food related, but I was in the grocery store the other day, and Central Market had decorated for the holidays with Faux Shop Window displays that were just too fun--especially for someone who'd spent her twenties wandering up and down NYC's Fifth Avenue admiring the windows. Here's a fun video I made after my visit:
And because I love posting excerpts, here's one from Christmas Angel...
“Long day,” he mumbles, sounding drained.
One look convinces me that he wasn’t lying about his energy levels not being tied to food consumption. He looks wrecked. “C’mon,” I tell him. “I’ll walk you back to your cabin. Make sure you have everything you need.”
“Tony, don’t you think—” Mama starts to say, but I cut her off with a swift shake of my head.
“No. I don’t. The cabin’ll be fine.”
And I don’t rightly know if it will be fine. Or if anything will be fine, ever again. But I also know that I can’t have him in my bed tonight. For oh so many reasons.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight?” I ask as we make our way back toward the cabins. I don’t know why I phrased it like that. What am I going to do if he says no?
“I dunno, do I?” he replies with a shrug. “Never done this before.” He has his hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets. His head’s back, looking up at the sky. “I’d forgotten how pretty it is here at night,” he says quietly. “Maybe being a ghost won’t be so bad after all, if I can have this to look at all the time.”
“Jake…” I start to protest, but his appearance startles me into momentary silence. He’s wearing a cattleman’s hat and a shearling jacket that I’m certain he didn’t have on a moment earlier. “Where did those clothes come from?”
“Same place this came from,” he says, lifting a hand that now holds a lit cigar. “Would you like one?”
“No. Aren’t you supposed to be conserving energy?” I snap at him. “You look like shit right now. You really think any of this is helping?”
“Well, that’s just rude.” He shoots me a wounded look that I don’t buy for a minute. “I was cold and…okay, look. I just got here, right? I can’t possibly have run through all my energy in less than one night. I figure Heaven’s gotta play fair, don’t you think so? And no one could expect me to accomplish all I have to do in under one night. That’s just not reasonable. So, just because I look—thanks for that, by the way—and feel like shit right now. I can’t be as far gone as all that. I’m here to help you get your Christmas Spirit back, that’s a tall order.”
“I guess so. Not that you would know anything about that. Besides, my Christmas spirit is just fine.”
“Sure, it is.”
“Plus, I thought we’d decided you’re here to answer my mother’s prayers—not mine.”
“Yeah, but she’s worried about you so…two birds, one stone.” He slants me a look. “And what did you mean when you said, ‘not that I would know about that’? Know about what?”
“Christmas spirit. Obviously.”
“Oh, bullshit. I know a lot. I’m full of the stuff.”
“You never had a clue,” I tell him. “In all the time we lived in New York, how often did you make room in your schedule for a stroll along Fifth Avenue, to look at the windows? Or to go ice skating at Rockefeller Center? You were always too busy.”
“Oh, no,” Jake says. He’s scowling now. “Don’t lay that on me. You were guilty of that, too. I remember. I suggested skating once and you said it was too cold. You also said you didn’t know how to skate, which is why I never brought it up again.”
“Of course, I can skate,” I tell him. “I said I didn’t know if you knew how. Big difference. For that matter, I still don’t know.”
“No difference. I was willing to try it, but you—”
“Oh, stop it, already,” I snarl at him, annoyed that he ignored my question—again. Annoyed by how much it bothers me. “Why are we arguing about this anyway?” Why do I care if he can fucking ice-skate?
“If I knew you were that excited for a bunch of lights I’d have made the time. But I never got the impression that you were. Besides, if I was busy, it was because I was trying to make a better life for us. It wasn’t just about me. None of it was.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “You keep telling yourself that.”
We’ve reached the cabin by then, and I’ve followed him up onto the small front porch out of habit. Jake glances up at the eaves and shakes his head. “No mistletoe? What kind of Christmas village is this?”
“Why do we need mistletoe?” I ask—and immediately recognize my error. “Scratch that. It’s not a question. We don’t need it.”
“Are you sure?” he teases, lifting the cigar between us and wagging it back and forth. “Because this could easilybecome something else. If you wanted it to. Just say the word…”
“No. Stop. I don’t.” I back away quickly, stumbling down the stairs. “Good night, Jake. I’ll see you in the morning.” And then, before I can stop myself, I add, “I will, won’t I?”
“Far as I know.” He shrugs and turns toward the door. “’Night, Tony.”
“And you’re sure you have everything you need?”
Jake pauses. Glancing at me over his shoulder, he hesitates. Then he smiles and answers, “Yeah, Tone. I’m sure,” right before he disappears into the dark cabin and closes the door behind him.
I’m left standing there in the cold. I don’t move for a long moment, just continue staring at the door, resisting the urge to climb those steps again. Eventually, I realize there’s a cold breeze behind me and it’s pushing me forward, like ghostly hands at my back.
“No,” I mutter as I turn away, and trudge back toward the house. “I can’t. I won’t.” But, in my heart of hearts, I really wish I could.
* * *
Jake
I wait, breathless, just inside the door, until I hear Tony walk away. Part of me was hoping he’d change his mind and come after me. Because part of me is an idiot.
Glancing around, I notice there’s no ashtray, so I dematerialize the cigar and start across the room, shedding clothes as I go. By the time I get to the bed, I’m down to just a pair of boxer briefs.
I sit on the bed, in the darkened room, and stare out the window at the sky. The night is so clear, so dark, the stars above are so bright. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to touch one?
And yes, yes, I know. Dead suns. Hundreds of millions of miles away. Not happening.
But that’s not how it feels. It feels like they’re living things, tiny and perfect. Like fireflies, easily within reach. But, then again, a lot of things don’t feel the way they are tonight. I don’t feel like I’m dead. I can’t believe Tony doesn’t care anymore. I can’t believe I’m going to end up a ghost—and possibly by morning. Because I was lying before. I can feel the clock ticking. Time’s close to running out.
So why would I waste the little I have left on a jacket and hat and another cigar? Because I was cold, that’s why. Because if I’m winking out of existence this evening, I want to go in style and wring every last bit of pleasure from the experience on my way out the door. Like a kiss beneath the mistletoe. A kiss that didn’t happen, that probably won’t ever happen now.
“I look like shit,” I growl, remembering Tony’s words—no wonder he wasn’t tempted. “Thanks a lot, babe. And, no, by the way, since you asked; I don’t have everything I need. I don’t have anything I need!”
I lie on my side, punch the pillow a couple of times until it’s just the way I like it, then go back to staring at the stars. Because there’s nothing else to do.
You know that saying about how you’ll have ‘time enough to sleep when you’re dead’? It’s a total farce. In my experience, there’s no sleep at all beyond the grave. Which makes sense when you think about it. Lacking an actual body, why would I need to sleep?
So instead, I lie awake, prey to my own sorry thoughts. Which, of course, end up circling back to Tony. “No Christmas spirit, my ass,” I grumble remembering all the details that Tony conveniently forgot. From wrapping presents to emptying stockings, and everything in between. Kisses in the snow. Dancing beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. Pulling on Christmas sweaters to go caroling. I remember waking up together on Christmas morning, and falling asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, in the early hours of New Year’s Day.
There were also snowball fights in Bryant Park, snow angels on Central Park’s Great Lawn. The x-rated snowman we erected—pun intended—that one year when we finally got enough snow to make it possible. Oh! And what about that one time that we did go to see the Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony at Rockefeller Center? Or the hot chocolate we stopped for on the way home? Not the frozen hot chocolate that everyone knows about—the one large enough for two people to share.
That would have been romantic too, right? It’s not just me who thinks so?
But these were good, as well. Made with bougie chocolate ganache and flavored liqueurs—Fireball for Tony, Peppermint Schnapps for me—topped with mounds of whipped cream and foam and extra-large, extra-fluffy, handmade marshmallows.
“How can it all be over? And how dare he not remember any of it?”
Christmas Angel
An Angels in the Afterlife Story
Being fully transparent is good for a relationship, right? Well, maybe not when it’s literal.
Christmas Angel is a second-chance, holiday romance with a celestial twist. Probationary angel Jake Hennessy's been sent back to earth to mend fences with his ex. Or has he? Certainly Tony doesn’t seem to think that's the case.
Tony DiCecco might have ninety-nine problems—and then some—between dealing with his meddlesome family AND running the family business (a Christmas tree farm in rural Texas) but he's pretty sure that playing catch-up with his ex-husband isn’t supposed to be one of them.
And what would even be the point? It’s hard to imagine what kind of future the two of them could have when one of them is alive and the other...isn't?
https://books2read.com/Christmas-Angel
