Write Before Christmas, page 2
“Kelsie, save room on that paper for what your heart wants,” Una said.
“My heart wants glitter,” she muttered. “And besides, I’m never going to get what my heart actually wants.”
I pretended not to hear her, staring hard at the words on page sixteen of this woman’s health magazine—“Chuck your bathroom scale in the trash!” Sounded like a plan to me. I cut that out, too.
Kelsie had come to me earlier today to ask if she could move into an apartment with one of her friends near campus, and I had to tell her no, we didn’t have the money. She’d have to stay here with her grandparents and now me, her mother—the kind of living situation every college kid dreamed of.
My parents had somewhat recently moved out here to the country—to a resort in northwest Illinois where we used to vacation when I was a kid. They’d always dreamed of living in the middle of nowhere, golfing, reading, hiking, enjoying the slow pace. When Kelsie got a partial scholarship to a college near Wackernagel, it seemed like the perfect solution—she’d commute there every day while living with Nana and Pop, but only for the first semester, I’d promised.
Now I had to renege on that.
I started cutting things out randomly—a picture here, a few words there—hoping one of them would wind up being the solution to all my problems.
“I have all my clients make vision boards, and I’m telling you, they really work.” Una was an actual life coach. She had a huge following on social media and everything. “When I decided I wanted to make wellness my career, I made one, and look at me now.” She had a point. When Una first started doing the blogging thing and the Instagramming thing, my mom and I had side-eyed each other, but she’d gone and turned her passion into a mini empire. “The vision board is the universe at work.”
Who was I to question the universe?
“Let’s look at your board, Dani.” She reached across the table for my hot pink poster. For a moment, she scanned it. “Okay, you have a bank on here, and a dog. A picture of a gorgeous closet, and some…pasta?”
“Spaghetti Carbonara,” I said.
She nodded, taking in my vision board aesthetic. “What do you think this means?”
I hadn’t realized there’d be a quiz. “I’m not sure…” I had done my part and cut out pictures that caught my eye. I assumed the universe would do the heavy lifting.
Kelsie stood up. “It means she likes food and puppies.” My daughter laughed. “Mom, tell me you don’t believe in this stuff.”
“You don’t have to believe in it,” Una said. “The universe works in mysterious ways. One of my friend’s clients, who also didn’t believe in vision boards, put a car on hers, a quote about change, and a picture of that mutilated toy from Toy Story—the one that was basically just Barbie’s legs?” Una leaned in to whisper. “Three months later, she got hit by a car and is paralyzed from the waist down.” She nodded solemnly.
“That actually sounds like a really cool premise for a movie, Auntie Una, people making vision boards that predict their deaths,” Kelsie said, “but this is reality. And in reality, glue and paper aren’t going to fix anything.” She stormed out of the room and clomped upstairs.
“Ignore her,” I told Una. “I had to give her some bad news this morning, and she’s upset.” I plucked my poster from Una’s hands and looked it over, trying to feel something. I wanted to believe in this. I needed to believe in something right now, to have someone or something guide me in the right direction. Might as well be my own subconscious.
“While you look at the board,” Una said, “take a deep breath in, hold it for four counts, and exhale for six. Repeat this three times to clear your mind.”
I did what she said and then looked at the board with fresh eyes. The bank obviously meant money, which was something I needed desperately. I was newly divorced, my ex wasn’t sending us much to live on each month, and I hadn’t held a job outside the home since before Kelsie was born—almost twenty years ago. I would love to be able to pay for her to live on campus, but I needed a steady paycheck to do that. I’d sent out a million résumés and hadn’t heard back from anyone.
The puppy was there because I loved dogs, even if Ralph drove me crazy.
I’d included the pasta because it looked delicious. I knew we had most of the ingredients in the kitchen, and I thought I’d make some Spaghetti Carbonara after finishing the vision board.
I kept staring at the pasta. My mind hurtled through my adult life—me trying out new recipes on Kelsie and her dad, making brownies for the school bake sale, reading cookbooks and watching America’s Test Kitchen for fun. If anything, working with food put me in the zone. When I needed to improve my mood, I’d whip up a frittata or an emergency chocolate cake. The kitchen was my happy place.
“Food,” I said. “I love food. I love making it and eating it and thinking about it. That’s why the pasta’s on there.”
“Very good,” Una said.
I glanced up at my sister-in-law, who was beaming at me proudly, waiting for me to put it all together. “Maybe…I need to focus on food? Maybe food is the answer?” Could food be the answer? That seemed too simple.
“The universe has spoken.” Una snapped the cap back on her glue stick, like that was the end of our conversation.
“But wait,” I said. “What does that even mean? Should I try to get a job in a restaurant or open my own place or…” It seemed impossible, but I felt even more confused now than I had before the food revelation. Pre-vision board, I would’ve been happy with any job, but now I wanted a job in a specific area? An area I’d never worked in before? I had a college degree and an expired teaching license in elementary education, not the culinary arts.
“Don’t question it,” Una said. “Wait for the opportunity to come to you.” She stood up and swanned out of the room.
“But I need a job now!” I called after her. “I’m forty-five, and I live with my parents! I can’t sit around waiting for inspiration.”
My dad spun in his chair then raised another toast to me. “Don’t worry, Dani,” he said. “You’ll find a job. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I focused hard on the vision board, waiting for another lightning strike revelation, but the universe had gone silent.
Chapter Two
Matt
December 2, eighteen days until deadline
“Jane!” I shouted from my office door. “Jane!”
My twenty-something assistant came bounding up the stairs. She always looked like she was cosplaying Ghost World (a movie she probably hadn’t even seen, come to think of it), what with the rimmed glasses and the patterned tights. “Yes, Mr. Bradford?”
I pointed to the tray sitting on the floor outside my door. “What’s this?”
She peered down at the bowl. “Dinner.”
“It’s ramen,” I said. “And not the good kind of ramen with all the veggies and meat and eggs and stuff in it—this is ramen from a package. I stopped eating that after college.” I stuck a finger in the broth. “And it’s cold.”
Jane placed a hand on her hip. “And?”
I shrugged, leaving my shoulders up by my ears. Yes, Jane was my employee, but she also had no problem calling me on my shit. She was the Moneypenny to my James Bond, minus any and all sexual tension. “And…I don’t want to eat this.”
“Well, it’s all I had time to make in between posting on your social media accounts and running interference between you and reporters and planning the obnoxious premiere party your publicist thinks is a good way to rehab your image…” She cocked her jaw, challenging me.
“You made me the ramen?” I asked.
“What? Do you think it conjured itself out of thin air?” she asked.
“No…”
Her shoulders dipped. “I made you soup because you’ve been in here working all day, and you need to eat something.”
“Well, thank you.” I still didn’t want to eat the cold ramen, but it wasn’t worth fighting Jane about. She was the only person in my life right now. And she had tried to provide me sustenance. That had been very kind of her. Plus, she was working overtime to make life easier for me, so I could (theoretically) focus on my book and keep my mind off the dreaded viral video. I owed her a bit of gratitude.
“You’re welcome.” Jane bit the inside of her cheek. “Have you given any more thought to hiring someone to cook and clean for you while you’re here? My mom says she knows someone…Matilda something, I think.”
“I don’t want to hire anyone,” I said quickly. That was a non-starter. “Can’t you just bring me more of your grandmother’s noodles?” Jane had grown up in the small town outside the resort where I was staying, and she’d moved back in with her parents for the month—but just for the month, she was always quick to remind me. Then we’d return to our real lives in Indianapolis. For the first few days we were here, she’d plied me with leftovers from home. My stomach grumbled just thinking about the hearty, savory dish packed with cabbage and ground pork.
“No,” she said. “My dad threatened to ground me if I took his leftovers again, and I’m a grown woman, mind you.” She paused. “Please. Let me find someone to help.”
“It’s all right, no,” I said. “I’ll handle it.” Maybe I could teach myself to make the delicious pork noodle dish. And I could definitely fold a sock or two.
“You have a book to write,” she said, “and you have to turn it in by December twentieth. That’s less than three weeks away. You need help.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “What did you have for lunch today?”
“Lunch today…?” I narrowed my eyes in thought. I couldn’t think past the ramen. What had been the last bite of food I’d put in my mouth? Oh, crap. “I had a low-carb meal,” I said, looking Jane straight in the eye.
She walked calmly to my garbage can and fished out an empty packet of airline peanuts (origin unknown) that I’d dug out of the bottom of my briefcase sometime around noon. “This low-carb meal?” she asked.
The peanuts had been the only thing I could find in the room. I worried that if I left my office to hunt for sustenance, Jane would see right through me and know I’d been farting around most of the day.
“Jane, seriously, I’m fine. I’m a forty-five-year-old man who has taken care of himself his whole adult life.”
“You are an author who has to finish his manuscript in the next few weeks. You need some help with the things you can delegate.” She folded her arms. “Think back to what life was like before you hit it big. What would you have given to have someone come in and take care of your house and cook for you, just like I manage your calendar and send your emails? You used to be against that, too.” She smiled. “Didn’t you once tell me that you always wanted an Alice?”
“An Alice?”
“From The Brady Bunch.”
Yeah, I had definitely said that once when Jane caught me bingeing old sitcoms on Hulu instead of writing. “No,” I said. “I do not need an ‘Alice.’” I took off down the stairs, and Jane followed me.
“You need to focus on the book.”
“I am focusing on the book, but me sitting in a chair all day every day isn’t healthy, either. Cooking and cleaning up after myself can be a nice diversion.”
“Going out for the odd run or inspirational walk is one thing, but you don’t have time to develop a completely new hobby.” Jane followed me into the kitchen. “Need I remind you, you’re on a very tight deadline,” she said. “You should be focused on that and nothing more. You don’t have time to play Chopped right now, attempting to make dinner out of ham, a hunk of Gruyere, and an old boot.”
Ignoring the “old boot” comment, my mouth watered at the thought of cold cuts, cheese, and mustard on a nice, fresh loaf of rye bread. Man, I was hungry. I yanked open the refrigerator door and was greeted by a barren wasteland. Like in a cartoon, I could practically envision a lone fly buzzing around the light at the back of the fridge. “Where’s all the food?” I pulled a carton of milk off the top shelf and sniffed it. Sour.
“Someone needs to go grocery shopping.” Jane raised an eyebrow at me. “Not you.”
Well, obviously not me. I couldn’t risk being recognized by the other shoppers or the checkout lady who’d want to know about the book or who had seen my video from Comic Con. “Can you…?”
“No,” she said. “Memes, newsletter, emails, print interviews, premiere party. Those things are my domain. I don’t have time to go shopping for you. It is not in my job description. Never has been.” She slammed the fridge door shut. “I bet that ramen is looking pretty good now, all of a sudden.”
I glanced at the sink, where my dishes from today and yesterday and the day before were piling up.
My shoulders slumped. I was fighting a losing battle.
“What’s this really about?” Jane asked. “You have the means. And it’s only for a month, then you can go back to being Mr. Independent again.”
I looked her right in the eye. “I think you know why.”
“Mr. Bradford,” she said, her tone softening, “first of all, the chances of the person we hire having heard of you are slim to none. You’re not actually as famous as you think you are.”
“Thanks, Jane.”
“And secondly, I’m here.” She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. “Let me be the heavy. I’ll find someone fabulous, and you never even have to interact with them. They’ll leave food outside your door and tuck your socks into your drawer like the elves from Harry Potter. They never even have to know who they’re actually working for.”
I took a deep breath, realizing my heart had sped up with all the talk about me being recognized. I used to enjoy interacting with fans. It had been my favorite part of the job—back when I loved them and they loved me.
But now they saw me as the enemy—the enemy who was rushing through the crappy first draft of a horrible book that would ruin their favorite thing in the whole world. The only way to protect myself from getting hurt was to shut everyone out.
“Fine,” I said. “Hire me an Alice.”
“Will do.” Jane bodily pushed me out the door. “Now you get back upstairs and keep writing. I’ll warm up the ramen.”
…
Dani
“As you exhale, deepen the stretch,” Una told the class in the soft, serious, drawn-out voice she adopted for teaching yoga.
I followed her instructions to the best of my ability, but the plinky-plunky version of “White Christmas” playing in the background provided a mental hurdle. I supposed Una had picked it to be soothing, but it just made me wonder what a yoga version of “All I Want for Christmas” would sound like.
Despite the odd soundtrack, I did appreciate the yoga class. For months I’d gone about my life in a fog, like it was a scene playing out in front of me—watching my marriage dissolve, seeing my kid leave for college, sending résumés out into the ether, having to sell the house and move in with my parents.
Yoga, at least, felt real. It grounded me. For one hour, I focused on what my body was able to do, how strong and powerful and determined I could be. I was able to touch my toes, almost, if I bent my knees just a little.
Maybe next time I’d do it without the knee bend.
Yes, I had already decided there’d be a next time.
When in Wackernagel…
After we’d lain in shavasana for a few minutes, during which time I pictured myself as a baseball player, batting away the thoughts that popped up in my head, Una ended the class and we all, like lemmings, started putting away our equipment. As I rolled up my mat, she came over and hugged me, thanking me for coming. Of course she still smelled like vanilla sugar even after contorting her body for an hour. “How did you like it?” she asked.
“Loved it!” I said, honestly.
“You’ll come again?”
“I definitely will.” I chuckled. “Maybe next time my joints won’t pop so loud.”
Una frowned. “It’s fine if they do, Dani. Yoga is a practice.”
“I know.” I pulled my sweatshirt over my arms. “It was a joke.”
“Ah!” Una’s eyes lit up, and she joined me in laughing. She was the most earnest person I’d ever met, which was what I loved about her. After months of dealing with lawyers and Realtors and financial planners, I relished being in the company of someone who truly believed I was fine as I was and that everything would turn out okay. She grabbed my hand. “I have someone for you to meet.”
Una dragged me over to the other side of the room where a group of three people were having a discussion and drinking some of that disgusting green juice Una liked. She motioned to one of them, who waved to her friends and came over.
“Thank you for the yoga class, Una,” said the woman, who was quite a bit younger than I was, probably in her mid-to-late twenties. She had severe, dark bangs and wore the rest of her long, straight hair in a ponytail.
Una, as was her custom, pulled the young woman into a friendly hug. “Thank you for suggesting it.” Una glanced at me, arm still around the woman’s shoulders. “Dani Cooper, this is Jane Nakayama, one of my favorite Instagram followers.”
“Una’s being kind.” Jane chuckled. “She mentioned she was coming to Wackernagel for Christmas, and I slid into her DMs, like, ‘I’m in Wackernagel with my boss for the next month, can you please, please, please do a yoga class at the resort for those of us in town.’” She put her hands in prayer position and looked me right in the eye. “Yes, I begged.”
“Jane has a really interesting job,” Una said. “She’s an assistant for a famous author.” Una whispered those last two words.
“Anyone I’ve heard of?” I asked. I’d been trying to read more fiction since my divorce and since Kelsie moved away—mostly sweet romantic comedies. Una had suggested it, actually—to shut out the drama of my life and the world around me and to escape into someone else’s mind for a few hours a day. The books did help. I found myself eagerly anticipating reading time every afternoon.
