Chapter 22 #2
“Yes, we do,” my mother said, nodding. “Fair wages, fair benefits. Medical, dental, eye care for the whole family. Vacation time. That’s why people hardly ever leave, and I am proud of that. It is my proudest professional accomplishment.”
My mother loves talking to people. She likes to listen.
She likes to say outrageous things. She likes being the star at Lady Whiskey’s.
She likes that she’s well known in town and popular.
She loves that she provides a place for people to make friends, to be seen and noticed, to be part of a friendly community where everyone is welcome, and her employees openly say that she is the best boss they have ever had, and they will never leave.
Lady Whiskey’s isn’t just a bar. It’s my mom’s life’s work. It’s as important to her as my life’s work—writing books for kids—is to me.
Which made me think I should stay and run the bar.
But there was another reason I couldn’t—Logan.
I could not be with him. I would not be able to stand it when he eventually found a wife and had six kids.
But was my mother’s need for the bar to continue running more important than the pain I would feel watching Logan and his new life over the next fifty years?
I turned to my mother after Mrs. Books ran after a fallen Christmas ornament. She was watching me. I watched emotions, one after another, flashing in and out of her eyes. Sadness. Acceptance. Happiness. Pride. And then, as if she’d made a decision, she nodded a bit.
“What are you thinking, Mom?”
She blinked and paused, coming back to me from her deep thoughts, then she flashed her huge smile. I’ve been told a million times I have my mother’s and my aunts’ smiles and dimples.
“I’m thinking about your Christmas presents.
Have you been good this year? Santa told me that you’ve been a little too good.
Haven’t had enough time for naughty fun.
Maybe you should go and find Logan and see if you can get in a little naughty trouble.
Santa would be happy, and Mrs. Claus would be thrilled for you. ”
“What were you thinking, Mom?” I asked again.
“I was thinking that you are splendiferous.”
“Sure, you were. Are you going to tell me?” There was something she’d accepted. A resolution. An understanding. She’d had an “inner peace” moment. What was it?
“Go out and be naughty, Bellini. In celebration of Christmas.”
I gave up. She wouldn’t tell me. We agreed I would try to be naughty. I thought naughty thoughts of Logan.
The cats meowed.
The meeting in a private room at the bar for Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show went well. I reminded everyone, again, that the T was for tinsel, and the A was for All I Want for Christmas Is Santa.
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Whang, the librarian, drawled. “Thank you for clarifying. I thought that the T was for time to read, and the A was for Austen, as in Jane Austen.”
“I thought the T was for telescoping, and the A was for absolute electrode potential,” David Singh said. He’s an engineer.
“I thought the T was for tarot cards, and the A was for astrology,” Maya Garcia said. She’s a nurse and a part-time fortune teller. It’s almost creepy how often she’s right about what’s comin’ down the line for people.
“I thought the T was for tits, and the A was for ass,” Mabel Sherton, who is ninety years old if she is a day, croaked out. “It was in my day!”
“Ho ho ho! Aren’t you all funny?” I said as everyone reveled in their clever jokes.
“What’s funny is…” May Ling Lao paused dramatically, and everyone quieted down. She wriggled her fingers up in the air, creating suspense. “Lettuce.”
I knew what she was talking about, but I could see that Logan, leaning against the wall in the back because there were no more seats, did not.
No, he did not get this particular inside joke.
How embarrassing! I could feel my cheeks growing hot as everyone laughed, so I decided to quickly change the subject.
The room was jammed with people from Kalulell who were willing to participate in the burlesque show or to volunteer to help put it on, so I began my formal presentation.
I had made a list, a long list, and I put the information up on a slide deck so we could go over everything together.
I had also printed out the list and put it on the tables before people walked in.
The list was probably too elaborate, too detailed, but it calmed my nerves.
The first thing the list did was clarify what a burlesque show was, as there was deep confusion.
This was where all the photos of people in burlesque outfits in my slide deck came in handy.
“But in terms of wearing a burlesque-type outfit, the elves have told me that, in the spirit of the holidays, you should wear what best suits your act—whether it’s dancing, playing an instrument, singing, or juggling. ”
“Aha!” They nodded. They liked the artistic freedom.
I talked about the rules for the acts, how long the acts should be (short), and that they had to “keep it clean” because children would be there.
I added information on the location of the burlesque show and thanked Logan and his team for building the stage and catwalk.
Everyone clapped and cheered, and Logan waved.
So devilishly handsome he was. I stared at him, and the applause died down, and then I remembered to stop staring, especially because Logan was smiling his sexy smile at me, and I mumbled a bit, then went back to my slide deck.
I talked about the rehearsals, and dress rehearsals, and the show itself, and how that would be organized, who would be going first, second, third, etc.
, and I discussed the potluck, and if your last name started with A through L, you were to bring a main dish.
M through R, bring a salad or side dish.
S through Z, a dessert. I talked about the size of the stage and catwalk, the lighting, and where the food tables would need to be set up for the potluck.
I showed them a map on the slide deck so everyone would understand the placement of everything.
I had a list of people who had volunteered to decorate the tables and the venue itself, and I talked about where they could buy supplies, etc. , and made suggestions for the decor.
I’d broken up the info in the slide deck with pictures of Rudolph, Santa’s sleigh, snowmen, and snowwomen.
“I like the pictures of Rudolph and Santa,” my cousin Colin announced in a booming voice. “But where are the pictures of…” He paused, and I braced myself. “Lettuce?”
Funny! Oh, everyone thought Colin was over-the-top funny. More laughter and clapping and whispers of lettuce.
I felt my face grow hot again and snuck a peek at Logan. He was definitely confused.
“Wow, Bellini!” Mrs. Rosenbaum said. She was the juggler.
“Quite a list! Let’s give Bellini a hand for her slide deck and her T and A to-do list!
” She stood and, literally, juggled plastic hands.
It was a little gross seeing detached hands flying through the air, but we liked it anyhow because she is an incredible juggler.
“Too bad I can’t juggle…” Mrs. Rosenbaum paused, too, for effect.
“Lettuce,” everyone shouted together.
“No one writes a better to-do list than Bellini,” my cousin Jaxi said.
“I’ve been looking at her lists since kindergarten.
One list consisted of who was going to wake everyone up from their nap each day with a feather and how hitting someone with the feather was, and I quote, ‘Bad feather manners.’ Most of us couldn’t read it as we were only five years old—well, Logan could. He could probably even read the word…”
Gall. There was that pause.
Everyone yelled, “Lettuce!”
Oh, more merriment! I wanted to drop through the floor.
“Good job, Bellini, with the slide deck, but perhaps if we are to bring a salad, it would be helpful if we had a list of the best types of…” Truck O’Neal paused and held the room in the palm of his hand.
“Lettuce!” they boomed out, cackling with glee.
Yes, yes! Everyone agreed a list of best lettuces was well needed. Wasn’t this fun and funny? Was my face on fire? It felt like it.
Logan looked so confused. What was all this talk about lettuce?
I quickly thanked everyone for coming, trying to change the “lettuce” subject, told them my mother would be the emcee, and we were so grateful to everyone there for putting together an act or a song or a dance for the kids of Kalulell, blah blah blah.
“Oh yes!” I said, going to the last slide on the slide deck. “Remember to recommend Whiskey to be the next bachelorette on Marry Me. She says she’s going to find a husband.” I sighed—I did not mean to sigh—and that set off another round of laughter.
“Yay, Whiskey,” someone said, and many announced they had already nominated her to be on the dating show.
“How is her uterus?” someone else asked, in all seriousness. “Is she feeling better after her uterus was stolen by Dr. Brenda?”
“Is she resting?”
“Is she bored? I bet she can’t wait to get back to Lady Whiskey’s.”
“Can I bring her dinner tomorrow? I know there’s a list to bring her dinners, but I’m making my grandmother’s beef stroganoff, and I know she’ll love it…”
“Will you have enough lettuce for my hamburger tomorrow, Bellini?” Sam Sato called out. “Or is it all gone?”
I would never live down the lettuce incident. I knew that.
After the meeting, everyone filed out, excitedly talking about their acts, which included comedy routines, magic tricks, and two eighty-year-olds singing a naughty—but not too naughty—Christmas song about Santa and Mrs. Claus.
“Nice job, Bellini,” Logan said when it was just us.
“Thank you.” His blue jacket and flannel shirt emphasized his shoulders. Jeans hugged him, but not too tight, and he wore winter work boots. He’s always been tall, but the years have added bulk. He is simply a smoldering, hot human tank now. “You’re a hot tank.”
He blinked, then smiled. “A hot tank?”