And there it is—the reason why my family doesn’t dare to even whisper “Merry Christmas” on the twenty-fourth. Grandma isn’t only a stickler for celebrating on the actual holiday; she’s the self-appointed guardian of Christmas propriety.
I secretly adore how she clings to her traditions, even as others toss their Christmas trees to the curb on the twenty-sixth. Most people I know have only one tree. Not Grandma because apparently only one Christmas tree is for amateurs. Her house looks like Santa’s workshop exploded, albeit paid-decorator style, so tastefully done, with outside lights astronauts can see from space, all of which stay up until Epiphany. It’s as if she’s daring neighbors to challenge her holiday supremacy. So far, no one has dared.
“There are twelve days of Christmas for a reason,” we say in perfect synchronization. The words have been part of life for as long as I can remember.
“I hear there’s a big storm out your way,” Grandma says, as if knowing her point has been made. “Will that be a problem for you?”
“No, but I told everyone to leave early. I’ll be hitting the road shortly. My suitcase is in the car. I have a reservation at a hotel halfway between here and you, so I’ll beat the worst of the snow.”
“Well, aren’t you the clever little chestnut,” Grandma coos, her warm voice telling me she’s smiling now. She loves her grandchildren even more than she loves Christmas. “You’ll be heading east, while Mother Nature throws her tantrum in the west. Looks like someone is on the nice list this year.”
“I always am, but what did you mean about the west?”
“The weather person on the news predicted the west side of the city will take the brunt of the snowfall and wind.”
The west side—where Abby lives. My chest tightens. The storm might mean her power is still off too. She’s an adult who can clearly take care of herself, but a strange sensation, an irritating pull of concern, lodges in my gut. I want to brush it aside, not explore what it means. She’s an employee, nothing more, even if I want…
Strike that. I can’t have anything with her. Not tomorrow or the day after or any day in the future.
“Do you need me to pick up anything for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes, please. Bring a beautiful woman on your arm.” Hope oozes through the line.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain something. “It’s Christmas, you unsubtle matchmaker. Don’t you know, everyone will be knee-deep in family chaos and unavailable for dates.”
“Pishposh,” she counters. “Not everyone is blessed with our brand of yuletide togetherness. And you’ve endured enough sappy holiday flicks with me to know Christmas is the most wonderful time to fall in love. That’s why I’ve rigged the house with mistletoe. You can’t escape it.”
She’s relentless, my pint-sized cupid in designer clothing. But hey, tis’ the season for miracles, right? Might as well toss Grandma a bone.
“Fine. I’ll put out an APB for all available elves. I mean, dates.”
Grandma squeals like she received a pair of diamond earrings in her Christmas cracker. “Now, that’s the spirit. Though you’ve mentioned a woman at your office a few times…”
Abby, in moments of weakness and never by name. “She’ll be with her family.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
“I’m her boss, and she’s long gone.” Speaking of which, I peer out the window to make sure everyone has left. The blanket of white makes the parking lot look like a snow globe. I spot only two cars—mine and a tiny hatchback that belongs to Abby. Shouldn’t she have headed out by now?
“I’ll let you go so you can leave. I don’t want you stuck in the storm.” Grandma’s genuine concern feels like a much-needed hug. “I know you need some quiet tonight before coming home to the chaos that is our family.”
I laugh. She knows me so well. “I’ll head out as soon as I can. I need to make sure the last employee leaves safely.”
“You’re learning to be a good boss. Just like your grandfather knew you would. Drive safely. I love you.”
“Love you.” With that, I disconnect from the call. As I stand, I spot Abby through the frosted window, her arms outstretched as she brushes snow off her car. Where did she come from?
Her car’s headlights are on. The windshield wipers swish back and forth, but they aren’t doing that great a job with the car. I hope she’s warming the engine.
Less than thirty seconds later, she hurries to the driver’s door and gets into her car. A slam of the door and the headlights go out. The wipers stop, too.
Uh-oh. I bite my lip. That’s not a good sign. I can’t see her inside the car, so I focus on the headlights.
“Come on.” Irritation bubbles—mostly directed at the weather, but also at her car. It’s like the power outage on the west side is following her, because her lights remain off.
I sit for another few seconds and then stand. I grab my coat and my briefcase, deciding it’s time to step out of the carefully constructed comfort zone I’ve erected around a certain employee.
I stride out of my office, check the back door, and turn the lights off. As the front door clicks shut behind me, I lock it. My job is done here until the New Year.
