Holiday for HIre(4)
“A real holiday enthusiast, huh ?”
She blushed. “That obvious? It’s just Christmas that I’m into. It’s bright and cheerful and everyone’s always happy. It’s the one day that we can all pretend that what we wish for might come true.” She knew better, of course, but she wasn’t going to go into that with a stranger. Honestly, she couldn’t believe he was feigning interest. She was attractive enough, but also plain. Too plain to garner the attention of men she didn’t know .
Just as unbelievable was the fact that she was still engaging with him. She couldn’t help herself. He was so…entrancing. So swoon-worthy. Just talking to him made her heart pitter-patter the same way it did every time she heard the opening strains of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at the traditional Boston Pops sing-along .
“It’s definitely a magical holiday,” the stranger said, and he even seemed sincere. “But if you think you can only pretend that Christmas wishes come true, then you aren’t doing it right .”
That was sweet to say. She knew differently. Wishes and magic were fanciful ideas. Hard work and determination were the only things that produced miracles, which was why Jane was always so focused on making her own dreams come to fruition. Dreams such as finding the man she was meant to spend her life with. Maybe that’s why she’d been so eager to date Blake—instead of waiting for Mr. Right to show up, she’d been proactive in looking for him .
Now, if she did believe in this stranger’s sentiments, she’d be wishing that Mr. Right would look a lot like this guy. Too bad that wasn’t something she could make happen on her own. Wouldn’t that be real magic? Transforming a man like the one in front of her into someone presentable to her peers, toning down his accent, giving him a haircut, a manicure and dressing him in a tailored suit …
She sighed. Those changes were all cosmetic. Even if you could teach someone how to speak and behave—which she did believe was possible; she’d seen My Fair Lady , after all—it wouldn’t make up for his lack of suitable job or, more importantly, lack of suitable paycheck. She could never bring a man like that to a social event. Her father would turn over in his grave .
In other words, it was a good fantasy. But that’s all .
“Well,” she said, realizing she should probably end this encounter before it turned into something else. “I’ll have to work on that, I guess.” That seemed an appropriate reply—polite, uninviting. “I should be going. Goodnight .”
“Thanks again. Goodnight .”
The slight curl of his smile did something to her insides, and she had to turn away quickly to hide the effect it had on her. It was so impactful that her belly was still fluttering five minutes later when she gave in and hailed a taxi .
It had to be that flutter that made her do the crazy thing she did next. When, in the silence of the lonely cab ride, with the bag from the shop held tightly in her grip, she closed her eyes and wished. A vague wish. A wordless wish. She didn’t even know exactly what it was she wished for. It wasn’t a thing; she knew that much. It was more like a feeling. An unnamable feeling. A magic feeling .
It was only a minute before her head cleared and she laughed at herself. Wishing for a feeling—it was so silly. What she should have wished for was to know that man’s name. And then she should have made that wish come true by asking. Or by looking at who the check was addressed to before giving it over .
But she hadn’t. C’est la vie .
And whatever feeling she was looking for, she could take care of that herself as well .
In fact, she did. Later, alone in the dark of her bedroom .
And while her hands were busy working under the sheets, it wasn’t Blake Stupid Donovan that she fantasized about. Nor was it five-years’ ago Colin Farrell, but, as she pressed her lids tight and lost herself in ecstasy, the man she imagined above her did look an awful lot like him .
*
T wo months later—forty-six days before Christmas, to be exact—the memory of Dump Day had begun to fade into, well, if not the memory banks, at least it was taking on the sheen of the kind of silly story Jane could spin into something humorous at Ladies Lunch .
And lucky her, the monthly date was scheduled for the following day. It only took a few practice tellings into a mirror before she felt like it was coming off entirely natural and casually amusing .
Not sad. Not at all. Everyone had dating mishaps, after all .
This would be the anecdote she’d tell between watercress salad and trout toast points. By sorbet, she’d have spun it into a reason to donate to the Children’s Hospital .
It was with a spring in her step that Jane stepped out to collect the mail. And lucky her, it was magazine day! She made a mental note to purchase some lottery tickets. Everything was coming up roses, and coincidentally, she had a fresh issue of Northeast Gardening to flip through with her afternoon tea. Mid-fall was the perfect time to sketch plans for the plot she’d rented. Radishes, definitely, marigolds to keep rabbits off the lettuce she planned on …
What was this, though? Beneath the thick stack of glossies was a crisp linen envelope, addressed to Ms. Jane Osborne in calligraphy nearly as gorgeous as traditional Chinese hànzì .
With utter pleasure, Jane slit the envelope open. Given today, it was likely to contain an invitation to audition for a Tom Hiddleston movie, or one to tea with the Queen, or—goddamnit .