Page 54 of The Holiday Hate-Off
Dear Dancing Queen,
I’m sorry for your loss. Now that I know the story behind your dance, I feel even more privileged to have witnessed it.
As for the anger you’ve been feeling, I understand completely.
Maybe we should normalize being angry during the holidays. We can suggest a new activity to the mayor: beating an unsuspecting pine tree with a baseball bat, or smashing old ornaments.
One of the things I struggle with most at this time of year is the pressure to be happy—as if you’re failing everyone if you don’t constantly have asmile on your face.
Sometimes, walking down the crowded streets or passing one of the events organized for the holidays, I half expect someone to scream, “Are you not entertained???” But it’s only a week into December, and I’m afraid we have at least two weeks left of forced merriment.
That is not to say I don’t value merriment or smiles, whatever prompts them, for their own sake. But I will always prefer a smile that comes from the heart.
Know that I smile that way whenever I receive a note from you. And if you should ever wish to watch The Golden Girls, you can count on your friend down the hall to watch it with you.
—Your friend, Lobster Stalker
P.S. I got a little drunk last night and did exactly what you advised. I sent the whole brief to my former boss’s boss, letting him know exactly why I left the company. Screw it. Why not? You’re right. It’s worth it if he doesn’t fire those people.
Giovanni would be merciless if he knew I was offering to hang out with the neighbor he’d written off as a middle-aged woman with a cabbage obsession. But there’s something special about the friendship we’re forming. It’s changing me in ways I didn’t expect.
When I sent that brief to Martin, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I was defending myself, but it was more than that. I was trying to salvage something that had been broken.
Honestly, my correspondence with Dancing Queen is one of the only parts of this holiday season that’s made me feel festive, the other being my game with Lucy.
After propping the note against my neighbor’s door—written into aGolden Girlscard I’d purchased for the occasion—I head into Hidden Italy.
The walk is cold and brisk, but it feels good. Morning is my favorite time in Hideaway Harbor. So I’m in a good mood when I arrive, but the first thing Giovanni says to me is, “Thank God you’re here. Nonna Francesca is in a state.”
He doesn’t seem annoyed or aggravated. He sounds almost…scared. Like my kid brother who used to ask me when our mother was coming home—and then if he could sleep beside me because he didn’t want to be alone.
“Where is she?” I ask, nodding hello to Nico behind the deli counter. Mornings are slow, so there’s no one else around to help out. No need.
Giovanni leads me back to the office and cracks the door open.
Our nonna is sitting in one of the chairs with her head cradled in her hands, murmuring to herself softly in a mixture of Italian and English.
My grandmother has always had a fiery temper—her anger is as hot as her love, my grandfather used to say—and I’m used to seeing her angry. This, I’m not used to.
Giovanni, who looks like he was up late and isn’t emotionally prepared to do anything but drink coffee, steers me back into the hallway and says in an undertone, “She’s been like that for fifteen minutes. Something your girl said to her.”
“Lucy?” I ask in disbelief.
He shrugs. “Is there another woman you’re obsessed with?”
I sigh, clap him on the back, and head into the office. After entering the room, I shut the door behind me.
“That girl from next door came to see me,” Nonna says after a moment. “She made a mess on our bottom steps. Cookies everywhere. But she said she’d take that awful flyer of you down.”
“She threw cookies at the door?” I ask, confused but not disbelieving. It’s not a huge leap from the behavior we’ve both been engaging in all week.
“She tripped on the icy steps.”
I clench my jaw. “Is she okay?”
My grandmother gives me the kind of look that knifes through flesh and bone. “You seem very concerned about this girl who sent Rachelle away.”
“You hated Rachelle.”
