Chapter 4
Once you get past the old, musty smell, this place really isn’t so bad.
There are a few decent food stands; the coffee tastes like mud, but everyone really just comes for the antiques.
No, I’m not talking about the nursing home—ahem, I mean Retirement Community.
I’m talking about the Cherry Bowl, an indoor-outdoor flea market open every Saturday and Sunday from nine a.m. to five p.m. Proudly the second biggest flea market in the Midwest, it’s home to more priceless junk than every grandma’s basement in the county, Power-Rangered together.
Now I’m here, scouring the market for cheap-but-pretty baubles to spruce up the community room’s shoddy decorating.
I wish I could say Forest Park’s sad holiday décor at Forest Park sparked a warm, charitable feeling in me—but the truth is I can’t tolerate bad design.
It’s nails-on-a-chalkboard every time I see it, and apparently, I’m going to be staring at a lot of it in the coming weeks.
So, here I am at the flea market, about to spend money I don’t have to jazz up decorations for seniors, who are either too horny or tipsy to notice.
Also, I can’t resist a good treasure hunt.
Ally, on the other hand, was not planning on attending the Cherry Bowl. Not today. Not a month from now. Not ever. I’m not sure she’s owned anything more than five years old. Somehow, she donates more to Goodwill than she actually buys.
At this point, I’ve pumped her full of three coffees—two of them are gingerbread cappuccinos with extra whipped cream and extra cookie-crunch topping.
We even swung through the MickeyD’s drive-thru, but apparently it was all for naught, because she’s been wearing the same scowl longer than the Led Zeppelin records over at stall five have been out of production.
“Why do I get roped into every hairbrained thing you do?” she asks.
“Because you love me.”
“I do love you,” she says, defeated. “But it’s Sunday. A holy day of rotting. Instead, I’m here.” She glances at a stall crammed with vintage toys. Well, some are vintage, and some are just… pre-loved. And a little bit dirty.
Ally wrinkles her nose.
“What do you think of this?” I beeline for a blue-and-white Chinoiserie Christmas tree.
Ally side-eyes it. “You already know what I think.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. What will the seniors think of it?”
She takes the tiny tree out of my hand. “Didn’t you say they were using old socks as Christmas stockings?”
“It’s hard times for the elderly,” I say defensively and yank the ceramic tree back.
She sighs. “Oh, just get it… for the seniors.” She does air quotes around the last three words.
I squeal and dig into my pockets for cash, ready to barter. There’s nothing better than a friend who knows you so well—even if that means she knows how nuts you actually are.
By Wednesday, I’m hauling a trunk full of crusty treasures to Forest Park with Ally in tow.
I’ve spent the last three days trying to wrap an important (aka expensive) design project for Deb and Don, the co-founders of the home-design app I work for—people who fancy themselves “collectors who just happen to know tech.” Translation: two retired interior designers sharing one outdated iPhone.
Both are incredibly sweet with great taste—they’re just hilariously bad at the tech part (despite the motto).
My clients are mostly thirty- and forty-somethings with trust funds or DINK lifestyles, trying to break out of the millennial-grey trance they’ve been stuck in since 2010. Don’t even get me started on “farmhouse chic.” As I tell clients: good taste is a marathon, not a sprint.
Ally thinks I should start looking for another job, but honestly, I can’t do that to Deb and Don.
Part of the reason I still have this job—even though it keeps me clipping virtual coupons—is that I love the work, and I love those two quirky nomads, who are currently on an exotic-fruit sampling retreat in Costa Rica.
I’m amazed every Monday they’ve kept the “lights on” another week—but I wouldn’t trade this job for anything (except, apparently, the poorhouse).
I didn’t have time to eat between finishing the project and picking up Ally, so I’m shoveling a microwave burrito into my face while swerving down the two-lane.
“When’s the last time you asked for a raise?” Ally asks, gripping the grab handle above her like it’s a brake as I take a sharp turn into the parking lot. “The Dweedles need you, and you need a retirement fund. Or even a savings account.”
Ally calls Deb and Don the “Dweedles”—after Tweedledee and Tweedledum. She was once in the room when they called me from a Hobbit tour in New Zealand. Somehow, their computer cord got chewed on by a rogue sheep, and I had to take a company call that Monday while they tracked down a new cord.
“I have a savings account,” I say, biting my lip as I try to back into a parking space, where some asshole has mega-parked over the lines and well into my spot.
“I just keep having to use it." I inch backward. Thanks to this jerk, I’ve had to pull up and straighten so many times I’ve made myself carsick. Ally shudders—she’s seen this before.
“Hey, why don’t we stop trying to park like we’re Dad of the Year and find a spot you can pull straight into?”
“No, I’ve got this! I’m not going to let this jackass ruin my perfect parking moment—”
“Mel, this is a monster truck and—”
A giant crunch and scrrraaaape finish her sentence.
I freeze. Ally stares at me, and I don’t want to look back.
I know this look. I’ve seen it since kindergarten.
A million times, in fact, since kindergarten.
When you’re estranged from your whole family, you get used to disappointing people, but disappointing Ally is tough, even if I pretend it’s not.
The groan Ally makes sounds more like a wild rodent than a best friend.
“Damn it, Melody! You hit him!”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.” I hold my breath. “But can you look, pleeeeease?”
Allison shakes her head. “Why do I always have to look at the casualties first –”
An aggressive rap on my window cuts her off.
“Christ,” I mutter, turning to see who’s trying to break my window.
It’s Eben.
For a beat, the three of us—Eben, Ally, and I—stare at each other.
Then: “I think you hit my car,” he says calmly.
“No, I don’t think I did.”
Ally smacks my shoulder. She doesn’t take her eyes off Eben, who’s clearly registering on her judgey (but accurate) hot-o-meter. Something I conveniently omitted when I regaled her with the horrors of Santa Jerk.
“I’m Allison—the one out of the two of us who has a moral compass. And yes, she did hit your car. We’re so sorry.”
“Ally, this is Santa Claus,” I say, giving her the look only best friends can share, hoping she catches my drift.
She does.
“Oh! Santa. I mean—”
“Eben,” he offers.
“Yes, this is Eben, who hates Christmas and also parks like a douche canoe,” I add.
Eben ignores me and walks to his driver’s side door, now sporting a gnarly scratch and a sizable dent. He inspects it and shrugs.
“Don’t worry about it. I was in a hurry and definitely parked like an asshole.” He runs his finger across the damage. “I think I can rub this one out pretty easily.“
Ally snorts, stifling a laugh. I roll my eyes, leveling Ally with a glare. “Excuse my friend, she’s a fucking pervert.”
He smiles and waves it off. “Aren’t we all?”
My face warms—and I’m instantly pissed at myself. It’s one thing to blush for Santa; it’s another to get hot and bothered for Krampus.
“Are you sure you don’t want my insurance? The damage looks kind of bad,” I say, trying to deflect attention from the heat rising in my cheeks.
Ally looks at me like I’ve sprouted two heads—neither of which can afford my premium going up.
“Positive. But…” He nods at the front door, where Missy is standing with her hands on her hips, unimpressed that both of us are eight and a half minutes late.
“We should get in there before—”
“The meeting is in here, folks,” Missy yells across the lot.
Eben sighs. “—before Missy starts yelling.”
I pop the trunk, revealing a jumble of paper and plastic bags stuffed with holiday decorations.
“Here,” I say, lifting the heaviest bag and holding it out to Eben. “Make yourself useful.”
He huffs a laugh at my bossiness, and our fingers brush as he takes the bag. A jolt of electricity shoots through my fingers and up my arms; I wonder if he feels it too. His eyes widen in answer, and my cheeks betray me again, so I turn back to where Ally is loading her arms with bags.
“What’s all this?” he asks, peeking into the bag.
“Your worst nightmare,” I say, grabbing the last few bags and slamming my trunk.
“Ornaments are my worst nightmare?” he asks.
“Melody seems to be under the impression that Christmas is your kryptonite,” Ally offers.
“Ah,” he says. “She’s not wrong.”
I shoot them both a glare and head inside, the two of them trailing after me.
Just as we reach the door, a strong hand lands on my shoulder, gently holding me back. I turn and lock eyes with those baby blues. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes shine a shade warmer today—sky blue instead of Saturday’s glacial chill.
I feel my resolve to be the biggest bitch in the North Pole melting, too.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to sound tough. I turn fully to him, arms crossed.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Eben says. My perverted brain stops his sentence at I think we got off. My eyes start undressing him—slipping off the dark gray wool coat, tugging up his navy sweater. Is that cashmere?
He clears his throat, and my head snaps back so hard I worry it might pop off. When my eyes slide back to his face, he’s grinning. A knowing, crooked grin. He’s sexy and he knows it. Fuck my life.
“Jingle bell shoe,” is all I can think to say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“We got off on the wrong jingle bell shoe,” I say, puffing my chest. It’s a dumb joke. Too late to walk it back. Must own it.
“Sure,” he says. The half-grin ticks higher, and his brows knit together for a split second. He thinks I’m weird. Well, join the club.
“I accept your apology,” I say—preemptively. “And so does Father Christmas. The real one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for being rude,” he says. “I’m not sorry for hating Christmas. That part stands.”
My mouth drops.
My eyes narrow.
“Back on the naughty list,” I say, pressing a finger to his chest. His rock-hard, cashmere-covered chest. My finger lingers too long. He glances down at it, surprised. I yank it back. It’s like I touched a hot stove.
“That’s a bad thing?” he asks, still grinning down at me. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. I want to slap him—mostly to touch him again.
“Fuck you,” is all I can muster as I yank the door open. Eben is right behind me; I feel the grin on my back.
Despite my rage at his non-apology apology, I make a pact with myself as I hurry to catch up with Ally. (She’s already deep in conversation with a much less scowly Missy—Ally has a way with difficult people.)
I will make Eben a nog-drinking, carol-singing, tinsel-stringing lover of Christmas.
Or my name isn’t Mrs. Claus.