Page 2 of Christmas Cove

In the elevator, America fought the urge to check her watch again, knowing full well that she was still on time. She looked at the wood ceiling panels and counted the numbered buttons on the wall panel indicating the building’s floors. The numbers ticked down from seven, and the lift slowed down as it approached floor three. The doors slid open and an all-too-familiar face greeted her with the side-eye that seemed permanently etched on her landlady’s face.

“Morning, Ms. Meadows,” America said and scooched to one side of the elevator.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” The older woman shrugged and buried her nose in the pages of a book titled,Gen-Z for Dummies.

America sucked in a giggle and held it until the elevator hit the ground floor. “Have a lovely day. And Merry Christmas,” she said to her landlady on the way out through the lobby.

Like a million little Christmas lights, crystal sun rays scattered geometric reflections from the building’s windows onto the opposite side of the street. A neighbor she recognized, but didn’t know, entered the door and held it open for her. A scent of fresh cinnamon rolls hit her nose. The man carried a whole box full in one hand, which reminded her of the order of delicious treats waiting for her at the bakery down the street.

“Thank you,” America said to the gentleman. “And Merry Christmas.”

Though the weather forecast called for warmer temperatures later in the day, the morning air was still crisp, and the harsh sounds of an awakening city welcomed her outside as she descended the stone steps to street level. She turned right and stopped at the corner where a stone bench encircled a naked maple tree. Its leaves had fallen weeks earlier, having apparently missed the memo on the unusual late-year heatwave.

Up in the branches, a furry friend flicked its bushy tail. America dropped a handful of nuts on the top edge of the bench-back as she walked by. Typically, America would stand by and watch the critter spiral down the tree trunk to collect the prize. But today, she had no time, and settled for a smart, “You’re welcome,” as she continued on her way to the bakery.

“Morning, America,” the man behind the counter said. “I nearly thought you had forgotten about your order. But it’s all ready for you.”

America noted the time. Late or not, these holiday treats were well worth any delay. She opened the slim cardboard box and inhaled the sweet smell of pastries glistening with sugar and spices. Christmas was the perfect excuse to spoil her coworkers.Who doesn’t like treats?she thought.

“This is great,” she said and closed the box. “Thank you, Frank. And Merry Christmas.” America flew through the door with her box of holiday pastries in hand and hastened down the street towards her office.

From sidewalk to sky, America’s eyes followed the cut lines of gray stones up her building’s front façade. A polished black sign hanging above the golden framed glass doors read Chadwick House Publishing. At the stately doors, a porter ushered her through to the lobby, where dozens of people gathered.

Up ten floors, the elevator doors slid open, and she stepped into the sun-washed office spaces of Jet Trek Online Magazine, the hottest travel site in the country. Partitions of glass, framed in black steel, allowed light to filter effortlessly through the room. Bookcases overflowed with resources and paper archives of the digital magazine’s editions from over the years. Jet Trek had ninety-six, to be exact.But who’s counting?she thought.

It was America who was counting. As the magazine’s editor, it was part of her job to know everything pertaining to all the previous issues. There was software she could use to cross reference and check any works in the archive, but there was nothing quite like the scent of old paper stock, slowly aging like a fine wine and filled like a time capsule with memories of the past.

She patted a hand on the side of one of the bookcases as she walked through to where her office waited for her in the far corner. Poppy, America’s assistant, leaned out from behind her own computer and a wide grin spread across her face.

“What do we have here?” Poppy said and shot out of her seat, taking the box of pastries from America’s hand.

On cue, and as though called by a dog whistle, coworkers appeared out of the recesses and converged on the treats.

All their smiling faces and merry salutations filled America’s heart. But there was someone missing, someone she could always count on to come and snag a pastryand give her a smoldering glance. America peered to the left down a long corridor and saw him. In her mind’s eye, a marquee blinked in bright Broadway-style bulbs:Mark Moore, Lead Travel Writer, floating in the air above his perfectly tousled salt-and-pepper head as he ambled towards her.

Mark was the kind of writer America hoped herself to be someday. Since coming to the magazine five years ago, she had stayed in her current comfortable position, and there was no one to blame but herself. She was simply a great editor, and she was no “Mark Moore”. Mark’s confident yet approachable style contributed to the magazine’s success in recent years and made him a legend in the industry.

On America’s first day of work, and before she knew who he was, she had found Mark sitting in her office, toget some peace. She had disturbed that peace when she announced that he was sitting inherchair and atherdesk. After the awkward interaction, she preferred communicating with him via email and through Poppy. America didn’t know if she was intimidated more by his status, or by her physical attraction to him. Either way, she was a statue around Mark.

“Good morning, America,” Mark said, smoldering glance and all.

She stood, slack-jawed, words having departed her mind. A sharp elbow jabbed her in the ribs, and she shook the fog away.

“May I?” he asked and tilted his head to the box of holiday treats.

She nodded.

“Are you in town for the holidays?” Poppy asked Mark in a sweet effort to break the tension.

“No. Just passing through and had to drop some ideas with Janowitz. I don’t really do...” Mark put his hands up and seemed to be washing away his surroundings, “...all this holiday stuff. Pastries excluded, of course.”

If America could speak, she would have convinced him that Christmas is simply the best, most magical time of the year. All thisChristmas stuffis worth every penny and every ounce of energy because it makes others happy and full of joy. But as it was, her mouth ceased operations in his presence. She smiled, and he probably thought she agreed with his absurd point of view.

Mark turned with his frosted, Santa-shaped cookie in hand and shook it in the air as he walked away. “Thanks for the cookie, America.”

America grunted and slapped her palm to her forehead.

“What is the matter with you?” Poppy asked and stood in America’s line of sight.

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