Page 2 of Scrooge-ish
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By eight-thirty, Zaleya catches me still lingering in my meager office on the upper floors of Ashford’s. The flagship store is the last remaining Ashford’s. The company was bought out, and all but the landmark location was converted to the other conglomerate’s brand. Gossip around the water cooler, so to speak, is that Jude inherited the single store, instead of the brand going to his father. As the sole family member who owns Ashford’s, I’ve heard words like spoiled, entitled, and ungrateful for his inheritance used to reference him. On a side note, we don’t have water coolers because Jude is too cheap to pay for such a service for his employees.
“Eva.” Zaleya’s motherly tone is both admonishing and chagrin.
“It’s too late to go.”
“It’s only eight-thirty. You young things are just getting started at this hour.”
I’m no longer young. I’ll be turning forty this December.
“I’m not dressed.”
Zaleya eyes my outfit, taking in the leather pencil skirt in bright red I’m wearing. I’d worn it in an effort to appear holiday-cheery when I’m not.
“You look gorgeous.”
“I’m too old to attend these things. I mean, who goes to high school reunions, really? Jocks who can’t let go of state championships two decades-old and still wear their high school rings. Nerds who want to show everyone they made it financially. The pimply kid who wants to prove he was a supermodel underneath his skin. The homecoming queen who popped out three kids before thirty and is divorced from her second husband.”
Zaleya stares at me.
“Where does that put me?” Not jock. Not geek. Just your average girl in high school. Good grades, clean-cut, and boring.
“It puts you attending. Not to prove anything to them but to allow yourself a night out on the town among people you once knew.”
“But that’s my point. I don’t know these people anymore. I hardly knew them twenty-two years ago.”
“Just go. ’Tis the season.” Zaleya waves a hand above her head. “Magic is in the air.”
“The season doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow, when Santa drives his sleigh before Ashford’s in the parade.” Sarcasm fills my voice. I don’t believe in Santa any more than I believe in magic.
Zaleya puts her hands on her hips. “Honey, Christmas lives all the year through.”
Jiminy Cricket, she sounds like a holiday card.
“Who knows? Maybe an old boyfriend will be there.” Zaleya wiggles her brows.
I snort.
“Or a boy of former interest.” Her voice hitches, gushing with innuendo.
I huff.
But someone does come to mind.
Someone I deny myself the chance to remember, as I’m certain he’s forgotten me.
+ + +
O’Malley’s isn’t exactly out on the town. The slender pub lined by a bar on one side and tight, upright booths opposite the counter has had two additions over the years. A second bar is attached to the first room, and a seating area outdoors in a side yard is the third space. O’Malley himself was a sponsor of Immaculate Academy, as an alumna, and he loved hosting these casual, impromptu reunions. The pub is one of those corner locations tucked in a Chicago neighborhood and known for its loyalty to the University of Notre Dame. On any given weekend, the place is packed with Fighting Irish supporters. A mixture of Christmas lights and gaudy tinsel springs hang among the ND paraphernalia of signed jerseys, Irish sayings, and shamrock cutouts in all shapes and sizes.
After entering the pub, I elbow my way to the bar.
One drink and then I’m out of here.
Leaning on the countertop, I’m trying to get the bartender’s attention, but she keeps ignoring me. I’ll count to four before I give up on ordering. Suddenly, someone bumps into my back, elbowing me hard between the shoulder blades and I pitch forward against the bar. I’m wedged between two people on high top stools and a man turns to face me as I lean forward. Of course, he knocks over his mostly full beer, and I spring back, hoping to avoid a waterfall of hops pouring down on me.
This causes me to elbow whoever is too close behind me.
