Charming Christmas (7 page)

“Really? And here I thought she was a busy working girl.”

“The two of us are crazy busy when the show is filming. Destiny is my coproducer.”

That would be my job
, I thought.
And that would be my man, if only a few things had played out differently
. That queasy feeling rose inside me, another session of making myself sick over my mistakes. I wasn't up for it. “I've got to get back to work,” I said.

“Yeah, what's that about? Did you really give up the Rockettes thing?”

“I sort of had to take a
hiatus
when I broke my ankle. The Rockettes look down upon dancers who can't walk. Sort of ruins the lineup.”

“I knew about the accident,” he said, waving a hand. “By the way, did you sue? Hope you got a bundle out of them. Immigrants, right? Probably illegal.”

My jaw dropped in revulsion. “Mario? Don't you remember the pizza place we loved?”

He shrugged. “Anyway, your ankle looks fine. What about the Rockettes thing?”

Since the day of my audition at Radio City Music Hall, the “Rockettes thing” had been a problem for Bobby. Although he'd never been too concerned that I was the one paying our bills when we lived together in Baltimore, the fact that I'd pulled ahead to pursue a high-visibility showbiz job in New York was too much for his delicate ego to balance. He had helped me move into the apartment with the other two dancers, had spent a weekend at a nearby motel, had even stayed for my first performance and brought me a bouquet of flowers backstage, but inside I think he was beginning to disconnect. Despite the pledge to make this long-distance thing work with Metroliner trips and daily phone calls, Bobby was working up a Plan B, which involved jetting out to L.A. to pursue a separate career and audition stand-ins.

“Are you done with New York?” he added.

“I'm on hiatus,” I said, flinging back his insider lingo. “I'm going back to New York after Christmas.” That much was true. He didn't have to know I'd need to audition for the Rockettes all over again. “So . . . I'll let you know how much I really hate you after I see the first episode. Of
my
show.”

Such a bitch!

“You're kidding . . . I know you are. Listen, we're all getting together at Club 13 to watch the series debut—the cast and crew, lots of media people. Got to make a splash in Baltimore, of course, and it's such a great angle, that homegrown thing. You know, they'll probably want to talk with you, the inspiration for the show. Why don't you come?”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on,” he growled in that jovial way. “I mean it. The media people are going to want interviews with the real Olivia.”

“I have plans,” I said firmly, though an invitation to the premiere party was enticing. When you're in show business, you develop this instinct to go toward the cameras, grab the attention of reporters and media people whenever you have the chance. Still, there was no way I could watch at such a public place, not knowing what to expect from Bobby's show. Talk about blindsided.

“Let me know if plans change.” He saluted me with two fingers. “Ciao.”

I was tempted to respond with a one-finger salute but restrained myself. After all, I was Mrs. Claus.

6

T
o my surprise, ZZ didn't glower or grouse when I crept back into orientation ten minutes late. He was passing out stockings and lecturing once again on the importance of setting goals, on the amazing impact this Christmas wish could have on our lives.

Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah.

I tuned him out immediately and refocused on Bobby and the debut of the show and the fact that this city would continue to close in around me, shrinking my life down to a claustrophobic sack once the tales of wicked Olivia aired on television. I'd once complained that I'd never felt embraced by this city, but now I was feeling its grip quite well, a firm grasp tightening to a stranglehold.

“Don't check out on me,” ZZ said softly, leaning close to my ear. He handed me a red stocking with “Mrs. Claus” embroidered over the fuzzy white cuff.

“To be honest, I'm already gone.” My heart was back in New York, dancing on the line, having brunch with friends and not having to worry about eating waffles or pancakes or bacon because in three performances a day you burn it all off, rushing from my apartment to fit in Christmas shopping before the early performance . . .

“Emotionally, that may be true,” he said. “But since your body is still with us for the next few weeks, it would be nice if the spirit could join in.”

I gave him a curious look.

“Metaphysically speaking.” He straightened, addressing the group once again. “You'll find a small card inside your stocking. Take it out now and fill in your Christmas wish . . .”

Maybe I'd misjudged ZZ. After all, he could have spent this entire day making us read the corporate policy on sexual harassment and chronic tardiness. I took the white card from my stocking and mulled over my secret desires. Not that I am superstitious or even a believer in quiet goal setting. I'm the sort of person who strikes out after what she wants, working through obstacles with single-minded determination. The approach usually worked for me—had landed me a position on the Rockettes. But lately, I was stuck waiting—for my ankle to heal, for my mother to swing back to normal, for Christmas to come and go so I could head back to New York.

What to wish for? That my ankle was all healed and I was back in Manhattan, back in the Rockettes?

That would have been my primary desire a few weeks ago but now, somehow, it was not enough. My future seemed tainted by Bobby's impending show, a commercial franchise with the potential to exploit and malign my image and my name. And then there was Bobby. Blissfully self-absorbed Bobby. Despite his tendencies toward the asshole brigade, despite the fact that he was married now, I still felt that flush of warmth around him, the undying attraction that would have me tossing rose petals onto his grave when I was ninety. Fatalistic, I know, but if his bad behavior hadn't killed the attraction by now, I had to resolve myself to living with it.

I wanted it all—the love of my life, my anonymity, my dancing career.

“Remember, you can only write down one wish,” ZZ said as he paced the room. “You need to focus, people.”

Fine, I thought. I would wipe the slate clean.

I wrote:
I wish for a do-over
. Thinking like a lawyer. I figured that left a lot of things open, but then a lot of things in my life needed fixing.

 

 

That afternoon ZZ handed out our costumes and sent us off to the store dressing rooms to try them on. “Report back to Santaland as soon as you're in costume,” he ordered. “We have a tailor coming this afternoon to mark alterations, and I want to get started with the Santaland protocol.”

While the others received costumes sealed in plastic bags, mine came in a big, wide gift box made of silver cardboard. “I understand this costume is a Rossman's family heirloom.” ZZ held the silver box before me, and I couldn't help but run my hand over the large embossed
R
.

“Why would the Rossmans send a family heirloom to the Baltimore store?”

He shrugged. “The grand opening. Charley said they wanted to send us luck. Rumor has it that Evelyn Rossman wore this suit years ago when the chain was just starting up in Chicago.”

I slid off the lid, and rich red jewel tones winked up at me, scarlet beads, burgundy shadings on ruby velvet. It was a fine garment, reminding me of the spectacular costumes I'd worn onstage at Radio City. “Wow.”

“Gorgeous, isn't it?” ZZ's eyes twinkled over his white beard as he grinned, reminding me of a real Santa Claus. “Go ahead, try it on.”

Up in the spacious new dressing room I placed the box on a bench and worried about the vast alterations that would probably rob this costume of its shape. Department store maven Evelyn Rossman was a tall woman, broad shouldered and solid, while I was short for a dancer—having just made the Rockettes' five-foot six-inch minimum. I dropped my black sweater onto an upholstered chair and worried about the color clash. With my orangey red hair, I avoided wearing the color red, which often made my skin look jaundiced, my hair shriek with flames.

I slipped on the jacket and it buttoned closed with a soft, soothing sigh. The tucks and darts were perfect, accentuating my small bustline while giving me stately shoulders and a classic cinched waist. The dark tones of the burgundy complemented my hair and skin, giving my cheeks a rosy glow, my hair the look of burnished copper. The velveteen pencil skirt fell just at my ankles, where a kick pleat in the back revealed the black Jimmy Choo boots that I'd handpicked from Rossman's newly stocked shoe department that morning.

“Ooh . . .” A quiet thrill passed through me at the prospect of wearing this lovely costume every day. I might have to deal with more than my share of squabbling rug rats, but I would be the picture of tolerance in my smokin' costume.

Pulling on the matching cap and staring in the mirror, I had to smile at myself. My orange curls spilled out under the white trim of the cap, framing my face, which looked sprightly and fresh. Not your traditional notion of an elderly Mrs. Claus, but also not Olivia Todd, dancer and single white female.

“You look quite different,” one of the elves told me, the punker from Australia, whose gem-pierced right ear looked elfin under his floppy striped cap. His name was Regis, and we'd caught each other's eyes often enough during the training to realize that we were on the same wavelength. “A little touch-up on your make-up and you'll have all the Mr. Clauses inviting you into their sleighs.”

I shot him a grin. “Hardly my holiday goal, but thanks.”

“What's wrong, fear of flying?” he teased, nodding toward the line of Santas waiting for tailoring. “What tidy elf wouldn't be honored to fly off to the North Pole with any of those fine specimens of Claus-hood? Watch it.” He pulled me out of the way as one of the Santas tripped over his bootlaces, falling into line.

“Damned trousers,” the Santa grumbled, clutching his pants up to his undershirt. Skinny Stu. He would definitely need some padding, as would Chet, a ruddy-faced man with a barrel chest and feisty, strong chin. Chet reminded me of my grandfather, and I suspected he shared Grandad's hearing disability as he was a little slow to respond, but generally cheerful.

He fell into line behind Archie, a dark-skinned, ample man with a natural Santa physique and a rich, contagious laugh that could rock the room. Everyone liked Archie.

Then there was Carlos, beautifully fluent in Spanish but a little on the young side when it came to playing a centuries-old icon. “We'll get you a nice, authentic-looking beard,” ZZ said, patting Carlos's shoulder.

Carlos let his head loll back as he gave ZZ a tired look. “Don't worry about it, man. A week or so of working with you old guys and my hair's gonna be snow-white anyway.”

“Nonsense! The fun is just beginning, dude.” ZZ patted Carlos's shoulder, then slipped his thumbs under his red suspenders to survey the motley Santas. “By gosh, by jingle, it's time for carols and Kris Kringle!”

Somewhere in the back of Santaland, someone was shaking jingle bells. The overhead lights cut out, sending a gasp through the group that rose into an awed sigh as tiny white lights sprang to life along pillars and snowpiles and silver trees.

It was all as corny as an old-fashioned Christmas card, and I smiled in spite of my usual cynicism. Something about the line of bedraggled Santas and the elves, struggling to walk in their curl-toed shoes and dopey green-striped caps, and the Santaland touched me with a feeling I hadn't felt for years.

Christmas spirit? Joy? Hard to say. Some feelings are impossible to label, but for that moment, I let go of my plans for the future and soaked up the here and now, my Christmas in Baltimore, my holiday as Mrs. Claus.

7

T
uesday , the night of the infamous
Olivia, the Nutcracker
premiere, we planned to watch the show at Bonnie's, dulling the pain with tacos and margaritas. Easy for me, since I was just a block away, and I headed over early to help Bonnie.

Bonnie's face was tense when she met me at the door. “He's here,” she said, her jaw strained as she nodded to the next level up.

I couldn't see him, but I knew she was talking about Jonah, her current husband, who'd recently moved out.

“Want me to come back later?”

“No, you're fine. Come on up.” She leaned forward to close the door behind me and whispered, “Just wanted to warn you. He's in a vulnerable place.”

I nodded, wondering how to deal with that, as I'd always felt uncomfortable dealing with the austere Jonah even when he was coming from a secure place. Jonah works as an underwriter and apparently he's an amazing number cruncher, but his passion is art photography, and I don't think Bonnie or anyone in our circle of friends has a clue about what Jonah sees in a photo. Once, when I was pulling together my portfolio for auditions, I asked if he would take some head shots for me—apparently the ultimate insult to an artist. I don't think he's ever really forgiven me for that.

“I was just about to start chopping things for the tacos,” Bonnie said as she led me up the half flight of stairs to the front parlor where a dozen or so of Jonah's framed prints were propped on the floor, leaning against the black leather love seat and chair.

“Hi, Jonah.” I jumped in. “How's it going?”

He nodded, meeting my eyes with that dark intensity that Bonnie kept falling in love with. “Olivia.”

“Jonah is trying to choose a photograph for a contest,” Bonnie offered.

“A competition,” he corrected, kneeling down in front of three shots of the Baltimore skyline. “A cityscape. It's always difficult.”

Bonnie stuck her pinky to her chin. “It's always hard to decide.”

“I like making choices,” I admitted, bending down beside him. I sensed Bonnie tensing, but Jonah seemed interested in watching me examine his work, intrigued or amused, I wasn't sure.

I moved down the line, soaking in each piece, but I kept coming back to one I'd seen before. “I can't help it, this is one of my favorites.” It was a shot of a small memorial in Fells Point, rows of concrete steps rising out of the cobbled square. The background was a blur of putty-colored concrete, but two subjects were in sharp focus in the foreground: a man in an overcoat slumped on the steps in the foreground, his expression distracted, distant. A few feet away from him on the same stair sat a pigeon, its profiled head looking flat and smug, confident, as if it had a right to be there.

“There's something about this one, the conflict between man and nature, between belonging and displacement . . .” There, I'd said it, a dash of honesty for the vulnerable but austere Jonah. “I'm no expert, but I think it's a strong example of your work.”

“And the textures are vivid,” Bonnie joined in. “The chiseled cobblestones, the pockmarks on the concrete.” She looked over at Jonah. “I think this is the one.”

He nodded, staring at the photograph as if he was seeing new layers and dimensions. “Do you think? I don't know.” His dark eyes found me, and I sensed that he was seeing me for the first time, too.

“It gets my vote,” I said, deciding to back off and let him make a choice. I went up to the kitchen to root around in the fridge to give him and Bonnie a chance to be alone, to finish their conversation as he put away the photos.

Bonnie and Jonah had remodeled two years ago, gutting the house and rebuilding with glass brick and spiral staircases and split-level floors covered in shiny pine and edged in dark cherry. The decor was black and white, with a white sectional couch and museum-mounted photos Jonah had taken over the years. It's not the sort of design I would choose, but it comes together so intricately that every time I visit Bonnie, I feel a little more grown-up just knowing someone with such a cool home.

I was drying a head of lettuce and two peppers when he called a good-bye up to me.

“Well, that was interesting.” Bonnie appeared, bearing a gallon of tequila tucked in one arm. “He was a little more open to you tonight, wasn't he?” This was a game we played, with Bonnie always trying to see ways that Jonah was warming up to her friends while we gently pointed out the truth.

“He's still a long way from warm and fuzzy.”

“Jonah will never be warm and fuzzy. Why do I always pick men who have all these issues swirling under the surface?”

“Your curse.” I didn't know exactly why Bonnie was attracted to Jonah—none of us did—but Lanessa once pointed out that if Jonah made love with the same intensity that colored his daily activities, well . . . hot damn.

“Did you have a chance to talk to him about things?” I asked. “About your relationship?”

“We had couples therapy tonight, our first time together.”

“Really? That's great, right? I mean, you want to try and save the relationship.”

“Yes, I do. Definitely, but Jonah chose the therapist, a man, and the old guy always rattles my cage. He acts as if I forced Jonah to marry me. Like I pushed him into every aspect of our relationship.” She dumped ice into the blender and shoved on the lid. “If it were up to Dr. Kleban, Jonah wouldn't have fucked me if I hadn't pulled down his zipper and yanked it out.”

“Ooh, I'm sensing a little anger here.”

“I'm angry all right.” Her face puckered in fury, she pressed the blender on. When it whirred off, she took a deep, cleansing breath. “Aah, that's better.”

“Isn't that displacement? Or transference? I mean, aren't you really angry with Jonah but pretending it's all about Dr. Strangelove?”

“What the hell do I know? I majored in technology and marketing.” She pressed the blender on again, then poured the frothy mix into two glasses. “Let's just say that, sitting in Dr. Kleban's office, I felt very sure that Jonah and I are very sane and reasonable. We're capable of making things work. If Kleban doesn't fuck it up for us.”

“Two swear words in one night.” I made two tally marks in the air. “Looks like our little Bonnie is growing up.”

“Liv, if the TV critics are correct,
you'll
be swearing before the night is over.” She handed me a glass with a salted rim. “And you'll want a few dozen of these, too. Don't worry, I have plenty of tequila, and you don't have to drive.”

“Oh, I could drive, but that might pose a problem . . . for the car I don't own. You know, I never realized how long it takes to bus it around Baltimore. You really need a car here. And now that I'm riding the bus, I get to see all the nasty
Olivia
billboards up close and personal.” I took a deep sip of my drink, then put down the glass to chop scallions on the granite board. “Mmm, that's yummy. Can we talk about something more positive? How's work?”

“Don't go there . . . rumors of downsizing.” She took the shiny silver grater down from a rack. “How's the Mrs. Claus gig working for you?”

“It's actually going okay. I'm going to get more hours than anyone else, since there' s only one Mrs. Claus, so I'll be raking in the cash. And I'm in love with the costume I get to wear.”

“You are kidding. Does it come with fanny padding?”

“Nope. I get to be my hottie self. And it's styled like an Oscar. I'm telling you, Sarah Jessica Parker would wear this dress at a Christmas party.”

Bonnie put the slab of cheddar on the cutting board, her eyes narrowed. “I gotta see that. I'll have to stop by sometime.”

“We open Thursday,” I said brightly, carried away with my own enthusiasm. “The store's grand opening will be this weekend, but we're going to be ready to have kids visit Santa by Thursday at noon.”

“Christmas already? It's barely November.” She flaked the cheese into a bowl. “Remember the days when no one used to put up decorations until after Thanksgiving?”

“Those rules are out the window.” I peered over the kitchen island to the wide windows at the front of Bonnie's house. “You know, you should put up some lights this year. Maybe simple white lights in the front windows? It'll give you a lift.”

“Jonah wouldn't approve. He's always felt that Christmas lights are white-trash tacky,” she said, and I glared at her. “But then, he isn't living here at the moment, is he?”

“Hey, how about red?” I suggested. “A few strings of those chili pepper lights?”

“I love those!” The doorbell rang and she wiped her hands on a towel and ran down to open the door.

Lanessa appeared, bearing a small cheesecake. “Pure evil,” she said, hoisting it onto the counter with a smile.

Five minutes later Kate arrived, and we all grabbed drinks and made a mess of Bonnie's cooking island, tossing cheese and chopped veggies onto our toasted shells. As we took seats at the bar we laughed over the varied taco approaches. Kate was the most aggressive. With her hair tucked back in a French braid she was free to dive in and let the stuffing fall where it may, even if that meant bouncing off her sweatsuit. Lanessa carefully tucked a napkin over her silk suit, an unusual ginger color that complemented her dark skin.

I felt oddly aware of my own nervousness but also happy to be here with my friends, laughing and joking, back to the best parts of my life in Baltimore. I had fallen hard for the excitement and fast pace of New York, but this was something I'd missed, hanging with my real friends, the easy good time.

I was on my second taco when Bonnie clapped her hands. “Let's step it up, girls. Show starts in two minutes. We'll do dessert afterward.”

With a groan I sank onto Bonnie's sectional sofa and buried my face in my hands. “I can't watch!”

“Oh, go on!” Lanessa smoothed her skirt over her knees. “You've got to be excited. Bobby's making you a star, honey.”

“I'd rather have a root canal,” I said as the camera opened on a freckle-faced actress with exotic red hair.

“She's beautiful!” Kate slapped my knee. “You're gorgeous. At least Bobby did something right.”

“It's not me,” I insisted.

The premise of the show was fairly simple: Olivia, a ballet dancer who has found her fame in New York City, now returns to Baltimore to direct the city's dance company. But during her run in New York she developed champagne-and-caviar tastes, and now nothing in Baltimore meets with her approval.

“Get those little monsters out of my studio!” she shrieks, chasing after local schoolchildren clad in pink tutus with a stick. “I work with professionals!

“I asked for New York bagels! I want them FedExed!” she protests, slamming a bagel onto her assistant's desk.

“Who called for the yellow cab? I ride in limos. Black. I do not ride in yellow cars!”

There was a romantic subplot in which TV Olivia abused her boyfriend until he broke off their relationship. “You leave me no choice,” the actor said dramatically, pulling his hand out of hers.

“Oh, please! That's so simplistic. I'm surprised Bobby didn't play the role himself.”

“And he makes the boyfriend look so noble,” Bonnie said. “Not the way it happened. When he broke up with you, you'd just broken your ankle.”

“And he didn't even have the grace to tell you he was breaking up,” Kate said. “This part is way off.”

“It's not supposed to be my life,” I reminded them. “It's not me.” But no one seemed to be getting that as the TV Olivia merrily bulldozed over everyone in her path, unconcerned about the destruction left in her wake. In one scene she jaywalked and snarled traffic all the way to Interstate 95. In another scene, after a bus sprayed her with a puddle, she filled the seats with shaving cream, which the audience seemed to find hilarious.

Through it all, TV Olivia criticized life in Baltimore at every turn, complaining about the slow pace of business and the smallness of events, about the stoop sitters and the crab pickers, the downtown traffic and the hicks of Highlandtown. She mocked the Baltimore accent and called the commercialized Harborplace a tourist trap.

I think that was the most disconcerting element—the way this character disparaged the entire city, all its customs, people and landmarks.

“She's nothing like me,” I said when the TV Olivia dressed down a traffic cop, telling him he needed remedial traffic school. “You call this a city? You shouldn't be on the same coast as New York, palsy.”

“See?” I defended myself. “I would never call a police officer pal-zee.”

As if in unison, the girls turned to me with accusing eyes.

I licked salt crystals from the rim of my glass. “What?”

Lanessa cocked her head to one side, the cool stance of a lawyer launching into cross-examination. “Oh, I think this is one part of the character that matches you. Not that it's anything to be ashamed of, but you've said it yourself. You're so done with Baltimore. What do you call it? The city without pity?”

Bonnie scraped at the crumbs in the pretzel bowl. “You've always planned to head back to New York when you put your life back together.”

“Baltimore is just a stop on the road, right?” Kate added.

“Well, maybe in
my
life, but I didn't mean to imply that it's a bad place to live.” I shook my head, as if that could toss off the accusations. How could my own friends twist my words that way? “You guys aren't being fair. I just had my life raked over the coals and broadcast on television. On prime time!”