Much as Jimmy had just a few minutes earlier, Jess exchanged holiday greetings, friendly kisses, and hugs on her way to the door.
The hallway was deserted, but for the stuffed reindeers and a plastic Santa that hung—lopsided—on the wall. Lorraine, a self-proclaimed Christmas nut, had spent half a day decorating not only the main office, but the hallway and Dean’s office as well.
Jess had the elevator to herself, and she tried to think only of the wonderfully relaxing holiday she had planned for herself. Chocolate chip cookies and tomato soup, but not at the same time. Old movies and a quilt and her flannel pajamas. A pot of mocha coffee.
Perfection.
Unfortunately the memory of that kiss continued to intrude.
The sparsely furnished lobby was cold and deserted, and Jess gathered the lapels of her coat together as she burst through the front doors and into a cold night. The rain was already beginning to freeze, and it pelted her face as she ran to her car. It was a nasty night, bitter and mean, and it made the promise of home all the more inviting.
Her apartment was a mere fifteen minutes from the office, on a good day, but she imagined it would take her twice that long to get home tonight. Traffic was light, but the freezing rain slowed everyone down.
She caught the first red light, naturally. The car wasn’t even warm yet, and she shivered as she waited for the light to turn green. With a gloved hand she flicked on the radio, and Christmas music poured softly from the speakers. That was all she was likely to find for tonight. She loved the appropriate song that was playing, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” and she especially loved this version. It was hauntingly romantic. Without wanting to, she thought of Jimmy.
The light turned green, and she took off at a near crawl. “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” concluded and the next song, which came on without a break or introduction of any kind, was Jimmy’s rendition of “Blue Christmas.”
She thought about turning the radio off, but instead kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel. This was, after all, a beautiful song, beautifully sung. Jimmy had left his Stratocaster at home for this recording, and strummed slowly on an old beat-up Martin he’d brought to the studio with him.
That classic guitar had seen better days, cosmetically, but the notes Jimmy pulled from it were warm and comforting, just like the voice that accompanied it.
What woman could listen to that voice and not melt? The simple way this song had been recorded, just Jimmy and the guitar, gave it an intimate quality. She could almost imagine that Jimmy was right here in the car with her.
She glanced sharply at the radio as she listened to the words. “Yeah, right,” she whispered. “You’ll do just fine without me, Jimmy Blue.”
She wasn’t falling for a musician’s smooth lines, not ever again. Once bitten, twice shy, isn’t that what they say?
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me
. Another saying worth remembering.
It didn’t take her as long as she’d thought it would to reach her apartment building. She parked in the open lot, then ran from her car to the front entrance. She couldn’t outrun the icy rain. It collected in her hair and on her coat, and once she was in the warmth of the foyer she took a moment to knock some of it off.
She loved this old building, which was neither chic nor in the most upscale part of town. As her salary had risen, she’d shopped a few times for a new apartment. The alternatives she found were, for the most part, cold and impersonal and all the same. They weren’t
her
. So here she stayed.
While she shook off the cold rain and sleet, Mrs. Courtney stepped off the elevator. Eleanor Courtney lived on the second floor, and had been there for thirty years or more. She was white haired and plump, nosy and outspoken, and if a tenant sneezed she was at their door a couple of hours later with homemade chicken soup and tea. In other words, she was grandmother to the entire building.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see you.” Mrs. Courtney smiled widely as she threw her arms around a slightly wet Jess. “Merry Christmas, sweet pea. I left a plate of gingerbread cookies outside your door.’’
“Why, thank you.”
“My nephew Marcus and his wife are on their way over to pick me up,” Mrs. Courtney said, breathless in her excitement. “I’m spending the night in their guest room, and tomorrow we’re preparing a huge Christmas feast for the entire family.”
Jess almost said “I’m sorry,” but she bit her tongue in time.
“What are your plans?” Mrs. Courtney glanced past Jess and out the glass doors, but the drive was empty. No sign yet of Marcus.
“I’m going to have a quiet Christmas.”
Mrs. Courtney’s face fell. “You mean you’re spending Christmas
alone
?”
Why did everyone make that sound so horrible?
“I’m looking forward to a quiet day, really I am.” Mrs. Courtney obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “And if I get lonely, I have been invited to a friend’s house, so I can always hop in the car and head over that way.” She wouldn’t do any such thing, of course, but the idea seemed to cheer Mrs. Courtney considerably.
“You do that,” the older woman said with the shake of a red-gloved finger.
Marcus arrived before Mrs. Courtney could say more, and Jess took the elevator to the fifth floor.
As promised, a plate of gingerbread men artfully arranged on a red paper plate and wrapped in clear wrap awaited her just outside her door. Jess scooped the plate off the floor, finding that it was warm to the touch. The warmth and the spicy aroma were so special, so Christmasy.
The coworkers who admired her clutter-free and super-organized office would never believe that this apartment was hers. Shelves were piled high with an eclectic collection of books and ceramic cats. Her furniture had been chosen with comfort in mind, an arrangement of mismatched overstuffed chairs and ottomans—instead of a couch—dominating the living room. Colorful quilts were thrown over her two favorite chairs.
She placed the plate of cookies on the dining room table, there beside an eighteen-inch artificial tree sparsely decorated with miniature red glass balls. Beneath the tree were the wrapped gifts from her family and from Lorraine. Jess, disillusioned as she was, was enough of a traditionalist to save the packages for Christmas morning, even though she’d insisted that Lorraine open her gift, sufficiently eye-catching earrings, over a holiday lunch just yesterday.
That taken care of, she went directly to the single bedroom, dropped her coat and purse on the bed, and began stripping off her sensible gray suit as she walked to the chest of drawers for her flannel pajamas. So it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
Who cares
? This was her special, quiet holiday, and she’d spend it any way she pleased.
She puttered around the apartment in her flannel pj’s, warm and content, with only a hint of a memory of a kiss stealing in now and then to disconcert her. She ate a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich and made a pot of herbal tea—no caffeine for her this late in the day—and settled into her most comfortable chair with a warm cup of tea and a gingerbread cookie.
There was nothing on television but Christmas specials. Not in the mood for a cartoon or a variety show, Jess channel-surfed until she finally found an old movie station that was showing
It’s a Wonderful Life
. She snuggled under her quilt, sipped her tea, and put Jimmy Blue firmly and completely from her mind.
She’d seen this movie a hundred times or more, and if she really tried she could say the lines before Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed did. The movie was familiar and predictable, comfortingly so. Like her planned holiday, it was simple and safe—just what she wanted.
She placed the empty teacup on the end table at her elbow, retrieved a cookie crumb from her chest and popped it into her mouth, and then she tucked her legs beneath her. This was wonderful, the perfect holiday. She was warm and content, and she definitely
did not
miss any of the usual Christmas headaches. Traveling, trying to calm her hysterical mother, playing referee between her father and Marty. Being alone was not so bad.
Frozen rain pattered against the windowpanes, the clock in the kitchen ticked, and in a few minutes Jess closed her eyes.
The last thing she thought of before she drifted off was that kiss beneath the mistletoe.
“Wake up, dear,” a kindly voice urged.
Jess closed her eyes tighter. What was Mrs. Courtney doing in her apartment?
“Come on, now, it’s not even nine o’clock.”
Jess opened her eyes to find an old woman standing in front of her. It was Mrs. Courtney, but it was somehow
not
Mrs. Courtney. And Jess could see right through her.
Blinking rapidly, Jess sat taller. Something wasn’t right. How had this strange version of Mrs. Courtney gotten into her apartment? Her eyes cleared, and she looked up to see—instead of her kind neighbor—Dean in his Elvis costume. He was bending over her with a concerned expression on his face. As she watched, wide awake by this time, he shifted in a thick mist, faded and changed. The mist took form after form: Lorraine in her Santa hat and Christmas sweater, Peter as a child, her mother bearing a tray of burned chocolate-chip cookies, her father putting together a “some assembly may be required” dollhouse.
Santa Claus. Not just any old Santa, but Edmund Gwenn from
Miracle on 34th Street
.
She wasn’t wide awake; she was sound asleep. The shifting form became Mrs. Courtney again, and seemed to settle into that persona comfortably. “Come on, we have lots of work to do tonight, and there’s very little time.”
Jess closed her eyes and sank deeper into her chair and the quilt. Why couldn’t she just dream of sugarplums and elves and Jimmy Blue?
“I’m not going away,” Mrs. Courtney said stridently.
With a sigh of surrender, Jess sat up straight and stared directly at the apparition before her. “What do you want?”
“First off, I’d like to know if you plan to spend every Christmas for the remainder of your life hiding from the rest of the world.”
“I’m not hiding,” Jess insisted.
The figure before her shimmered. “Call it what you will. I’m here to give you a chance to change your ways before it’s too late.”
The warning in Mrs. Courtney’s voice was clear.
“I’m perfectly happy,” Jess argued.
“Are you, now?”
Of course she was happy. She didn’t have to prove that to some shape-shifting ghost.
“Listen very carefully,” Mrs. Courtney said sternly. “Tonight you will be given a gift.”
“Put it under the tree with the others.” Jess yawned, then pointed to the tabletop tree and the gifts that were arranged beneath it.
“Not that kind of a gift, Jess Lennox,” Mrs. Courtney said sternly. “I’m talking about a very special gift. The gift of a lifetime.
“A chance to see what your future might be like.”
“Cool,” Jess said as she closed her eyes. What a weird dream.
Chapter Three
Jess woke slowly, dragged unwillingly from a deep sleep by distant, muffled laughter. Her mind was muddled, foggy. Her body was slumped over, oddly contorted. Where was her quilt? Why wasn’t she curled up in her chair? Her head was down at an odd angle, resting on folded hands.
“Wake up, dear,” Mrs. Courtney said softly.
Mrs. Courtney? Jess lifted her head slowly. Her hands and her head had been resting on her desk, and she sat in her swivel chair.
It had all been a dream—Jimmy asking her to his house for Christmas, the kiss beneath the mistletoe, Mrs. Courtney’s gingerbread cookies... Too bad. That kiss had been something else.
Everything had seemed so
real
. Was she coming down with something? The flu, maybe? She never fell asleep at her desk.
“That’s right.” The kindly voice interrupted her thoughts, and Jess lifted her head to see the phantom Mrs. Courtney sitting on top of the four-drawer file cabinet by the door. “Are you clearheaded enough to remember a few instructions?”
This
was the dream.
On the other side of the door, Dean sang “Blue Christmas” as badly as ever. Someone squealed.
Instructions?
Jess shook her head in an attempt to clear it.
One of Mrs. Courtney’s feet danced. “We’ve come forward a mere three years, but much has changed.”
Jess decided there must’ve been something besides flour and sugar and butter in Mrs. Courtney’s gingerbread men, if they were giving her dreams like this. Everything looked and felt so real. The air was chilly, the office was just as it had always been. The only element that was out of place was the ghostlike white-haired lady who sat daintily atop the file cabinet.
“So,” Mrs. Courtney continued, “keep your mouth shut, for the most part. You are here to observe, to study, to learn. Not to participate. Well—the older woman, the older
ghost
, pursed her lips and screwed up her fleshy nose—“I suppose you must participate to a certain extent. And there are a few key points you should know, so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
The apparition twined the fingers of two pale hands together and rested her chin on the knuckles. “Vandiver Records has had a bad year. Jimmy’s latest recording, “Over the Edge,” did not live up to expectations, and several of the people who are laughing and singing at this moment will be out of work after the first of the year.”
The hands separated and fluttered as Mrs. Courtney floated gracefully from the file cabinet and landed softly on her feet in front of Jess’s desk. “And I suppose I should prepare you for Jimmy’s wife.”
Jess’s head shot up. “Jimmy’s
wife
?”
“Her name is Erica. Jimmy met her on a trip to Hollywood three years ago. You remember when he had a bit part in that Western? Well, he came home with a wife.” There was disapproval in Mrs. Courtney’s voice.
“I...” Of course she couldn’t remember. He wouldn’t leave for several days yet, and how could she remember something that hadn’t yet happened?
“Erica was a two-bit actress going nowhere, and she hooked her claws into Jimmy the minute she saw him.” Mrs. Courtney harrumphed, and as she did, she shimmered. “She’s one of those women who’s more interested in
what
she is than
who
she is. Jimmy was a catch.”