Page 1 of Yule Know It When You See It
‘Tis the season to be Mary—Mary McCallister, to be specific. Our office’s resident Cheermeister, if Celestial Magazine were, in fact, Whoville. We are not. The irony is never lost on her that she shares the same last name from the starring family of the favorite holiday movieHome Alone. I jest, but honestly? We should all be thankful for Mary. If it weren’t for her our office would look about as festive as a funeral home every year.
If it were up to our chief editor and reigning She-Dragon, Simone Michaels, we would plop a Christmas tree in the corner and call it a day. No decorations. No tinsel. Just the tree in its naked, natural existence. And this would only be done to satisfy corporate policy. She’s our resident holiday Grinch to the extreme. So, as I stare at the bright red-and-green glittering garland bordering my desk in perfect arches, I should feel more gratitude for Mary. Even if that color combination has always made me gag, it’s festive. I prefer the more wintry colors: blue, white, and silver. And given Thanksgiving is over, and we’re heading into December, it’s about time to get into the holiday spirit.
I tap my pink pen at the corner of my desk, bouncing it to the beat of Mariah Carey’sAll I Want for Christmas Is You. A song I’m blatantly sick of, thanks to radio stations playing it when I was growing up, but I can’t ever seem to get the tune out of my head this time of year. My teal, ergonomic office chair squeaks as I swivel back and forth. I’ve written reminders on random Post-Its to call maintenance about that very sound but always get distracted by virtually anything else.
“Hey,” a voice chirps in my ear, making the pen fly skyward.
Desiree’s chestnut eyes go wide, and she holds her palms at her chest as if I planned to impale her with said pen.
“Des,” I blurt her name in a relieved sigh. “You know better than to sneak up on me when I’m ‘in the zone.’” Despite their popularity dwindling years ago, I still make air quotes.
“Zone?” Des bats a strand of curly brown hair from her eyes, the black hip-length blazer pulling taut over her biceps as she crosses her arms. “More like I caught you in the middle of a daydream. No one writes romance to that Mariah song any more. And if youare, you need to let me proofread before giving it to Simone.”
There’s zero reason to feel offended by her accusation, given I’m not writing at all, but somehow, I still manage to let it frazzle me.
My spine straightens, and I bob in my seat. “And what if I was? Mayhaps I’m going for the extra cheese?”
“Uh-huh. Save that for the holiday piece if it’s biting at you that much, Theo.” Desiree glances at the empty desk several feet from mine that’s been vacant for weeks. It never takes this company that long to fill a spot.
“Holiday piece.” I snort. “Simone hasn’t so much as whispered what she wants me to do. I’m honestly starting to get a bit worried.”
As the magazine’s resident romance writer, I have the luxury of writing themed short stories every month to fill readers with bubbly heartfelt thoughts. This year’s St. Patrick’s theme was two star-crossed lovers reconnecting over green beer and Irish jigs in a pub in Pensacola, Florida. The Halloween theme, my second favorite to the holidays, was two people wearing the most ridiculous masks falling for each other before even seeing what the other looked like. Needless to say, I love my job. But the holiday piece is always the biggest draw for the magazine, and my boss has been silent as the grave about it.
“Maybe it has something to do with the new hire replacing the sports columnist,” Rupert’s voice chimes in as he adjusts his bow tie—a purple one with yellow polka-dots today.
“They finally hired someone?” Desiree asks, sitting on my desk’s corner.
Squinting at the bare desk, I immediately imagine who the new hire would be—a tall man. Extremely tall. We’re talking over seven feet. Jet black hair. Tanning booth bronzed skin because who in Chicago has a legit tan in the dead of winter? Maybe hazel eyes? And, of course, the straightest, whitest, blinding set of teeth when he smiles.
“Yup.” Rupert removes his black circular glasses and clean the lenses with his cardigan sleeve. “They start tomorrow. What do you guys think they’ll be like? I only pray, and I do meanpray, they’ll say more than two words to the rest of us like Lloyd did.”
Desiree gasps at the thinly veiled jab against our taciturn former colleague and playfully swats Rupert on the shoulder. He responds with a cheeky smile, like he wants her to do it again. “You got two words out of Lloyd? I swear the most I ever heard from him was ‘Mornin’.’”
“Eat your hearts out, ladies, because I got two words and a whole sentence from him.” Grinning, I lean back in my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head.
Rupert’s jaw drops, and he sidles beside me, caging me between him and Desiree, seated on my desk. After crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hand, he bats his ridiculously lush eyelashes at me. “Do tell.”
Counting on my fingers, I relay the words one by one. “Morning. Hey. And the crème de la crème— ‘Mighty cold one today, huh?’”
Rupert slaps his thigh. “Well, hot damn, I’m surprised you didn’t propose marriage to him on the spot after those rousing words.”
Smiling at the only two people in the office who made the day-to-day bearable for me, I swivel in my chair, deciding the squeaking is now a quirk I’d undoubtedly miss were they to fix it.
“Speaking of crème, I have several desserts to taste at the new bakery on Van Buren Street.” Desiree wiggles her brows and swipes a wintergreen Lifesaver I keep in a bowl at the corner of my desk to encourage office-wide oral hygiene.
“Be a little nicer with bakers, hm? I find they’re as sweet as their dishes.” Rupert elbows me in the arm.
Desiree slides on her peacoat, pulling the hair from its collar. “Oh? And how would you know?”
“Dated a pastry chef. And, I shit you not, he was the sweetest thing I’ve ever met. Royally sucked when I had to break it off with him.” Rupert stares into the distance as if skipping down memory lane andtskingonce the moment ends.
Dating. Now, there’s a word that hasn’t left my lips in over a year. But there comes a time when one has to choose between advancing their career and love, right? Both cannot co-exist and receive the same attention. Pure and simple.
After Desiree slips her leather gloves on, she curls a hand over Rupert’s shoulder. “Look, pastry chef or not, I can’t make any promises. Our readers rely on utter truths. If the cupcakes are bland? I’ll say so. If the fritters give me an instant cavity? They’ll know about that, too.”
“Fair enough,” Rupert responds with a shrug. “Not like I’m any less of a viper when it comes to men’s fashion.”
“And there you go.” Desiree smiles, patting Rupert’s cheek. She grabs her briefcase, slinging it over one shoulder, and points at me. “We’re still meeting tonight for spiked eggnog at The Rooftop, right?”
