” ZZ held up a finger. “You ask for a car, but after the initial thrill, will a car make you happy? Will it change your daily life for the better? Would a Porsche help you attain personal fulfillment?”

The elf shrugged. “I could handle it.”

“Well, think bigger, Carlos. I'm not saying that you shouldn't wish for a Porsche. But don't rule out other wishes that might surpass a hot car. Maybe you want to be the top elf. Maybe you'd like to get a long-term job offer from Rossman's after Christmas. Maybe you'd like to buy a dream home or create a patent that brings in millions of dollars before the end of the year.”

Carlos laughed. “Yeah, sure, I'll take one of each.”

“Ah, but you only get to put one wish in the stocking, so don't limit yourself. There are no limits.”

Except to my patience.

“Are we done yet?” I checked my watch, not wanting to keep Kate waiting. We were meeting for lunch at Phillips and I had a feeling that ZZ was one of those long talkers who ran all over everyone else's time. “Woo, look at the time.”

“Yes, you can go, but think about your wish!” he admonished us.

I flew out of there faster than Santa's sleigh, my hair flying wildly in the wind. Clicking into my New York pace, I rushed over a quaint walking bridge and paving stones, around ambling groups of tourists, to the Harbor Pavilions. Kate had already snagged a table, and we decided to do cafeteria style, two crab-cake sandwiches and Diet Cokes. I launched into complaints over the morning training session, tossing in a few jokes about ZZ and comparing the selection of elves to escapees from Munchkinland, but Kate wasn't laughing.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

She blinked. “What? Oh . . . Sorry. Turtle and I had another argument this morning. That makes three in three days. Three more than we've ever had.” She balled up her sandwich wrapper. “At first I thought that there was something messed up between us, that he was looking for an out, but that's not it. Yesterday he told me he also tossed in an application for a job at the Seattle Aquarium. It's not just about moving to San Diego; he doesn't seem to care where he lands. He's just determined to leave here.”

“I can understand that. Right now, Baltimore is just a stop along the road for me. Once my ankle checks out, I'm on the next Metroliner to New York.”

“Because you want to dance, and New York is a cultural center for performing arts. But Turtle can be a biologist in lots of places.”

“And you can't?” I prodded. “Why aren't you sending out applications, too? Go on-line and check out some different cities, see if anything strikes your sense of adventure. You've always lived here, Kate. Don't you want to explore other options?”

“Why would I? My family and friends are here. I've got a job I love, with a strong sense of commitment to the dolphins, especially the new calves. I've got a great apartment, peace with my neighbors, and I know all the best places to eat and shop and walk the dogs. Baltimore is my home; why would I want to leave?”

“To try something different. Your dogs could run wild on an island in Seattle and you could take a ferry to work every day and sip lattes by the water. Or San Diego. With that weather, the dogs could be outside every day. Think of dolphin presentations in the sun, you swimming side by side in a sparkling lagoon. I'm kind of with Turtle on this one. Your life could be so much better—”

“Different isn't always better,” she interrupted. “Why don't you get that? You and Turtle . . . As if everything I've always loved suddenly isn't good enough anymore. You know, the grass
isn't
always greener in another city.”

“Maybe it isn't, but you won't know what's out there until you take a look. And you know me, I spent most of high school just waiting to get out of Crab Town.”

“That nickname . . .” She shook her head. “It nearly killed Sister Mary Agnes.” Our freshman year at Spaulding, Lanessa had stuck a bumper sticker onto her binder that read, “I got crabs at CRAB TOWN,” and the nun who taught us science freaked out. Lanessa kept explaining that Crab Town was a restaurant, but Sister Mary Agnes made her write an essay on the dangers of double entendres.

Kate's eyes went wide. “Don't look now, but somebody you don't want to see is here.”

“Sister Mary Agnes?”

Her head shook faster, like a broken bobblehead. “No. Worse. Duck under the table.”

“But everyone will see me.” I was dying to turn around. “That'll attract too much attention. Who is it?”

“Go hide behind the relish and pickles—quick!” she whispered, motioning me aside frantically.

I wasn't going to slink behind the ketchup and tartar sauce, and I couldn't stand the suspense; I had to turn around.

Three feet behind our table, Bobby Tharp balanced a tray of salad as he scanned our area for a free table. He didn't seem to find one, but he did catch sight of me.

I turned back to Kate and mouthed, “Oh, no!”

Kate folded her arms in sanguine resignation. “Should have gone for the condiment table when you had the chance,” she said as his tray slid onto the table between us.

“Livvy . . .” His low growl reminded me of intimate moments, playing under the covers, kissing on the beach at Ocean City, snuggling at the movies. “And Kate! Wow, what a blast from the past. Mind if I join you two?”

My blood thrummed in my ears as I held my breath and reluctantly let myself soak up Bobby—all six feet of him—looking taller and leaner, as if he'd lost the freshman ten. His hair seemed golder—maybe touched up?—and he had the angular, loose demeanor of an athlete.

No, maybe that was the red and white University of Maryland letter jacket. A letter jacket—as if he'd ever jogged a mile, let alone achieved varsity status in a sport.
It's all part of the image, part of the fake Bobby he wants everyone to buy into,
I told myself. If only I could convince myself that he was a fraud, make my pulse slow down, squelch the urge to jump up, straddle him, and press my face into his chest like a koala.

With Bobby so close, it was resoundingly clear that I was still buying into the whole package. And if I could just get my heartbeat to slow and my palms to stop sweating, I would have the good grace to feel embarrassed at my own vulnerability.

Kate stood up. “I've got to get back to work. I'm on for the two o'clock dolphin show.”

“I've got work, too,” I blathered, knowing I needed to get back but not so sure I wanted Bobby to know about my new job. Let's see, hotshot TV producer or department-store Mrs. Claus—which was the more marketable career?

“I keep hearing that you're back in Baltimore. I figured if it was true, we'd run into each other.” Bobby set his food on the table and handed his tray to Kate. “Just shoot that over there, will you?”

“Oh, sure.” She moved behind him and lifted the tray as if to slam him in the head with it.

“I'll call you later, Kate,” I said, resigned to my sorry fate, a few minutes spent opposite the man-boy of my once and future dreams.

“Ciao, Kate!” he called, saluting her.

“I kept meaning to call you, but with the show and everything. . .” He shoved a tomato wedge in his mouth as I considered how I would have reacted hearing his voice on the other end of the phone.

“You can imagine. Not a minute to myself. Thank God for hiatus.”

“So, go on, Livvy. Let me have it. Rip me a new one. I know you're pissed.”

His eyes flickered with amusement, eyes darker and greener than I'd remembered. “Oh, I get it. The silent treatment.”

“Are those colored contacts?” I blurted out.

He rolled his eyes. “She speaks.”

“I probably shouldn't,” I said. “I should just have my lawyer call you after the first episode airs.”

“Ouch. You don't have to draw blood.”

“You started it. Did you think I wouldn't notice that you were using my name? An actress who looks like me? Filming in the city I grew up in? Thought you'd just slide that one past me, huh?”

He sighed. “Of course not, but you'd moved on. You were dancing in New York, on to another life. I didn't think you'd recognize yourself, certainly didn't expect you to land back here.”

“What you did was wrong, Bobby.”

“Probably. But I did change the name in the script. A dozen times. Global replacement. But every time I looked up and saw ‘Kelly' or ‘Alicia' or ‘Jennifer' on the page, it just didn't feel right. You were the inspiration for my stories, Liv. Without you, they don't sing.”

“Oh, whoop-dee-doo.” I stood up and turned away so he couldn't see the conflicted emotions on my face, the war between flattery and betrayal. He had invaded my privacy by using me as a basis for his character, and yet, somehow, I was a little tickled that I'd left such an impression.

“I mean that, Liv. You are the pulse of this show.”

I pulled my coat on. “Great. I'm looking forward to getting my cut.”

He leaned back slightly, cautious, shocked at my bitchiness.

How could I be such a bitch? That sort of behavior would never make him love me.

But then, deep down I knew it was too late for all that, with Bobby married now. Funny that her name hadn't come up in the conversation, but Bobby probably figured it would piss me off that much more. I decided to take “Destiny” into my own hands. “So where is your wife? I've read that you two are inseparable.”

“She's running a few errands. Manicure, hair appointment. Girl stuff.”