Page 45 of Joy to Noel
“Then why didn’t you apply for an editing position with a traditional publishing house?” I ask.
Madison pauses to pull her hair back into a ponytail before she rises from the couch. “Because . . . I don’t know.”
I give her a pointed look. She glares back at me but doesn’t say anything else. Taking a step closer, I prod. “Why didn’t you apply to publishers, Madison? Why create Madison Joy Editorial?”
She crosses her arms and matches my step forward, erasing more of the space between us. “Maybe I didn’t like the idea that I could put years of honest work into a company and have my job stripped away in an instant again. Maybe I liked the idea of having a little more autonomy and control.”
“Okay,” I say with a nod. “Do you think there could be authors out there writing the kind of books you want to edit whoalsolike the idea of having more autonomy and control than they could find with a traditional publisher? And do you think they could be on the hunt for experienced proofreaders who will make sure their work is just as high quality as any traditionally published book?”
Madison’s nostrils flare as the gold flecks in her eyes catch fire.
Fiery Madison is my favorite version of any human I’ve ever met.The thought flashes through my mind, but I sweep it away to my subconscious, unwilling to acknowledge what it could mean.
“Fine—you have a good point. I’ll try to findthoseauthors later today,” Madison says. She swivels on one heel to turn away from me, her ponytail swishing across my bare arms in the process. “I’ll report back tonight. You might owe me a second round of flowers in addition to the first bouquet you never got.”
As Madison picks up her mug of green tea with one hand and her laptop with the other, an idea floods my mind. Something far more useful than flowers.
Scooping Hamlet up from where he’s lurking behind the chair, I head to my bedroom. Before showering, I send off an email to our assistant back in Houston.
Angie,
I need an upgrade on my reMarkable tablet to the newer model with more storage space. Expedite the shipping if you can. Thanks.
When I arrive home after work, I walk through the front door to discover that the North Pole exploded in the entryway. There’s a three-foot Christmas tree lying on the floor along with tangles of lights, boxes of ornaments, and a faux pine and eucalyptus wreath. Hamlet is sniffing his way around the piles of greenery, and the Jonas Brothers’ voices fill the house as “Like It’s Christmas” blares from a Bluetooth speaker.
“What is going on here?” I yell, expecting Madison to pop into view. Apparently, my yell is no match for Nick, Joe, and Kevin, though, because Madison is nowhere to be found. I turn to the right and peer my head through her open bedroom doorway. She’s shoving her full body weight into an antique dresser that has to weigh twice as much as her tiny frame.
“What are you doing?” I ask, finally catching her attention. “Why are a bunch of Christmas decorations cluttering up the entryway?”
She stands and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Oh. I bought some Christmas decorations at the thrift stores today.”
“How? It's April. No stores have Christmas decorations out already,” I say.
“You underestimate my powers. I didn’t receive my ‘Queen of Thrifting’ title as a participation trophy,” Madison scoffs. “You’d be surprised to find that thrift store owners are more than willing to give you access to their storage rooms and offer discounted prices if you’re promising to offload their currently unsellable merchandise.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s actually a thing. Thrift stores don’t just take customers to the off-season storage rooms,” I say, brow furrowed.
“Like I said—you underestimate my powers,” Madison says, eyebrow quirked. “Particularly when combined with Clara’s Christmas obsession.”
“Let’s circle back to the ‘why’ question.Whyare there a bunch of Christmas decorations here?” I ask.
Madison sighs and leans against the dresser that hasn’t budged an inch. “Clara and her spell on this town have me under the Christmas curse. I can’t get in the inspiration zone without being surrounded by Christmas. I’ve been off my game ever since I moved out of the cabin and into the house.”
She averts her gaze from mine, as though she’s cognizant of the fact that there areotherreasons she could be off her game in this house, but she’s unwilling to acknowledge as much.
I’m also unwilling to acknowledge as much.
“Well, you may be a goner, but I am under no Christmas curses. We are not putting up a Christmas tree in April,” I say.
“Duh,” she replies. “It’s all going in my room, not the living room. Have no fear.” She pushes off the dresser and stands, gesturing to me. “Are you going to make those muscles useful, though, and help me move this so I have room for the tree close to my desk?”
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” I say instead of moving.
Madison stalks toward me, eyes narrowed. The movement is not dissimilar to how a disgruntled Hamlet slinks across the room, as much as she claims to hate him.
She pokes me in the chest, which is right at her eye level. “Youare the one who told me to chase the dream. If a Christmas wonderland is what it takes for me to run, then you should be the first in line handing me an energy gel pack.”
The jacket of my light gray suit has been draped over my arm for this conversation, but I move to lay it on Madison’s desk chair. Unbuttoning the cuffs of my white dress shirt, I start rolling up the sleeves when I catch Madison’s eyes tracking the movement. With a wry half-smile, I ask, “Where to, boss?”
