Special Delivery: A Romantic New Year’s Eve Story
Rusty Fischer
Special Delivery:
A Heartwarming New Year’s Eve Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
* * * * *
Special Delivery
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2013 by Rusty Fischer
* * * * *
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © detailblick – Fotolia.com
* This story was previously published as “Special Delivery in Snowflake”.
* * * * *
Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!
Happy reading… and Happy New Year!
Enjoy!
* * * * *
Special Delivery:
A Heartwarming New Year’s Eve Story
“Any new orders come in while I was out, Myra?” I ask hopefully as I breeze in the front door, “Jingle Bell” chimes alerting my partner in crime to my sudden presence.
Myra looks out from behind the pastry counter, green eyes luminous above the frames of her bright red, rectangular glasses and smiles.
“A big one!” she says, maroon lipstick curling beneath her sterling silver nose ring.
I figure she’s pulling my leg; two Christmases in the trenches by now and she knows as well as I do how dead it always gets after lunch on Christmas Eve.
Besides, I’m kind of looking forward to our usual tradition: a couple of glasses of warm, mulled wine with cloves at the Café Kringle and an early night in front of the TV watching It’s a Wonderful Life until I crash on the couch.
It’s been a long month of non-stop special events deliveries since Thanksgiving weekend, not that I’m complaining.
I typically make enough in November and December to last me through spring, so the constant 14-hour days and the extra miles on the Simply Delivery van are well worth the sore backs and long nights that typically mark the busy holiday season.
But by Christmas Eve my assistant, Myra, and I are always ready for the brief two to three day slowdown before the New Year’s Eve season starts in full swing again around the 28th of December.
“I’m serious,” she says when I don’t reply, choosing to ignore her goofy joke and slide my patented Simply Delivery green and gold picnic basket back on the stainless steel shelving unit just behind the sales counter.
“Really?” I ask, suddenly curious and slightly skeptical. “How big?”
“Big, big,” she says, and suddenly I smell the aroma of a fresh turkey baking in the kitchen.
“The full meal deal, big?” I ask, pushing open the swinging kitchen door as Myra follows.
“Bigger,” she insists, pointing to the already-decorated tree on top of the assembly counter, right next to the matching “his and her” gingham stockings and gift bag full of Christmas lights. “Guy called just after you left. He just got into town and wanted the Supreme Deluxe Platinum Decorations and Dinner Special by 8 p.m., if possible.”
“Is it?” I ask, crinkling my nose at the beautifully baking bird while mentally calculating the time required to cook, package and deliver it, along with all the other “trimmings”.
“Well, I slid that in right after I got off the phone with him, it’s got another hour at least, and you can always finish at his house if necessary.”
“The customers do like that,” I muse, picturing their satisfied faces as the smell of fresh basted turkey fills the house; then I realize which pronoun she just used.
“Hey,” I whine, slugging her on the tattooed shoulder. “Who says I’m doing the delivery?”
“My grandma, that’s who!” Myra pouts. “She insisted I be home for Christmas dinner this year.”
“What? I thought we’d do our usual Girls Night at Café Kringle like always?”
She snorts apologetically. “Yeah, well, ‘like always’ has gotten me into trouble for the last two years running. Grandma said she’d use her walker all the way down here from Maple Street if you gave me any fuss.”
I chuckle as she slips a fresh-baked apple pie into a to-go box, complete with the green and gold “Simply Delivery” logo in the middle of the clear plastic window.
“Far be it for your boss, sole employer and ONLY friend to make a fuss on Christmas Eve,” I grouse, sealing tinfoil on top of our famous handpicked green bean and homemade onion straw casserole.
“You’re welcome to come,” she says, dishing up garlic and sage mashed potatoes into a plastic container while I individually wrap each asiago infused dinner roll.
“What, at midnight? You know how long these Supreme Deluxe Platinum Decorations and Dinner Specials take to set up.”
“Not really,” she admits; she has a point.
After all, I’m usually the “go to” wizard behind the Supreme Deluxe Platinum Decorations and Dinner Special curtain.
We work well together, Myra and I; have ever since I opened up shop four years ago.
Nobody was sure a tiny town like Snowflake, South Carolina – population 3,639 and counting – could support a gourmet special delivery dining experience, but after a rocky start that first summer, fall kicked in with a vengeance – and never quite let up.
I hired Myra shortly after and, aside from a few seasonal employees now and then, we’ve been side by side ever since.
You wouldn’t think it to look at us, here in the Simply Delivery kitchen slaving over pecan and cilantro stuffing and a Gigantor-sized holly themed picnic basket, but we have a lot more in common than our work address.
Despite her nose ring and sleeve tattoos, her maroon lipstick and black nails, you’d be hard pressed to find a more traditional, family-oriented, Christmas loving chick than Myra Sinclair!
Or, for that matter, a better friend.
Why she puts up with a Type-A, pony-tailed, gray pinstripe skirt and white silk blouse wearing boss like me I’ll never know.
But I guess it’s true what they say; opposites attract.
(Or, at least, work well together on Christmas Eve!)
By the time the turkey is done, sealed tight in a disposable roasting pan with a big red bow to top it off, Myra is buttoning up her knee-length pleather jacket and winding her red and black skull scarf – I can’t be too shocked since I gave it to her last Christmas – around her long, porcelain neck.
Her eyes look sad, or at least guilty, as she helps me load the last of the 4-foot, pre-lit tree and full, six course dinner into the back of the Simply Delivery van.
“I wish I was going with you,” she sighs, straddling her old-lady, three wheel bike. “If only to see what this guy looks like. He sounded kind of cute on the phone.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” I sigh back, leaning against the white and green van and eyeing her knowingly. “In my experience, the more romantic a guy gets, the more he’s got to apologize for!”
Myra makes her mock shock face – she can’t be surprised after hearing my anti-romance rant for the 1,001st time – and shakes her head.
“Bitter much?” she snorts, scooting away before the night grows too chill. “Merry Christmas, boss!”
“Bah humbug!” I call good-naturedly after her, wishing for all the world that I was following her into the warm, jazzy confines of Café Kringle right about now.
Instead I slide into the driver’s seat, turn the key in the ignition of th
e trusty Simply Delivery van and creak out of the parking lot, hyper-aware of the $600 worth of gourmet eats and treats perched precariously in the back.
Fortunately nobody – and I do mean NOBODY – is out and about this late on Christmas Eve in Snowflake.
I pass the quaint, gingerbread house style storefronts of downtown, Christmas lights blinking on this, the last business night of the Christmas season.
Most are closed this late and those that aren’t are simply enjoying employee Christmas parties, champagne bottles hoisted, smiles abounding through the gaily-lit storefront windows.
I find my lips curling in a smile to see my colleagues, friends and even competitors so happy on this most joyous of nights.
And then I sigh contentedly; now it’s my job to turn someone’s so-so holiday into something much more than memorable.
If only I had someone waiting at home to make mine just a tad bit more special as well.
But it’s not my night; it’s… I look at Myra’s chicken scratch on the order form in my hands and read the customer’s name for the first time all night: “Garth Cross.”
Right, it’s Garth’s night to feel the holiday magic, warm and fuzzy all over; he and whoever else is sharing this magical, delicious and admittedly pricy holiday dinner for two with him.
I find the address on Garth’s order form and turn down Aspen Avenue, one of my favorite streets in Snowflake.
Here the houses are all A-frames, tall and angled and charming, each and every one.
There are only eight on the whole street, bordered by thick, lush pines and featuring wide, cobblestone drives and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the charmingly quaint third story landing.
The mailboxes are A-frames, too, and I find the one numbered 1428 and back in slowly, careful to avoid the Rooms on the Move truck already taking up most of the driveway.
I slide from the driver’s seat and clatter up the walkway on the heels of my comfortable, if classy, delivery pumps.
As I go to knock a burly deliveryman opens the wide, oak door and stops, mid-stride, to let me walk by.
“Thanks,” I say. “Is… the owner… in?”
“He’s in the kitchen,” says “Lou,” or at least, so says the nametag stitched above the Rooms on the Move logo on his snug white muscle shirt.
I thank him and take three quick steps down from the landing into a spacious sunken living room, replete with dark wood floors and only just now starting to become sparsely furnished, thanks to the local furniture store delivery men.
Lou’s partner, a tall black man with “Stu” sewn onto his shirt, doffs a blue and red Rooms on the Move cap and finishes screwing the legs to the bottom of a wide, butcher-block type coffee table.
“Mr. Cross?” I ask to the back of a tall, fit man standing amidst a stack of plain white dishes piled on the kitchen counter next to a just opened box from Kitchen Fixins’.
“Yes?” he asks, turning to reveal a warm, gentle face and calm, placid blue eyes.
“I’m Chelsea Darwin, from Simply Delivery? I think you spoke to my assistant, Myra, about Christmas dinner for two?”
He nods slowly, a weak smile on his face.
“Yes, yes, come in,” he says, distracted by Lou dragging a leather wingchair in through the door. “I’m sorry for all the hubbub.”
“Did you just get into town?” I ask, nodding toward the fresh delivery of dishes and, from the looks of it, just about every other brand new kitchen appliance known to man.
“Literally, Ms. Darwin,” he says, long fingers putting the last of the dishes down gently. “As in, this very morning.”
“Oh gosh,” I blurt. “What awful timing!”
He cocks his head, flashes a stiff and crooked smile and says, “Tell that to my new boss at Snowflake Sentiments!”
“The greeting card company?” I ask, suddenly intrigued. “They’re one of my best customers. I just catered their employee Christmas party, in fact.”
His smile remains fixed as he says, “That’s where I got your name. I’m the new VP of Marketing and Promotions there; they’ve been great. Helped me find this house, helped arrange for the new furniture, they’ve been a real godsend.”
“I can see that,” I say, quickly scanning the still mostly empty living room and art-free walls leading up the stairs to his equally sparsely furnished second floor, which features an open loft type living space that most folks turn into a den or second sitting area.
Along the way I see no moving boxes, no moving van, no stacks of books or even bookshelves.
“Are the movers late or…?” I ask, letting my voice trail off as I wonder if I’m suddenly getting too personal.
“I’m starting from scratch; no movers, just… all new furniture and not so much of it. At least, not until my first official paycheck anyway.”
I nod and say, “That’s kind of nice, huh? A whole new start?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his sad, blue eyes.
He is handsome in a kind of nerdy way, what with his pleated jeans and red and black argyle sweater. He is fit but pale, his face dotted with several days of soft, blond stubble.
He runs his long fingers through his short blond hair often, and looks at me almost… helplessly.
“Well,” I say when his response goes no further than his half-smile. “If you’ll just tell me where to set up, I’ll get started.”
“The dinner table’s just off to the kitchen,” he says, pointing to a small, square black table with two matching chairs, fresh out of the Rooms on the Move delivery truck. “If you want to start there?”
“Perfect,” I say, slipping back out the front door and beginning the long, occasionally arduous task of whipping up Christmas in two hours flat!
Lou and Stu leave somewhere between me setting up the Christmas tree in the middle of the sunken living room and carting in the matching stockings, filled to the brim with pre-wrapped classic treats of jumbo cashews, molded marzipan, homemade taffy and chocolate-shaped Santas in shimmery foil wrapping.
I hear the truck start up, go to wish them “Merry Christmas” and find only winking taillights beating a hasty retreat up Aspen Avenue.
Suddenly the house seems deathly quiet without their toting and hauling, huffing and puffing.
I take the smooth jazz Christmas CD that comes with the deluxe platinum holiday package and say, “Stereo?”
Garth looks up from a case of new, stem less wine glasses and says, “Will that do?”
He points to a small, boom box style CD player on an end table in the foyer. “I was going to bring it into my office after the holidays.”
“Perfect,” I say, sliding in the CD and turning the volume to “background noise” before stringing lights around each of the massive dining room windows.
For a few minutes there, maybe 15 or 20, we get lost in our work; Garth washing and putting away his glasses, me arranging plain white candles among fresh picked cranberry branches and setting a table for two with a fine burgundy runner and matching napkin rings.
It feels nice, almost… familiar. The flickering candlelight, the jazzy holiday tunes, the clinking and rustling of dish towel against glass, the quiet ticking of a new house settling in.
I catch him looking up from his work occasionally, nodding admiringly at this spray of holly or that grouping of organic beeswax candles.
He shifts from the kitchen to admire the tree while rearranging the few pieces of furniture in his gargantuan sunken living room, and I take the opportunity of an empty kitchen to begin heating up dinner.
The mashed potatoes and casserole are slowly steaming and the rolls quietly sweating when I baste the turkey one last time and ask, “Any idea when your guest will be arriving?”
I haven’t heard a peep other than Garth’s soft leather loafers on the hardwood floor since the movers left, so I keep expecting the front door to burst open and an equally “nerd hot” wife to blush, suddenly and seasonally surprised.
�
Oh, no guest,â he says casually, absently caressing a glass blown ornament on the table top tree.
âOh, Iâm sorry; your wife is already here then?â
He turns, eyes red and watery.
His chin is shaking as he puts one hand over his heart and says, pointedly, âSheâs⦠here.â
âOh no,â I say, carefully setting the gravy spoon on a paper towel and inching around the island sink in the middle of the open kitchen area. âIâm so sorry, Garth. I⦠I didnât⦠know!â
âYou must think me the most ghoulish little man,â he snorts in self disgust, somehow refraining from breaking down completely. âGoing to all this trouble for a⦠a⦠ghost.â
âNo,â I say, keeping my distance since Iâve already gotten too personal, too fast. âNo, of course not. Not at all, Garth. Itâs perfectly natural to want⦠to want⦠those who are no longer with us to still be around just a little while longer.â
âThatâs all I need,â he insists, almost imploringly. âJust a little while; just⦠tonight.â
âI understand that,â I say. âHonestly, I do.â
âItâs just,â he explains, âitâs my first Christmas since Rose passed and Christmas Eve was always her favorite. Not Christmas Day, when the families merged and drew sides to see who could out complain each other, but we always spent Christmas Eve alone, together.â
His voice is soft now as he sits â no, more like slumps â into the overstuffed leather love seat facing the living room steps.
âNo matter what jobs we had, or if we had any at all, weâd splurge and get champagne, and pate and brie and whatever we could afford; even if we couldnât afford it. We never got gifts, just this one quiet evening of romantic splurging amidst the hustle and bustle.â
He looks at me, blue eyes dry, and asks, âIs it wrong to want to spend one last Christmas Eve with her?â
I lean against the railing leading down into the living room, still wiping my hands nervously on a giveaway green and gold Simply Delivery dish towel.
âTo this day, Garth, my mother brings a lawn chair, a six pack of cheap beer and my Dadâs favorite box of cigars to the cemetery and sits by his grave every Sunday. Every. Single. Sunday. She wouldnât have it any other way, and no one dare questions if itâs right or wrong. For her, itâs perfectly natural. I think, well, I think itâs⦠romantic⦠what youâre doing here tonight.â
He nods, but says nothing. Itâs like his impassioned speech has left him empty, spent.
âIâm glad to be a part of it,â I add hastily. âHonored, in fact.â
He nods again, lips working but nothing coming out, and I can see him losing momentum to the moment.
âListen,â I say, slipping from my apron and turning the stovetop dials to simmer. âMy work here is done. I trust youâre satisfied; that⦠Rose⦠is satisfied. Youâve got music, candlelight, the food is ready, the champagneâs in the fridge, even the brie and pate. I donât want to interfere any longerââ
âYouâre not interfering,â he interrupts, standing abruptly, as if desperate not to be alone.
I nod, and make no other reply.
He looks from me to the lavish holiday spread and says, âHow can I ever begin to thank you, Chelsea? I couldnât have done all this without you.â
I stand at the giant door, clutch purse in hand and say, âJust enjoy your evening, Garth. And Merry Christmas, to you⦠and⦠to Rose!â
I shut the door quickly and clatter to my car, sliding the key in the ignition and jerking out of the driveway before my own tears can spill.
I canât imagine what Iâd do in Garthâs shoes; if the only man Iâd ever loved was gone and I was left to face that first holiday⦠alone.
I donât drive away; not just yet.
I know the Milburns always go to Florida for the winter, and wonât be back until Easter.
I back into their driveway, turning off the lights and staring across the street. The picture windows looking out onto the lawn give me a front row seat as Garth walks slowly around the living room, admiring my handiwork once more.
The walls of his A-frame are mostly floor-to-ceiling windows, and as darkness settles and the interior shines like the inside of a snow globe, I grow fond of his admiring gaze.
He leans in close to the candles, admiring their scent.
He fingers each bauble and bow on the tree, and spreads the contents of each stocking out next to each of the two plates Iâd set on the table, also for two.
In the kitchen he begins talking; to Rose, Iâd imagine.
His face lights up, his arms grow animated as he stirs the gravy, carves the turkey, nibbles on a dinner roll, laughing at a joke long forgotten.
I sit back in my seat, nibbling on a box of petit fours I forgot to bring in amidst all the hubbub.
There is a half-empty diet soda from the dayâs earlier delivery and I drink it warm, the taste of crème fresh and dark chocolate melting in my mouth as flat soda bubbles cleanse my palette for another small square of rich, fresh cake.
The night grows soft and warm around me, Garth filled with joy as he sits across from his wifeâs ghost, sharing a meal full of smiles and fond memories; an intimate moment I somehow canât tear my eyes away from.
Iâve never visited my fatherâs grave with my Mom.
Iâve gone separately, of course; just never with her.
I guess Iâve just always been too embarrassed of what the neighbors or other mourners might think of this large, southern woman settling in for an entire Sunday, talking away to a gravestone as if it were my very own father â live and in person.
Joking, as loud as you can be; regaling him with this weekâs gossip, or that morningâs headlines, as if he was sitting across from the breakfast table and not the Great Divide.
But I imagine this is what itâs like for her; arms waving, hoarse voice cackling, smile wide, eyes moist but still dry in the presence of her one and only love.
Only when the meal is done and the lights turned off, one by one, does Garth retreat back to sadness.
He sits on the same dark leather love seat as before, quietly stoking a small, equally sad fire as the lights on the tree next to him quiver and shine.
He stares out into the darkness, eyes in my direction but I know there are still too many lights on in the A-frame to allow him to see past his own reflection.
Then again, even if there werenât, he obviously only has eyes for Rose.
I leave sometime after midnight; sad but glad, too.
Sad for a man who will never share another meal with his lovely wife and glad that, for once, Iâve spent Christmas with some man other than Jimmy Stewart!
