Our staff meeting has turned into an episode of The Dating Game.
I used to watch this show in reruns when I was a teenager. I would sneak downstairs to my grandparents’ basement to pretend to study and read, but bad TV would always win. Many times, I would watch the show—as I do now when I watch The Bachelor, or HGTV’s House Hunters—and scream at the screen, None of them! Don’t pick any of them!
That’s what I’m silently yelling right now.
Our discussion about new books, upcoming events, online promotions and our e-newsletter got sidetracked when we began discussing Valentine’s Day books and window displays.
Noah has designed and handcrafted a gorgeous, retro-inspired design for the window. He has created two-foot-high hearts from pink and red construction paper and absolutely drenched them in glitter so they resemble giant SweeTarts. Inside each, he has written messages, just like the ones you would find inscribed on the candy: Be Mine! Luv You! Hug Me! XOXO! True Love!
The banners for the windows read:
YOU’RE BOOKED FOR VALENTINE’S!
And:
YOU CAN’T SPELL NOVEL WITHOUT LOVE!
But Noah’s pièce de résistance is a handmade mailbox—big and pink—just like the ones I made in grade school for Valentine’s. On the side it reads Cupid stops here! and the flag is a red construction paper exclamation point finished with a heart on the bottom.
My mind somersaults back in time to when I was a girl. I can remember, as clearly as the sun is shining today, the hours I’d spend creating my Valentine’s Day mailboxes with my mom’s help and then walking around the classroom personally delivering old-fashioned cards to each classmate like a kiddie postman.
My heart would catch when a boy I liked would stop and place a card in my box. When everyone was seated, I would open my decorated shoebox as quickly as I could to read my mail. Even as a girl, I tried to decipher the meaning of the card I was given, the way the cartoon Cupid looked, the words on the card and the messages written by the boys.
As the days following Valentine’s passed, so would the notes.
Do you like me?
Yes/No.
Circle one.
A trail of glitter on the bookstore floor shimmers in the light, and I suddenly remember a grade school Valentine from a boy I’ve kept forever.
Love!
Everyone loves love. They love to talk about it, giggle about it, dream about it, believe in it, but what is love?
It’s ethereal and mysterious. It’s life-affirming and soul-crushing.
It’s the reason we exist.
We love our friends. We love our pets. We love our parents. We love our spouses. We love our children and grandchildren.
We can teach our children about love. We can fill their lives with love. But we cannot prepare them for love.
Because it must start within.
“Hello? Earth to Susan?”
I shake my head and look at Holly. She was here to go over the updates to the website and how to incentivize sales during what can be the brutal winter months when locals are worn down by the cold and resorters are months away from returning to town, but she’s turned into my personal Bob Eubanks.
“We’ve narrowed it down to three potential Santas,” she says.
“Is this the most productive thing to be discussing right now in the midst of a staff meeting?” I ask.
“YES!” Holly, Leah, Noah and my grandmother yell at the same time.
I give my grandma the evil eye, and she says, “Well, it is. And you promised your grampa.”
“You don’t play fair at all,” I say.
“So,” Holly continues, “out of the thousands of online responses and from all the media attention, three men answered all the questions correctly we placed in our ad. Moreover, they resemble—in size, stature and complexion—the photo I took of your mystery man. Finally, they all said they talked to a woman dressed as Mrs. Claus before the race. So, I have a very good feeling that one of them is your secret Santa.”
My mind spins again.
This time, I am standing in the crowd at the Santa Run, talking with the mysterious St. Nick.
I can see his eyes, the color of a snow sky.
I can feel his presence, as familiar as my favorite blanket.
I also remember that there were a lot of runners dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus. A lot.
And then I remember the one thing that we discussed that Holly did not witness, the one thing that was not in the required dating “criteria,” the one thing that will let me know if he’s the one or not: my mother’s angel pin.
“Okay, where did you go?” Holly asks. “I can read your mind. You have nothing to worry about: The four of us spent a lot of time researching their histories, so we don’t throw you into a Tinder Swindler situation. On the surface, they seem like nice guys with good jobs, friends, family and hobbies.”
“And they all read,” Leah adds.
“Books?” I ask. “Or do you mean that literally? As in they can read?”
“Ha ha,” Holly says, handing her cell to me. “The first Santa we’ve picked out for you is a thirty-eight-year-old financial planner named Jamie Martin from Chicago. He’s a big runner, he has a dog, and he loves good food and wine.”
“It sounds like I’m going on a date with a stock character from a Hallmark movie.”
“And wouldn’t that be nice?” Leah asks.
“When is all this going down?”
“Valentine’s Day,” Holly says.
“Valentine’s Day?” I practically yell. “Are you kidding me? How much additional pressure can you add to this insane experiment?”
“It’s a test,” Holly says, “to see if he’s romantic. Maybe he’ll bring you roses.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes,” she says. “We felt you’d be more comfortable on your home turf.”
“I’m not a basketball team.”
“Anyway, he’s planning the whole thing,” Holly continues. “And I think it’s important we have the date on a holiday. They’re important to you personally and professionally.” She hesitates and looks at her coconspirators. “In fact, all of your dates are going to be held around a holiday—Valentine’s, St. Patrick’s Day and Easter.”
“Easter? That’s just weird. You want me to go to Easter egg hunting with bachelor number three? Or have the first Santa turn into Cupid?”
“Trust me,” Holly says. “I know what I’m doing.”
I nearly spit out my water. “And what about the rest of my Pink Ladies? When are you going to start dating?”
“We’ve been talking about that,” Leah says. “In fact, each of us is going to shadow you on the date.”
This time, I choke on my water. “This sounds like witness protection.”
“Noah and I are actually going to ask someone out and be on a date while you are, so you aren’t going through this alone.”
“What about you, Holly?”
“I’m coordinating all of this,” she says with a shrug.
“Like Dr. Evil?” I ask.
“Like a friend who loves you,” Holly says. “If I meet someone in the process, so be it.”
“I don’t know what to say?”
“How about ‘thank you,’” my grandma says.
She gives me a look that slaps me back into reality.
“Thank you,” I say. “Now, can we get back to business?”
When we finish our meeting, my grandma admires Noah’s decorations. “You know when I was young, we used to call those candies with little sayings conversation hearts. We’d hand them out to boys we liked in order to engage a conversation since boys were so shy.” She looks at me. “Remember, you have to be willing to get on the train.”
When everyone leaves, I stare at a conversation heart that reads TEXT ME!
It is a new age of technology, and yet—foundationally—nothing has changed in the game of love.
I touch the glittering letters on the heart.
I did text you.
Many years ago, after a series of bad dates, when I was home alone at the holidays, feeling lonely and stressed after a long week of work, when I was well into my second glass of wine—okay, third—I found my childhood boyfriend, Kyle Trimble, on Facebook.
I hadn’t thought about him for decades, but I had earlier that evening discovered the mood ring he’d given me at Christmas squirreled away in a little box inside a red container filled with a Valentine’s card he’d made for me along with some fragile holiday decorations and some of my mother’s costume Christmas jewelry.
I stalked him for a couple of hours, flicking through hundreds of photos, stopping on the shirtless ones of him on vacation, or working out, discovering he was now a doctor living in Chicago and that he had been married young and divorced, no children. Then—after another sip and with my heart in my throat—I sent him a short message and a photo of the mood ring.
Was at a Petoskey party, and someone mentioned your name, I typed, in my wondrous white lie way. Got home and was curious to see how you were doing. Hope all is well. P.S. Look what I found!
I woke up the next morning with not only a pounding headache but also a message from Kyle. I mentally kicked myself for reaching out to him and then, with a dramatic sigh, opened it.
Hi, stranger! Can’t believe my first “girlfriend” kept the best gift I’ve ever gotten anyone. LOL! You were my first date. Man, those were the days. So many memories. We were so young. We went through a lot together at an early age, didn’t we?
My heart lifted. I could still hear his voice. He helped me with my grief so much, even though I don’t think he realized it at the time. He made me feel normal again, and that’s all a child wants.
I continued to read.
Hoping to get back to Petoskey this summer with my girlfriend. Chicago gets too hot and crowded. Barely get a day off from my rotation at the hospital. So much pressure. I feel like I could be doing more with my life and skills. I applied to Médecins Sans Frontières—Doctors Without Borders—but it’s tough to be accepted. Even thinking of getting off social media. Too much negativity.
“How perfect is this guy?” I yelled out loud. “Really? You could be doing more with your life? I drink alone. And if I went off social media, I wouldn’t have anyone to drunk text. I could solve global warming.”
Miss you & hope all is well! Kyle
I don’t know why, but I could feel my heart shatter just a touch, like when you catch the edge of a teacup on the counter.
Would be good to see you and meet her, I wrote. LMK!
I had put my cell down when I heard it trill.
Hey, does that mood ring still work? he wrote.
I slipped it on my finger. The stone began to change color.
It does!
What color is it?
I looked at my finger.
The mood ring immediately turned dark blue, the same color it had when Kyle gave it to me at McDonald’s.
Dark blue! I wrote. It means happy!
My finger hovered over the send button.
And then I erased the message.