Page 2 of Secret Santa

I’d lived in Fitzpatrick Place since coming back to Bourbon City five years ago. While moving back home wasn’t the worst thing, moving home to a place without my mom in it certainly was. Between my brother and me, I was the more transient of the two of us. He lived in Chicago and had some super important job and a mortgage, all the markers of a responsible adult. Whereas I’d been less…settled. When Mom died, it seemed natural for me to take over her little diner.

Mom had always had an affinity for Elvis. With a last name like King, it seemed inevitable. I leaned fully into the family obsession when I took over to honor her.

“Welcome to Ito Eats. When we say it, people smile!”

Every time I said it, I smiled. Few people got the reference. It was fine. Diehard Elvis fans would remember the song fromBlue Hawaii. Everyone else just thought it was a funny sounding name. And of course, people always asked where orwhoIto was.

Fitzy waltzed in, looking like a model for an AARP commercial about living life to the fullest.

“Sugar, I signed you up for the Secret Santa gift exchange. I had an odd number, and I knew you’d do me a solid.”

She waved a glittery red card in my face with my name splattered across the front in swoopy calligrapher’s font.

“Fitzy, you know I don’t have time for your holiday shenanigans. It’s my busiest time of the year. I’m up to my elbows in coconut! I already am going to have to hire extra hands to get out all the coconut cake orders for Thanksgiving. Not to mention the catering orders.”

She pulled up a chair at the counter and perused the menu as if she didn’t have it memorized.

“I don’t know why you come in here nearly every morning. Look at the menu, pretending like you’re not going to just order a cup of coffee and a half a grapefruit.”

Fitzy huffed in my direction before placing the menu back between the sugar and sauce holder.

“First, honey, I am retired. Do you think my social security check can pay for ten-dollar monkey bread or French toast every single day? No. Also, I have to keep my girlish figure.”

She held her arms up and wiggled in her seat. The woman was something else. While no one knew exactly how old Fitzy was, if I had to wager a guess, I’d say somewhere in her late seventies. But she put most forty-year-olds to shame.

“But today is a special day, so I will have a slice of that sour cream pound cake with the berry compote.”

She took her bedazzled glasses off and cleaned them on her velour jacket while she continued.

“You know this is a greasy spoon, right? Why not just say pound cake with berries and cool whip? Fancy phrases like compote only confuse people.”

“Do you have a request for the jukebox this morning, Fitzy? A little “Hound Dog”,maybe? A round of “Blue Suede Shoes,” perhaps?”

“You know the way to my heart is ole blue eyes sugar. Not that pelvis thrusting, sweaty, rhinestone wearing rock and roller you’ve enshrined in this place.”

She waved me away with her coffee mug as her cell phone rang with some hip hop song I would have never in a million years guessed she knew. While she discussed the details of Maude’s hip replacement with whomever she was on the phone with, I busied myself getting her breakfast together. There were no cell phone signs posted all over the diner, but everyone treated them like decoration. After topping off the remaining customers, and seeing Fitzy still entrenched in gossiping with her friend, I opened her glitter bomb of a greeting card to see what kind of hijinks she had me involved in now.

Priscilla,

I’m coordinating a Secret Santa at Fitzpatrick Place. From now until December 10th, please gift your neighbor a small trinket or treat ($10 max) each week. On December 10th I’ll be hosting a Holiday gathering in my house for all the participants. Plan to come with a $25 gift. And don’t tell you can’t afford $75! You have the best coconut cake in three counties! People line the door to get some during the holidays. Sell three extra cakes and that will make up the cost of being neighborly.

Your Secret Santa is Mr. Presley Murray. He lives in D3. He’s new to Texas and seems really homesick. I think a little of your sweet, down-home nature is just what he needs this holiday season.

I know you’ll make me proud.

Fitzy

Damn that Fitzy. She always knew just what to say to get me to agree with her. Who could resist a homesick, lonely soul during Christmas? I guess once a week wasn’t the worst kind of commitment.

ChapterThree

Throughout the fall, I’d been totally fine. I’d kept my head down and focused on getting my plans together for the new swim season. Then classes started, and it was headshots, and team photos, meetings with the Provost, the Athletic Director, and the rest of the coaching staff. Then it was the start of the season and all the invitationals started hitting one weekend after another. Getting Fitzy’s letter shocked me into awareness that it was already time for the holidays. I felt like I’d just moved into Fitzpatrick Place, yet I’d already been a resident for three months.

Beckett: I just saw you, yet I miss the shit out of you.

Of course, that “just” was the Fourth of July weekend, nearly four months ago. Certainly not the longest amount of time we’d spent away from each other. But ever since Beckett met his fiancé, Lane, he was much more effusive. Using words like “I love you,” frequently—to all three of his brothers. I certainly wasn’t complaining. This new version of Beckett Murray, while unexpected, was actually exactly what I needed.

Me: It was four months ago.

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