A Cinderella Christmas Carol (Suddenly Cinderella) (4 page)

Chapter Five

Another dizzying
whoosh
carried them to their final stop: Christmas Future. Recalling Dickens’s text—the slender volume had started out as a ghost story after all—Starr steeled herself. She had a pretty good idea of how this last visit would go—grim, definitely grim.

She opened her eyes and looked around. They were in Manhattan still, on the Upper East Side at 96
th
Street. The building before them looked to be about twenty stories, neither posh nor poor. They entered the modest lobby. A tidily dressed attendant kept vigil behind the desk. Out of habit, Starr stopped to sign in, and then remembered that she was, for the present purpose, invisible.

Spirit Matt led them over to the elevators. The doors opened and they stepped on.

“Traveling by elevator seems like a comedown after flying,” she joked as the doors closed.

They stopped on the sixth floor and the spirit led the way down the modest, carpeted hallway. Two apartments flanked the far end. Starr started to ask which unit when the door to 6C flew open.

“This whole ‘open sesame’ thing, I’ll never get used to it,” she quipped, crossing the threshold to the inside.

“Fortunately you won’t have to, not for many more years,” he assured her, following her in.

So it seemed she had a long life ahead. That was both good and good to know. Tabling her curiosity, she looked around. Whoever lived here obviously loved them some Christmas. Fresh pine and cinnamon scented the air. Poking her head inside the small galley-style kitchen, Starr spotted the pot of wassail simmering on the stovetop—yum! From an unseen sound system, the legendary Nat King Cole crooned his Christmas classic. A black-and-white tuxedo cat raced by, batting about a Santa Claws catnip-stuffed toy.

“Molly Jane!” Starr snapped her gaze from the cat to the spirit. “What’s my cat doing here? Did we move?”

Spirit Matt smiled knowingly. “Good question.”

A large, beautifully decorated pine dominated the main room. Giggling drew her gaze beneath it. Curled up on a buffalo plaid blanket, the remains of a Christmas carpet picnic pushed to one side, her future self hung on Matt Landry like tinsel!

Starr whipped her head around to the spirit. “This is your—I mean, Matt’s apartment?”

He nodded. “It is.”

Her once dreaded holiday birthday was definitely looking up. Eager to see what might come next, Starr turned back to the couple beneath the tree.

Her future self looked up from the latest of the packages crowded around her. “So many gifts, Matt, you’re spoiling me.” The stunning smile she sent him so softened her face that Starr scarcely recognized it as her own.

He grinned. “That’s my plan. Besides, it’s not just Christmas, it’s also your birthday. And I saved the big gift for last.” He pushed a huge, gorgeously gift-wrapped box toward her.

Like an excited child, her future self tore through the paper and lifted the lid. Only the big box led to a slightly less big box. She unwrapped it only to find yet another box inside.

Looking up, she groaned. “You, Matthew Gabriel Landry, are total evil. How did I miss this before?”

He shrugged, a smile breaking over his face. “Better the devil you know…”

Six boxes and a mound of shed wrapping paper later, she came to the final small square box. Her future self hesitated, looking over at Matt. “Matt, is this what I think it is?”

Watching her future self with breath bated, Starr could scarcely contain herself. “Just open it, will you!”

“Open it and see,” Future Matt echoed, an uncertain smile playing about his lips.

Starr held her breath as her future self lifted the hinged lid with shaking hands. Her head shot up. She held the box at arm’s length. The midnight blue velvet lining set off the princess cut diamond to perfection.

“Oh…my…God! You got me a diamond ring, a diamond
engagement
ring!”

Matt smiled. “Well, I certainly hope it’s an engagement ring. That was the plan, anyway. Like it?”

“Like it? Oh, Matt, I love it. I love you!”

Visibly relieved, he reached for her. “I love you, too, baby, but before we get too carried away, I’ve got to get this right.” He shifted so that he was kneeling. Her future self followed suit. Facing her, he reached for her hand. “Cynthia Starling—Starr—will you make me the luckiest man alive by doing me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her future self didn’t hesitate. “Yes, yes, of course I will!”

Smiling, he slid the diamond onto her left ring finger. Carrying her hand to his mouth, he kissed the tops of her trembling fingers.

The scene unfolding before them represented Starr’s most secret, heartfelt wish, a wish she’d never fully acknowledged—until now. Blinking misty eyes, she reached for Spirit Matt’s hand. His fingers wrapped around hers, so warm and alive she could hardly believe he wasn’t as flesh-and-blood real as the “shadows” they watched.

Beneath the tree, Future Matt brushed his mouth over Starr’s, then trailed kisses over her jaw, her neck, and the tops of her Christmas sweater–covered breasts. Suddenly the tempo turned from sweet to seductive, the temperature ratcheting from warm to melting. Moaning, her future self reached around and lifted his T-shirt. Bringing it up over his arms and head, she tossed it boldly aside. Starr stared. Her future self stared. Feeling like a voyeur, she reminded herself that the erotic scene unfolding was hers, or at least her future. Voyeur or not, she couldn’t drag her gaze away. She didn’t
want
to drag her gaze away. Until now, she’d never seen Matt without a shirt. His broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, and flat six-pack stomach exceeded her hottest hopes.

Desire, at once raw and tender, suffused Matt’s handsome face. “Oh, baby, I love you so much, I want you so bad.” He eased her back onto the blanket and came down atop her.

Colored Christmas lights dappled his broad, sweat-slicked back, the sinewy flesh smooth and supple beneath her future self’s stroking fingers, red-polished nails lightly scoring his skin. Watching him kiss and fondle and shape her shadow’s form, Starr could almost feel the imprint of his mouth and hands and weight on her physical body, releasing a flood of pure joy and…
rightness
.

“We’ll pause it at PG-13,” Spirit Matt announced, his voice ever so slightly shaky.

The spirit snapped his fingers and the two figures froze. Staring at the sexy tableau, Starr focused on calming her pounding heart and reclaiming her stalled breathing. Matt Landry wanted her. More than wanted her, he loved her, powerfully loved her, or at least he would at some point in the not too far future. He didn’t care that she was his boss. He didn’t care that she made more money than he did. He didn’t even care that she was seven years older. None of that mattered, not to him. Why had that mattered so very much to her? Sure, dating an office subordinate was frowned upon but there wasn’t any actual policy against it. Had she seized on her age and seniority to rationalize keeping him away?

Spirit Matt turned to her, his expression concerned. “Are you okay?”

She faced him, simultaneously embarrassed and turned on. “Yeah, I’m…good. Great, I mean. It looks like everything’s going to work out for…them—us.”

His gaze dimmed. “I still have one more scene to show you.”

She hesitated, scalp prickling. “But this is Christmas Future, the final stop, the end of the line.” When he only regarded her with pressed-together lips, she felt panic build. “Look, I don’t know about you or The Powers That Be, but I at least have read the actual Dickens text. Whatever film remake you’re relying on, believe me, it’s bogus.”

He shook his head. “In your case, your future path is split. Think of it as a metaphysical fork in the road. Before you decide which way to go, there’s an alternate Christmas Future you need to see.”

Starr held up a hand. “That’s really…conscientious of you, but I’m good with this version…” She glanced back at the intertwined lovers beneath the tree, her breath catching. “Really good. I don’t need to see any more.” A carpet picnic ending with smoking hot sex and an engagement ring—how could such a path possibly be improved upon?

Spirit Matt sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry, Starr, but it’s not up to me.”

He took her hand without waiting for her to give it, their interlocked fingers levitating them instantly. As in her apartment earlier, the glass window lifted as if opened by invisible hands. Starr ducked as they soared out.

Once again they were flying over the city, the night air balmy despite the snow resuming. Gliding over the white marbled façade of Grand Central Station, clearing the peaks of the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings, they headed in the direction of downtown. Crossing over Delancey Street, they set down in the Lower East Side.

Staring up at the row of dilapidated buildings, Starr felt foreboding take hold. “Please tell me I don’t live here in the future.”

“Like so many things, that’s up to you. You’re the Boss Lady, after all.”

“Don’t call me that!” Starr snapped.

He drew back, feigning surprise. “But I thought you liked being the boss, always in the driver’s seat, whipping the…workhorses into shape, breaking others down so you can build them back up—in your image.”

Using her words against her—what a cheap shot! “Maybe I did, but I don’t want that anymore, especially not if it leads to…this.” She flung out a hand to the crumbling stone steps he seemed to be guiding her toward.

At his nod, she gave in and ascended on suddenly shaking legs. The hallway inside was low ceilinged and dank. A second set of short, slippery stairs led them down to the basement. Three apartment units occupied the lowest level. The spirit stepped forward and rang the buzzer for 1A.

From inside, a woman bellowed, “I’m coming. Keep your f-ing boxers on!”

The door opened. A bent old woman with thinning copper-and-white curls glared through them out into the hallway. Wrinkled face twisted in a scowl, she took a step out.

“Freakin’ brats, ringing my bell and running off, I’ll call the heat on you next time, see if I don’t.” Giving her moth-eaten sweater a tug, she marched out into the hallway.

Starr’s gaze followed her.
No, it can’t be!

Sidestepping the shadow, the spirit gestured for Starr to follow him inside. Distracted with watching the old woman depart, she nearly missed his cue. She cleared the threshold and the apartment door slammed. Caught off guard, she started.

“Someone’s jumpy,” Spirit Matt observed.

Starr looked over her shoulder. “I’m not jumpy, I’m concerned. Won’t she be locked out?”

He shook his head. “She wears the key on a chain around her neck. But why should you care if some old woman spends the night out in the cold?”

Starr opened her mouth to answer him but instead found herself fighting the urge to gag. Dirty cat dishes and litter pans were scattered about on the soiled carpeting. The acrid odor of cat urine stung her nose and made her eyes water. Cats of various colors, sizes, and breeds roamed, climbing the sagging bookshelves and counters, scaling the tattered sofa back, and leaping from one stack of old magazines to the next. Curious, she walked over to check out one of the piles. Pulling an age-yellowed publication off, she held it up to the oily light. The cover bore a modified version of the
On Top
logo.

Oh, God! The cursing crone
was
her! She’d joked often enough about one day becoming a cranky cat lady, but faced with that scenario now, her possible future was no laughing matter.

Prepared to plead, she shot her gaze to the spirit. “Please, please tell me this isn’t my future.”

He followed her over, gently prying the periodical from her hand. “That, Starr, is entirely up to you.”

Unlike the scenes from Christmas Past and Present, her Christmas Future was still a wild card. Cranky old woman with too many cats or blissful bride making love with her hunky husband-to-be, she didn’t have to stop and ask herself which scenario she wanted to come true. The choice, such as it was, was clear as glass. What remained unanswered was how to influence it.

Raspy voiced, she finally asked, “But you’re showing me this…place because it’s at least a…possibility, right?”

He nodded. “It is, as possible as the previous future scenario.”

She scraped a hand through her hair, thankfully still thick and lustrous. “Can you give me some odds here? Can we poll The Powers That Be at least?”

He smiled. “The Powers That Be aren’t one of your beta testing groups.”

“Sorry, right, but back to those odds, a percentage maybe?”

He blew out a breath. “Okay, fifty-fifty.”

Wow, her fate was split straight down the middle? He was right—this was definitely not one of her consumer testing groups. Their feedback ratings were usually all over the board.

“What’s the wild card, the tipping point, the influencing variable?” she prodded.

His face wore a look of strained patience. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m guessing we don’t have much time left, so just tell me, for crap’s sake.”

Spirit Matt let out a long sigh. “The wild card, the tipping point, the influencer is
you
.”

Chapter Six

“Matt, come back!
Matt
!”

Screaming, Starr awoke. She was in her apartment on the sofa where she’d first fallen asleep. A lightening gray sky showed through her window. The shoebox was still beneath her coffee table, Molly Jane now wrapped around it. Everything looked the same. Everything
was
the same—everything except her. Now that she was calming, she realized that inside she felt enormously, wonderfully…
different
.

Giddy with a newfound feeling of freedom and tingling from head to toe with a previously unknown sense of joy, she reached for her cell phone lying on the coffee table. Though she’d forgotten to charge it, she still had one bar left. Opening her contacts list, she typed the first few letters of the name for which she searched—Macie. Drawing a deep breath, she hit send on the call. A groggy voice answered on the fourth ring.

“Macie, it’s me, Starr… Yeah I know it’s kind of early… Five o’clock in the morning? Seriously? Shit, sorry about that. Listen, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say thanks for the shoes and for remembering my birthday and, well, I’m sorry I didn’t make the wedding, but I hope you’ll let me know when you’re in New York next, and bring the husband and the kid, too… Yes, really. I mean, why not? The more the merrier. Oh, and if you need or even just want me to write you a recommendation or whatever, you’ve got it… No, I’m not drunk. Well, I did have one beer last night but that was it. Okay, so I’ll let you get back to the whole newlywed first Christmas together thing, and we’ll catch up after the New Year. For now, Merry Christmas, Mace. Ciao.”

Ending the call, she scrolled through her saved e-mail messages, found the invitation to the Matzo Ball Pot Luck Supper to be held that night at her assistant editor Terri’s Brooklyn Heights apartment, and changed her RSVP from “no” to “yes.”

Bursting with energy, she leapt up, threw on her coat and boots, and dashed out to the nearest ATM. Crossing Union Square Park to the bank, her boot soles making music on the frozen ground, she smiled up at the lightening sky.

“Thank you, Powers That Be. Thank you, Spirit Matt. I won’t waste this chance or this Christmas—or any Christmas—ever again, I swear it!”

Back in her apartment, she spent the morning purging her closet and dresser of designer clothes and accessories and makeup samples. Bagging it all up, she showered and dressed, then headed to the homeless shelter in Astor Place.

She found Jimmie—AKA Santa Claus—ensconced in an improvised throne in the center’s event room. Balancing twin boys on either knee, his eyes popped when he saw her. She waited for him to finish taking the kids’ Christmas orders before approaching.

He leapt up from his seat. “Ms. S., you made it!”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted.

He looked down at the shopping bags dangling from both her hands. “Wow, that’s a lot of stuff you’ve got. Looks like you’ll be giving me a run for my money as Santa.”

Starr set the bags down. “I don’t know about that, but I’d really like to take you up on your offer to help out with serving the dinner…if I’m still welcome.” For the first time since awakening back in her apartment, she felt her confidence flag.

“Of course you’re welcome. We’ll go find my wife, Nancy, and have her show you around.”

Feeling shy, Starr hesitated. “Before you do, I have something for you, your Christmas bonus. I should have given it to you yesterday but… Well, Merry Christmas.” She slipped the envelope from her purse and handed it to him.

Beaming, he took it. “That’s so nice of you to come all this way to give it to me. Thanks! You’re the best, Ms. S.”

Starr hesitated. She hadn’t been the best or anything close to it, but from here on that would change. “There’s something else I hope you’ll accept, my apology.”

Expression blank, he stared at her. “What for?”

“I was rude to you yesterday, rude and out of line. The truth is, I was dreading today being Christmas, and I took it out on you. I hope you’ll forgive me—and most of all, I hope you’ll put me to work!”

He grinned and tucked the envelope inside his Santa suit. “No worries, Ms. S., Christmas makes a lot of people bat shit. I figure it’s my job to keep the mood upbeat, to make sure you and the other tenants always walk in to a smile—and a joke if you’re up for it. Now let’s go find my Nancy and she can get you started.”

Before they could take more than a few steps toward the door, a slender brunette wearing a worried look and a Mrs. Claus apron approached.

“There’s Nancy now.” Jimmie held up his arm and hailed her over. “Hey, hon, there’s someone I want you to meet. This is one of the tenants from my building, Cynthia Starling.”

Joining them, Jimmie’s wife’s gentle gaze brushed over her. “You must be the Ms. S. Jimmie’s always talking about.”

Starr girded herself. God only knew what tales Jimmie had carried home, not that she blamed him. She hadn’t always been the most appreciative tenant, usually in too much of a rush to do more than nod in passing. Certainly she hadn’t hung around to hear any jokes.

“Yes, that’s me, only please call me Starr.”

“Nice to meet you, Starr. Jimmie’s always going on about how nice everyone is in
his
building.” She flashed a smile and then turned back to her husband with a sigh. “We have a frozen food situation. The volunteer in charge of kitchen prep last night forgot to take the turkeys out of the freezer to thaw. It looks like Christmas lunch is going to be Christmas dinner for sure. Any ideas on how I can fill up the time? You’ve got the kids covered with activities, but what do I do about the moms?”

Listening, Starr looked down to one of her shopping bags, bulging with never opened cosmetic samples and beauty supplies and inspiration struck. “I think I may have an answer.”

“Makeovers, that’s a great idea!” Nancy assured her almost as soon as the suggestion was out.

Within twenty minutes, Starr found herself amidst nearly fifty women of all ages, shapes, and ethnicities lined up. The room buzzed with excitement. Santa Jimmie led the kids off to the dining hall to learn to make a gingerbread house. Starr set to work, quickly transforming the event room into a makeshift day spa. At the end of the afternoon, each woman left to sit down to Christmas dinner with a bright, smiling face and a goody bag of beauty samples.

Watching them go off, heads held high and shoulders pulled back, Starr had a sense of satisfaction beyond anything she’d felt from putting out a year of magazines. Pleasantly weary, she briefly considered calling it a day and going home. But spending yet another Christmas evening home alone seemed both anticlimactic and a serious step back. After the previous night’s “dream,” she knew the grim end to which that led.

Brooklyn Heights was something of a trek, especially as the subway was running on a delayed holiday schedule, but the extended travel gave her a chance to collect her courage. By the time she made it to Terri’s building—a turn-of-the-century brownstone subdivided into apartments—her main anxiety was that everyone might have left. Chatter and music from within set that fear to rest. Standing outside in the hallway, she pulled off her snow-dampened boots, set them beside the welcome mat, and took out the box of what she’d come to think of as her Cinderella slippers. Holding one hand against the wall to balance herself, she slipped on the heels.

Excited and nervous, she put the shoebox back in her bag and reached out to ring the buzzer. The door opened. Matt stood framed within. Her heart somersaulted. She’d supposed—okay, hoped—he’d be here and yet…

Stunned, she blurted out the first stupid thought that sprang to mind. “I didn’t know you were Jewish.” The annual holiday dinner for Jewish singles was typically held on Christmas Eve, not Christmas, but of course she’d kept everyone working too late the night before for that.

“I’m not,” he admitted. “I just thought it sounded like something fun to do, since I don’t have time to fly home to my folks.”

He said the latter as a straightforward statement-of-fact, no barbed look or tone of recrimination, but still she winced, remembering the bar scene from her “dream.”

“About that—”

“Whoa, you’ve got some serious footwear going on.” His gaze glided over her, a big grin breaking over his face as he settled on her feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything other than boots.”

Starr flexed her foot, the motion showing off the shoes’ twinkling. “They’re vintage Saks. They were a gift from a friend. A
female
friend,” she added, wanting to be broadcast clear about her status as single and available. “Actually, Macie mailed them.”

Was it her imagination or did his shoulders relax? “That’s great you two are mending fences. Anyway, come in.”

Peering around him, she saw the party was in full force with about a dozen guests packed into the slender space, including everyone who’d appeared in her “dream’s” Christmas Present at Central Bar. Talk about stepping inside a lions’ den. Courage waning, she held back.

“Matt, who is it?” Terri called from inside.

“It’s Starr,” he answered.

Shit, no turning back now. Crossing the threshold, Starr didn’t miss how conversations suddenly ceased as she entered.

“Happy Hanukkah,” she called out to the quieting room.

Her assistant editor approached carrying a cake platter. “Thanks,” Terri said, expression uncertain. “Glad you could make it.”

Starr girded herself to get the tough stuff out of the way first. “Listen up, people. About the holiday leave, I’ve decided the all-hands meeting can wait until Monday morning. I’m giving you the rest of the week off—with pay.”

Gazes widened and jaws fell, Matt’s included. “Seriously? That’s really generous of you.”

“But what about the print production deadline?” someone asked.

Starr didn’t flinch. The word—deadline—had controlled her for far too long as it was. “At least half of our subscribers read us digitally anyway. Maybe being late going to the stands will encourage more people to go green.”

Hand fisted about a beer, Kent shouldered his way toward her. “What’s the catch?”

Starr didn’t miss how Matt moved closer. Warmed by the protective gesture, she shook her head. “No catch,” she confirmed, keeping her cool. “Consider it my way, my
new
way, of saying happy holidays.”

“So what do you think of Terri’s cake?” Matt prompted.

For the first time since arriving, Starr took an actual look at the platter Terri held. A star-shaped sheet cake sat atop it. Frosted in Christmas red and green, it read, “May All Your Christmas Birthdays be Starr Bright.”

Starr’s gaze flew from the cake to Terri and finally to Matt. “How did you—”

“Happy Christmas Birthday!”

Matt, Terri, indeed everyone looked to Starr as though expecting her to shove the cake in Terri’s face, storm out, or something equally shitty. Instead she did something guaranteed to floor them all. She smiled.

“Butter cream—my favorite!” she exclaimed, daring to dip a finger into the cake’s side. Tasting her frosting-covered fingertip, she said, “God, that’s good.” She turned back to Terri. “You…made this?”

Terri nodded. “I have a cake-baking business on the side—nothing that interferes with my work at the magazine,” she added quickly. “I just bake for a few events a month—bar mitzvahs, anniversaries, and um…birthdays.”

“You’re really talented,” Starr said sincerely, recalling the spirit’s advice on giving compliments. In the past, both her management and personal style had been based on breaking people down. Going forward, she would focus on lifting them up. “Any chance you do Valentine’s Day cakes as well?”

Terri hesitated. “Sure, I mean, I could.”

“Perfect. Why don’t you bake another cake, think Cupid and hearts and flowers, and bring it into work on Monday. We’ll run it in February’s Sweet Treats sidebar.”

Terri’s gaze looked poised to pop. “You’d actually promote my baking business in the magazine?”

Starr shrugged. “You’ll be doing me a favor. We’re short on copy for the food column. I guess being behind schedule has perks after all.” She turned back to a beaming Matt. “You know a food photographer who’s good with cakes?”

“My food guy’s still on vacation, but I’ll shoot it myself.”

“Great.” She dragged her gaze away and turned back to Terri, whose mouth was hanging at half-mast. “That work for you?”

“That sounds…awesome.”

Feeling what might just be tears forming, Starr summoned her usual briskness. “It’s settled then. Now, let’s get this birthday party started.”

A chorus of “Happy Birthday” threatened to rock the roof, followed by a toast in her honor. Tears welled and this time there was no mistaking the sensation. Dashing them away, Starr traveled her gaze along the table. Saving the best for last, she lingered on Matt. He’d kept to her side since she’d arrived.

“Speech, speech!” someone, and then everyone, chanted.

Starr took a moment to clear the knot of emotion from her throat before beginning. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you from the bottom of my heart—and yes, I do have one.” There was a pause and then nervous laughter followed. “I’m not exactly sure how to put this, but let’s just say things at the magazine are going to start changing in a big way—for the better.”

A hush descended. Faces fell. A groan could be heard from the room’s back. God, did they think she meant layoffs? Even Matt tensed beside her as though bracing for bad news.

She raced on to reassure them. “That memo about no holiday bonuses this year, well that was just a corporate screw up.” She reached into her shoulder bag for the stack of rubber-banded gift cards. “It’s not as much as I’d like it to be, for sure it’s not as much as you all deserve, but I hope you’ll accept it in the spirit in which it’s given—in the spirit of…Christmas.”

She’d deposit her bonus check from the magazine tomorrow, but fortunately she’d had sufficient funds in her account to cover getting the gift cards in advance. It didn’t feel fair to keep the money, not while all the people on her team who’d made her look good—who’d made her successful—did without. Two hundred dollars per person wouldn’t change anyone’s life, but if it bought someone and their spouse a lovely New Year’s Eve out or helped buy a coveted toy for their kid, then it was…
something
.