“Simply Delivery,” Myra crows into the cordless phone exactly one week later. “How can I help you this fine and dandy New Year?”
She’s wearing black tights under a snug – and short – maroon dress, her deep black hair cut recently into the Egyptian style she so often favors. That is, when she’s not favoring the spiked buzz cut style, the Mohawk or the bob.
Her clogs have heels upon heels, and yet all night she’s been running circles around me!
I’m dressed simply for our quiet New Year’s tradition; you guessed it, cold champagne at Café Kringle – gray slacks, black blouse, sensible if not dowdy black shoes.
It’s going on 11 and we’re due to close any minute, but Myra flashes three fingers – wait, make that four – in the universal sign for, “I’ve got a live one on the line!”
I know what that means: one more last-minute trip in the reliable Simply Delivery van to hand out a passel of gold and black New Year’s hats and plastic glasses plus a few bottles of our best cheap bubbly.
It’s our famous, last-minute “Bang for Your Buck” special; the best no-frills New Year’s Eve party $49.99 can buy in Snowflake, South Carolina.
I’ve been running my tush off all night and was hoping my last stop was the last of it; apparently not.
Myra looks hopeful, almost… coy… as she hangs up the phone and pockets the last order of the night.
“One last run for you,” she says, brusquely marching past me to the kitchen. “He wanted the ‘Bang for Your Buck’ special but I upgraded him to the ‘Romantic Nightcap for Two’ instead.”
“Nice work,” I say, grabbing one of the last pre-made prosciutto and melon platters while she ties a glittery silver noisemaker onto a black and gold box of dark chocolate and sea salt truffles. “I’d say that entitles you to one free glass of champagne after work!”
“They’re all free at Café Kringle on December 31st,” she smirks, boxing up the last of the romantic New Year’s treats and shoving them in a shiny foil chill bag for the trip. “But I’d save my money, if I were you.”
“What?” I pout. “Not again. Who’s complaining about our New Year’s tradition this time? Your Aunt Edna from Iowa? Uncle Bert from Alaska?!?”
“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, grabbing her coat as we lock up on the way out.
“You can’t bail on me on our second favorite holiday of the year!” I whine. “Why, that’s strike two. Bail on me for Valentine’s Day, and I’ll… I’ll… demote you.”
“To what?” she snorts, climbing atop her grandma bike as I slam shut the back doors of the delivery van. “Assistant to the assistant’s assistant? Besides, you might be the one standing me up this Valentine’s Day.”
“Why’s that?” I ask as she hands me her scribbled-on order form.
“You’ll see,” she says, chuckling over her shoulder as she trundles up the sidewalk toward Café Kringle and the 12-foot blinking Christmas tree that shines from atop the roof of the year-round Christmas café 365 days a year.
Ringing her annoying little handlebar bell she calls out, “Happy New Year, Chelsea! I won’t wait up…”
I shrug and hit the road, glancing at the address at the top of the form: 1428 Aspen Avenue.
“Hmm,” I think, heading toward my favorite street for the last night of the year. “That sure sounds familiar. Are the Milburns home from Boca already?”
But of course it’s familiar.
I pull up to Garth’s house to see an almost mirror image of Christmas Eve; tree lights twinkling, fire glowing, table set for two and Garth, standing expectantly in the giant doorway of his charming A-frame.
“Now I’m starting to worry,” I chuckle as I hoist my giant foil bag over one arm and a picnic basket full of dry goods and plastic ware in the crook of the other. “Next you’ll be ordering cheap beer and cigars by the truckload and carpooling to the cemetery with my mother.”
“Very funny,” he says, actually… smiling… as he yanks the goodies from both arms and ushers me inside. “Actually, this is all… for you.”
“Me?” I ask as I step into the winter wonderland I helped him create only the week before.
I can hear the Christmas music oozing quietly, classily from the same CD player in the corner, smell the same familiar vanilla candles and watch the crackling of a freshly stoked fire.
I follow him into the kitchen and he points to the sunken living room saying, “Sit, sit.”
I shrug and linger near the stairs.
“I mean it,” he says, opening a bottle of champagne between his legs, getting crushed ice on the pleats of his crisp khakis.
I sigh and take to the couch, facing the fire.
He brings a glass and sets the box of truffles on the coffee table in front of me.
It’s low and covered with the wide, red candles and matching cranberry branches I’d so carefully arranged for him.
“I can’t say as I’ve ever tasted these before,” I say, taking a bite of one and relishing in the heady blend of dark chocolate and sharp, almost crystalline sea salt.
Washing it down with champagne puts the “Happy” in New Year!
He is fast and agile in the kitchen, although to be fair it was already prepared beforehand.
Still, he whips it up with style, and soon the coffee table has turned into a buffet and, at last, he joins me, sitting chastely on the love seat across from me.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I crack, blissful from one last truffle and the last of my champagne.
He refills my glass with a snort.
“I don’t want you to feel weird,” he insists, sitting back to reveal that his black socks match his black turtleneck sweater. “Is this… weird?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I’m glad you asked me over because I wanted to know how it went the other night…”
He waves his hand dismissively and says, “Not to worry, the food came out fine and I can’t wait until—”
“No,” I nudge, putting my champagne glass down. “I meant… with Rose.”
He nods his head and winks. “I know what you meant, Chelsea. I just, like I said, don’t want this to be weird.”
“That depends,” I flirt, picking the glass back up. “On what… this… is.”
“I don’t know, exactly,” he admits, eyes clear and blue now as they seek to find my own. “I just, you were so kind and generous and understanding on Christmas Eve, I couldn’t stop from calling your shop tonight. I only went through with it when the girl who answered said you didn’t have any other plans.”
“Oh, did she now?” I murmur, shaking my head; no wonder Myra was so cryptic as she pedaled off into the night!
“I hope I’m not being too forward,” he says, fingers wrapped around a melon slice layered in prosciutto.
“But what would Rose think?” I ask un-ironically, reaching for one myself.
He smirks and says, “She thinks it’s time for me to try new things.”
“Yes, but… does that include new people?”
“If not now, Chelsea, when?”
I smile and sip at my champagne. “This is a good start.”
“Besides,” I add a second truffle later. “It’s a new year, right?”
“Could take all year,” he nods. “To get to know each other, I mean.”
“Two years,” I say, one-upping him.
“I’m in no rush,” he adds, sounding almost… relieved.
“Me either,” I sigh, the mood, the moment, the candlelight and firelight and music overtaking me in a wave of holiday good cheer.
He sits back in his chair, the overstuffed leather crinkling behind his broad shoulders.
Have they always been that broad? I wonder silently. Or is it just the turtleneck?
“Where should we start?” he asks, voice playful, eyes alive with the light from the fire at his back.
I think for a moment, pause once more and then blurt, “I think I’d like to know more about… Rose.??
?
His eyes start; his smile beams.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah,” I nod.
“You don’t think that’s… too weird?”
I shrug. “It’s kind of a weird night, don’t you think?”
“But weird in a good way,” he insists.
I nod.
“Definitely weird,” I agree. Definitely… good.”
He smiles, eyes alive, and says, “Okay then…”
And I sit back, champagne glass in hand, half-an-hour from a new year, preparing to listen to a new man in my life share his oldest, fondest memories... of his wife.
And I think, “This is okay; this is all right…”
Because New Year’s Eve is a night for new beginnings, new friends, new experiences, but also a time for looking back, for reflecting on those still here, and those no longer with us.
And isn’t it the famous song Auld Lang Syne that says, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind”?
Here, I think, is a chance to bring one acquaintance back to mind.
Even if I’ve never met her before…
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Rushing the Season, www.rushingtheseason.com, where you can read his FREE stories and collections, many about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina – and ALL about the holidays.
Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!
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