Page 1 of Flirting with the Scrooge

ONE

THE NEW NEIGHBOR

Tatum

Some people love Christmas, but IloveChristmas. Ever since I was a little girl it was always my favorite holiday. Everything from the delectable smell of vanilla, sugar, and melted chocolate from fresh baked cookies wafting through the air to hunting for the perfectly symmetrical and lush Christmas tree at the local tree farm. And let’s not forget decorations galore, inside the house and out. Honestly, it’s a holiday that should be year-round.

Rising on my tippy toes, my fingertips scratch at a box sitting on the top shelf in my garage. As I stretch, the step stool scrapes against the cement floor beneath me. Oh, come on, just a little farther. With a one footed hop, I’m able to push the box just enough to expose the corner so I’m able to pull it with my other hand. With both hands I secure the box against my chest. As I step backward, my toe slips off the edge. The box flies from my grasp as my arms flail wildly to regain my balance. The cardboard rips down the side as it hits the floor, spilling plastic ornaments and Christmas lights across the cement. Just my luck. As I tumble backward to the floor, a stack of sharp cornered boxes breaks my fall, instead of the pile of inflatable decorations. A mushroom cloud of fake snow plumes into the air and flutters down around me. It’s like I’m living in my very own snow globe. I blow a strand of hair out of my face. The one thing that should bring me joy this year just tried to kill me. Great.

If someone told me a month ago this is where my life would be, I would have laughed in their face. Never did I imagine I’d be lying in a heap of cardboard boxes and fake snow. No one expects to not only get dumped but also fired in a span of thirty seconds. But here I am a month before Christmas, single and definitely not in the mood to mingle.

One day, it was all… gone. The bow on my neatly wrapped Christmas present was catching my ex canoodling with his intern at a charity gala my sister was coordinating. When he told me he was dumping me to focus on his career, it was accurate as long as his career involved a leggy brunette in a pencil skirt. We spent five years together, and he tossed me out faster than an unwanted fruit cake.

My only goal for the next four weeks is to drown my sorrows in tinsel, lights, and ornaments. And clearly, I’m even having a hard time with that. Any other year I would be stringing up Christmas lights and blowing up the inflatable Santa and all his workshop accessories, but this year my bah humbug is at an all-time high. Which I hate. I’m always the first one to put up my decorations, mostly to encourage my neighbors to do the same so I can have some actual competition for the neighborhood decorating contest.

I peel myself off the ground and brush off my jeans. Coffee. I need more coffee. Pushing my way through the door that leads from the garage into my kitchen, I pull a cup off my mug tree, and fill it to the brim with the deep brown deliciousness. While clutching the mug with both hands, I leisurely stroll toward the large picture window that faces the street. By now, a tree would be standing tall in this very spot, but this year is different. It’s hard to get into the holiday spirit when your life crumbles to pieces a week earlier.

I lift the steaming cup of coffee to my lips and take a sip. No more wallowing. No more letting my ex consume my thoughts. I need to immerse myself in the one thing I love and forget everything else. Christmas. As my nana would say, “Only let your thoughts be consumed by someone who deserves them. Give everyone else the middle finger.” Nana was classy like that.

Whirling around, I stomp across the room and back into the kitchen. It’s time to raise some middle fingers. I slam my coffee mug on the white quartz kitchen island a little harder than normal. I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. Shoving my feet into the fur lined boots, I throw my coat over my shoulders and tug my knit cap over my hair. Time to make the decorations my bitch.

I press the garage door button. The bright light slowly fills the dark garage as the door rises. I finish cleaning up my previous mess and dig into the other boxes sitting on the cement. I rifle through several boxes, pulling out all the decorations I’ll need and move everything else to the side.

A light coating of snow dusts the ground as I drag one box out to the driveway leaving a plowed snow path in my wake. From my back pocket I pull out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, I glance down at the haphazard diagram of my decoration set up. The blowup Santa and reindeer will be on the left side and the snow globes, Santa’s workshop, and the candy cane walkway will be on the right. The twenty-foot maple tree in my front yard is already strung with colorful lights, so I only need to add the over-sized fake presents underneath.

Over the next several hours, I run extension cords, carry out boxes, and set up all the decorations. Once everything is in place, I plug it in for a trial run. I shuffle my way to the end of the short driveway, being careful so I don’t slip, and admire the lights as they faintly twinkle to life. Santa rises to his eight-foot height and the snow swirls around in the inflatable snow globe. Now it’s not Clark Griswold-esque, but it’s pretty close. A triumphant smile covers my face. This may be my best work yet. Maybe getting dumped actually put a little extra pep in my Christmas step.

I tiptoe around the decorations, careful not to disturb the powdery snow as I inspect each light and electrical cord. Once I confirm everything works properly, I pull the plug, cutting off the power.

A large black truck rumbles down the road and slows as it approaches my driveway. Instead of entering mine, it pulls into Mrs. Hendrickson’s across the street. My gaze immediately drifts to the California license plate. Soon after, a moving truck pulls in with a storage container on the back. A tall, broad shouldered, dark-haired male steps out from the black truck. He’s got a ruggedly handsome lumberjack vibe to him with the green flannel coat and dark beard to complete the ensemble. A duffle bag is in one hand and a guitar case in the other. Another man, older with a graying beard and a beanie, meets him at the rear between both trucks. He must be a new neighbor. But I never saw a for sale sign in front of the house.

I step backward, gaze glued to my new neighbors, when my heel kicks one of the empty boxes, throwing me off balance. My arms windmill and I bellow out a screech as I crash to the ground with a thud. Boxes and tubs fling to the side and skate across my driveway. When I glance up, both men’s gazes shoot my way. Heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. I wave them off, yelling, “I’m okay!” Just bruised my ass and my dignity. Without a second glance back, both men turn around and walk inside. Well that’s one way to introduce myself.

While still on the ground, my phone rings in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out andOliviaflashes on the screen. I press talk.

“Hey. What’s up?” I wince, rising to my feet. I can already feel a bruise forming on each ass cheek.

“I’ve set up a client meeting on Friday.” My sister, Olivia, started her own event coordinator business and asked me to work with her, which was perfect timing since I was just fired. I brush the speckles of snow off my butt and thighs. “Okay. Just let me know when and where.”

“I’ve already added it to the shared calendar. So, what are you doing today?”

“Just setting up the last of the outdoor decorations.”

“That sounds boring.”

Olivia never got into the holiday spirit as much as I did. I loved going to my nana’s house and helping her decorate. There was something special about having a cup of hot cocoa and throwing tinsel on the tree andhanging stockings over the fireplace. Nana always had two trees. One for me to decorate, which was home to every ornament I could find. Homemade. Store bought. If it had a hook, it went on the tree. There wasn’t a branch untouched once I was finished. And then there was Nana’s more elegant and pristine tree. But she always told me she liked mine more. Now that I’m older, I’ve learned less is more. At least when it comes to my own tree. The outside is another story.

“What if I said I have a new neighbor?”

“Now that could be interesting. Give me the deets.”

I stroll back into the garage, careful so no one else can hear me. “Two guys pulled into Mrs. Hendrickson’s place across the street with a truck and a moving container.”

“Are they cute?”

“One is older. Maybe mid-fifties. The other is harder to tell because of his beard, but he appears younger.”

“Get your ass over there and get a closer look. Bring cookies too. Neighbors like cookies. Plus, you’ll need to tell him all about the neighborhood decorating contest.”

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