And just like that, Marisa was reminded of why she’d accepted this catering gig in the first place. Normally, she’d spend the better part of her December packing orders for her online candy business, tweaking her social media ads, papering the local bagel places with flyers about her custom offerings, and agonizing over the best ways to wrap, secure, and ship her delicate confections so they’d survive the veritable Bataan Death March that was holiday shipping. All while also squeezing in the annual deft avoidance of her mother’s phone calls before ultimately succumbing to the well-honed and lethally weaponized Jewish guilt by visiting her family for obligatory latkes, candle lighting, and yearly laments. And doughnuts, even if they were the jelly-filled kind.
Oh, and at some point during that same lunar cycle, her phone’s reliably unhelpful AI assistant thought it kind to remind Marisa that her birthday was also coming up. A birthday that usually coincided with the time of the month when parcel carriers stopped guaranteeing delivery by Christmas, leaving Marisa to cry into a vat of royal icing. On that day, Eden would miraculously swoop in, pry Marisa away from her stove and candy thermometer, chuck the apron into the laundry, and take her out for sushi.
This year, however, was a whole other ball of wax. This year, the red she’d been seeing on her ledgers had nothing to do with the all-natural food dye she mixed into her candy canes.
This year, she was turning thirty, and the tenuous grace period of family approval had a few more weeks, max, before the displeased conversations from those around her, spearheaded by her Aunt Gail, wouldn’t just be whispered secrets out of the corners of their mouths, but outward discussions of life phase progressions.
Or regressions, as they were.
She’s been at this candy thing for a decade now. If it was meant to happen, it would have.
It’s fine to have hobbies, but it’s not fine to keep sinking your good years into something that’s not returning the favor.
Her failure to launch is the ongoing topic in my pickleball group. Honestly, she went to school for library studies. Sorry, media studies and information sciences. The point is, she’s got an entire graduate degree and a whole bunch of expensive letters after her name, and instead of using those letters, she’s still futzing around with chocolate and cashew clusters. I heard she even started selling maple-candied bacon.
At some point, one needs to call a spade a spade. Look at me, for example. I always wanted to be a ballet dancer, but when I realized I had one left foot too many and a good six inches of height too few, I learned to pivot.
Passion doesn’t pay the bills.
Every snide comment she’d caught from one family member or another set her teeth on edge. The reminders of her failings were so palpable, Marisa was tempted to reach up, grab a frosted garland, and garrote the next person who thought to comment on circumstances they knew nothing about.
“C’mon . . . c’mon . . . where the hell are you? I know you’re here,” Marisa gritted out.
“I bet she’s wearing red,” Eden remarked, scanning the crowd. “Like, ruby-slippers red.”
“Nah, I’m going with white. Something with sequins. Remember, this is as much of a marketing opportunity for her as it is for me. Monica Freeland is chairwoman of West Meadow’s Crystal Christmas Ball. If she’s anything worth her salt, she’d saunter out here looking like a snowy frosted cupcake. The event is on Christmas Eve, and if she wants butts in seats, she’d use her own as free advertising. It’s what I would do.”
“Didn’t you actually do that when you rented a table at the high school’s homecoming celebration and dressed up as a brownie?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Thought it would be a good way to appeal to the teenagers’ parents, who might have wanted something other than stale pumpkin spice muffins to eat while they froze their asses off on the bleachers. But all it did was tempt a bunch of pubescent boys to try and kick me in the walnuts.”
Marisa needed her best friend’s sharp snort as much as she needed yet another reminder of the lengths she’d gone to in order to?—
“Holy shit, you were right. There she is.”
“What? Where?” Marisa cranked her neck in the direction of Eden’s gaze and was more than happy to let her breath float away on the soft hopes held by the woman gliding into the room on pearlescent kitten heels.
Monica Freeland hadn’t worn white so much as she’d been decorated with it. An elegant shawl cozied around her bare bronze shoulders in a thick expanse of snowy—dear God, please be faux—fur, which left just enough real estate for the gown’s bodice to garner any guests’ attention away from their sparkling wine or spouses. Shimmering sequins twirled along the fabric like snow adrift in a storm. Chins needn’t stop dropping there, as the A-line skirt swishing about the woman’s ankles was the veritable prized cupcake of tulle and twinkles, with bits of polished pearl studding the fabric and drawing every eye in the room, including the man on her arm, to the splendor that a glittery winter wonderland could offer, whether womanly or whimsical.
Eden let out a low whistle. “Damn. Color me impressed.”
And that right there was the very woman who could paint the next decade of Marisa’s life in vibrant and glorious debt-free Technicolor instead of the drab beige shaded by financial insecurity and familial shame that had thus far marred her twenties.
If the tiny New Jersey town of West Meadow had been capable of true royalty, it’d have minted coins featuring Monica Freeland’s well-coiffed profile. Equal parts socialite, philanthropist, town council president, planning board principal, school board member, and, most important for Marisa’s sake, recreation committee chairwoman, Monica’s influence wasn’t only legendary but vital. A single recommendation from her had been known to launch small businesses into seven-figure revenue brackets.
Three years ago, all the woman had to do was take a prolonged sip of a vendor’s hot chocolate concoction at the Crystal Christmas Ball. Some photog with a zoom lens got a close-up on Monica’s mauve-lacquered lips pressed in rapturous satisfaction after drinking it. Since then, that drink company had opened up a second factory, with plans to stock products in ten grocery store chains all over the country.
Monica’s was the sort of old-money, life-changing influence that had somehow managed to transcend Internet virality, a feat all the more incredible considering the matriarch only ever used her powers for good.
When she spoke, people didn’t just listen. They opened up their wallets and begged for her to be the steward of their hard-earned money.
If Marisa could get on Monica’s radar, she’d never have to endure another pleading glance from her family or their weaponized affection. She’d never have to explain how toiling over confections wasn’t just a hobby but her actual business.
With one golden touch from Monica “Midas” Freeland, Marisa could finally ditch her catering gig and live the life meant for her.
All she had to do was get on The List.
“There she is,” Marisa breathed, gripping Eden’s arm. “The Queen of Counsel herself.”
