Chapter Twenty-One #2
I can’t stand another second. I rise, quietly gathering my things.
Neither of them notices me, their battle is too heated and too polished.
This is them. They’ve danced to this tune so many times that they fall into step like soldiers.
Inside, I’m shaking. Gran’s words echo in my head.
Someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart.
She was right. He’ll be a terrible father, because he doesn’t know how to protect and cherish what matters.
I slip out the side door before my tears betray me, promising myself I’ll never need anything from Marcel Dubois.
The wind bites at my cheeks as I step out into the street, my breath puffing out in little clouds.
Christmas lights twinkle from every lamppost and storefront, carolers sing down the block, and the scent of roasted chestnuts lingers in the air.
Normally, this time of year fills me with warmth and joy, but today has robbed me of Christmas.
It has always been my favorite time of year.
A time I look forward to and now the world is dressed in joy and I’m carrying a heart full of sadness, disappointment, and longing.
I wrap my coat tighter around me hoping that it will make me stop shaking.
My fingers are freezing even through my gloves.
I want to enjoy the love and magic around me, but all I can feel is the chill.
Thinking of the Whos in Whoville who kept singing despite having their Christmas stolen, I couldn’t muster a song if I tried.
Does it mean I don’t have Christmas spirit? That I can’t feel the warmth of family and community and the joy that being loved and together gives?
No, it means that life is full of sadness and disappointment—and fear.
What will I do? I have Gran, I have my cousin, and my parents—though they haven’t even called from Aruba.
It’s not like we don’t get along, but they are selfish, always have been.
I was out of the house now, their job was done.
I also have Kelley and my hippie dippy friends from school; I’m alone.
I touch my stomach and think of my own child.
I vow to always call, always be there, and when they go to college I’ll be happy if they want to stay with me for the holidays.
It’s going to just be me, the baby, and Gran, really.
I’m sure Thad will help when he can. He’ll probably buy the kiddo too much and be like a father—I guess.
I want to feel the magic I’ve always cherished, but it’s as though the colors have drained out of it all.
Back at my desk, before I left, I set everything in perfect order.
My report was finalized and bound. It gave detailed research on Eaton and had a five-page proposal at the end that presented another project.
My vision is far less expensive in scope, but more profitable in the long term and, most importantly, it would save the community.
Marcel asked me for a report to present to the board, a document with alternatives to tearing Eaton apart.
I gave him much more than that. It’s too late though, as they’ve already decided to destroy Eaton.
I suggested bulldozing only the three blocks of derelict housing, the ones beyond saving.
Highlighting ways to help those families, I identified several new buildings in the area that could be owned by the company and rented to the displaced families at cost, considering the profit they will be making from the land after razing their homes.
Then the company could build something new, gleaming, high-end, and profitable in place of the tenements.
Let residents have their expensive condos and their luxury, but not at the expense of everything Eaton already is.
I cited every historical building worth protecting, every family that would benefit from revitalization, and every small business that could thrive with an influx of patrons with disposable income.
I named the café and the bakery we’d visited together, imagining lines out the door and the hum of prosperity.
I painted a picture of a quaint Eaton reborn, not erased.
And then I wrote the part that mattered most. The docks, forgotten, decrepit, and left to rot, could be Eaton’s crown jewel.
Marcel’s company could commission hotels and a boardwalk district where tourism could thrive.
This has been my dream for years, long before Marcel.
Writing it all down didn’t feel like work, it was more like magic; like Christmas re-imagined.
I left the report at my workstation as a gift and a goodbye.
The final piece I wrote as Clara waited in Marcel’s office.
Thank you for initiating me into the Mile High Club, and for the gift of life, but I can’t love a Grinch if he won’t love himself or the world around him. We are just too different. I don’t need your money. I don’t need your name. All I wanted was you.
Merry Christmas and have a beautiful life,
Juliet
PS. Please, no heroic gestures. I’m a grown up, I made a choice, I can face the consequences.
When Marcel reads the report I hope he sees the potential in my proposal.
If he does, maybe Eaton has a chance. But whether he does or not .
.. I can’t control that. All I can control is this walk out of his life.
In the next few days I’ll tell Gran about the baby and we’ll get through this together.
The bells from a Salvation Army bucket clang nearby.
Children laugh with mittened hands clutching candy canes.
I force a smile for them though my eyes sting with tears.
Christmas is everywhere, but it has been stolen from me.