Page 58 of Must Love Christmas

Simon: Nothing personal comma but after four weeks in hospital an entire day alone feels like paradise

Garen laughed, though he wouldn’t blame Simon if the sentiment was slightly personal. Garen knew himself to be…well, a bitmuch.

At least his boundless energy would come in handy in planning this event, he thought as he joined the rest of the four-person committee at their warm-room table.

“Here’s a wee agenda.” Garen passed copies around once they’d all gathered. “And of course the traditional curling refreshments.” He set four glasses and a bottle of whisky in the center of the table.

“Curling’s got all the best traditions,” said John Burns, the liaison for the charity organization, as he reached for the bottle. “Cannae wait to try it myself with the New Shores team.” His dark eyes sparked with excitement as he poured drams for everyone. Garen rarely met a person who could match his own zest and grandiosity. He sensed he and John were going to make a lot of noise together.

Gillian took her dram and scanned Garen’s meeting agenda. “Green and red ink,” she murmured, tapping the side of her fair, freckled face. “Interesting choice.”

“It’s festive. I like it.” John grinned at Garen, who raised his glass in appreciation of his appreciation.

“Me, too,” said Heather Wek, the videographer who’d made the Team Riley documentary before joining Shawlands as a curler herself. “I needed a good eye-bleed.”

Gillian cackled, then gave Garen’s shoulder a consolatory shake. “Sorry. We mock because we love.”

“I know. Simon says my enthusiasm makes me an irresistible target.” Garen rapped his pen against the top of the sheet. “Only eleven days to go, so let’s get started. John, can you give us an update on New Shores’ efforts?”

“Right.” John slapped a bound stack of A4-size sheets on the center of the table. “Here’s a proof copy of the souvenir program book. They’re at the printer right now, so I trust there’ll be no more changes to team names or members?”

“They’re all set,” Garen said. “Coaches are holding training sessions Saturday and Sunday.” He’d wanted to coach a team, but as the event coordinator, he needed to stay neutral. Besides, he already felt overwhelmed with other tasks, not to mention whatever might come up with Simon.

“And most important,” Gillian added, “all teams have paid their entry fees.”

“Brilliant.” Garen ticked one of Gillian’s items off the agenda. She was in charge of financial matters on Shawlands’ end.

John tapped the program booklet. “We raised nearly a thousand pounds on ad sales, and most of the sponsors are also offering door prizes. They want to know when to have them delivered here. Is the rink open on weekdays?”

“Not always,” Garen said. “Tell them I’ll be here Monday on my day off to receive delivery.”

Heather let out a low whistle. “Who’s this responsible adult taken the place of my friend Garen?”

He pointed gun-fingers at her with both hands. “Careful, or my fellow aliens will be forced to silence you. What’s the latest with press coverage?”

“Right. Let me get my list.” As Heather opened her binder, she smoothed back her layered black hair, its chunky brown highlights nearly the same shade as her face. Garen hadn’t realized her hair had grown so long, as she normally wore it pulled back into a ponytail for curling. Maybe he should do the same, though he loved the feeling of cold air in his hair as he glided down the ice. Plus, it kept his neck warm.

Then again, maybe a ponytail would improve his game. He had to trysomethingdifferent.

Garen jerked his attention back to Heather’s overview of her recent contacts with radio, print, and online media. She and Garen had already been interviewed by several outlets promoting the event.

The next item was one of Garen’s responsibilities: creating the head-to-head matchups. “We’ve got twelve teams,” he said, “but only seven instructors, so some of the coaches are working with multiple teams. I’m trying to make sure those teams play on adjacent sheets to minimize the coaches’ running about during the games.”

“Good idea,” Gillian said. “What if a coach’s two teams play each other?”

“I’m trying to avoid that, too, at least in the first round.” He grimaced at the thought of his failed attempts. “Which makes the task much trickier.”

“If it’s just for fun, what does it matter?” Heather asked.

She had a point. Maybe Garen was making this more complicated than it needed to be, based on his experience in competitive curling, where the rules were strict about conflicts of interest.

“You’re right, I’m getting too mired in details,” Garen told Heather. He looked at his own to-do list. “I need to focus on convincing more people to volunteer on the day of the bonspiel. We still need a first-shift ice crew, another commentator, and at least two more bartenders. Ooft, such a long day with loads to do.”

He poured himself another dram to ward off the tension working its way up the back of his neck.

This is why people find holidays stressful, he could almost hear Simon telling him. Garen had always been wary of overcommitting—a survival skill he’d developed in response to his own disorganization—but there was something about Christmas that pushed his I-can-do-everything buttons.

“It’s gonnae be amazing,” John said. “And before we move on to the next item, I just want to thank all of youse. This event means the world to us at New Shores. Ever since the Brexit vote, our clients have been more frightened than ever. The fact so many organizations and companies want to help us through Jingle Bell Rocks proves that asylum seekers and refugees have the people of Glasgow on their side. In a way, that show of support means even more than money.” He tilted his head. “Though the money helps too.”

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