Page 28 of Happy After All

I’m feeling pleased in general.

Other people begin to arrive. Mary Thomas, who owns Get Your Kicks Diner and is wholly committed to her beehive hairdo and swing skirts. Bob Riker, owner of the local antique store—always with a pocket watch in his vest pocket. I can put a name to every face now, even if we’ve only spoken in passing, and I do as they all file in and take their seats.

I’m in the front row, like always, ready to bring my enthusiasm to the discussion, though all the planning is done.

“We’re getting closer and closer to our special fundraising edition of A Very Desert Christmas!” That earns Sylvia a smattering of applause. “Big thanks to Amelia for organizing the news spot.”

I didn’t need the recognition for that, but I beam with pride all the same. I receive some applause, and my beaming intensifies.

“All assignments have now been allocated,” Sylvia says. “If anyone is wanting to change their assigned position, they will have to take it up with their team leaders. If any teams need more volunteers, you can let me know. As for presentations ... up first, we have Reigna giving an update on the carol concert and performance art piece.”

Reigna Marsters gathers herself from her position in the row across from me. Gathering herself is a considerable job, as she’s all flowing layers of fabric and wild box-dyed red hair. Every movement Reigna makes is an event, and it’s not by accident.

She claims to have been deeply embedded in the entertainment industry some thirty years ago, though I never heard her name during my time in it, minimal though it was.

Maybe she was an essential and integral part of the industry thirty years ago and no one remembers her name now. Deeply on brand for Hollywood, if I’m honest.

Given her past life in entertainment, Reigna is the obvious choice for talent coordinator for the program, and she managed to get Macaulay Culkin to do the reading, which is a boon the likes of which Rancho Encanto has never seen. She claims it’s because she was his acting coach when he was a child, but it’s impossible to tell which of Reigna’s stories have a grain of truth and which are lies made of glitter and enthusiasm. I like that about her, actually.

Because while her life might be embellished, she isn’t boring. I appreciate that more than the unvarnished truth. I guess because I’m here making my own life out of pieces of truth and omission.

Reigna’s posture as she approaches the front of the room is affected and dramatic, and it alarms me for some reason. Likely, I realize, because she’s trying to alarm us.

“This is an announcement in two acts,” Reigna says, her voice deep and theatrical as she holds up her finger. “First, a tragedy.”

“Dear God,” I hear Sylvia whisper as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

I can’t tell if that’s a response to the potential tragedy or just the overwrought drama of it all. I like a little drama. Sylvia does not.

“Macaulay is unable to make the event.”

A ripple of noise moves through the room, and I make a sound of genuine disappointment. Getting him was a Christmas miracle that was unsurpassed. We’d gone through lists of possibilities based on Reigna’s connections to people in the Christmas Movie Industrial Complex. Will Ferrell was too busy. Arnold was too political.

“What happened?” comes a distressed-sounding voice from behind me.

“He’s involved in a franchise reboot,” she says. “Very hush-hush, but it’s now conflicting with the event, and apparently the studio’s contract is more ironclad than ours. But he sends not only his regrets but a donation to our cause.”

There’s a smattering of disappointed applause.

“Well, what now?” Sylvia asks.

“Never fear!” says Reigna. “Act two.” She holds two fingers up. “I have a replacement.”

The response to that is a somewhat mollified rumble.

Reigna looks out at the crowd as if she’s about to deliver a winning monologue. “Christopher Weaver.”

My world tips over onto its side.

Chris.

Chris, who was struggling to land parts most of our time together, but who is now the undisputed king of Christmas rom-coms. He’s had no less than three a year every year since our breakup. While that hasn’tmade him a household name by any stretch, he’s wholly recognizable and will be a special draw to the kind of people who want to go to a holiday festival in the desert.

I have no idea what to do or say.

I’m lost in a memory from three years ago, and I can’t get out of it.

Chris in our whitewashed house looking grim, me wondering why he’s bothering to look grim when I know this is what he’s wanted all along. He was just waiting for a chance to do it when it was far enough out that he didn’t look callous.

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