Page 29 of Booked for the Holidays
“What’s a Last Supper meal?” Lucas asks.
“It’s the appetizer, entree and dessert you’d want to eat if it were your last night on earth,” I say. “Who wants to start us off?”
Theo, to my surprise, is the first to stand. He sets his paper plate down and rises to his feet. Large palms run over his denim-clad thighs, and he faces the group. “I’m Theo. I’m left-handed and I hate cilantro. My last meal would be chips and queso, chicken pot pie with a side of mashed potatoes, and a warm blueberry muffin for dessert.”
He returns to his seat, and his boot lightly kicks my Converse, suggesting it’s my turn next.
“I’m Bridget. I’m afraid of heights and I’ve never seen snow. My meal would be mozzarella sticks, a cheeseburger with French fries, and an ice cream sandwich for dessert.”
We learn about each other as we make our way around the room. Lucas is practically a carpentry master. Chandler wants to go skydiving. Brooke listens to horror books on audio while she does yoga. Felicity from the hardware store has never been on an airplane. Malik, another of Theo’s employees, is fluent in Mandarin. When we get back to the beginning of the circle, I pull out my notebook and click open my pen.
“We all know there’s a big prize on the line for winning this competition. It’s going to be a team effort, y’all. I don’t want anyone to feel like they aren’t being included or someone is holding too much power. I came up with a possible idea for a theme we could do, but I want to hear what other ideas you might have.”
“We didn’t think up a theme,” Felicity says. “We entered and didn’t think we’d be allowed to participate, so we’re here with no plan. What’s your idea, Bridget?”
“Home for the Holidays. We all come from different backgrounds and upbringings. How cool would it be to showcase our special traditions? Although we celebrate in unique ways, the underlying message is the same: the holidays are better with the ones you love. Whether it’s a tree, a menorah, or acts of service, when you combine all those special moments, they create something wonderful. That beauty deserves to be showcased.”
ELEVEN
BRIDGET
The idea isn’t allthat great. It was born on a whim two days ago when I listened to a pair of customers discuss their impending holidays plans. One was going on a cruise with her wife, forgoing any “normal” celebrations to spend a week away together. Unplugged, childless, just themselves. The other woman was debating where to put the twelve-foot Christmas tree her family was purchasing that weekend. For the last eight years, she said, it had been in the foyer. This year, though, she was considering moving it to the living room.
Their conversation made me pause. I realized, through their individual holiday interpretations, the definition of home is fluid. It could mean a literal house with four walls and a door. It could be Christmas dinner on a cruise ship. A tree tied to the roof of a car. An intimate celebration between husband and wife, exchanging their first gifts as a married couple. If you asked a million people what home meant to them, you’d get a million answers, each as equally important as the last.
“It’s a great idea, Bridget,” Jordan says. “It shows the holiday season isn’t just one way of believing. If it’s important to you, it’s worth celebrating.”
“I’m Jewish,” Felicity pipes up. “I know Christmas is probably the predominantly celebrated holiday in the group. It would be cool to see a menorah lit, though, since the dates for Hanukkah overlap this year.”
“Menorah.” I scribble and nod in agreement. “Absolutely. Some Hanukkah food would be amazing, too. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Jelly donuts are a popular dessert. Potato latkes and brisket for dinner. They’re all pretty easy to make.”
“Those sound delicious. Maybe we could do a little cooking class together and put out a spread for the judges.”
“No one’s ever asked for specific Hanukkah ideas. I’d love to collaborate with you, Bridget.”
“That’s because everyone else sucks,” Chandler supplies. She drops an arm around Felicity’s shoulder and gives her a squeeze, like they’ve been friends for years. “I can’t cook for shit, but I want to join in.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, others voicing Chandler’s sentiments. Felicity’s eyes grow misty as she wipes a tear away, but her smile is far from upset. It’s proud and thankful. Her delight, that feeling of beingseenandvaluedis why a theme like this is important.
“What about photos from past holidays?” Jordan suggests. “We could hang pictures from our childhood on the walls and across the store on a clothesline or something.”
“Didn’t y’all use those big, clunky cameras back in the day?” asks Bradley, Theo’s youngest employee. “The ones that sat on your shoulder and you could record stuff?”
“Christ,” Lucas grumbles. “You make it sound like it’s fromJurassic Park. It’s called a camcorder, Bradley, and it was only twenty years ago.”
“I could probably convert the old tapes to DVD form, then make a movie,” Bradley continues. “We could project them on the wall.”
“What about actual decorations?” Brooke interjects. “With student loans, I really can’t spend much.”
I doodle on my paper and consider her question. “We could use strands of lights we all already own on both exteriors. Christmas trees here. Woodworking pieces in the hardware store. Maybe some reindeer? A sleigh? A couple trees we can paint? Lucas, do you think that’s possible?” A nod in confirmation, and I jot down another note. My paper is beginning to fill with ideas. “We could create a timeline of our holiday snapshots, weaving through both shops. That shouldn’t be too expensive. It doesn’t need to be fancy. Just enough to give off that cheer, you know?”
“It’s perfect,” says Theo. “Great job, Bridget.”
The praise works its way from my toes to my neck. Color invades my skin, swathing me in hues of red and deep pink. Theo’s focus fractures, dropping to the top of my v-neck shirt, the spot unobstructed by fabric. The effect of his words is visible for all to see, but he’s the only one staring. Three seconds, maybe more, is how long he lingers. When his eyes drag back to my face, the brown has shifted. Darker now, a starless night sky.
The edge of his mouth curls up, understanding. It’s not cruel or mocking, but pleased. Proud. After two more beats–god, I wish it were more–he looks away, severing our contact and leaving an ache, an anguished need, behind.
