1. science
2. weather

How to Host a Holiday
by
Kathleen Kitson
Copyright © 2012 Kathleen Kitson
Cover Design by Damonza
First edition: November 2012
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given
away to another person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy
for each person you share with, or use the proper retail channels to lend a copy. To use material from this book,
prior written permission must be obtained at kitsonbooks@gmail.com.
Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.
Smashwords Edition: October 2012
Contents
Title Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
Preview: How To Forget Your (Boy)friend
About the Author
ONE
“Hey, Doll, why are you in the kitchen so early? You’re missing the Parade!” Giuseppe calls to
me from the family room.
My husband’s voice is music to my ears as I stand in the kitchen, cooking a special Christmas
breakfast for him. Even though this is supposedly the most important meal of the day, I’m not
much of a breakfast person. But Giuseppe is.
Whereas I’m fine with subsisting on freshly brewed tea in the mornings and waiting to eat my
first meal around noon or even one o’clock, Giuseppe is one of those people who is hungry as
soon as he wakes up, and his day is off kilter until his stomach is full.
So, I got up early this morning, tiptoed into the kitchen, and put a frilly little apron over my
candy cane patterned flannel PJ’s to make G (“G” has been Giuseppe’s nickname since the 9th
grade) a breakfast he won’t forget. Bacon, eggs, grapefruit wedges, orange juice…and I’m
finally putting that Belgian waffle maker we got as a wedding present to good use.
From where I stand while stirring my homemade waffle batter, the view out of the bay
window into our backyard is cozy. Colorful lights twinkle on the rails of our deck, and the grass
and all of the fir trees are blanketed in a heavy layer of snow. Upon closer inspection, I realize
that flurries are still falling, and it truly feels like I’m in a scene in a painting.
In the background, the sound system speakers are blasting Dean Martin singing “Baby, It’s
Cold Outside” and I sigh contentedly. At the risk of sounding like a total Pollyanna, I feel truly
grateful for everything and blessed.
In the glow of this absolutely perfect moment, any past worries and troubles I’ve ever faced
fade into oblivion. Who could truly ask for anything more?
I’m sprinkling powdered sugar over a perfect waffle (and admiring the sparkle and shine of
my Cartier engagement ring and wedding band) when Giuseppe comes walking into the kitchen,
singing along with Dean.
He winks at me as he sings, “Gosh, your lips are delicious…” in perfect tune, and I giggle
when he pulls me into his arms.
I feel the scruff of his morning beard against my cheek just as the smoke alarm goes off.
We look around the kitchen to find out what set off the alarm, but see nothing. The stovetop is
warm, but the bacon and eggs have been cooling for a few minutes, and the waffle iron isn’t
smoking either.
G stands on a chair and disables the smoke alarm…but it keeps beeping.
Suddenly, despite my cozy pajamas, I feel very chilly. As in--my elbows, ears and toes are
freezing. And…is that drool I feel sliding down my face?
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I put two and two together, and realize I’m
dreaming.
The smoke alarm is my alarm clock.
And my elbows, ears, and toes are cold because I’ve probably kicked my covers off during
the night.
I regretfully say goodbye to my perfect fantasy of Christmas morning with G, open my eyes,
and silence the alarm.
The good news is, the Christmas tunes don’t fade away with the dream. Thanks to the playlist
I’ve programmed to start ten minutes before my alarm every morning, I am waking up to the
sounds of a rich, deep voice crooning about roasting chestnuts on an open fire.
Ahhh…between the likes of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Michael Bublé,
my apartment is always alive with the sounds of holiday music this time of year.
The bad news is: Yes, I am drooling.
I check my phone to verify the date. It’s 9 A.M. on December 24th.
I venture a glance at my left hand--even though I already know the answer to this question.
No ring.
And no Giuseppe either.
TWO
Pushing disappointment aside, I lie in bed savoring the music for a few more moments, and as
soon as I’m fully coherent, my mind shifts to the weather.
I hop out of bed, run to the window, and breathe a sigh of relief that the skies are clear. As
perfect as the snow felt in my dream, the last thing I want to do today is drive around and run a
million errands in the middle of a snowstorm.
In fact, despite my phone displaying a current local temperature of 36 degrees, and the fact
that my neighbors up and down the block have taken advantage of the warmer weather to deck
their halls (well, yards) to the fullest, it looks like anything but Christmas Eve.
The St. Louis winter has been mild thus far, and the still-green grass and blue skies look more
typical of an early Fall day. This continuation of a streak of unseasonably warm weather is
fantastic news, since the local meteorologists have been predicting a white Christmas for the past
36 hours.
Now, I have nothing against snow, and definitely nothing against a white Christmas…but, due
to my busy work schedule, and all of the time I spend sitting around complaining to my best
friend Stella about my lack of an exciting personal life, I have procrastinated getting my
Christmas shopping done. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, because I’m the queen of giving
online gift certificates--but this year, I’ve volunteered to host Christmas dinner for Stella, my
other best friend, Giuseppe, and my boss, Sy.
But I don’t have a thing in the refrigerator--let alone a turkey and trimmings.
Therefore, it’s time to go shopping.
I’m brewing a hot cup of tea (and the kitchen in my real life apartment does not have a large
bay window) when Stella calls.
“Do I need to bring anything tomorrow?”
“Nope. I’ve got this under control.”
“Ivy. Have you even started cooking yet?”
“No! That defeats the whole purpose. I want everything to be hot and fresh when we sit down
to dinner.”
“But it’s Christmas. You have to start cooking in advance unless you want to spend the whole
day in the kitchen.”
“Stella, trust me. I have it all planned out. When I get home from the grocery store, I’ll start a
few things, like chopping veggies for the stuffing. And I’ll brine the turkey overnight—”
“Wait. You haven’t gotten the groceries yet?”
“No, I’m going to run out this morning.”
“You’re in over your head. Do you want to call this off and we can all just go out to dinner
tomorrow? I’m sure there will be some restaurants open.”
“I can handle this. It’ll be the most perfect, cozy, gourmet dinner you’ve ever attended. And
after dinner, I thought we could watch some movies. I have Meet Me in St. Louis, and Christmas
In Connecticut, and It’s a Wonderful Life. Or, we could play a board game…”
I can sense Stella’s disapproval through her silence.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just-—remember that guy in my office, Grant? The one from Florida?”
“Oh, yeah. The one you flirt with at the latte machine.”
“Right.” Stella pauses and draws in a deep breath. “Well. He had plans to drive home
overnight, but with the storm they’re predicting, he thinks he should stay put. So, I was
wondering if I could invite him to your dinner?”
“Sure.”
“You sure? Because if not, it’s ok. I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’ll be fun. And he can meet Giuseppe.”
“Is he still coming?”
Stella’s question is slightly alarming. Because she’s bringing up one of G’s worst traits:
General Flakiness.
“He said he was the last time I talked to him.”
“When was that?”
“Last night.”
“Oh. Ok.”
“What? Do you think I should call him? Just to be sure?”
“No. It’s just—I feel like you think you’re going to be able to create this perfect…moment
where you and Giuseppe will lock gazes and ask each other why you ever broke up in the first
place. And I’m just worried it’s just not going to turn out that way.”
“Stella, I really appreciate your concern. But don’t worry about me. I’m just hosting a dinner
party, not trying to get back together with an ex. Giuseppe and I have been doing fine as just
friends for the last several years.”
“But you do like him. At least sometimes—you’ve admitted it. And you’ve always said you
would date him again if the moment was right. And you get super annoyed when he flakes on
plans or starts dating a new girl.”
“That’s true. All of it. But seriously, I just want to throw a dinner party. And I don’t have
family in town, and Sy’s all alone, and G’s always up for a good meal, so I just wanted to throw
something fun together.” Even as I’m trying to reassure Stella, I feel myself getting anxious
wondering if G will even show up.
“Ok, Ivy. But you know my thoughts on this. If you really want G to think about dating you
again, you need to spend some time away from him. And I know everyone says the way to a
man’s heart is through his stomach, but we both know Giuseppe’s not the type of man who’s
going to have a relationship epiphany over organic turkey and cranberry relish.”
I sigh loudly. “Ok, ok. Point taken, Stella.”
“And now I’m done—I won’t bring it up again. So, I’ll be there after I leave my parents’
party. My mom serves dinner at 1 on the dot, so I should get to your house around 4 at the latest.
Can’t say I’ll be hungry, but I’ll be there!”
“Great. I’ll be ready to serve dinner around 5, so that’s perfect.”
“And it’s no problem for Grant to come?”
“Not at all! But, listen, I have to run. I really do have to shop.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring anything? My mom will have tons of leftovers.”
“No! I do not need your mom’s leftovers. I’m perfectly capable of pulling this off.”
“If you say so.”
As soon as Stella and I hang up the phone, I resist the urge to text or call Giuseppe to confirm
that he’s coming. Instead, I jump in the shower, pull my hair up into a ponytail, and 45 minutes
later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of a nearby grocery store.
Before I even set foot in the store, the parking lot is a foreboding prequel of what’s to come
inside. It’s never a good sign when you have to circle the lot for 10 minutes before finding a
space that’s a half a mile away from the door.
After I get inside, I grab the second to last grocery cart and scroll through the notes on my
phone to locate my shopping list. Despite the current empty state of my fridge, cooking is
something I’m good at; it’s the act of shopping that I dislike.
I’m waiting for someone to develop a shopping app that allows you to choose your groceries,
pay online and have them delivered to your doorstep. When that happens, I’ll make gourmet
meals every day.
Until then, I’m reserving time consuming and labor intensive meals for fancy dates and
special occasions--like this Christmas dinner.
While I’m comparing brands of vanilla extract for the pecan pie, I feel my brain drifting off
into forbidden territory--aka, dreamland. I’m not making this pie because I particularly like
pecan pie. In fact, I dislike it. But I’m making it because I know that it’s G’s favorite dessert.
As soon as she sees it, Stella will tilt her head and give me a disapproving stare.
And she’s right. In the very back of my mind, I’m more than a little bit hopeful, that
somehow…something about tomorrow’s dinner will make G want to give us another try.
So, naturally, everything has to be perfect.
THREE
Six hours and four grocery stores later, I pull into the driveway of my apartment, annoyed at
myself for picking recipes that contain ingredients I had to hunt down at multiple stores. Still, it’s
only a quarter to five, and the night is young. I have six or seven solid hours of cooking ahead of
me.
The wind has picked up, and it feels a lot colder than the current temperature of 34 degrees. It
looks like Winter has decided to settle in and put its feet up for a while.
I sit in the car for a good 10 minutes, willing myself to get out and carry the groceries into the
house. I live in a charming little duplex apartment in University City that was converted to a
duplex about twenty years ago.
I live in the upstairs unit, and a cute little family lives downstairs--for now. What sometimes
gives me pause is that Mindy and I moved into these apartments at the same time--around 8
years ago when I started working for Sy.
And whereas my life has stayed pretty much the same, hers has been a whirlwind of
relationships and breakups. Shortly after we first moved in, she got engaged to her college
sweetheart, then he got a job in New York and they broke up after an unsuccessful run at long
distance dating. Next, she dated a dashing millionaire (who she just happened to meet at the local
grocery store) and after nearly a year, they decided they would be better off as friends, so they
broke up.
To clear her head, she took a two week vacation to South America, and ended up joining a
humanitarian organization. While I watered her plants and forwarded her mail, she spent six
months in Argentina with this organization, where she dated and nearly married a dangerously
good looking professional soccer player…but when she realized she was homesick for Missouri
and he had no interest in leaving Argentina, she returned to St. Louis with a plan to refrain from
dating for at least a year.
Of course, the day after she made that plan, she promptly bumped into Cooper, an old friend
from elementary school. He swept her off her feet, they got married four months later, and now,
three years later, they are the proud parents of six month old twin boys.
Even though we’re technically more neighbors than friends, Mindy and I have a pretty good
acquaintance-ship going. We invite each other over for tea and breakfast, and we have a long
standing habit of going on epic estate sale adventures together.
Now, every time I see the little “For Rent” sign in our front yard, I feel a little pang of sadness
that she, Cooper, and the little ones will be leaving soon. Whereas our rather spacious apartments
are a great space for one and cozy for two, the jump from two to four has caused some space
issues in their unit, and they now have their eye on a fixer upper in Webster Groves, about 20
minutes away.
They will also be attending my Christmas dinner, and it will be a sort of goodbye party, since
it appears that they will be moving some time in the next 60 days.
I’m still sitting in the driveway, enjoying the blast of heat coming from the vents, and waiting
for Ella Fitzgerald to finish the final notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when
Mindy knocks at my window.
I jump about a foot, having been fully engrossed in humming along to the music, and open my
door. No time like the present to start carting multiple bags of groceries.
“You ok?” she asks, bouncing from one foot to the other and rubbing her arms. She’s wearing
a light sweatshirt, but even in my ruby red pea coat, I can tell the temperature has dropped
considerably since my shopping excursion began earlier in the day.
“Yeah, just getting my thoughts together before I go inside.”
Mindy gives me a concerned look--a look that she has perfected since becoming a mom--and
follows me to the back of the car, where I open up the trunk to get the groceries.
Mindy gasps. “I thought you said this was a small party!”
“It is. You guys, Stella, G, and Sy. Oh, and a guy Stella’s sort of dating at her job.”
“Ivy, there is enough food for 25 people in this trunk. And haven’t you already been cooking
this week?”
I shake my head. “No, the bookstore has been crazy all week. I haven’t had a second to sit
still and just breathe until today.”
Mindy is incredulous as we carry the bags inside. She opens the door to her unit and yells to
Cooper to stir the rice cereal, but not to feed the babies yet because it’s too hot, and she’ll be
back downstairs in a minute. As we climb the flight of stairs to my apartment, she turns her
attention back to me.
“You do know it’s Christmas Eve, right?”
“I know, I know. But it’s just now 5 o’clock. I almost have a full 24 hours before dinner is
served.”
We drop the bags on the kitchen counter and head back downstairs and out to the car for
round two.
Mindy helps me put all of the perishables away, then surveys my apartment. The front door
opens into a big, airy living room/dining room combo, with big windows in each room, and
warm, reddish hardwood floors that are well worn. The architecture is not contemporary, but I’ve
added a modern touch with some sleek, oversized furniture.
Beyond the entertaining area is a small hallway that leads to my kitchen and guest bathroom
to the left, and my bedroom and bathroom on the right.
It’s not a mansion, but the house does have an inviting feel, and with all of my Christmas
decorations, the place feels festive. I like to think it’s my version of Sandra Bullock’s apartment
in While you Were Sleeping--minus the annoying neighbor who keeps hitting on her.
I’m also missing the Jack Callaghan character to fall in happily ever after with. On the other
hand, since I’m definitely in some form of a one-sided relationship with Giuseppe, I guess he
counts as my Peter Callaghan. He might as well be sleeping, for all the clues and hints he has
failed to pick up on.
“Well, the bright side is, the house is already clean,” Mindy announces. “And if you need
help, I might be able to sneak up after the babies fall asleep. I can peel potatoes or chop onions or
something.”
“No way. It’s your first Christmas with the twins. And your last Christmas in the apartment.”
We exchange sad looks, and Mindy gives me a motherly hug.
I shoo her toward the doorway. “Spend time with your family. I want you to be an actual
guest and have fun tomorrow.”
“All right.” Mindy looks at the kitchen counter that is crammed full of the non perishables,
and sighs. “If you hit a snag, please call me. I feel like you’re going to fall asleep in your turkey
and dressing tomorrow.”
I laugh and realize it sounds hollow, but I try to reassure Mindy by sounding confident. “It’ll
be like when I used to stay up writing papers for college. I always work best with an adrenaline
rush.”
“Ok…Well. Ok.” Mindy leaves, closing the front door behind her.
With the house quiet, and nothing else to do but the task at hand, I get to work. The first order
of business is to set the mood, which I do by starting a music playlist full of upbeat tunes that
keep me feeling energetic.
On the kitchen counter is a stack of cookbooks that contain the recipes I’ve planned to make. I
open the first book, roll up my sleeves and immerse myself in a universe of sugar, butter, flour,
herbs, spices, and sundry other ingredients.
Two hours pass in a blur, and I’m starting to pick up steam. I’m submerging the turkey in a
roasting bag filled with seasoned brine and considering unique ways to decorate the butter
cookies when the doorbell rings.
I twist tie the turkey bag, place the bird in the refrigerator, and run downstairs. Stella is
standing on the doorstep with a big basket, filled to the brim with holiday gift-basket fare.
I let her inside and stare at the basket.
“It’s a Christmas bonus from a client,” she says. “And I have to get it out of my house.
There’s probably 18,000 calories in this thing, and I don’t want a carb hangover in the morning.”
“Thank you?” I ask, and head back up the stairs. Stella follows, peeking around the gigantic
red bow on the basket.
“It smells so good in here,” Stella says, as she sits the basket on the dining room table.
“What’s in the oven?”
“Bacon, rosemary, and pine nut stuffing.”
“Yum. I think I probably need to taste it.”
I head back into the kitchen and Stella follows me. I hand her a fork so she can taste the
stuffing, and ask, “Sweet potatoes or white potatoes?”
“What?”
“I’m peeling potatoes now and you’re helping. So orange or white?”
“Orange.” Stella and I take up stations on opposite sides of the counter and start peeling.
“I can only stay for maybe an hour and half, though,” she says. “I still have presents to wrap
for my family Christmas presents, and I have to leave no later than nine. And, I talked to Grant
and he’s really excited to come. Oh, and he’s bringing a ham.”
I stop peeling. “A ham? What am I going to do with a ham?”
“I don’t know. Someone gave him a smoked ham and he was so excited about being invited to
the Christmas party, he said he would bring it to the party.”
I think about this for a few moments. For the past few weeks, I have painstakingly put
together the perfect Christmas dinner--not too sweet, not too savory, not too traditional, not too
gourmet. The menu walks the fine line between comfort food and culinary masterpiece. And I do
not need a rogue ham in the mix. Ham is predictable. Ham is boring. Giuseppe hates ham.
“Stella, just let him take the ham to your family Christmas dinner.”
Her face pales at the suggestion. “Are you kidding me? You know my mother’s a vegetarian
and the Christmas salmon is an extreme concession on her part. I can’t bring a date who brings a
ham.”
“Ugh. Then you keep it. Seriously, Stella. It doesn’t work with my menu, either.”
Stella puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat.
“This is about Giuseppe, right?”
“What?”
“You have a crush on him again, don’t you?”
“I have not had a crush on Giuseppe for a long time. Not even six months ago, when he asked
me out.”
Stella shakes her head. “You guys are so weird. You’re best friends in high school, then you
date for five minutes in college, but you break up because you’re scared dating might ruin your
friendship. And then, for the next ten years, you take turns having crushes on each other--but you
never like each other at the same time. It’s annoying. And you’re only flipping out about the ham
because Giuseppe hates it.”
Guilty as charged. “Ok, I have a little crush on him right now.”
“Then you need to get over it. You’re only in this mood because it’s Christmas, and you’re
single, and lonely. I mean, why am I even talking to Grant? He’s not my ideal husband--he wears
pleated khakis and he Facebook friends every person that he meets, and sometimes he whistles
through his nose when he breathes.”
Stella runs to the nearest mirror and grimaces at her reflection. “It’s happening, Ivy. We’re 30.
We’re not married. And now, we’re resorting. Plain and simple.”
“We are?” I ask.
“Of course we are. And I only have myself to blame,” she wails. “Oh, why didn’t I get braces
when I was 14?” she says, leaning closer to the mirror. “And now I need Botox. And probably a
boob job in like five years. How am I ever going to buy a house when I need a whole new…
everything?”
I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m rolling my eyes.
I stand next to her in the mirror and take in our reflections. Despite Stella’s nitpicking, we are not
quite the old and decrepit spinsters she thinks we are.
At five foot nine with brown hair and brown eyes, I don’t necessarily stand out in a crowd,
especially not next to Stella with her shiny black hair and blue-violet eyes.
Yes, her teeth are crooked--the result of talking her parents out of making her wear braces
when she was a kid--but crooked teeth don’t define who she is. There are tons of successful
people walking around with crooked teeth. And for some reason, I can’t think of any of their
names.
I could always reference Lauren Hutton’s gap. Then again, I can’t help but wonder if she ever
gets tired of being the unofficial spokesperson for the masses who went without orthodontia.
“Well look on the bright side--you didn’t get braces so now you can get veneers,” I say, trying
to leave Lauren Hutton out of the conversation just this once.
Stella gasps. “You think my teeth are too little?”
“No, I do not.”
She sighs. “See? We have no choice but to resort, Ivy. Just look at us.”
To humor Stella, I look in the mirror again. Neither of us is model-thin. On a good day I’m a
size ten to Stella’s eight, but she’s also a couple of inches shorter than me.
And yes, we have laugh lines and what might be the beginnings of crow’s feet--but that’s
what happens to a face that knows how to laugh and laugh often. The only way to end Stella’s
rant is to simply agree with her.
“You’re right. Just look at us. Arsenic and Old Lace. In the flesh,” I say in a somber voice.
“Spinsters for sure,” Stella agrees, with a twinkle in her eye.
I giggle.
Stella smiles.
Moments later, we are laughing to the point of tears, peeling potatoes once again.
“So how is the braces saving fund coming along?” I ask Stella.
“Don’t ask. After I had to buy a new washing machine, the savings got a little depleted.”
“There’s always next year.”
“Yeah.”
We peel silently for a while longer, and I bring the topic back to Giuseppe.
“So you think me being with G would be resorting? I mean, he’s not horrible.”
“He’s not wonderful,” Stella retorts.
“Ok. But come on; you’re making him seem like some awful person. You’re friends with him
too.”
“Yes. Friends--I’ve never dated him.”
“I’ve been friends with Giuseppe for over half of my life, Stella. We are best friends. I know
him. He knows me. We get each other. I’m comfortable with him, and we would be a good
couple. I think.”
“Then why can’t you two ever synchronize your crushes on each other? And why is it that
when you’re not crushing on him, you’re dating no one, but when he’s not crushing on you, he’s
dating everyone?”
“I don’t know. He’s just more charismatic than me.”
“Or maybe you’re always waiting for him and he knows it and he’s taking advantage of you.
You’re enabling him.”
“So how do I change the dynamic?”
Stella shrugs. “Don’t be so available. You’re at his beck and call. You pick up the phone
every time he calls, and you drop other plans to hang out with him at a moment’s notice. You’re
the classic TFGG.”
I groan.
She’s right. TFGG is an acronym for “Take For Granted Girl,” a character seen in roughly 1/3
of all romantic comedies. She’s the girl who harbors feelings for her guy friend and gets
neglected for the first 78 minutes of the movie while he, well, takes her for granted. But over the
course of those last 12 minutes…that’s when the magic happens.
Unfortunately, Giuseppe and I can’t get past those first 78 minutes. I’m his TFGG.
Stella continues her speech. “…Date other guys. Make him your TFGB. Otherwise, you’ll
never make it to the last 12 minutes.”
TFGB’s (Take for Granted Boys) do exist, but are much rarer than TFGG’s. And you pretty
much have to be some version of a supermodel to be the girl that has a TFGB perpetually waiting
in the wings.
As if on cue, my phone rings.
“It’s Giuseppe,” I say, looking at the screen. “Should I pick up?”
“You always do.”
FOUR
I don’t pick up.
Stella stares at me, open mouthed. “Wonders never cease.”
“I’m not the TFGG you think I am.”
Stella puts down her knife and yawns. “Those are all peeled, and I need to go home and get
my beauty sleep now.”
I look at the clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock. And we haven’t started the pies yet.”
“Remember, I have presents to wrap. And I have to get up super early to go to my parents’
house in the morning.”
We’re interrupted by Stella’s cell phone ringing. Looking at the screen, she announces, “It’s
Giuseppe,” before answering.
“Hello?”
At that moment, my doorbell rings several times, repeatedly, and urgently, as if a kid is
playing with the button--which sometimes happens around my neighborhood. I sigh in
annoyance.
If it wasn’t Christmas Eve, I’d call their moms and let them know what their kids are up to.
But far be it from me to get some kids in trouble a few hours before Santa makes his rounds. I’m
not that much of a spinster. Yet.
I stop peeling and stand still so I can hear G’s voice on the other end. I’m slightly miffed that
he immediately called Stella when I didn’t pick up my phone.
Stella clicks over to speakerphone, and we both listen.
“Stella, why didn’t Ivy pick up her phone?” From the tone of G’s voice, I’m not the only one
who’s miffed. “I’m standing outside turning into a popsicle and she’s ignoring my calls? And I
know you’re in there, Stella, because your car is in the driveway. Plus, every light in Ivy’s house
is on and I can hear Christmas music oozing from every nook and cranny. So tell Ivy to open the
front door!”
“All right, all right” Stella says, shooing me out of the kitchen.
The doorbell ringing continues, coupled with loud banging on the big wooden door. I put
down my potato peeling knife and half run, half slide—slippery socks--through the dining room,
into the living room, and down the stairs, so G will stop knocking before he disturbs Mindy and
Cooper.
I fling open the door and Giuseppe is standing on the porch, looking perturbed. An icy gust of
wind hits my face and I shrink back, holding the door open for him.
“Took you long enough,” he says and gives me a hug. I breathe in the scent of his spicy
cologne and shiver at the coldness of his overcoat.
“The weather’s getting crazy,” he says, stepping into the foyer.
I peek outside. The coldness of the glass storm door is proof that the temperature has
drastically dropped, and big, fat, fluffy snowflakes are falling in quick succession across the sky.
I crack the door open a bit further and poke my head outside to get a glimpse of my car. The
hood is covered in a good half inch of fresh snow.
“How are the roads?” I ask Giuseppe as we trudge up the stairs.
“Okay so far. But I don’t know how long it’s been snowing. I just left my mom’s.”
G’s parents live about fifteen minutes away on a posh private street in nearby Clayton. His
extended family’s holiday dinner takes place promptly at 3pm on Christmas Eve every year and
it is a very big deal--which explains why he’s wearing a tuxedo and shiny black shoes.
When we reach the living room, G glances around the room, taking in the view.
“Last minute sale in the Christmas aisle at Target?” he says, laughing.
I look around, taking in the sight of my holiday domain. Now that the sun has gone down, the
full Christmas decor can be seen to the fullest. Yes, there is a gigantic tree covered in lights and,
and festoons of garland and lights over the fireplace and framing the doorway of the dining room
and the kitchen.
G takes off his coat and sits on the couch just as Stella emerges from the kitchen.
“Is that snow on your coat?” she asks, stopping in her tracks.
“Yep.” G stands up, tosses aside a couple of my holiday themed throw pillows and then sits
down again. “This place is starting to feel like my mom’s house, with all of these pillows and
candles everywhere.”
I cross my arms and ignore his teasing. In my opinion, the candles make the room feel cozy
and romantic.
Stella runs to the window. “Oh my gosh! I have to get home before it’s too hard to drive.”
Her eyebrows furrow with tension as she hurries to the dining room table and grabs her purse
and coat. “How are the roads?” she asks G, repeating my question from a few minutes ago.
“Wet, but drivable. And there are snow plows everywhere. By morning, everything should be
clear.”
“I can’t find my phone or my keys!” Stella exclaims, running into the kitchen.
“You just had your phone,” I say, heading into the kitchen to help her look.
Giuseppe stands up and follows us. “Whoa. Are you peeling potatoes for an army?”
“My sentiments exactly,” Stella mutters while searching through the silverware drawer.
“Hey, Ivy, do you have any snacks?” ask Giuseppe. “It smells really good in here.”
I point him in the direction of Stella’s gift basket. “Take whatever you want,” I say.
Driving in snow is not one of Stella’s strong suits, and I feel a pang of worry about dinner
tomorrow. What if the roads get so bad that no one can come?
“Found it!” Stella says, holding up her phone. “Now I just need my keys.”
Giuseppe carries the gift basket into the dining room and tears into it, as Stella dumps the
contents of her purse onto the table to look for her keys.
“I was going to suggest watching a movie or something, but it looks like the party is breaking
up,” he says, nibbling on a fancy cracker.
I shake Stella’s empty purse to see if the keys might be tucked into one of the zippered
compartments.
“We can watch a movie. But I’m still cooking for tomorrow. Speaking of…what time are you
getting here?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible.
G doesn’t answer right away. Apparently, Stella’s frantic pace amuses him, because he has
stopped rummaging for snacks and is now watching Stella rush around, hunting for her keys.
Finally, he walks over to the couch and grabs his coat. “Stella, calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Four Wheel Drive SUV,” she says.
G rips open a package of summer sausage and fishes a few slices from the bag. “You’ll be
fine. The roads are empty for the most part anyway.”
Stella takes a deep breath. “Ok, I’m gonna go now. I just hate driving in the snow!” she wails.
“Want me to drive you?” Giuseppe asks. He’s now delving into the fancy cheese portion of
the basket, stacking slices of cheese and sausage on crackers.
“No, because I can’t leave my car here. I have to be at my parents’ in the morning,” Stella
explains.
“Well, I’ll drive behind you and make sure you get home safely,” he says. He strides to the
couch, pulls on his coat, and fishes in his pocket for his keys.
“Ready?” he asks, opening the door front door and leaning against the frame.
Stella nods and shoots me an apologetic look as she walks to the front door. I shrug and hug
them both goodbye. So maybe I was kind of looking forward to having G hang out and watch a
movie while I did more cooking, but knowing how Stella gets anxious about snow and ice on the
roads, I’m happy he’s here to help.
“Call me when you get home safe,” I say as I walk with them down to the foyer. As they get
in their cars, I wave goodbye and stand in the doorway as they pull away and the tail lights of
their cars retreat down the road.
The snow continues to fall and for a few seconds, I look up and down both sides of my block
and take in the moment. Christmas lights twinkle in some form at almost every house, and, from
the looks of things, many of my neighbors are having guests over for Christmas.
I can hear faint laughter and the sound of the television coming from inside Mindy and
Cooper’s house, and I close the door and go back upstairs to my own little Christmas cove.
The television is on, creating an odd harmony with the sounds of my Christmas music in the
background. I try to ignore the fact that my house feels so empty, a sensation that reminds me of
holidays during my childhood.
I head back to the kitchen, and rinse and refrigerate the mountain of potatoes Stella and I just
peeled. Then, I cover and seal everything else that’s already been cooked, turn off the oven, and
clean the kitchen.
I’m definitely behind in my meal preparations, but the fatigue of this long day has settled over
me, and I just want to sit still and relax for a bit.
I make myself a cup of peppermint hot cocoa and sit down in the living room in front of the
television, searching for a distraction.
I flip channels until I come across an old holiday favorite, White Christmas. Rosemary
Clooney is singing “Count Your Blessings” in the pivotal scene where she and Bing Crosby
realize they love each other while pretending they are interested in ham sandwiches and
buttermilk.
If only it were that easy, I muse.
A scene like this would never happen with me and Giuseppe, because for one thing, the man
hates ham. And yet, in complete and utter contradiction, he loves bacon. If a ham sandwich was
anywhere in his vicinity, he would make a big deal about why he thinks ham is utterly gross, and
the moment would be lost.
I watch Rosemary and Bing end the song and share a kiss. Back when we were young teens,
Stella and I invented a name for moments like this: The Kiss That Changes Everything. This is
the moment when the hero and heroine first kiss, and suddenly, the entire world shifts for those
two people, as they realize they have fallen in love.
I remember talking to my mom about falling in love when I was younger, and asking when I
would know--from the bottom of my heart--that I was in love with the right person.
It was a bit of a somber moment, because she had actually lost the love of her own life a few
weeks before I was born. I never knew him, and she didn’t talk about him all that much. But as I
grew older and found reminders of him around the house in books, photos, pieces of clothing,
and other assorted mementos, I could sense how deeply she loved him.
When I asked her about the specifics of falling in love, she looked me straight in the eye and
gave me a simple answer that I will never forget. “Ivy, when you meet the right man, all
questions and doubts will fade away for both of you. It won’t be lopsided because you’ll both
feel the same way about each other and neither of you will have to work to convince the other to
love you back. It will be easy and natural, and you’ll know when it happens.”
Not fully convinced, I pleaded with her to give me more specifics. Did you have to kiss to
know for sure? Would I hear music in the background? Was a kiss more romantic if you did so
outside under a full moon? Was love more real if the guy saved me from a disaster or something
first?
“Trust, me, Ivy,” she’d answered firmly. “You’ll know.”
I’m thirty now, and I still don’t know if I know just yet. I’ve certainly never heard music or
seen stars or rainbows whenever I’ve been kissed--not even back when Giuseppe and I dated.
Now I wonder if I was way too idealistic when I broke up with him, citing that I didn’t feel
anything special when we kissed as one of the reasons when I didn’t want to be his girlfriend any
longer.
At this age, when a lot of your friends have already moved past marriage and are starting to
have kids, you tend to think back and analyze every relationship opportunity you passed over in
the past--even down to the kid in kindergarten who stole your paste when you weren’t looking.
I feel now, more strongly than ever, that I passed over Giuseppe too quickly, assuming that, at
almost twenty years old, there were plenty of other knights in shining armor who would
eventually cross my path. The last thing I wanted back then was to be shackled to a good friend
and forsake all other options for romance for the rest of my life.
Ten years wiser, I’m reconsidering that notion, and feeling more than a bit frustrated that the
tables have turned. Now it seems that G feels that there are lots of damsels in distress in his
future, and I’m nothing more than a friend.
I turn off the television and get ready for bed. Though I’m incredibly weary when I finally get
myself tucked under my covers, my thoughts immediately shift back to Giuseppe.
I’m sure my mother was right about it being easy to know when you fall in love.
However, there’s no law that says you can’t help set the tone and maybe speed up the pace
with the right atmosphere. Instead of counting my blessings, I mentally scroll through items on
my to-do list for the next morning.
I’m determined to set the most perfect, warm, backdrop for G to change his mind about me
with my dinner tomorrow.
This will be The Christmas Party That Changes Everything…and hopefully the prelude to The
Kiss that Changes Everything for me and Giuseppe.
FIVE
The next morning, my alarm goes off at 6, and I’m tempted to hit the snooze button, but my
goal of hosting the perfect Christmas dinner propels me out of bed. My first stop is the window,
where I assess the effects of last night’s snow.
It looks like we got about six inches, but from my view of the window, the roads look
perfectly clear. Operation Christmas Dinner is still on track.
My first order of business is to flip the turkey inside of the bag of brine. My tried and true
recipe suggests brining the bird for 16-24 hours, and it still has another 6 hours to go before it
reaches 17 hours.
I’ll start roasting the turkey at noon, and it should be done by 4, which will give the meat
about an hour to rest before we carve it.
It’s a tight schedule because I have to get everything else that needs to be baked done before
noon, but I’m up to the challenge. While I’m in the kitchen, I add the ingredients for rolls into
my bread machine and then head back to my room to hop in the shower.
By 7:30 A.M., I’m showered, alert and separating bread dough into individual balls to rise for
a while.
I’m moving on to my vegetable dishes when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Ivy, it’s Sy.”
I’ve talked to Sy, my boss, every day for nearly nine years, and he always begins his phone
calls the same way.
“Merry Christmas!” I exclaim.
“Merry Christmas to you too,” he says.
“About the dinner tonight,” he begins, and my heart sinks, wondering if he’s going to skip my
party. Sy is not anti-social, by any means--he is great friends with the neighbors who live in his
condominium building, and he has built solid friendships with the customers we deal with at the
bookshop, but he’s also a great fan of his own personal space and quiet time.
In eight years of being his assistant at Volumes Ltd., his rare and antique book shop, he has
remained vigorously independent, and sometimes downright secretive with some of the
particulars of his daily schedule. There are long stretches of time each day that he disappears and
leaves me to run the shop alone, and he refuses to tell me where he goes.
Stella, G, and I have long speculated about what exactly Sy does during these hours, and the
most plausible explanation is that he’s probably just taking a nap. After all, he is in his eighties.
“You’re not going to cancel on me, are you?” I say, teasing him.
Sy chuckles, “Oh no. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“My neighbor, Cooper is going to come and pick you up around 4:00. I’ll serve dinner at five,
so that’ll give you some time to get settled in and visit with everyone. Is that okay with you?” Sy
doesn’t drive unless he absolutely has to. His primary mode of transportation is the Metrolink, or
having me drive his car to take him on errands.
Since Stella and G are coming straight from other Christmas parties, a few weeks ago, I made
arrangements for Cooper to drive Sy to dinner.
“That’s fine, but I wanted to ask you a favor. You know Milton, my new attorney?”
I hesitate for a moment, because I can sense exactly what’s happening. Sy and his previous
attorney, Milton Boyd II, were friends for nearly 50 years.
When Milton II died earlier this year, he passed his practice on to his withdrawn, quiet, allwork-and-no-play, cold fish of a son, Milton III--or M3, as I like to call him.
“Yes…” I trail off, trying to brace myself for what’s coming next. Is M3 hosting his own
Christmas dinner and is Sy planning to split his time between the two? Or, worse yet, is Sy trying
to invite M3 to my party?
“Well, I talked to him last night about some paperwork, and he mentioned that he didn’t have
any plans for today. Can you imagine?”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to keep calm. The thing is, Sy has been trying valiantly to set the two of
us up for several months. On the one hand, I’m appreciative of his efforts. In many ways, Sy has
been a fatherly figure to me, and I can see him trying to do the same for M3 since his father
passed away.
And since M3’s father died and I have no other family to speak of, what better way to help
both of us than by tossing us together and hoping that we fall for each other and live happily ever
after?
I know Sy means well. I totally understand the sentiment of she’s-30-and-still-single-soWHO-can-we-set-her-up-with?
I’ve had my fair share of random blind dates. And if I were married, I’d probably be doing my
fair share of suggesting completely ridiculous dates for my single friends.
But one thing is for certain. I have no interest whatsoever in M3, and I don’t care to know if
he has feelings for me--one way or the other.
But the excitement in Sy’s voice tells me I can’t prevent the man from coming tonight. As a
person who has little family (save some distant cousins of my mother’s who live in Alaska--yes,
Alaska, so I don’t get to see them very often) to visit, I well understand the feeling of being
lonely at holidays, which is the reason I’ve worked so hard to create my own traditions, like my
Christmas dinner. I wouldn’t wish a lonely holiday on my worst enemy.
I swallow my frustration and try to sound as cheerful as possible. “Sy, please tell Milton he’s
welcome to join us. In fact, I won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s wonderful news. And tell your friend Cooper to stay put; I’ll have Milton drive me
over. Four o’clock, right?”
“Four o’clock it is. See you then.”
I hang up the phone and frown at the bowl of Brussels sprouts in front of me while I try to
wrap my mind around this latest development. It figures that while I’m trying to set the stage for
romance with Giuseppe, my boss throws a wrench in the plans and invites a date for me.
I push the Brussels sprouts aside for the time being and put on a pot of water to boil the
potatoes I’m planning to mash. As I’m salting the water, inspiration strikes.
The only way to sort through this conundrum is to nail down the place settings. Right now.
I pull a bunch of plates from the cabinet and march into the dining room, determined to make
this work. I’d planned to put Sy at the head of the table, and I decided to work from there.
Stella and Grant can sit across from each other. Then I’ll line up Cooper and Mindy across
from each other. Mindy had said she and Cooper would feed the babies early, and they would
likely be napping by the time dinner started, so I didn’t need to plan out a spot for them. I did,
however, push my antique hutch aside to make room for the playpen Mindy said she’d bring.
This leaves me, G and M3. I couldn’t be obvious and put myself and G across from each other
like the other couples. And I couldn’t shove M3 back to the other end of the table. If I’d gotten
this news two or three days earlier, I could have invited one more person--preferably a woman,
so M3 wouldn’t make things so lopsided. But by now, all of my friends had their own holiday
plans.
So, the only thing to do now is work with what I have. The best option to make sure M3
doesn’t feel like the third wheel and to ensure G doesn’t realize I’m trying to set the two of us up
is to put M3 across from myself and give G the seat at the opposite end of the table across from
Sy.
I quickly draw up some place cards and step back to admire my quick thinking. The dining
room table was meant to comfortably hold ten. Because my party is only eight people, I spend a
couple of minutes shifting the chairs to give everyone a bit more elbow room. After that, I
remove the two extra chairs and put them in the living room for extra seating.
Feeling satisfied, I close my eyes and envision the room at 5:00…I’ll have some holiday
music softly playing in the background--something classic with artists like Doris Day, Bing
Crosby, and Frank Sinatra.
Then I’ll turn on all of the Christmas lights in the living and dining room, light the candles
and dim the overhead lights just so, to give the room a warm glow. I can envision the turkey and
all of the trimmings on the table, and everyone laughing and talking.
And, surprisingly, this whole setup with me across from M3 and Giuseppe at my right is
working out well. M3 and I are chatting comfortably, and G is leaning into our conversation. I
think he’s starting to realize that maybe I won’t sit around waiting for him forever. I’m just as
single and eligible as he is, and he needs to work for my attention from now on.
I’m pulled out of my daydream by the ringing of the kitchen timer, alerting me to add the
potatoes to the boiling water.
With that done, I turn my attention to making pie crusts for pecan and pumpkin pies. I really
should have baked these last night, but after the excitement with the unexpected snowstorm, I
was just too tired to spend another second in the kitchen.
But, I can power through this today if I focus. I shuffle through my Christmas playlists and
shift to more contemporary artists. Over the years I’ve learned that choosing a cooking playlist is
really similar to picking a playlist for a workout. The faster the music, the faster you move, and
nothing increases the pace like listening to Mariah Carey singing “All I Want For Christmas Is
You.”
The next few hours pass in a blur, with me juggling the timing of mashing potatoes, and then
baking pies and rolls, along with green bean casserole, roasted Brussels sprouts, and my special
medley of spiced sweet potatoes, squash, and parsnips.
By one o’clock (a little behind schedule, thanks to those pies), I’m preparing to remove the
turkey from the brine and start the roasting process, when Stella calls.
“Merry Christmas!” she says cheerily.
“Merry Christmas to you too! How’s the family dinner coming along?” I click over to
speakerphone and place the phone on the counter so I can rinse the brine off of the turkey.
“Great! And guess what my parents gave me?”
“What?”
“One thousand dollars for my braces savings fund!”
“Are you serious? That’s fantastic!” I carefully shift the rinsed turkey to the large roasting pan
and place it on the roasting rack.
“I know. I’m getting so close to my perfect teeth,” she says, sighing happily. “So…I’m
hearing rumors about some more snow this afternoon,” she says, sounding nervous.
“What? Not again.” I tuck the wings under the bird and cover the entire turkey with foil and
slip the pan into the oven.
“Yeah, maybe starting around four,” she says. “And possibly some freezing rain. But Grant
has an SUV, and he picked me up this morning, so he’s in charge of driving today.”
“Crisis averted,” I say jokingly and head to window to get a glimpse of the skies.
“But we may show up before four,” she says. “Just so we’re not on the roads if the weather
gets bad. And I can help you finish cooking. How are things coming along?”
The skies are bright and sunny, and I don’t see any sign of an impending snowstorm on the
horizon as I scan the landscape. “Come as early as you like. Everything’s done but the turkey,
and it looks like it won’t ready until closer to five. But Mindy’s volunteered her oven to reheat
the other dishes while the turkey’s cooking, so everything will be hot and ready when the
turkey’s finished.”
“Wow, you really do have everything under control,” she says. “Very impressive.”
“Thanks. But not quite.” I fill her in on the details of Sy inviting M3, and though she’s
appalled at first, by the end of the story, she agrees with me that this might not be such a bad
thing.
“You’re right. Maybe G will finally stop taking you for granted if he senses some competition
on the scene.”
“You never know,” I say, still peering out of my windows. Many of the neighborhood kids are
running around outside, building snowmen and trying out new bikes as best as they can in six
inches of snow. The roads are still clear, and so far, the weather seems pretty mild, but that’s the
thing with Missouri weather--it’s hard to determine what’s coming next.
“Listen,” says Stella. “I have to run, but we’ll see you in a few hours.
After hanging up with Stella, I sit down on my couch to just relax and soak in some Christmas
atmosphere. Several holiday movies are on TV, and I settle on an old favorite, It’s a Wonderful
Life.
My early morning is catching up with me, so I grab a blanket, stretch out, and prop my head
up with a pillow to watch the movie. And by the time Jimmy Stewart’s character dances into a
swimming pool, I decide to indulge in a quick power nap.
SIX
Someone is pounding on the walls and calling my name.
“Ivy?”
Mindy’s voice is muffled as I sit up and force myself to push through the grogginess I feel.
“Ivy?”
I hear Mindy’s voice again, along with several sharp raps on my front door.
I jump to my feet and run to the kitchen, panic rising in my throat.
Inside the oven, all is well.
The turkey still has more than two hours to go, which means I’ve been asleep for a little over
an hour.
A nap was not a part of my schedule, but I can still work with the loss of time. Besides, I was
probably only going to spend that hour re-cleaning my house and attempting to curl my hair.
The knocking at the door intensifies, and I remember Mindy calling my name.
I run back to the living room and open the door.
“I came over to pick up the side dishes,” says Mindy.
“Already?”
“Well, it’s almost three. And I thought I should at least move everything to my kitchen all at
once so I don’t have to make a bunch of trips once I start heating.”
“Good idea. I’ll help you, I say, beckoning her to follow me to the kitchen.
“Can you believe it’s snowing again?” Mindy says as I’m handing her the green beans and
Brussels sprouts.
“What? Since when?
“Pretty much the last half hour,” she says.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs and the entrance to Mindy and Cooper’s apartment, I
push open the front door and survey the weather.
Just like last night, the temperature has dropped again, and zealous snowflakes are pelting
everything at a furious pace. Mindy rushes inside her apartment while I stare outside in shock.
Cooper comes to their front door and grabs the two dishes I’m holding.
“How long is this supposed to last?” I ask him, wondering if Stella has noticed that it’s
snowing.
Cooper shrugs. “Who knows? I thought the snow last night was it.” He disappears back into
the apartment, and Mindy and I take several trips back and forth between my kitchen and hers,
until she has all of the side dishes that need to be heated in the oven.
I’m heading back upstairs after the final trip when a large SUV pulls up in front of the house.
A tall, skinny man with red hair emerges from the driver’s side, and walks around to open the
passenger’s side door for Stella.
I open the door and wait for them. It’s a little after three, and the turkey won’t be done for two
hours, but I’m still wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and my hair is in a ponytail. I feel my first twinge
of party host panic.
If only they had come half an hour later, I would at least look the part.
Stella scurries up the sidewalk and runs inside.
“It’s freezing out there!” Stella exclaims as we stand in the foyer waiting for Grant. “And
sorry we’re early.”
“It’s ok. I just need ten minutes to get dressed. Can you manage being the hostess for a few
minutes?”
“Sure thing.”
For a man who grew up in Florida, Grant seems to be impervious to the icy temperature as he
strides to the back of the car, opens the rear gate and pulls out a large box.
“What’s in the box?” I ask Stella as Grant hefts it over his shoulders and closes the gate.
“Don’t be mad, Ivy” Stella says, a pleading tone in her voice.
“Mad about what?”
Before she can answer, Grant has reached the doorway, and I hold the front door open for him
and his box.
“You must be Grant,” I say.
“And you must be Ivy,” he answers. Grant has pale green eyes and a warm smile, and up
close, he is taller and more athletically built than he first appeared. He shakes my hand, and I
notice that his shoulders are exceptionally broad.
“Well I don’t know about you two, but I’m freezing down here, so come on up.” I head up the
stairs and Stella and Grant follow.
“Thanks so much for inviting me,” says Grant. “I really appreciate it.”
“I’m glad you could make it,” I tell him.
“Can I take your coats?” I ask the two of them, falling right into hostess mode. “And your…
box?” I ask Grant.
“It’s pretty heavy,” he says. “If you could point me toward the kitchen…”
I shoot a questioning glance at Stella, who is conveniently not looking my direction, and lead
the way to my kitchen for Grant.
He places the box on the counter and pulls out a massive smoked ham, followed by two
cartons of eggnog.
“The ham is mine, and the eggnog is courtesy of Stella’s mother,” he explains.
“Oh! Thanks so much,” I say brightly, hoping I’m doing a good job of looking pleasantly
surprised. I gesture toward the oven. “I’ve got a turkey cooking now, but as soon as that’s
done…” I trail off awkwardly, not really knowing how far I should go in this ruse of pretending
I’m going to serve this ham.
Grant laughs and holds up both hands. “It’s fully cooked, so I think you just kind of need to
heat it up. But, please, don’t feel compelled to serve it on my behalf. I’m a single guy, and there
was absolutely no way I could eat an entire ham this size. When Stella invited me, I thought
maybe someone here might want it. Plus, my mother always taught me to bring something to a
party, so I’m just doing what I was taught. You can do whatever you like with it.”
Instantly, any tension between me and Grant vanishes, and I smile in relief.
At that moment, Stella enters the kitchen, her coat draped over her arm.
“Grant,” she says, “Ivy has to get dressed, so I’m acting as hostess for a while. Do you want
to sit down in the living room and I’ll take your coat?”
“No problem.” Grant peels off his overcoat, hands it to Stella and heads into the living room,
leaving me and Stella in the kitchen.
“I tried to talk him out of the ham, but he insisted,” Stella says in hushed tones.
I laugh. “It’s really ok. I’ve made my peace with the ham, and I’m not upset.”
Stella chuckles. “His Southern charm got to you, didn’t it?”
I roll my eyes, even though she’s absolutely right. This guy knows a thing or two about
getting on a woman’s good side.
“I’ll warm it up after the turkey is done, and either serve it for seconds or send parts of it
home with everyone.”
Stella exhales in relief. “Thank goodness.”
“But right now I need to baste the turkey,” I tell her.
Stella shakes her head. “I’ll do that after I hang up the coats. You go and get dressed in case
anyone else comes early.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Anything else I need to do?”
“Not at the moment. Mindy’s heating everything else downstairs, but we’ll need to help her
carry everything up when it’s time to eat.”
I leave Stella in charge of the kitchen while I run to my bedroom and close the door to
concentrate on the task at hand. Deciding what to wear has never been one of my great talents.
Yesterday I’d planned on wearing a pair of black dressy pants, a white blouse, and simple
accessories, but Stella is currently wearing a gold sequined dress, and Grant is wearing a suit.
I know Sy will probably be wearing some combination of a sweater or sport coat with a bow
tie, and G never misses an opportunity to get dressed up. From what I’ve seen of him, M3 never
wears anything less casual than a grey or black suit, and Mindy told me she found a fabulous
new dress at an exorbitant discount last week, so now I’m worried I’ll be the most under dressed
at my own dinner party.
As I apply a layer of tinted moisturizer, then mascara, and blush, I have an attire epiphany. As
soon as I’m done with my makeup, I remember a cute little dress I found while estate sale
shopping with Mindy last summer.
It’s a strapless number with a cream colored empire waist that cinches in at the waist, then
poufs out into a wide, full, swishy black skirt with a few layers of tulle underneath for fullness.
The icing on the cake of this dress is the fact that the front of the bodice is a large, satin, ivory
bow. Very vintage, very glamorous, and very eye catching. It’s also very impractical to wear to
just any event, which is why it’s been sitting in my closet for several months.
After a few minutes of hesitation, I finally come to the conclusion that there’s no time like the
present to debut this little frock, so I pair it with a fitted black cardigan, black kitten heels and a
pair of faux diamond stud earrings. Staring at myself in the full length mirror, I pull my hair into
a chic side bun and put on some red lipstick. There. Now I’m an appropriately dressed party
hostess.
As soon as I step into the living room, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” I say, breezing past Stella and Grant and down the stairs, where I find Sy and M3 at
the door.
As I let them inside, Sy grins widely and gives me a hug, “Marry Christmas!” he says.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, closing the door to keep the cold air out.
M3, wearing a three piece suit, a heavy wool coat, and a black fedora, looks down at me with
his warm brown eyes and smiles.
Every time I see the man, I’m always startled by how much he looks like Cary Grant, from his
thick dark hair, strong jaw line and his dimpled chin. It’s almost as if he stepped right out of a
movie screen.
“Merry Christmas, Ivy,” says M3, as he offers his hand for me to shake.
As M3 and I shake hands, Cooper opens his front door, his hands covered with oven mitts,
balancing the stuffing and sweet potatoes.
“Can I take these up?”
“Yes. Does Mindy need me to take anything else up yet?”
Cooper, already halfway up the stairs turns and calls back in the direction of his apartment.
“Mindy! Ivy wants to know if you have anything else to bring up.”
I turn to Sy and M3; “You can go on up and make yourselves at home. I’ll just be a minute.”
Sy shakes his head. “I’m already down here; I might as well help carry something.”
“So will I,” says M3.
Carrying the casserole dish full of Brussels sprouts, Mindy arrives at the door in a curve
hugging red sheath dress, her blonde hair curled in big waves. “I’ve got a basket of warm rolls on
the kitchen counter,” she says, handing the pan of Brussels sprouts to M3.
“I’ll grab those,” says Sy, heading inside.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“That’s all for now,” she says. “There’s nothing left but the green beans, and I’ll have Cooper
bring the rest when they’re done.”
Sy and M3 trudge up the stairs as Cooper returns back downstairs. As soon as he reaches the
bottom step, a loud wail sounds from inside their apartment.
“I’m on it,” says Cooper, running inside.
“They are in desperate need of naps,” Mindy says. “I think their first Christmas has worn
them out and I’m about to pull my hair out.”
“Thanks so much, Mindy. I guess I’ll go up and warm the mashed potatoes.”
“I’m going give them their bottles, and we’ll be up as soon as the twins are good and sleepy.”
“Oh! Do you want me to take the playpen up now?”
“That would be fantastic,” she says. “It’s right by the door,” she says.
I grab the folded up playpen and step back into the foyer outside of the apartment. It’s still
snowing, but from the sound of the precipitation pelting the glass door, it seems that we are
getting more freezing rain than snow.
“Wow, it sounds bad out there,” Mindy says, leaning out into the foyer.
“I know.” I open the front door a crack and survey the skies once again. The sidewalk shows
the telltale sheen of a substance that is far less exciting than snow.
“Ice,” I say to Mindy.
She shudders in response. “Looks like we’re staying put for a while. Are all of your party
guests here?”
“For the most part,” I say, looking up and down the street for any sign of Giuseppe’s car.
Another wail sounds inside of the apartment, followed by a plea for help from Cooper.
“Gotta go,” says Mindy. “We’ll be up soon.”
I make my way up the stairs and push my apartment door open. I get two steps inside before
M3 rushes over to grab the playpen. “Where should I put this?”
“Over in the corner there, please.”
I make introductions around the room for M3 and Grant’s sake, since they’re both new to the
group.
“Is that ice I’m hearing?” Stella asks. “Have you talked to Giuseppe today?”
“No, but I wonder if I should give him a call and see where he is.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he should be driving in this.”
I find my phone in the kitchen and dial Giuseppe’s number, but there’s no answer. He never
picks up his phone when you want him to.
To distract myself, I put some cheese, crackers, and fruit on a tray and take it into the living
room for my guests, who are crowded around the windows, watching the developing storm.
“Hear anything from Giuseppe?” Stella asks.
I shake my head. “He didn’t pick up his phone. We should probably try to call again in a few
minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think he should be driving in this storm,” Sy says, sounding concerned.
“Yeah, the roads were pretty slippery just getting from Sy’s condo to here,” M3 chimes in.
“I’ll call him again now,” Stella says.
The next twenty minutes pass in a rotation of me stirring potatoes, calling Giuseppe, basting
the turkey, looking out the windows and listening to everyone discuss the weather.
When Mindy and Cooper show up with their snoozing twins and the remaining side dishes,
the interruption is a welcome distraction.
After another round of introductions, and getting the twins settled in the playpen, the kitchen
timer goes off, signaling that the turkey needs basting again.
Mindy and Stella follow me into the kitchen to help with the final preparations.
“The turkey smells delicious,” Mindy says. “How much longer does it need to cook?”
“Maybe 45, 50 minutes?”
“Are you serious?” Stella says. “It’s just a little after four.”
“And I said we’d serve dinner at 5,” I tell her. “My schedule got a little pushed back this
morning, so the turkey is a little delayed. But as soon as it’s done, we’ll eat.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the lights in the kitchen go completely dark.
SEVEN
“What’s going on?” asks Stella.
I hear a general rumble of surprised voices in the living room as I try to acclimate myself to
the sudden loss of light.
Mindy makes her way over to the window, holding on to furniture for support. “You guys, I
think the power for the whole neighborhood is out.”
“Are you sure?” I open the oven door and gasp. “No, no, no! The oven’s stopped working
too.”
“Ok, it’s probably just a fuse or something,” Stella says, reassuringly. “In a few minutes,
everything should be working again.”
“The ice must have accumulated on the power lines.” Cooper’s voice startles me. “The entire
street is dark.”
“Are you kidding? On Christmas?” I feel my voice rising into higher octaves, and I stop
talking to keep from sounding like a crazed person.
“Well,” says Stella. “There’s nothing to be done in the kitchen for the moment.”
“We should probably go into the living room and just chill for a while,” says Mindy. “And
maybe the residual heat from the oven will finish cooking the turkey,” she suggests.
“Come this way,” Cooper says, and we follow the sound of his voice toward the doorway.
As soon as we cross the hallway to the dining room, I feel a bit calmer, seeing that all of my
decorative candles are actually serving a purpose by keeping the living room and dining room
illuminated.
Everyone has an opinion about the cause of the blackout, ranging from a buildup of ice, to
fallen trees, to blown fuses, and this becomes the central topic for the next several minutes.
I don’t say anything, because I’m getting nervous about the possibility that there won’t be
enough residual heat to fully cook the turkey. Something tells me there won’t be. And I can’t
serve partially raw meat.
I sink back into the couch, wondering if I’m the only one who thinks the room is getting
colder.
“I should call the power company and see if they have an estimate,” Mindy says. “Cooper,
could you hand me my cell phone?”
“There’s a car pulling up in front of the house,” says M3, who has been standing at the
window, marveling at how loud the ice sounds as it hits the glass of the windowpanes. “Are you
expecting more guests?”
I move to the window. “It’s Giuseppe.”
Relieved that he’s arrived safely, I head downstairs to open the door.
The stairway is dark, and I grab a small tea candle from a side table to help me see my way
down the door. At the bottom of the stairwell, the air is still and cold, and I wonder how much
longer the temperature in my apartment will remain steady.
G gets out of his car and takes cautious steps in the street, hanging onto the side of the car to
keep from slipping. I remember that the sidewalk is covered in a sheet of ice, and I open the door
to yell to G to be careful.
With the door open, it’s apparent how much worse the weather has become since I last
checked, and the swirling winds and icy snowflakes make it hard to even breathe.
Before I can even form words, I notice that G is opening the passenger’s side door of his car. I
watch in silence as a diminutive blonde in a bright white winter coat steps out, and G offers her
his arm for support. My muscles feel frozen in place, even though I am starting to shiver.
Who is she?
Giuseppe and the woman carefully make their way toward the door, and I try to look happy
and gracious, which is the complete opposite of how I feel as I watch her take tiny, teetering
steps in her sky high designer heels.
When G and his guest reach the front door, I push the door open wider and welcome them
inside. “You made it!” I exclaim. “We were starting to wonder if you were still coming.”
“I went to pick up Evangeline, and it took longer than I thought it would,” he says, gesturing
toward the woman. “By the way, Ivy, this is Evangeline. Evangeline, this is Ivy.”
Evangeline and I smile and exchange hellos, and Giuseppe continues his story. “It was just
snowing when I left my house, and by the time we left her house, everything changed over to ice.
Trust me, Stella is not going to want to drive in this.”
“The power’s been out here for almost 20 minutes,” I tell them.
“Yeah, we noticed,” says G. “For about the last mile, the traffic signals were just blinking.”
“Oh no, I hadn’t even thought about that. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“There’s not a lot of traffic, but it’s tough to navigate the roads like this,” Giuseppe says.
“But Giuseppe did a fantastic job of getting us here safely,” says Evangeline in a crisp,
clipped, British accent, and she snuggles deeper into the crook of his arm and smiling up at him.
Giuseppe beams. Compliments are his fuel.
I turn around and lift the tea candle above my head in the hopes that it will disperse the light a
bit better.
“Be careful coming up the stairs,” I tell them, marching toward my door.
As soon as I reach the landing at the top of the stairs, my front door swings open, and Cooper
is at the threshold. “The power company’s phone lines are flooded, but Mindy finally got a
recording that says they are sending crews out and working to restore power in the next 24
hours.”
“24 hours?” I step inside, with Giuseppe and Evangeline right behind me. The apartment has
shifted from still and contemplative to bustling since I went downstairs, and there seems to be an
abundance of nervous energy in the room. Sy is holding one of the babies, quietly singing a
lullaby, and Grant and M3 are putting on coats and gloves. Mindy and Stella are on their knees,
dismantling the candle display in my fireplace, but I ignore this puzzling sight for the moment.
“Everyone, this is Giuseppe and Evangeline,” I announce.
There is a brief pause in the action, and a round of hellos from everyone in the room.
Cooper steps into the stairwell with a flashlight in his hand, and Grant and M3 follow him
down the stairs.
“We have some wood for the fireplace in the backyard,” Mindy says. “It’s getting chilly in
here, so we thought it might be a good idea to start a fire.”
“Good idea,” I say, then turn to Giuseppe and Evangeline. “Dinner isn’t quite ready yet, but
make yourselves comfortable. Can I take your coats?”
“Sure,” says G peeling off his wool overcoat and handing it to me.
Evangeline, however, shakes her head, pulling her coat closer to her body. “I’m actually a
little cold, so I’ll just hang on to it for now,” she says.
Stella stands up with armful of garland. “Ivy, I’m going to put these in your room,” she says.
“And I’ll put this coat away. Let me get some light,” I say as I grab a vase with a candle
inside and head back to my room.
“What’s going on out there?” Stella asks as she places the garland in a chair.
I shrug and hang up G’s coat. “He brought a date. I can’t even believe it. I’m definitely the
TFGG.”
“Classic Giuseppe,” she says in a matter of fact tone. “But are you okay?”
“No, but I will pretend I am.”
“Good. Because it looks like no one’s going anywhere for a while.”
I sigh deeply. Stella’s right. I guess there won’t be any chance for romance between me and
Giuseppe this Christmas. And in a way, I’m ok with that. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell
myself to make it through the rest of this party.
“And we should probably figure out something with dinner,” Stella says, bringing my
attention to the task at hand. “Should we check the turkey?”
“Sure.”
In the kitchen, we pull the turkey from the rapidly cooling oven and find that parts of the bird
are still pink. Very pink.
So much for my beautiful bird. I try not to cry.
Mindy, who has joined us and brought along several more candles, peers into the roasting pan
and shakes her head. “No way. Too risky. I don’t think anyone will be disappointed with side
dishes by candlelight.”
“Rest in peace, turkey,” Stella says solemnly.
I laugh in agreement. Then, an idea strikes.
“Ladies…I do believe we have another option.”
EIGHT
Half an hour later, I’m bending over the fireplace, and M3 is helping me transfer sizzling slices
of Grant’s ham to a large serving platter.
When we decided to serve the ham, M3 (who, it turns out, is something of an expert camper)
helped us come up with a way to warm the meat in a cast iron skillet in the fireplace. Even
though things are not going as planned, inside I feel a surge of calm and triumph.
Working together, my guests and I have taken lemons and made lemonade. As a result, I feel
a fleeting connection to the pioneers who also cooked their meals in a roaring fireplace. Little
House on the Prairie, make way for Little Apartment in the STL.
I follow M3 to the table as he places the platter in the center of the table and take my seat-across from M3 and next to Giuseppe, who is sitting across from Evangeline.
In the midst of the hubbub of dinner preparations, I discreetly pulled another chair to the table
and added a place card for Evangeline next to M3 without anyone noticing that I was doing a bit
of a seating shuffle.
And even though I’m sitting right next to G, I could be in another world for all he cares,
because he’s too busy looking across the table at Evangeline to notice anyone else.
To her credit, she’s a very nice person, and I can see why he’s mesmerized by her. While the
men worked to build the fire, Evangeline ventured into the kitchen to help with the final
moments of dinner preparations. Volunteering to toss the salad, she finally removed her pristine
white coat to reveal a brilliant blue bandage dress, which I’m sure is a real Herve Leger. She
shivered the entire time, but then again, so did Stella, Mindy and I.
The fire has put everyone in a more relaxed mood, and now, as I’m looking around the table,
I’m thankful for friends who can take things like an unexpected power outage in stride. Even
though ice continues to rain down outside, we are now cozy and enjoying a bountiful (if not
piping hot) meal in good company.
Even Evangeline fits right in, as she entertains us all with funny anecdotes from her childhood
and teenage years. Over the course of the meal we learn that she’s the daughter of one of
Giuseppe’s mother’s sorority sisters.
Evangeline and Giuseppe have only met once before, when he was eight years old and he and
his family spent the summer vacationing in Greece with Evangeline’s family.
Though she attended boarding school and college (or, “University,” as she refers to it) in
London, she is now in the States to continue her education and earn her PhD in some form of
technical science.
And, on top of all that, she’s absolutely beautiful. Her long golden hair, accentuated with
naturally warm olive skin and wide, deep, blue eyes make her look more like an actress or a
model, and I have a hard time imagining her holed up in a laboratory, poring over complicated
mathematical formulas.
At one point during dinner, Sy stands up, getting everyone’s attention. “I know it’s not
Thanksgiving, but I am really thankful to be here with you all, instead of back in my condo all by
myself tonight.”
“Same here,” says Grant.
“I feel the same way,” adds M3. “Thanks so much for hosting this, Ivy. Today has been a
welcome distraction from so many things that I’ve been dealing with.”
Evangeline nods vigorously. “I’ve only been in town for a few weeks, and haven’t met many
new people yet, and I’ve been terribly homesick for my friends in London. Last night I really
didn’t feel like getting dressed up to go to his family’s dinner,” she says, gesturing toward
Giuseppe. “In fact, I wanted to sit at home in my pajamas and eat ice dream. But, my very
persistent mother kept calling me and telling me I absolutely must get out of my apartment, so I
dragged myself out of the house and went.
Then, I reconnected with Giuseppe, and he absolutely insisted that I come here tonight. And I
said yes, because I really didn’t relish the idea of being home alone again. But I didn’t really
know what to expect, barging in on a group of good friends in the middle of a small party.
So, from the bottom of my heart, I want to thank you, Ivy, and everyone else here for making
me feel so welcome. You are a fantastic group of people. And this ham is absolutely delicious.”
“Hear, hear,” says Giuseppe, clapping loudly. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Let’s hear
it for Ivy and this delicious ham!”
I decide to ignore the fact that suddenly G likes ham since Evangeline likes it too. Everyone at
the table joins Giuseppe in clapping, and I suddenly feel on the spot. Before I know what’s
happening, I find myself blinking back tears. I dab at the corners of my eyes with the napkin and
take a few sips of cold water to keep a full on breakdown at bay.
When the clapping subsides, I finally feel able to speak without starting to cry.
“I honestly am so happy that all of you ventured out of your houses in a storm, because if it
weren’t for any of you, I would be all alone for Christmas too. So thank you for coming.”
At that moment, my little speech is interrupted by one of the twins, who was probably
awakened by the loud clapping. Mindy excuses herself to rock him back to sleep, and the topic
of conversation shifts back to the weather.
After dinner, the guys volunteer to do the dishes--in icy water, since the water heater runs on
electricity. Since there is no light in the kitchen, I can’t vouch for exactly how clean the dishes
are, but I’m thankful for the chance to finally sit and relax.
While the dishes are being washed, Stella, Mindy, Evangeline and I take turns cuddling the
twins, while chatting in the living room.
After the guys join us, we all pull out our phones and tablets and share news from the outside
world. The good news is that the storm is expected to taper off around midnight, but it’s unclear
when the road crews will be able to clear the roads.
Between doppler reports, Internet updates, and text messages, the next hour passes in a flurry
of information sharing.
Finally, G ventures out to his car and returns with his laptop and a spare battery.
“Okay, everyone,” G says. “Put all of your screens away; we are going to relax and stop
worrying about the weather.”
“So what are we going to do instead?” asks Stella.
“We,” says Giuseppe, “are going to watch Ivy’s favorite Christmas movie.”
“And what movie might that be?” asks Evangeline.
“White Christmas,” Giuseppe says, setting up his computer on the coffee table at an angle
where everyone will be able to watch.
“Ah, a classic,” says Grant. “I remember watching this as a kid.”
“Well, it sounds lovely; I’m excited to see it,” says Evangeline.
“This sounds amazing, and I hate to cut the party short,” says, Mindy, “But I probably need to
feed my kiddos and put them to bed for the night.”
“Yeah, I think we’re going to go home,” says Cooper.
“With the roads like this?” asks Evangeline.
“Oh, we’re not going anywhere. We live right downstairs,” Mindy says.
“You know, you guys are welcome to stay the rest of the night,” I tell them. “I’m sure it’s
warmer up here than it is downstairs. You and the twins can have my room.”
Mindy looks at Cooper. “You know, she’s right. It may be too cold down there for the
babies.”
“Then it’s settled,” I tell her. “And no one else is leaving tonight either. We can just find some
way to hunker down for the night and we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Ivy,” says Mindy. “But I have to get out of these party clothes; it’s just too cold to
keep up with the pretense of a dress and heels.”
“I was just thinking the same thing!” Stella exclaims. “Could I borrow a sweater, Ivy?”
“Of course you can! I should have offered earlier.”
Stella and Evangeline both raid my closet and we all get outfitted in sweatshirts, sweaters,
yoga pants and thick socks. And after we change into warmer attire, Cooper loans the guys
sweaters from his wardrobe as well.
Mindy and I also pillage our linen closets, and all of the blankets we own are now in my
living room. By the time we all gather back in my living room and settle in again, Sy and Grant
serve slices of pecan pie to everyone, while M3 brews cowboy coffee over the fireplace.
The breakdown of couples quickly becomes apparent as everyone sits down. Mindy, Cooper,
Stella and Grant take up residence on my large couch, and Sy takes his seat on the plush recliner.
The loveseat will hold 2 or 3 more people, and M3 is already sitting there, so I grab a couple
of pillows and arrange them on the floor where the two couches meet, which gives me a place to
lean against the frame of the couch.
It’s a cozy little nook, and I’m ready to relax and watch the movie, but Giuseppe, who is at
the fireplace with Evangeline pouring cups of coffee for the two of them glances over and
notices me.
“Ivy, why don’t you sit on the couch? There’s plenty of room.”
Everyone in the room then turns to look at me.
Sitting all by my lonesome.
On the floor.
Instantly, they all chime in, agreeing with Giuseppe.
I shake my head and protest weakly. “No, really, I’m fine. You two can sit on the couch,” I
say, gesturing to G and Evangeline.
Giuseppe shakes his head. “No, I insist. There’s no reason three people should try to squeeze
on the loveseat. We’ll sit on the floor, and you can sit there with…” he pauses, and I realize he’s
probably forgotten M3’s name.
“Milton,” I answer, filling in the blank.
Giuseppe snaps his fingers. “Milton!” He looks at M3. “Sorry, I spaced out for a minute. But
once I remember a name, I won’t forget it.”
“No worries,” says M3. “It’s been a whirlwind of a day.” Then he pats the space next to him
on the loveseat and looks at me.
M3’s invitation brings on another round of concurrent echoes from the rest of the party goers.
Even Sy is pushing me to sit on the loveseat.
I succumb to the peer pressure and settle in next to M3.
Giuseppe and Evangeline get cozy in the seat I just vacated and we finally start the movie. As
the opening credits begin, I do my best to focus on the screen, instead of staring at Evangeline
curled up next to Giuseppe in my cozy spot on the floor.
A few minutes into the movie, M3 casually throws his arm over the back of the sofa. We’re
not sitting quite close enough to each other for his arm to technically be around me, but I’m just
not feeling any type of love connection--no matter how badly Sy wants it to happen.
I mean, he’s a great boss and all, but I have to draw the line at him choosing who I should
date.
The thundering sound of metal scraping against the pavement gives me an excuse to hop up
and head to the window.
The yellow flashing lights of a snowplow is a comforting sight in the darkness that has settled
over the neighborhood. If the road cleaning crews are able to get out and do their job, it shouldn’t
be too long before the power gets restored.
M3 joins me at the window, pulling the curtains back even further as he peers out into the
darkness.
“First road crews are out. That’s a good sign,” he says.
I nod in agreement and keep looking out the window. My inner alarm system has kicked in,
alerting me to the possibility that M3 is well aware of Sy’s plan to set us up. And I get the feeling
he’s not exactly opposed to the idea.
Feeling a little claustrophobic, I sneak a side glance at M3 and wonder why I’m not more
interested. He’s got all of the qualities any woman seriously looking for a husband can
appreciate.
He’s handsome, smart, successful, and single. And that uncanny resemblance to Cary Grant is
almost unnerving. Milton Boyd III is quite a catch. And he’s standing in my living room, at least
somewhat interested in me.
So why am I not flirting with him nonstop?
The sound of G laughing at the movie interrupts my thoughts and answers my question all at
once.
Because I love Giuseppe.
I turn and look at G leaning close to Evangeline, explaining some part of the plot to her, and it
makes my stomach hurt.
“We should probably get back to the movie,” I mumble to M3 and make my way back to the
couch. I sit as close to the arm as possible, hoping M3 takes the hint and sticks to his side of the
couch.
He doesn’t, and instead sits close enough to me that when he throws his arm over the back of
the seat, he actually does have his arm around me.
I decide any further resistance would be futile in such close quarters, and I allow myself to
just relax.
The combination of nonstop hostess duties, the rich meal, and the warmth of the fireplace in
the chilly room have gotten the best of me and I don’t even try to fight the heaviness in my
eyelids.
When I wake up, it’s just in time for the finale scene when the entire cast is singing “White
Christmas” as snow falls in the background.
I’m also leaning against M3’s chest. And Giuseppe is staring right at me.
Our eyes lock and in that moment, I allow myself to ignore everyone else in the room.
This moment is reminiscent of how things felt between us when we first dated, and it’s what
I’ve been searching for ever since.
And now I know Giuseppe feels it too. I’m excited and terrified at the same time.
Giuseppe breaks our gaze first, turning away to stop the DVD.
“Well that was fun,” he says.
“Yeah, it reminds me of high school when Ivy used to make us watch this every year at her
birthday party,” says Stella. “Now I watch it at least once a year.”
“It’s tradition,” says Giuseppe. “Why do you think I brought it over?”
“I didn’t even know you owned it,” I say.
He shrugs. “I saw it on sale a few weeks ago. I was going to save it for July, but I had a
feeling it might come in handy tonight.”
“July?” asks Evangeline.
“Ivy’s birthday is July 25,” Giuseppe explains. “And every year she has a Christmas in July
party for her birthday.”
“That sounds fabulous,” says Evangeline. “How very creative.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” I say, agreeing with her. “Stella and Giuseppe help me find new ideas for
the activities and decor.”
“How did you decide to do that theme?” Grant asks.
“My mom did, actually,” I tell him, and pause while considering how much more to say. It’s
always a little awkward to tell the story of my adoption, because people either try really hard to
not make a big deal of it, or they pepper me with lots of exhausting questions I can’t answer.
But it’s Christmas, I’m in a good mood, and I feel relatively safe in this group of people. “I
don’t actually know what day I was born,” I explain. “But I ended up on my mom’s doorstep on
July 25, and she always said that walking outside and finding a baby on her doorstep was like
Christmas in July. Because of that, it’s always been the theme of my birthday parties.”
“Wow,” says Evangeline.
“And you don’t know anything about where you came from?” asks Grant.
I shake my head. “Not really. But whoever left me there wanted my mom to be the one to take
care of me. There was a letter in the basket asking her specifically to look after me.”
Evangeline shudders. “This story sends chills down my spine. You’re a modern day Moses.”
I laugh. “I guess so. But I obviously haven’t gotten to the part of my life where I do anything
fantastic, like save a bunch of people from disaster.”
“Who knows what the future holds?” says M3. “You never know!”
“I have a cousin who was adopted,” Grant offers. “He went through a phase where he was
focused on nothing else but finding out who his birth parents were. Do you ever wonder?”
The question makes me feel vulnerable, and I fix my gaze across the room at a spot on the
wall. “Never…and every day. Even when I think I’m not thinking about it, I am. It’s a strange
feeling. And my mom helped me search, but we never came across anything concrete.”
“So do you have any other family? Besides your adoptive mom?” asks Evangeline.
“Not that I know of. Mom had distant family in Alaska, but we were never that close, and
after she died, we drifted apart. It was always just me and her, for the most part, anyway.”
“Well Giuseppe and I are like family to you,” Stella chimes in.
“And us,” says Mindy. “You know we’re always here for you.”
“Me too,” adds Sy.
For the second time this evening, I feel overcome with a secure sense of warmth and
happiness. “Aw, thanks, you guys.”
“Uh-oh,” I think Ivy’s about to start crying,” says Giuseppe. “Quick, somebody change the
subject.”
Of course, as soon as he suggests changing the subject, no one seems to be able to think of
anything to say and we all spend a few moments looking at each other, completely silent.
Finally Giuseppe blurts out, “Ivy asked me to be her boyfriend at her 21st birthday party.” He
looks at me. “Remember that? You kissed me under the mistletoe.”
Everyone turns their attention to me, waiting for me to answer. Giuseppe really knows how to
change the subject.
I reply with a slow, deliberate pace. “I remember that you asked me out. And you kissed me.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s not the way I remember it at all.”
I feel my face turning red, and even though I know he’s lying, I feel compelled to set the
record straight and make sure everyone else knows the truth as well.
“Ivy, the truth will set you free,” G says, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s ok for you to admit
that you think I’m irresistible.”
“Thought.” I retort.
“What?” G asks.
“I said, ‘thought,’ not think. As in past tense. And even if I did like you back then, I didn’t
make the first move.”
Giuseppe arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’ve never been one of the women in your harem who throw themselves at you
and swoon at every little thing you do.”
As the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a colossal mistake. Giuseppe glances at
Evangeline, who has a mortified expression on her face.
A silence settles over the room, and I feel terrible. As I search my brain for an earnest
apology, the power comes back on.
The sudden roar of television, lights, and music provides everyone with a welcome distraction
from my argument with G.
With the sudden return of electricity, Stella and Mindy busy themselves with turning down
the music, blowing out the candles, and consoling the babies who were jolted awake with loud
sounds. And Sy, Grant, Cooper and M3 are very interested in seeing what’s on TV.
Meanwhile, Evangeline clears the empty cups and saucers from dessert. I join her and we
carry the dishes into the kitchen.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I work up the nerve to break the silence, but none of the words
that float through my brain seem adequate enough to erase the damage I’ve inflicted.
As we place the last of the dishes in the sink, Evangeline speaks first. “Ivy, I’m really sorry if
I’m intruding here.”
She seems so sad, and I feel like a heel as I shake my head.
“No, I promise, you’re not intruding. That was just me being…I don’t even know why I said
that.”
“Well, I had no idea there was anything between the two of you, and I’m not here to get in the
middle of anything.”
“There’s nothing to get in the middle of,” says Giuseppe, interrupting from the doorway.
“G, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I wasn’t trying to say anything negative about Evangeline.”
“Then why’d you say it?” Giuseppe steps into the kitchen, and Evangeline silently exits the
room.
“You lied,” I tell him. “You asked me out and you kissed me.”
Giuseppe looks confused. “Ivy, I was just telling a good story. And I was just teasing. I
thought you, of all people, would know me well enough to realize I was joking.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though my words sound empty.
Giuseppe crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I only changed the subject because I
know you well enough to know that you don’t like a lot of questions about being adopted. But
what I don’t get is why you would say something to make my friend feel bad.”
“Friend? Or girlfriend?”
Giuseppe rolls his eyes. “Ivy, aren’t we almost 10 years past liking each other? Why does it
suddenly matter if I’m dating someone?”
“I didn’t ask if you were dating ‘someone.’ I asked if you were dating her,” I say, standing my
ground. “Because I think I kind of deserve to know if you’re bringing a date to my party.”
“So that’s what this is about? Me bringing her without asking? I didn’t think you’d mind. In
fact, three, four hours ago, you were ok with it. And you definitely didn’t mind when you were
cuddled up with the lawyer in there,” he says.
“I wasn’t cuddling, I was sleeping.”
Giuseppe nods, a skeptical look on his face. “Yeah. Same difference. So what’s changed
between us that I need to report my dates to you? Is there something I’m missing?”
He looks me in the eye, and I realize this is the chance I’ve been waiting for. I finally have the
opportunity to talk about ‘us’ with G, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Not only do I have a
house full of guests, but he’s on a date, and we’re in the middle of a disagreement.
I read a spark of challenge in his eyes, but I don’t know what the challenge is. I can’t tell if he
wants me to say that I like him because he likes me too, or if he wants me to say that I like him
so he can tell me that he only wants be friends.
The uncertainty is too great and I feel my resolve wavering. It’s been a roller coaster of a day,
and at the moment, I’m not brave enough to deal with being stuck as ‘just friends’ for the rest of
eternity with G.
And I chicken out.
“How about we call a truce?” I suggest. “I apologized to your girlfriend, and I don’t think
she’s upset. So can we just drop this for now and go back to the living room? We’re just making
everyone uncomfortable the longer we argue about this.”
He uncrosses his arms and takes a step closer. We stare at each other for several moments,
and I’m not sure if he wants to kiss me or never speak to me again.
I take a step closer.
G takes a step back.
I guess I have my answer.
Giuseppe sighs heavily. “Fine, let’s just forget it.”
My feelings are beyond hurt, but I can’t run to my room and shut the door. Instead, I nod,
determined to keep a brave face.
“Good. We probably just need to take a break from each other for a while.”
Giuseppe nods in agreement, but I detect a glimmer of hurt in his eyes, and I feel a new surge
of guilt.
Why did I even say that?
I should be mature enough to still be a good friend, even if he doesn’t want to be anything
more than friends.
“I wonder if the roads are clear,” he says, heading back into the living room.
As Giuseppe strides through the living room, I take a moment to compose myself before
following him.
When I reach the living room, I’m grateful to find that the rest of my guests are working
overtime to pretend nothing has just happened. The overhead lights have been dimmed, and the
living room and dining room are aglow with the warmth of Christmas lights.
A generic holiday movie is on the television, and everyone seems to be watching it, except for
Giuseppe, who is intently staring out of the front window.
I return to my seat on the loveseat, but sit as far away from M3 as I can, remembering how
Giuseppe accused me of cuddling with Milton.
After several moments, Giuseppe announces that he’s going to check the roads. Before
anyone can react, he grabs his coat and keys. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says, instructing
Evangeline to stay put.
No one says anything, and moments later, we hear the sound of G’s car door slam, and his
engine turning over.
Less than ten minutes later, Giuseppe returns, looking a bit sheepish.
“The roads aren’t quite safe yet,” he announces as he removes his coat and sits down next to
Evangeline.
I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s no longer angry, and within moments, he’s back
to his usual charming, congenial self, chatting with everyone and laughing at the movie.
From this point, the entire party seems to relax, and the awkwardness of our argument is
pushed to the background.
The next few hours are relaxed and easy. In the absence of any set agenda or itinerary,
everyone seems to truly relax and get comfortable. We alternate between playing cards, checking
our phones, snoozing, watching TV and drinking coffee and eating leftovers.
By sunrise, I’m engrossed in watching the endless cycle of early morning infomercials, and
M3 is leaning on my shoulder, asleep.
Mindy and the babies are in my room, also asleep, while Cooper and Sy are deeply focused on
the game of chess they’ve been playing for the last hour.
Stella and Evangeline are asleep on opposite ends of the large sofa, while G and Grant are
sprawled out on the living room floor, sleeping.
I sigh with content, savoring the fullness of this very moment.
Despite the ice storm, the power outage, the uncooked turkey, the surprise guest and an
argument with Giuseppe, I’ve dreamed of a Christmas like this my entire life.
Growing up with just my mother, the concept of a full house at Christmas was something I
could only imagine.
Though we were often invited to friends’ homes for the holidays, we rarely hosted big events
at our place. We lived in a small house, which, I’m sure, contributed to my mother’s reluctance
to host large parties. Then again, she wasn’t really the type of person to feel limited by space or
finances.
The bigger portion of the reason was likely because she felt suffocated by her own grief. Even
though she did her best to keep it hidden from me, there were times, during the holiday season,
that I could sense sadness creeping up on her, and I put most of my energy into finding ways to
cheer her up.
So this moment right here, regardless of all of the hiccups along the way, feels absolutely
perfect. Even my shoulder, numb from M3 leaning on it, doesn’t really bother me.
Grant sits straight up, and looks around the room, with an expression of confusion. As he
surveys his surroundings, the confusion gives way to recognition.
He looks at me and smiles sheepishly.
“I didn’t know where I was for a minute.”
I laugh. “I’m sure everyone will have that same reaction when they wake up.”
He stands up, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been a long time since I slept on the floor.”
“Sorry about that. I wish I had beds for everyone.”
Grant chuckles. “I’ll be fine.” He grabs the remote and changes the channel to one of the local
morning news reports, just in time for the weather report.
As we watch, the meteorologist assures the viewers that the ice has stopped, the temperature
is rising, and the road crews have been successful in making the main roads drivable.
I want to get up and make coffee for everyone, but I don’t want to disturb M3.
As I’m trying to determine what to do next, Mindy comes out of my room and asks Cooper if
he’s been down to their apartment to check the heat.
Still deeply concentrating on his chess game with Sy, Cooper nods. “I went down about an
hour ago, and it was almost back to normal temperatures down there. Should be fine now.”
Mindy looks at me, “Ivy, thanks so much for letting us crash here last night. I just couldn’t
imagine taking the babies down to a freezing house.”
“I wouldn’t have let you leave,” I tell her. At that moment, M3 shifts in his sleep and leans his
head against the arm of the seat, away from my shoulder. “I’ll make some us coffee,” I say,
standing up.
Mindy yawns and shakes her head. “I’m going to take the babies downstairs and get a few
more hours of sleep. But it looks like you may have Cooper on your hands for a while longer.”
“As soon as I finish this game, I’ll be downstairs, honey,” Cooper says, not looking away
from the chess board.
“Coffee sounds fantastic to me,” says Stella, who is awake and stretching on her end of the
sofa. “Do you need help carrying the babies?” she asks Mindy.
I head into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee while Stella helps Mindy.
A few minutes later, as I’m rummaging through the refrigerator, trying to decide what to serve
for breakfast along with the coffee, Evangeline comes in, looking quite chipper and not at all as
tired as I feel.
“Oh, coffee,” she says, inhaling deeply.
“It’s almost ready. You can have the first cup of the morning,” I say, handing her a mug.
“Thanks. Do you have any more of those frosted sugar cookies?” she asks. “They were
delicious.”
I nod and hand her the cookie jar. Despite the awkwardness of what happened last night, I can
tell she’s not upset, and I actually don’t want us to be enemies. I mean, anyone who compliments
my baking is off to a good start in my book.
Over fresh cups of coffee, Evangeline and I brainstorm menu ideas. By the time everyone is
awake and milling around, the two of us are industriously cooking up breakfast for the entire
party.
Once again, Grant’s ham proves to be a lifesaver as Evangeline slices it thinly and heats it in a
hot skillet. To round out the menu, we serve lots of scrambled eggs, leftover green beans and
rolls, along with some juicy tangerines that were in the gift basket Stella re-gifted me.
When the meal is ready, we all gather in the dining room. Even though the morning sun is
streaming in the windows, someone has lit the candles again, and turned on soft music as the
backdrop to our meal.
Though we’re all in various stages of waking up, and we’re wearing an assortment of clothes
that are far less formal than what we wore for Christmas dinner, this meal is more comfortable.
Considering the events of the last fourteen-ish hours, it’s no wonder that we’ve all dropped
the pretense of formality, and it almost feels like we’re a big family.
An hour later, with everyone fortified and fully awake, my dinner party starts breaking up as
Grant and Stella are the first to leave.
Evangeline and Giuseppe are next, and even though he hugs me before he leaves, I can sense
a remnant of tension between us. I don’t want to think about arguing with him because my mood
is too happy overall. I’m sure we’re overdue for a break, and maybe after some time apart we’ll
be able to talk everything through.
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow, I think, staring out the living room
window, watching G’s car drive away.
As soon as I process this thought, I laugh out loud, realizing that I’ve listened to so much
Christmas music that my internal thoughts are starting to mesh with song lyrics.
“What’s so funny?” asks M3, who’s is wearing his hat and coat and is putting out the last
embers of the fire. Cooper and Sy are just finalizing their game, and M3 and I are the only two in
the living room.
I shake my head, not wanting to put the energy into explaining. Instead, I sit on the couch and
smile. “I think I just need to sleep because I’m deliriously happy.”
M3 tilts his head to the side and gives me a curious look. “Are you sure you’re ok? Sy and I
can stick around if you need us to.”
“I’m fine. And Sy needs to get some sleep.”
“Checkmate!” exclaims Sy from the dining room table. “And don’t worry about me, Ivy. I
don’t need as much sleep as you young people.”
Cooper and Sy congratulate each other on a game well played and discuss strategy, as M3
decides to warm up his car so it will be warm when Sy is ready to leave.
I walk downstairs with him and tell him to be careful on the roads.
“Sy’s the only boss I have and if anything happens to him, I’m out of a job,” I say jokingly.
And even though he is just my boss, after almost 10 years of working alongside him, I do feel
responsible for him sometimes. Though he doesn’t pry into my life, he is a good friend, and in
some ways, I consider him to be the father I never had.
“I’ll make sure he gets home safely,” M3 assures me, looking right into my eyes with those
Cary Grant eyes of his.
“And would you mind checking his condo to make sure his electricity is on? If it’s not, please
bring him back here, because it’s too cold for him to be home alone with no heat.”
M3 smiles and gives me a quick hug. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s completely safe and
warm before I leave him.”
“Thanks,” I say as I watch M3 make his way down the front walkway. Thankfully, Cooper
had the presence of mind to put out rock salt during the night, and the sidewalk isn’t a sheet of
ice.
As M3 reaches his car, Cooper and Sy head down the stairs.
“Thanks again for hosting us, Ivy,” says Cooper, opening the door to his apartment. “This is
definitely going down in history as an unforgettable Christmas party.”
“Agreed,” I say laughing. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to top this one.”
Cooper steps inside his apartment, and then, it’s just me and Sy.
Sy grins widely. “Ivy, thanks again for inviting me. It might be my favorite Christmas party of
all time.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know about that,” I tell him. “There are a few things I would do
differently if I had the chance.”
Sy nods thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. But you know, I think everything will work itself
out, given time.”
“Maybe.”
Sy is quiet for a several moments, and he looks out the front door, his gaze fixed on
something I can’t determine.
When he looks at me again, his gaze is sharp and focused as he shakes his head. “You can’t
get caught up in perfection, Ivy. True, there are things that you can always do differently, but
you have to focus on the things that really make a difference in the grand scheme of things, not
the frivolous little mistakes. In my opinion, everything about this party was exactly right, and I
wouldn’t change anything about it.”
Sy is generally a lighthearted person, and always soft spoken. His emphatic tone here gives
me pause, and I let his words sink in.
I can see his point.
Maybe eventually we’ll all look back on the events of this party and be able to overlook the
freezing temperatures, dimly lit rooms, delayed dinner and the awkward exchange between me
and Giuseppe…and instead, see nothing but warm memories.
I nod at Sy. “You might be right.”
He hugs me. “I know I’m right. Now, get some sleep and take your vitamins. I’m sure we’ll
have a busy day at work tomorrow, and I can’t have you getting sick!”
I laugh. Leave it to Sy to work the bookstore into a conversation.
“Ok. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”
I watch as Sy climbs into M3’s car and the car drives away, then I climb the stairs back to my
apartment.
Inside the house, I flip the television off, turn off my Christmas lights, extinguish all of the
candles, and ignore the table full of dirty dishes.
I turn the lights off in the kitchen and head straight to my room, where I climb into bed and
pull the covers over my head.
I’m almost completely relaxed when I realize I didn’t turn the music off, and Ella Fitzgerald’s
lively rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is wafting through my apartment.
Too tired to get back up, I ignore the music and close my eyes, remembering Sy’s take on the
entire party.
And the more I replay the events of last night, the more I agree with Sy.
It wasn’t perfect, but I think everyone would agree that we all had a merry little Christmas.
And as for me and Giuseppe…well, maybe next year all our troubles will be out of sight.
The End
The Beginning
The story continues with
Ivy Stratton & the Time Machine Book One: How to Forget Your (Boy)friend
Coming Soon!
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