The windows in Sleigh By the Bay have been transformed from red to green.
Four-leaf clovers grow in green grass, and a rainbow starts in one window and ends in the other into a pot filled not with gold but books.
The first window reads: HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY!
A banner in the second window declares: A GREAT FRIEND & A GREAT BOOK ARE LIKE 4-LEAF CLOVERS: HARD TO FIND & LUCKY TO HAVE!
It’s a play on words from an old Irish saying.
I admire my handiwork. Typically, Noah handles the windows, especially if I’m overwhelmed, but I needed something to distract myself from all the dating pressure. I plan to head to Chicago for a work conference with Noah that will also include a St. Patty’s Day double date with the next Single Kringle.
What could go wrong?
I think of another Irish saying that sums it up so perfectly: As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction.
The windows may be green, but the mid-March Michigan sky is as gray as the landscape. The piles of snow that line the streets are sad and slumped, their shoulders exhausted from winter.
We still have a long way to go, I think.
I look at the window boxes that have been filled with flowering cabbage and kale, a way to provide a pop of green toward the end of winter. Just looking at something green causes my heart to flutter in anticipation of warmer days.
That is, if you can call mid-March the end of winter in Michigan. Sometimes, it seems like the beginning.
It often will snow until May. To me, snowdrops are the first sign that spring is coming. They pop through the white with such unabated hope as if to say, “Just hold on a little while longer!”
The first happy daffodils are a tease like the faux warmth that typically accompany them. One day, the wind will not feel fatal, and you fool yourself into cracking the windows in your home, and maybe even placing a chair on the deck or patio.
And then the snow returns, heavier, thicker than you even remembered.
You think you’ve finally made it through winter when the Crayola-hued tulips begin to pop. A kaleidoscope of color lines picket fences and encircles trees, and it’s so unexpected, so breathtaking, that I skip—actually skip!—like a little girl.
But over the bay one afternoon you will see a bank of clouds, dark and ominous. The waves will begin to whip, the tulips will bend and winter will laugh, “I’m not done with you quite yet, my pretty!”
A northerly gust off the bay dances up the hillside, down Lake Street and numbs my ears. I place my mittens over my ears and do an Irish jig to warm my body.
The bell tinkles as Rita strolls in. I cross my arms to ward off the cold that penetrates every layer I’m wearing and stare at the windows.
“Love your windows!”
“Thank you,” I say.
I have walked outside to admire my handiwork and to see if the windows will have the impact to pull passersby inside to shop that I desire.
“Puts me in the mood to read something about the Irish plague,” she says.
Cheery, I think.
One of my favorite things about being a bookstore owner is that—as opposed to Rita—it keeps me connected to being a kid. It also keeps me connected to children, and—though I may never have kids of my own—that fills my soul. In addition, a part of me remains a child at heart, and the older I get, the more I realize how necessary that is not only to be happy but also remain optimistic.
Like schoolteachers and children, who are some of my best customers, I must embrace every holiday throughout the year: New Year’s, Valentine’s, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Eid, Holi and Diwali.
Even Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and Christmas, the most difficult holidays of the year for me.
I am forced to find the child within—no matter how much my heart may ache, no matter how much the memories sting—and celebrate the spirit of each holiday and each season.
I decorate with hearts, even though mine has been broken for so many years.
I dress up as the Easter Bunny and hand out chocolates in the store even though I’d like to hop over a big part of my history.
Sleigh By the Bay becomes a virtual haunted house at Halloween despite the fact I am often consumed by nightmares.
And doing this over the last few decades has allowed me to cling to a piece of childhood innocence, that part of us we too often lose as adults that makes us remember what matters most in life.
I walk to the window and pretend to pluck a construction paper four-leaf clover inside.
I’m going to need all the luck I can get.
“It’s a fine day, lassy!”
I jump at the sound of an Irish voice. I turn, and a leprechaun is dancing before me.
Noah’s face is painted green, and he’s sporting a red beard, a green top hat and little Leprechaun suit with white leggings and black buckle shoes. He’s holding a little black pot that is filled not with gold coins but with candy.
“What did the leprechaun say to the girl who saved a four-leaf clover in a book?”
I look at him and shrug.
“Don’t press your luck.”
“Why couldn’t the leprechaun pay his bar tab on St. Paddy’s Day?”
“Are we really doing this?” I sigh.
“Don’t make me drop ye in a bog,” he says. “Play along, lassy, or no candy for ye. Why couldn’t the leprechaun pay his bar tab on St. Paddy’s Day?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“He was a little short!”
I don’t mean to, but I laugh.
“What are the best sandwiches to serve at a St. Patrick’s Day party?”
I actually stop and think about this riddle.
“Paddy melts!” I cry triumphantly.
Noah holds out his pot, and I pluck a chocolate that looks like a gold coin. I eat it in the cold.
I feel just like a kid.
“Doesn’t our little Leprechaun look great?” my grampa says, toddling out of the store.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask.
“Still on the sheep,” my grampa asks. “I was born and raised in Michigan. March feels like June.” He walks over and puts his arm around Noah. “Proud of you.”
Noah ducks his green head. “Well, I’ll never take over being Santa for you, but it’s an honor that you’re allowing me to take on the mantle of some of the bookstore’s favorite costumed characters.”
Even in the cold, I can feel my body warm. My grandfather and Noah could not be more different, and yet they could not be more the same.
Good books and great friends remind us we have more in common than separates us. We need to be reminded of that more than ever these days.
I usher my boys inside, and my body begins to thaw in the warmth of the bookstore.
“So, do we have our game plan set for the day?” I ask.
“I’m heading to the grade school in a few minutes to read to the kids, and then I’ll host our St. Patrick’s Day after-school party,” Noah says.
“Your grandma and I are working with Sean O’Malley. His team will set up a test kitchen downstairs, and we should be ready to go at seven sharp with green beer and a demo of some of his favorite Irish recipes from his new cookbook, Laughter Is Brightest Where Food Is Best.”
I nod. “Fabulous. I’ll just head home for the day, then.”
Their shocked faces turn quickly into smiling ones.
“Good one,” my grampa says. “It’s always crazy here around St. Patrick’s.”
It was a coup that I was one of the stops chosen for famed Food Channel host and chef Sean O’Malley, who became known for his reinvention of Irish classics and downhome food as well as his roguish good looks and mischievous behavior. His appearance is a ticketed event requiring an advance purchase of the book, and we sold out two hundred seats in less than twenty-four hours.
My heart flip-flops.
“And you’ve pulled all the permits so his demo is not an issue?”
“I did,” Noah says. “And we already are approved for food and cooking since we have a small kitchen in the store and are on the list as an events space in the city.”
“And we’re sure we can cram everyone into the store?” I ask. “We’ve never gotten over a hundred and fifty downstairs before.”
“What is this, Jeopardy? I’m sure, diva,” Noah says. “I exchanged our old chairs for some new ones Fred found in the basement of Petoskey Scones. They’re a slim line chair, so we could fit more of them into the rows. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but it should work since customers will only be seated a short time.”
“Speaking of squeezes,” my grampa says, “how’s your main squeeze?”
Noah’s face suddenly turns as red as his beard.
“We’ve been talking and texting,” he says. “And we have our double date with Susan and her new Single Kringle this weekend. Fred’s going to be in Chicago for a fitness training seminar. He’s thinking of becoming manager of the local gym, and eventually buying it and upgrading it.”
My eyes widen. “That’s amazing,” I say.
“One day at a time,” Noah says.
“Well, may the leprechauns dance over your bed and bring you sweet dreams,” my grampa says. He looks at us. “I’ve got a million of ’em.”
“I know,” I say. “Noah’s already shared about a hundred of them.”
They laugh.
“Time to get busy,” I say.
There’s nothing like a ton of green beer, a little leprechaun, wonderful Irish food and great friends to make for a perfect St. Patrick’s Day.
I am tired and happily buzzed, warmed by the fire blazing behind my back and the success of a wonderful event.
“Admiring what you’ve created?”
I take a bite of chocolate cake—whose batter was made with stout—and shut my eyes.
“Back at’cha,” I say to our guest of honor.
From a makeshift kitchen set up in the bookstore’s basement, Sean O’Malley created a heavenly Irish feast: beer cheese, corned beef and cabbage egg rolls, corned beef with horseradish cream, and a spicy Guinness mustard and colcannon with garlic and leeks.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I say.
Sean laughs. “My mom and Nan’s kitchen,” he says. “My family was working poor, and we cooked with what we had on hand from recipe cards that had been passed down for generations. No Michelin-star chef will ever cook as well as our grandmas, right?”
I nod, thinking of all the wonderful food my grandma makes and bakes.
“I’m just glad the fire department didn’t shut us down,” I say.
“Speaking of grandmas,” Sean says. He lifts a mug of green beer into the air and gives an Irish cheers. “Sláinte, Betty!”
My grandmother laughs and takes a much too big slug of her beer. The foam turns her mouth green.
Sleigh By the Bay was not only at store capacity, but Sean’s team had so many electrical cords snaking throughout the store that our basement resembled a herpetarium. The fire department showed up—I’m sure at the behest of a “concerned neighbor”—and they were ready to shut our show down until...
“They owed me,” my grandma winks.
As a part-time process server, my grandma knows something about everyone in our little town. She holds more secrets than Pandora’s box, and she rarely opens it to release them unless those she loves are threatened.
“I’m so sorry about all this hubbub, Joe,” my grandma said to the assistant fire chief, who arrived—sirens blaring—about fifteen minutes before the event when Sean was set to begin. “We are at maximum capacity, not one person over, I promise you.”
“Someone said the store lights were blinking,” he replied. “Judging by the number of cars, I might have to shut this down.”
“I completely understand,” Grandma said. “Why don’t we do this? I’ll call Linda at the local paper and have her come report on this. I’d love to have a journalist on the scene, just to report the facts, you understand, especially since we haven’t done a thing wrong.” She stopped and, with great drama, placed her hand on her heart. “Oh, and while Linda’s here, I do have those divorce papers for you in my car. What is this now? Number five? You’ve been a hard one to chase down, Joe. I know you’ve been staying at the firehouse, and I was waiting for the right time so as not to embarrass you in front of your men. But now seems like a good time, doesn’t it?”
Mic drop.
Joe gave the store a cursory glance. “Everything looks fine. All fine.” He turned and waved his men back into the firetruck before leaning into my grandma’s ear and whispering, “I’m trying to work this out. Just give me a little time. Please.”
My grandma nodded. “I understand, and I will,” she said, patting his back. “I know how moody a twenty-one-year-old like your new girlfriend can be.”
Mic pulverized.
Now, as the laughter dims, Sean turns his attention back to me.
“So, I’ve heard about this whole Single Kringle thing,” he says. “I think the whole publishing world has.”
“No, I think the whole world has.”
Sean chuckles, and his face has the look of a mischievous child. He rubs his reddish five-o-clock shadow. “I have to tell you, this community loves you. Nearly every single person that had me autograph a book said they only wanted you to find love and happiness, just like your parents and grandparents had. It must be nice to have such support.”
“It is, but it can be overwhelming when everyone not only knows your business but thinks they’re your personal CEO.” I take a sip of my beer. “It’s difficult because I am happy.”
“But?” Sean asks. “I hear a but in there.”
“But,” I say with a smile, “I feel like a piece of me is missing.” I look around the table. “But I don’t want to risk losing another piece of me either.”
Sean nods. “Ah, life’s ultimate puzzle.”
I continue. “How do you do it?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Your entire life is in the spotlight,” I say. “Not only your career but also your entire love life.”
“It’s part of the celebrity game, unfortunately,” he says. “And yet we all play the same game. People think I’m incapable of being hurt when there’s a difficult breakup. People think it’s easy for me to date. But I’m constantly thinking about what someone may want from me. Everyone sees me as the ultimate bachelor, but I’m really just a middle-aged man who’s scared of being played for a fool. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a celebrity chef or a bookstore owner, a librarian in New Jersey or a policeman in Oregon. None of us wants to get our heart broken. But that’s life, isn’t it? Either we take the risk, or we don’t.”
I consider this man who has kept me company for decades of Saturday mornings on my television as if I’m seeing him for the very first time.
“And what if we don’t?”
Sean smiles that famous smile. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
I nod.
He continues. “Let me just say this. Our hearts are going to be broken whether we want them to or not. I miss my Nan every single day. It’s why I make her food. It feels as if she’s still with me in the kitchen. I can’t ever get her back, but I can honor her memory with the food I make. I can honor her by meeting a woman with just as good a heart as she had. You do the same every day with your work here. You honor your family. And I’m confident that if you ever meet this mystery man—or someone else—he won’t just be the man of your dreams, he’ll be the man that mirrors the wonderful legacy your family has created.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I’m emotional.”
“No, you’re drunk,” my grampa says.
The table explodes in laughter.
“Everything old eventually comes back into style,” my grandfather continues.
“Now you’re saying I’m old, Grampa?”
“I’m saying so many of us seek new and better—be it food, jobs or people—but when it comes down to it, old is the best. And I’m not just saying that about myself.” My grampa puts his hand on my arm. “We talk about love, and it sounds so old-fashioned, but it never goes out of style no matter whether we seek it in books or on all these new social media sites. You can feel the love at this table right now. I would not have become the man I did without your grandma’s love. You would not be the woman you are without your parents’ love. The only legacy we should leave in this world is the most old-fashioned—that we loved deeply and that we were loved deeply.”
Sean extends his hand and shakes my grandfather’s.
“Sláinte, St. Nick!”
Our St. Patrick’s dinner goes late into the evening, until Noah’s face paint smears and the edges of the room begin to fade into a soft vignette. The large poster of Sean’s event still stands at the back of the bookstore: Laughter Is Brightest Where Food Is Best.
Through my office door, I can see the hearts from the Valentine’s Day window still stacked against the wall in my office. Every few minutes, the heat from the vent moves across them, making them appear as if they are barely beating, just waiting to come back to life.
The words St. Nick float in the air and through my mind.
Jamie and I have FaceTimed nearly every weekend since our date. It’s been nice getting to know him better.
He is truly a good guy.
And it’s been amazing to watch Noah’s love for himself grow as his relationship with Fred has developed.
My eyes drift from the hearts to an autographed book cover from Erma Bombeck.
Books.
Life.
Love.
Timing.
I smile.
Erma always had impeccable timing.