Chapter 10 #2
Also on the stage, squeezed in between the tree and the presents, was a jazz trio: drums, trumpet, and a man with a huge guitar.
The drummer wore a Santa hat askew on his head and the trio played what I recognized as “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” but with a complicated jazz meter that made it sound simultaneously deranged and delightful.
Every square inch was claimed by a body or a buffet table or a tottering stack of empty plates. There were no seats open—none. I did a quick mental calculation and estimated we were exceeding the fire code by at least 130%.
Some officious voice in the back of my brain whispered, “Fire hazard.” For once, I hushed it.
Alaric still had my hand. He’d kept hold of it as I scanned the room, which I found slightly strange but not unappealing.
The two of us tried to edge forward, but movement was slow, like wading through a sea of very chatty, very tactile, and in several cases, extremely inebriated Bostonians.
If anyone noticed that we were strangers in their midst, no one showed it.
Instead, people just smiled, nodded, or pressed out of the way, creating microcurrents for us to drift through.
It was hard to tell which of my senses was most overstimulated, but I suspected the dominant one was still nostalgia.
The decorations, the smell of spiced cider, the off-key harmony of a hundred conversations.
It all pulsed with the exact frequency of every office party here I’d ever attended.
If my life had a soundtrack, it would be this moment, looped forever.
Then, as we cleared a bottleneck near the fudge table, I saw him.
Mr. Fezziwig, owner and founding partner, standing near the center of the room.
He wore a checkered sport coat with elbow patches, a red tie patterned with what might have been flamingos in Santa hats, and a broad grin that looked entirely unchanged from the day I’d first met him so many years ago.
He was shorter than I remembered, but the way he drew a crowd had not faded with age.
He was holding court, a glass of wine tucked in one hand while he gestured with the other. Clearly in his element.
My heart stuttered in my chest. I didn’t know what to call the emotion that filled me. Affection, maybe? Or the more complicated ache of remembering what it felt like to be young and encouraged by a person I admired.
Mr. Fezziwig’s gaze slid across the room and landed on me. Immediately, his eyebrows leapt up and he broke off his conversation mid-sentence, abandoned his glass of wine to his companion, and beelined for me, arms already spreading wide.
“Alison Weston!” he bellowed, the sound somehow clear and commanding even through the wall of noise. “Is it really you? It’s really you! I can’t believe it!”
The crowd parted. I let go of Alaric’s hand, suddenly self-conscious, but it didn’t matter; Mr. Fezziwig engulfed me in a bear hug. He smelled like aftershave and red wine.
“Mr. Fezziwig,” I said, my voice so full I had to swallow twice before it worked. “It’s really good to see you.”
He released me, then held my upper arms and beamed down at me. “Look at you! You’re exactly the same.” Mr. Fezziwig made a delighted noise in his throat, then looked over my shoulder at Alaric, who had hung back a few steps.
“And who is this?” Mr. Fezziwig asked, still keeping one hand on my arm as if worried I’d vanish if he let go.
I turned, opened my mouth to explain, then realized I had absolutely no idea how to introduce Alaric. I hesitated for half a second, which was more than enough time for Alaric to step in, offer his hand, and say, “I’m Alaric. Alison’s date.”
I blinked, debated the merits of this label, and decided to just roll with it.
Mr. Fezziwig, unfazed, engulfed Alaric’s hand in a two-handed shake, then immediately pulled him into the same sort of hug he’d given me. “Of course! I’m so glad you reached out earlier this week. He thumped Alaric’s back like they were old friends. “This is wonderful.”
Alaric extracted himself from the hug, still smiling, and said, “Thank you for letting us crash your party.”
Mr. Fezziwig beamed, then swept his arms wide to indicate the utter chaos around us.
“The more the merrier! What are the chances you two happened to be in town for the party? I love this timing.” He winked at me, as if we’d conspired to make it happen.
“Do you know anybody else here? Has anyone come by to say hello?”
I shook my head, “Not yet. We just arrived.”
At that moment, a harried-looking woman—clipboard in hand, Christmas earrings jangling—sidled up and whispered something in Mr. Fezziwig’s ear.
He frowned briefly, then returned his attention to me.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m needed for a crisis of the highest order—a dispute over the distribution of pie.
But don’t you dare leave without talking to me again, all right?
Make sure you get some food. The short ribs are fantastic.
” He wagged his finger at us, then disappeared into the maelstrom, already barking cheerful orders at the would-be pie insurgents.
For a second, we just stood there, blinking in his wake. Then, in the lull, Alaric turned to me. “Are you hungry? Or do you want to dance?”
“I never dance, but I could eat.” In fact, I was already hungry.
He squeezed my hand—how had he gotten it back?
—and led me toward the buffet, which was even more impressive up close.
The home-cooked aspect was clear. Nothing matched, all the crockpots and casserole dishes were a riot of borrowed and inherited vintage, the labels written on torn scraps of index card or post-it.
But there was enough food to support a small municipality through a siege.
While we filled our plates, I found myself approached, hugged, and otherwise gently mobbed by former co-workers, several of whom I remembered initially by the vague feeling that they had once been kind to me. But as soon as they opened their mouths, I remembered them clearly.
“Alison! Look at you! You look amazing! We missed you so much!” Voices warm, affection unforced, I accepted every hug, every compliment, every wistful-tinged memory.
By the time we’d each acquired a mountainous plate of food, Alaric and I retreated to a relatively clear corner near the windows.
The trio on stage announced a “short break,” and the room’s volume dropped enough I could distinguish individual voices.
Live music was replaced by a piped-in Christmas playlist that skewed heavily toward the jazz standards.
It was like the party exhaled, everyone shifting down a gear, allowing the mood to mellow just a touch.
I stood, plate in hand, looking out over the crowded office.
But after a few moments, I felt the weight of someone’s attention on me, which had me glancing at Alaric.
He appeared completely at ease, if not a little smugly cheerful, and seemed to be taking equal pleasure in the food and in my company.
I didn’t care. Let him be smug and cheerful. He’d earned it.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” I said, not really expecting him to reply. “Everything is exactly the same.”
“You’re really well-liked, you know.”
I shrugged, unsure where he was going with this, and picked up a wing from my plate.
Before I could take a bite, a new voice broke in, familiar and instantly recognizable. “Oh my God, is that Alison Weston? It is! It’s really you!”
I looked up to see Elizabeth Marks, a former intern and, at one time, my partner in petty office pranks. She was unchanged, except for a streak of purple in her hair and a new set of spectacularly large glasses. She hugged me so hard she almost sent my chicken wing flying.
“Elizabeth!” I said, returning the hug. “You look amazing.”
She grinned, then glanced over at Alaric. “Are you going to introduce me to your date, or do I have to make up a scandalous backstory for him?”
I shot Alaric a look, and he raised his free hand in mock surrender. “I’m Alaric and belong to Alison. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I like him.”
I laughed, and even though I wanted to roll my eyes at Alaric, I found I didn’t mind him being my “belonging” for the night. I let it stand.
“Thanks for being so welcoming,” he said, placing his arm around my back.
“Of course! It’s the Campbell and Fezziwig way.” Her grin shifted to me and she added, “It really is so good to see you. Are you moving back to Boston?”
Alaric’s hand slid from my back to my waist and slowly pulled me against his side as Elizabeth and I chatted. At one point, when his hand moved lower to my hip, I glared at him. But Alaric only smiled, the kind of smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing and planned to get away with it.
Wiping my fingers on a napkin, I scanned the room. “By the way, I don’t see Ms. Campbell. Is she here yet?” I’d been searching for her signature swirl of platinum hair, but I didn’t see her.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You must not have heard.” Elizabeth’s smile faltered. “She passed away.”