The snow begins to pick up in earnest when I reach Cadillac. The storm gains muscle the farther north I drive, going from pretty, dancing dust to a frozen powerhouse. The snow clogs my wipers and freezes in thin sheets on my windshield. I crank up the heat and turn the defroster to high.
My headlights can no longer penetrate the snow, and I slow to a crawl, trying to decipher the center line of the road. I have driven in snow my entire life, but the moment I turned forty, God’s gift to me was night blindness.
I kick myself for spending the next morning in Chicago nursing my post-race hangover and swilling coffee at a Starbucks while Holly posted about their new holiday lattes and cups.
I scream as the driver of a semi lays on his horn. I jerk my steering wheel to the right, the car fishtailing in the snow.
For a long few seconds, I am floating in a snow globe. My hands are steady on the wheel, and I say a prayer until the road appears again. As soon as I realize my car is not only still on the road but also going in the right direction, I begin to shake.
I click off the audiobook I’ve been listening to from Desiree Delmonico, a famed romance author we will be hosting at Sleigh By the Bay this month. Her novels sell like hotcakes despite all being roughly the same: naughty riffs on a different holiday with covers featuring hot, male shirtless models. Desiree made the cover model of her new book famous, too, because she’s dating him, even though she’s well into her seventies. Her latest novel, Jingle My Bells, features her boyfriend—of course—wearing a Santa hat and carrying a sack of what I can only guess is filled with containers of protein powder, baby oil and an unsigned prenuptial agreement.
Another semi passes me, and I grip the wheel, my knuckles white.
I click on the radio, and I immediately laugh. A Pure Michigan commercial touting the beauty of winter plays.
I laugh again thinking of the Pure Michigan parody ads that are sent to me all year long. One in the summer jokes about how local drivers accidentally hit resorters walking the streets eating fudge and must hide the bodies, while one of the winter ads jokes about Michigan drivers sliding into a ditch or falling on ice and giving a cheery thumbs-up.
Nothing says winter like a purple bruise on your backside. That’s the beauty of... Pure Michigan.
Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” comes on, and I realize this is another Pure Michigan tradition. Pop radio stations all over Michigan switch to holiday music the day after Halloween and play it continuously until New Year’s Day.
Despite the song’s fun dance beat, the lyrics hit a bit close after my Santa Run debacle and family history.
“Pure Michigan,” I say to myself.
And then, as if the DJ is trying to torture me, he follows up Mariah with Bing Crosby crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and then—to rub it in—“Same Old Lang Syne” by Dan Fogelberg.
“Thank you very much,” I say sarcastically.
But when Wham!’s “Last Christmas” comes on, I have to pull to the side of the road and put on my blinkers.
“Last Christmas” begins to play, and I stifle a happy scream. I can feel my body wanting to jump up and down like a pogo stick, but I sink my feet into the ground and smile.
“Why, yes, Kyle, I would love to dance with you.”
I put my hands around his waist, and we begin to slow dance. The gym decorations look like the weather outside: snowflakes fall from the ceiling and dance in the twinkling lights. Kyle leans in, and I shut my eyes.
“What are you doing, Susan?”
I open my eyes. I am dancing with air in my pink bedroom.
“Get out!” I yell at my dad. He is dressed as Santa.
“What are you wearing?”
I turn slightly, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. I saved all my money from working at the bookstore to buy this dress: a beautiful short trumpet gown with metallic stripes of holiday red, black and gold, a black velvet bow at the waist and fluted bottom with sheer red taffeta jutting out at the edge.
“I bought this for the Christmas formal, remember?”
I can’t help myself. I twirl in the mirror, and the skirt flares.
My mom appears in the doorway dressed as Mrs. Claus. “What’s with all the commotion?” she asks.
“You don’t remember, do you?” I ask, my voice barely audible above Wham!
My mom and dad look at each other.
“You don’t,” I say. “Tonight’s my first Christmas formal. Fourth grade. It’s kind of a big deal.”
My mom takes a step forward very carefully, as if she’s walking through a minefield.
“But, honey, the Stafford’s Perry Hotel’s Christmas party is tonight,” she says gingerly. “The entire town will be there. The entire town is expecting us to be there.”
For my whole life, I—like the entire town of Petoskey—have stood in the shadow of the gorgeous, historic hotel holding court on the corner of Bay and Lewis Streets, overlooking Little Traverse Bay like a grande dame. It’s been the place where VIPs, literati—even Hemingway—have stayed. It’s the place that has had a hold on my family’s Christmases forever.
“Everyone will want their picture with their favorite elf,” my father adds just as gingerly. “It’s the million-dollar shot.”
The million-dollar shot.
The breathtaking vistas from the hotel—literally from all of Petoskey—have made the area famous for its Million Dollar Sunset. For once in my life, I don’t want to see the reflection of the sunset on water, I don’t want to be captured as a Christmas cartoon character in someone’s keepsake photo, I don’t want to be Mr. and Mrs. Claus’s kid, I just want to be a kid.
“I’m not going, and you can’t make me!” I cry. “It’s my first formal!”
I don’t want to burst into tears and ruin the touch of makeup I’m secretly wearing, but I do. I blubber and wail. My mother sweeps me up into the folds of her arms and holds me until I stop and her velvety jacket is damp.
“You should go,” she says. “You’re right, we forgot. You know how busy we are this time of year. I’m so sorry, honey. Please forgive us.”
I look up at my mom. She wipes my eyes with her gloved finger.
“Thank you.”
I look at her again.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the daughter and granddaughter of the most loved man and woman in town?” I ask. “No, in the world?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to love a little girl more than any other in the entire world?” she asks. “You are, and will forever be, the greatest gift Mr. and Mrs. Claus ever received.”
We load into the car, and my father clicks on the radio to a holiday station. We listen to holiday music as he drives, and, as if on cue, “Last Christmas” begins to play as we pull in front of the gym. My heart leaps, imagining Kyle asking me to dance. Maybe even one day asking me on a date.
My parents drop me off at the school and, as they drive away, the strains of the song hang in the cold air, mingling with the snow. I hear the crunch of their tires over the snow, and then there is silence, the quiet only found in the midst of a Northern Michigan snow.
My parents’ headlights disappear into the dark, and I turn to walk into the gym.
And as if irony had saved all of its irony just for me, it would be my parents’ last Christmas, too.
Another semi flies by, laying on its horn, and I jump.
I am still on the side of the road, defroster roaring, radio blaring “Last Christmas.”
Timing.
In life and literature, it really all comes down to timing, don’t you think?
What makes a great book?
Interesting characters. Intriguing story line. Wonderful setting. An author’s ability to make the universal seem deeply personal.
But pacing—timing—is perhaps what either makes or breaks a book.
I read countless books a year, often two or three a week. It’s integral to my job. But how often do I lose interest in even the most well written of books, be they fiction or nonfiction?
More often than not. There’s just something that doesn’t capture and keep my interest.
And I rest that solely on timing.
The chapters don’t flow quite right. The plot is as dense as a fruitcake. The dialogue is stilted. Writing is hard, hard work. But the hardest of work, I know, comes after the writing is done. I’ve heard countless authors say to an aspiring writer in the audience who proudly announces he or she has completed a first draft, “Congratulations! You have about fifty more to write!”
That’s what makes the timing right. It’s not luck. It’s hard work.
Perhaps my personal life has been doomed by my love of literature. I’ve had too many memorable characters live and die in my own memoir. I’ve believed in luck. And then I’ve put in the hard work. And, still, the timing has been off my whole life.
My parents and grandparents met because of timing. My grandma wandered into the Stafford for the annual Christmas party and met my grandfather, dressed as Santa. My mom met my dad at a fraternity party.
But timing isn’t always magical.
What if I had gone with my parents to the Stafford that night? They wouldn’t have had to cross town from dropping me off at the school and run into a drunk driver.
What if the winds had not come up that day on Lake Michigan? My great-great-grandfather would not only have delivered a ship of trees to families in Chicago, but Captain Santa would have had another Christmas with his family.
What if that semi driver that just plowed past me had looked down at an incoming text or reached over to take a swig of his coffee?
Timing.
Which is what has me so emotional this year in particular.
I am forty. I lost my mother when she was forty. And my mind, heart and soul are consumed with these milestone anniversaries and all the things my mother achieved by forty—finding true love, having children—that I have yet to accomplish. It’s like this lake effect snow, overshadowing all the good things I do have in my life. I know it’s sunny just a few miles away, but I’m overwhelmed by the clouds.
And I can’t help but wonder how much time I actually have left. If the average life expectancy of a woman in the US is seventy-nine, my life is half over.
I can’t help but think that it’s too late for me to have children, a yearning I buried deep in my internal snowbank years ago.
I can’t help but realize that there will be no one in my family—no spouse, no kids—to take over the bookstore, to keep our community and Christmas legacy alive.
I try not to dwell on something bad happening to me this year, but I can’t help it. And I can’t help but wonder if my time for love has passed already, like summer in Michigan.
Perhaps I’m meant to live my life through books. Perhaps that’s why publishers admire my judgment, my gut on when the timing is right for a book and author to soar. Perhaps as my grandma Betty still says, “If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, oh, what a Merry Christmas it would be.”
My phone rings, and I jump.
The car’s display reads Incoming call Holly.
“He fell!” she’s yelling before I even have a chance to say hello.
“Who fell? Are you okay? What are you talking about?”
“Your Santa!” Holly says. “He fell. That’s why he didn’t come to O’Malley’s.”
“How do you know all this?”
“There’s an article in the Tribune about the Santa Run,” Holly says. I can hear the paper rustling. Holly still gets a real paper because she’s friends with me, and I give her a subscription—along with about a dozen books—for her birthday every year to keep her grounded in the world outside social media and technology. “Listen to this.” The paper rustles again. “‘A record 25,000 runners participated in this year’s Santa Run, and—with the inclement weather and slippery roads—a record number of reported injuries.’”
“I’m sitting on the side of the road in a snowstorm,” I say. “I’m not really tracking what you’re saying.”
“Your Santa was one of the injuries. I just know it. In fact, I texted a friend at the Tribune to find out the names of those who were injured, but she didn’t have them. And she said if they did, they couldn’t share them. So I texted a friend of mine who helps do the social media for the race. She said they didn’t have the names of the injured either, but...” Holly says this very dramatically “...she did send me the race link that has all the runners’ names and ages.”
“Wow, great work, Agatha Christie,” I say. “So we have a one in 25,000 chance to find the guy who stood me up? Sounds like a great plan.”
“Listen, I know in my heart he didn’t stand you up. I just know it. I think he got hurt somehow during the run. Or there was an emergency. Something happened. He didn’t stand you up. He didn’t show because he couldn’t.”
I take a deep breath. The air in the car is hot and dry.
“I appreciate your optimism,” I say, “but the timing’s not right.”
There is silence.
“The timing’s never right for you because you always put a period in your life where an ellipsis should go.”
“Look at you,” I say. “Quite the wordsmith. You should take my job.”
“It’s Christmas, Susan. I know this time of year is both so wonderful and so hard for you and your family. I also know this year is filled with huge anniversaries, both happy and sad. But your parents would want you to be happy. You know that.”
“I am happy. I don’t need a man to complete or fulfill me. And neither do you. We’re all duped by the faux joy of Christmas, a Hallmark mentality to fall in love, and TikTok desire to be perfect. None of it is true.”
I continue despite the fact Holly’s silence is telling me otherwise.
“You know why Christmas books are so popular? Because our holidays suck. We all have this desire to make our lives seem more beautiful and more magical than they really are. Most of us are lonely. Most of us are sad. Most of us have lost someone who means the world to us. Most of us just want to fill that void, and a book with a great title, a pretty cover, a Ho ho ho and a happy ending stuffs that gnawing hole in our soul, just like a half dozen snickerdoodles, a cup of hot chocolate and a gallon of eggnog.”
Holly doesn’t reply for nearly a minute. I don’t hang up because I can hear her breathing. And then she says very softly, “It’s not about needing a man to fulfill either of us. And it’s not just about believing in happy endings. It’s about finding someone who completes us, someone who wants us to be our best selves, someone who will love us and be there for us no matter what. Like you do for me.” Holly stops and clears her throat. When she speaks again, her voice is quivering. “It’s about the love we deserve, Susan. And you deserve to be loved. And there’s nothing fake about wanting or needing that. So forgive me for being your best friend who only wants the best for you and will fight like hell to make that happen.” She hesitates. “And, by the way, I love all the Christmas books you send me. And I love Hallmark movies. And I love making people feel festive and happy this time of year because I know so many of us need—just for one hot moment—not to feel sad. And, by the way, I do believe in happy endings. Our books are not written yet, Susan.”
My heart hiccups. I think of my parents and grandparents. I think of the poem I wrote so long ago.
And, despite trying to stop myself, I think of the Santa I just met, the one who got away.
It’s not about believing in happy endings. It’s about the love we deserve, Susan. And you deserve to be loved.
I open my mouth to respond, but Holly hangs up.
She’s always had impeccable timing.