Winter Street Page 26
“Well…?” Ava says. Shelby is of the opinion that Ava should break up with Nathaniel and date Scott. Nathaniel is too much work; Shelby is sick of watching Ava try to persuade Nathaniel to love her. Whereas Scott already loves her. “He’s doing a British-accent thingy.”
“British accent?” Shelby says. “Scott?” She nudges Ava. “That’s hot, too, right? It’s very Downton Abbey.”
“It’s weird,” Ava says. “It’s like he’s someone else.”
“And who’s the chick?” Shelby asks.
“Isabelle,” Ava says. “She works for us. She’s French.”
“She’s stunning.”
Ava decides not to tell Shelby that she’s trying to set Scott and Isabelle up; Shelby might not like the idea any better than Kevin did.
Ava and Shelby find themselves moving close enough to Scott that they can eavesdrop. He has Micah Daniels, the terror of the entire kindergarten class, up on his lap, but for once Micah is quiet, awestruck. It’s Father Christmas.
“Hello, young chap,” Scott says. “What is your name?”
“Micah Daniels.”
“Micah Daniels! Capital, capital! And tell me, Micah Daniels, have you been a good boy this year? Have you been polite and respectful to your parents and… your teachers?”
Micah nods solemnly, and Ava rolls her eyes. This is the kid who brought a Chinese star to school and stuck it in another student’s hot dog. This is the kid who called his teacher, Mrs. Peale, an “old fat ass.”
“Are you sure about that, Micah Daniels? Because, you know, Father Christmas watches you night and day, at school and at home. I check in with your parents, and also with… Mrs. Peale.”
Micah looks sufficiently intimidated. Ava is waiting for Scott to say that Micah is getting COAL, NOTHING BUT COAL—or at the very least that he is lingering on some sort of Undecided List, a Santa Claus Limbo. But Scott has mercy.
“And what, Micah Daniels, is your heart’s greatest desire for Christmas morning?”
Shelby mouths, Xbox.
Micah says, “Xbox.”
Isabelle steps back a few feet to take the picture with the Winter Street Inn digital camera—photos later to be posted on Facebook—but before she snaps it, Scott says, “Ho-ho-ho, Mrs. Claus, why don’t you get in the picture?”
Isabelle lowers the camera. “Excusez-moi?”
Scott waves her in. “Come, be in the picture. Ava will take it, won’t you, Ava?”
Ava hands her glass of wine off to Shelby. “Certainly, yes, of course.” She accepts the camera from Isabelle, thinking she can’t blame Scott for not wanting his picture taken alone with the nightmare that is Micah Daniels. Isabelle will improve it. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down…
Isabelle stands next to Scott and slides her arm around his superhero shoulders and tilts her pretty blond head so that it practically rests against Scott’s. When Ava looks through the viewfinder, she is shocked to find that she is bothered by their pose. She is… jealous. Scott, Isabelle, and Micah Daniels look like a family, which of course they’re not, although if Scott and Isabelle do start dating and get married, they may find themselves in a similar pose in the not-too-distant future.
Ava does not like it.
Wow.
She’s confused.
She grits her teeth and beams at Scott, Isabelle, and Micah. “Smile!” she says. She takes the picture, and the flash goes off.
Scott says, “Take another one!”
She takes another one.
Ava has to go to the ladies’ room, so she heads to the back of the inn. She doesn’t know what just happened with Scott. She thinks of Kevin saying, What is wrong with you, Ava? There isn’t anything wrong with her. She is setting Scott and Isabelle up so that the two of them can find happiness together. Maybe she’s bothered because Scott has always been hers and hers alone. But Ava doesn’t want Scott, right? She wants the mind, body, and soul of Nathaniel Oscar, maker of fancy and special pantry doors.
The party is fun, and she has a nice glow, although she is far from drunk, which is good, because she still has to play the carols.
She will not check her phone. It’s ten after eight. She will not check her phone.
She checks her phone.
Nothing from Nathaniel. Her heart breaks a little.
There are two texts: one from Patrick and one from her mother.
Patrick: asdhaosihdkqebrkb. (Butt dial? Or incredibly drunk? Ava doesn’t care.)
Margaret: Oh, honey… (Margaret forgot what she was going to say? She got interrupted? Or “Oh, honey” is a general statement of guilt because she can’t take Ava to Hawaii? Ava doesn’t care.)
She sits on the edge of her bed and takes a deep breath. Oxygen.
Why did she check her phone?
She goes back to the party.
MARGARET
She wears a red dress that clashes with her hair; imploring Roger again for the silver Audrey Hepburn did no good. It’s Christmas Eve; it has to be red. The broadcast is light, so light that it primarily consists of footage of Christmas Eve celebrations from around the world—fireworks over the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Pope Francis I saying Mass in St. Peter’s Square.
Margaret smiles into the camera. Her favorite cameraman, Ernest, is five foot three, and he’s wearing an elf hat and a necklace of glowing chili pepper lights.
“For CBS News, I’m Margaret Quinn, wishing all of you a safe and happy holiday and peace for the coming year.” Margaret holds… she holds… This is by far her least favorite part of the job, smiling into the vacant eye of the camera for all of America when she’s done and ready to move on.
“And… cut!” her producer, Mickey Benz, says. “Good job, Margaret. Enjoy Hawaii.”
Merry Christmas, Margaret, enjoy Hawaii, have fun, you deserve it. She does deserve it! She spends only twelve weekdays a year out of people’s living rooms—five days in August, Thanksgiving Day and the Friday after, and five days at Christmas. Cynthia, the office manager, has left a bottle of SPF 75 sunblock next to Margaret’s computer with a note that says, Protect the most famous face in America. Margaret smiles and throws the sunscreen in her bag. She extends the handle of her suitcase and checks her phone. She has a single text. It’s from Drake. He’s already at Newark, in Terminal C, waiting for her at the outpost of Grand Central Oyster Bar with a dozen Malpeques ordered.