Christmas In High Heels (2 page)

“What?”

He looped both arms around me, pulling me onto his lap. “Fashion show.”

I grinned. Well, I guess there were worse ways to spend an evening…

I leaned in to kiss him.

But never actually got to it as the doorbell rang. Again.

I was seriously contemplating disconnecting the thing.

“Don’t. Move,” I commanded, getting up.

Ramirez did a deep resigned sigh in the back of his throat, reaching again for the remote.

I jumped off the sofa and threw open the door…

Only to be immediately assaulted by the voices of no less than four men standing on the porch.

“…
five Prada pumps! Four Gucci bags, three Hermes scarves, two Chanel wraps, and a Dior belt on a leather trench!”

I blinked, my eyes going from one man to the next until they landed on what was clearly their fearless leader. He was dressed in a matching orange scarf and knit hat set even though it was barely below 60 degrees out. (We don’t believe in weather here in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.). He held a songbook in one hand and a sprig of holly in the other, rocking onto the toes of his hot pink Converse. Topped with turquoise leg warmers. And hot pink tights.

Marco. The receptionist from Faux Dad’s hair salon.

I watched in awe, barely stifling my laughter, as the colorful quartet finished their West Hollywood version of the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” They finally ended with a drawn-out falsetto note, then Marco launched himself at me with air kisses.

“Merry Christmas, Mads!” he sang out.

“Same to you,” I returned. “All of you,” I said, nodding to his merry little band of fashionistas.

“Maddie, I’d like to introduce you to GAYMAS.”

“Gaymas?”

He nodded, his heavily lined eyes taking on a serious look. “The Glendale A Cappella Young Men’s Activity Squad. What do you think?”

I bit back a giggle. “Very clever.”

“Thanks. We’ve been practicing for months, right fellas?”

The men behind him all nodded.

“We only have one problem,” he went on. “We’re going caroling down Venice Beach tonight, but Aldo, our tenor, got the flu and we’re one short for our big ‘Deck the Halls with Diamond Tiaras’ finale.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, still struggling to keep a straight face.

“So, we were wondering, I mean, if he’s around, if maybe we could borrow your man for the evening?” Marco batted his enviably long eyelashes at me.

“Ramirez?” I choked the word out on a laugh.

Marco nodded. “Pretty please? Just for a couple of hours?”

“Um, I don’t know that he’s much of a singer.” I looked behind me. Ramirez once again had the TV on, the strains of some sports announcer filling the living room.

“Oh, all he really has to do is the fa-la-la-la-la parts. I’m sure he can manage those,” Marco pleaded.

“Well, we actually planned to spend the evening together just the two of us.” I said. Not to mention Ramirez was more of an NFL guy than a fa-la-la-la-la guy.

“Oh.” Poor Marco’s face looked so crestfallen I felt sorry for him despite how ridiculous his plan had been.

“Listen, Dana and Ricky were just here and they’re chock full of holiday spirit. Maybe Ricky would be your tenor?” I suggested.

Marco’s face brightened some. “You think? Okay, I’ll call Dana as soon as we get to Venice. Thanks, Mads. Merry Christmas,” he called as he led his merry troupe back down the drive.

As I shut the door, I swore I could hear the first bars of “I’m Dreaming of a White Tie Christmas”.

I was still grinning as I settled myself back on the sofa, curling into the crook of Ramirez’s arm.

“So… I believe we left off at fashion show,” I said, coyly running my finger down his chest.

“Uh huh.”

“You, me, Christmas lingerie, your big bed…” My hand trailed lower, flirting with his belt buckle.

“Uh huh.”

“I think that lacey one with the little ribbons might be a good place to start. Maybe you can help me put it on. Or better yet, take it off…” I trailed off, whispering my lips along his neck.

“Uh huh.”

I pulled back. His eyes were glued to the guys in little helmets running across the TV screen.

I put my hands on my hips. “Or maybe I could send you off caroling with Marco and the GAYMAS singers.”

“Uh huh. Sure, babe.”

I threw my hands up. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Ramirez tore his gaze away from the TV and gave me a blank stare. “What?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I was disconnecting the cable through the rest of football season.

But didn’t get a chance as the doorbell rang.

Yes. Again.

I shut my jaw with a click, mumbling a, “Never mind” as I got up and threw open the front door.

Standing on the front step was my mother’s oldest and dearest friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt.

Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five time divorcee, Jewish psychic with Lucille Ball red hair and fluorescent-colored muumuus (currently dotted with pink poinsettias) who talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn’t even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.

“Fruitcake,” she said, pushing past me into the room.

I blinked. “What?” I asked, thinking she’d read my mind.

She shoved a round, metal tin at me. “I brought you and Ramirez a fruitcake.”

“Oh.” I took the tin (which weighed at least a ton and a half) and lifted the lid, peeking inside. A round cake dotted with bright red maraschino cherries stared back at me. “Thanks.” I think.

“No problem. Sally Slovesky and I baked a whole mess of them for the senior center, but only a few of them old folks ate any. Turns out they’re murder on dentures. Go figure.” Mrs. R shrugged her massive shoulders. “Anyhoo, your mom called and told me you weren’t going to Midnight Mass with your grandmother-”

I rolled my eyes. I was never going to live this one down.

“- and she said you
deserved
one of my fruitcakes for Christmas.”

That’s it, I was totally inspecting the cranberry sauce tomorrow before eating it.

“Great,” I said, trying hard to hide my sarcasm. “That’s very… nice of you.”

“So,” she said, sweeping a glance around the living room. “Where’s your menorah?”

“My what?”

“Your Hanukkah menorah? I don’t see it.”

“Oh, uh… I’m not sure we really have one.”

Mrs. Rosenblatt turned on me, her eyes wide above her pudgy cheeks. “What do you mean you don’t have a menorah? What are your neighbors gonna think?”

I looked to Ramirez for help, but he was either a) deeply engrossed in the game or b) pretending to be deeply engrossed in the game so he didn’t have to deal with Mrs. Rosenblatt.

“Uh, well, we’re not really Jewish, Mrs. Rosenblatt,” I said.

She waved me off, her underarms jiggling with the effort. “Nonsense. This is L.A. You live here longer than three years, you’re Jewish by default. I guess we’ll have to improvise. Where do you keep your candles?”

I blinked at her. “Uh…”

But she didn’t wait for an answer, charging into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers until she came up with four tapered dining candles, two votives, a citron mosquito repellent candle, and a Glade scented oil light.

“This oughtta do it,” she said, huffing the entire group over to the front window. She arranged them in a line, then proceeded to light two of the tapered candles and plug in the Glade light. Immediately the room started to fill with Tropical Tryst air freshener.

Mrs. Rosenblatt cocked her head to the side. “Not strictly traditional, but I like it.”

“Great.” I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,
bubbee
. Just don’t forget to light that mosquito candle tomorrow night, huh?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Now, as much as I’d like to stay and visit with you young folks, I’ve got other stops to make.” She headed for the door, her muumuu swishing around her ankles. “Happy Hanukah, kids.”

“Thanks for the fruitcake,” I said, quickly getting the door for her.

“You betcha. And you just let me know when you’re ready for a New Year’s aura cleansing. It pays to start the year off with a clean slate, karmicly speaking, you know,” she called, as I let the door click shut behind her.

Then locked it.

Then, just for good measure, turned out the porch light.

Praying we were done with visitors for the evening, I made my way back to the sofa.

Where I found Ramirez, slumped in front of the game. His eyes shut, his jaw slack, a soft snoring sound vibrating from his throat.

I felt a deep sigh seep through my limbs. Not exactly the romantic Christmas Eve I’d had planned.

Resigned, I grabbed an afghan from the armrest and covered his sleeping form with it. Then flipped off the TV and dropped a soft peck on his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I whispered. Then tip-toed off to bed.

* * *

Bright sunlight filtered through the curtains, invading my deep, dreamless sleep. I sighed and stretched, rolling over to find Ramirez beside me, still snoring slightly.

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. It was Christmas.

I quietly slipped out of the bed, throwing on a robe as I padded into the kitchen to make coffee. I contemplated the fruitcake for a moment, but, luckily, as the scent of French roast filled the kitchen, I came to my senses and dropped the tin in the trash instead. Never trust a food that’s been delivered as punishment. Instead, I took my “I Heart My Cop” mug over to the Christmas tree and flipped on our sparkly red and gold lights. Never mind that I was flirting with thirty, I suddenly felt like a little kid again as I watched the colored lights chase each other around the tree.

“Morning, beautiful.” Ramirez’s arms went around my waist, snatching me in a warm hug.

“Morning.”

“Sleep well?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

“Like a baby.” He leaned in close, nuzzling my neck. “Sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

“Sorry my friends kept showing up.”

“Not really the evening alone you had planned, huh?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” And right then, as I leaned into his warmth, it didn’t. So, it hadn’t been the picture perfect romantic evening I’d envisioned. But, we had spent it together. That was what mattered.

Hopefully the first of many we’d spend the same way.

I sighed out loud at the pleasant thought.

“What’s that?” Ramirez asked.

I followed his gaze to a red envelope shoved under the tree.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

I bent down, retrieving it from the floor. On the outside was scrawled both Ramirez’s and my names.

“Should we open it?” I asked.

“It
is
Christmas,” he replied.

As I may have mentioned, where gifts are concerned, I don’t need to be told twice. I ripped the sucker open and slipped my hand inside… pulling out two airline tickets. To Hawaii. For an entire week’s stay.

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

“Whoa,” Ramirez said, voicing my sentiment. He grabbed the envelope, looking inside. “There’s a hotel voucher in here, too.”

“Who’s it from?”

Ramirez pulled a little slip of red paper out of the envelope, then smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he read it. “S. Claus. He says, ‘Enjoy your first Christmas alone together with a quiet, romantic vacation just for the two of you.’”

I took the paper, examining it even as I felt my lips curving into a matching smile. I flipped it over, wondering just which one of our visitors last night had slipped this little goodie under our tree.

“Well, what do you think?” Ramirez asked, his eyes twinkling.

“I guess we can’t very well disappoint Santa, now can we?” I replied coyly.

“That doesn’t sound wise,” he agreed.

“Tell you what, you pack and I’ll call Mom and tell her we won’t be making it for that turkey dinner after all.”

“Think she’ll be mad?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure by Easter she’ll have forgotten all about it.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re going to Hawaii.” He leaned in and planted a soft, warm kiss on my lips.

“Hey,” I mumbled. I reached toward the sofa and grabbed our ‘gifts’ from last night. “Don’t forget to pack these.”

His eyes went dark and liquid, his lips twitching into his trademarked wicked grin.

“Trust me, they were the first things on the list.”

* * * * *

About the author:

Gemma Halliday is the author of the
High Heels Mysteries
, as well as the
Hollywood Headlines
Mysteries
series. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in 2012.