* * *
“Right this way, sir!“
Well, shit. I already feel like a jackass in my outfit. Does this kid really need to “sir” me on top of that? Granted, he’s so young that I probably do look like his much older brother or, god forbid, his very young uncle. But it still rankles.
“Your wife’s already on the float, so once you’re settled in, we’re ready to go,” he tells me, and even though I know I’m playing a Victorian-era husband with another volunteer from the city tourism bureau’s advisory board playing a Victorian wife, the word makes me stumble.
“Wife. Ha. Right,” I say awkwardly.
The youthful parade worker doesn’t slow a bit when the walkie-talkie on his hip squawks and he grabs it to exchange a flurry of information with the woman on the other end. This town takes the Yule Love Beaucoeur Parade extremely seriously, and apparently that includes moving participants onto the floats with the precision needed to invade a hostile country.
“Here we are!” My escort gestures at the flatbed trailer. “Once you’re settled, we can get you into the lineup.”
Thanks to my nightmare schedule over the past month, this is my first time seeing the tourism bureau’s float. It’s designed to look like a cozy, old-timey sitting room with a fireplace and decorated mantle, a huge tree, and an antique love seat on an Oriental rug.
Eyeing all that upholstery, I quip, “Hope it doesn’t snow.” The volunteer gapes at me like I just suggested we hijack the float and plow into city hall.
“It never snows on the Yule Love Parade. Never!” he croaks.
Instead of asking how many of these parades he’s been alive for, I introduce myself to the volunteers who’ll be walking alongside the trailer. They’re dressed as nineteenth-century carolers and will be handing out candy along the route. I wheedle a handful of fun-sized Snickers bars from the longtime receptionist at my dentist’s office after a winking promise that I’ll floss as soon as I get home.
I’m about to hop onto the flatbed when I glance at the woman who’s already settled on the scroll-back sofa, her massive skirts taking up at least two-thirds of the seat. Although she’s covered from neck to toes and her face is partially obscured by her hat, I immediately know.
Turning to the volunteer, I say urgently, “Switch with me.”
“C-come again?” the kid stammers.
“Let’s switch. I’ll give you all the cash in my wallet to trade clothes with me.”
He looks around nervously. “Um. Sir. I can’t?—”
“Of course. Of course it’s you.”
CJ’s incredulous voice hits my ears like a hammer, and I say to the kid, “All the cash in my wallet and my BMW.”
The worker looks from me to the float, where my bitter enemy has stalked to the edge of the trailer and is standing with her arms folded over her chest. “Be honest,“ she bites out. “Do you hibernate year-round and crawl out of your hole to attend the one event I’ll be at each December?”
“Yes,” I say, switching to the bored monotone that seems to infuriate her. “My entire life is built around you. I devote eleven months to planning my next ambush. Fingers crossed this is the time I finally destroy you.”
I wave my hands in her direction, showing her my crossed fingers, and the volunteer’s gaze shifts nervously from me to her then back again.
“Um, is there a problem?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No.” CJ snaps. “Just get up here and pretend to be a grown-up for the next ninety minutes.”
When I grumble, “I will if you will,” she throws her hands into the air and flounces back to the couch.
“So um, if you two are settled…“ The kid fumbles for his walkie-talkie. “Sorry, I need to go… somewhere else.”
He bolts before I can offer him my whole retirement account to bail me out of this, and I’m left alone with my very irate wife. Muttering darkly, I clamber up, my high-collared white shirt, red vest, and thick wool coat severely restricting my motions. The man at the costume shop assured me the getup’s perfect for this year’s parade theme of “Christmas Through the Years,” but he didn’t warn me how tight his only available sizes would be on me.
The disdainful look CJ gives my bowler hat makes me want to rip it off my head and toss it into the crowd, but she dismisses me just as quickly, turning to face forward. “If I’d known you’d be the person I’d be sitting with?—”
“Oh, believe me, sweetheart, the loathing is mutual,” I snap, sliding my hands into my pockets in search of my gloves. Then I remember that this coat doesn’t have pockets. That means my gloves are still on my passenger seat where I set them so I wouldn’t forget to take them with me. Shit.
Our float driver chooses this moment to maneuver us into the parade lineup, and the lurch of our flatbed has CJ gripping my arm to keep her balance. Before I can flex a single bicep under her fingers, she straightens and yanks her hand away, straightening her posture as we start to inch forward.
