“If Holly FaceTimes, don’t pick up,” I say rushing into Sleigh By the Bay the next day. “She’s called twenty times.” I set my phone down. “I’m waiting for Phillip’s publicist to call. Only pick up if it’s him. It’ll be a 212 New York area code, okay?”
My staff stares at me. I continue without a breath.
“He’s supposed to arrive at 11:30 for the noon luncheon at the Perry. A rush of customers is coming at ten to pick up the new releases—remember, most of them are either autographed or have personalized bookplates for each customer—and I want to make sure everything is perfect for the event. I sold most of the tickets to this to the Bay Book Club, and you know what perfectionists they are.”
“Take a breath, diva,” Noah says, hands on his hips. “Right now, you’re spewing as much minutiae as the rider in Mariah Carey’s Las Vegas residency contract.” He looks at me. “We got you, boo.”
I literally take two steps when I hear, “Hi, Holly! She’s right here.”
I turn and glare at Noah. He’s got Holly on FaceTime. “Girlfriends call for a reason,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “If a BFF calls more than twice, it’s either an emergency, a bad date, an even worse haircut or they just eloped. Am I right, diva?”
Holly laughs.
“Hi, Holly!” Leah waves at the screen.
I walk over.
“You look beautiful, Marty Maraschino,” Noah continues. “What’s your secret?”
“The magic elixirs you send me,” Holly says. “You could open your own shop in Chicago.”
“I know, right? Maybe ‘Noah Knows,’ or wait! ‘Noah’s Ark.’ I could bundle two things together, like an eye cream and wrinkle reducer.”
“I love it!”
I step behind the counter and lean into the video call. “I hate to break up this girls’ weekend, but I am overwhelmed. What’s the urgent matter? Split ends?”
“Meow,” Holly starts. “And with this holiday hair? Never.”
Holly has her hair sculpted into an actual wreath atop her head.
“Did you swallow a Michaels store?” I ask.
“It’s a rope twist crown braid that I decorated with green ribbon, holly leaves, red bows and little Christmas balls! It’s already gotten a half million views.”
“Congrats,” I say. “I have a luncheon for a hundred in a few hours, and new books for waiting customers.”
“Well, I’ll make this quick since you haven’t returned my calls in nearly two weeks since the Santa Run.”
“I told you I’m done with all that. I’m fine being single.” I think of my poem.
“See, you just said ‘fine,’ not ‘happy’ being single, or even ‘content,’” Holly says. “Fine is only good if it’s china. We’re going to find that Santa Claus who was hitting on you.”
“What?”
The simultaneous gasp from Noah and Leah echoes in the bookstore.
“Do tell,” Leah says.
“She didn’t tell you?” Holly asks. “A very handsome man...”
“He was dressed as Santa,” I interject. “And I was dressed as Mrs. Claus in one of my grandma’s costumes. He might have looked like a werewolf underneath his costume.”
“Anyway,” Holly continues, undaunted, “they had a connection. You could feel it in the air. He didn’t just hit on Susan, he liked her and then asked her to meet him at a bar after the race.”
“He didn’t show.”
“Because he fell on the ice,” Holly adds quickly. “I’m convinced of it.”
“Says Angela Lansbury.”
“Stop it!” Noah cries. “This is like watching a live version of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Just cut to the chase.”
Holly raises an eyebrow. “Soooo... I have the list of every runner who participated in the run. Of the 25,000 runners, about 12,000 were men. Of those, half were repeat runners who knew O’Malley’s Bar from previous years. Of those roughly six thousand eligible men, half were in the age range of thirty-five to fifty, which I’m guessing—by the shape of your Santa’s legs and the fine lines around his eyes—he had to be.”
“This is insane,” I say.
“So we’re down to about three thousand men, who I plan to stalk on social media to see if they’re married, if they posted photos from the run on social media. Speaking of which!” Holly claps her hands together. “I posted that photo I took of you with Hot Santa on my social media accounts. With my huge following, it just seemed like the perfect place to start. Maybe one of my followers will recognize him. Or maybe he’s already one of my followers.”
“You are the Chicago Kardarshian, diva!” Noah says.
“If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, oh, what a Merry Christmas it would be,” I mutter.
“Bah humbug,” Noah says, sticking his tongue out at me.
“I’m coming up next week for your Desiree Delmonico event, and we’re going to start there.”
“My life finally has purpose!” Noah cheers.
“I’m in, too!” Leah adds.
“You’re single, Noah,” I say. “And so are you, Leah. You both need to focus on finding your own Claus.”
“You’re way more fun,” Leah says. “I need a holiday project. Each of us can take about 750 guys and compile a list. Maybe we get down to a couple of hundred we can send a Facebook message to or something like that.”
“Yes!” Holly says.
“I’m hanging up,” I say.
Holly opens her mouth to continue talking, and I hit End.
Noah and Leah are staring at me.
“Enough crazy talk for today,” I say. “The guy was hitting on me with a bunch of bad come-on lines.”
“‘Can I take a picture of you, so I can show Santa exactly what I want for Christmas?’” Noah says.
I look at him.
“What?” he continues. “I’ve used a few of those lines before, too. It doesn’t mean someone’s a bad person. It just means that he’s nervous to talk to someone he likes.” Noah hesitates. “He’s nervous to show the world who he is for fear he’ll be rejected like he has been his whole life.” He pauses again. “Or maybe someone is simply afraid to take a risk anymore for fear she’ll lose somebody again.”
He looks at me and then busily begins to organize the new books that had arrived on Tuesday.
“I’m so far behind now,” I say, walking away. Then I stop and turn. “I hear you. Thank you.”
As I head upstairs, I can hear Noah and Leah giggle. The words “Sexy Santa” float in the air.
“Were you calling me?” my grampa asks, walking in the door.
The two burst into laughter.
“I feel like I’m on the coast of Italy.”
Kathleen, Phillip’s publicist, is standing at one of the large windows in The H.O. Rose Room overlooking Little Traverse Bay. She is wearing the typical New York publicist’s ensemble: black pants, black turtleneck, black coat, black hair. “Save for the snow.”
“You know, this area is the reason bay windows were invented,” I say.
“Really?” Kathleen takes a big step back and clamps her hand over her heart. “I never knew that.”
“I’m just teasing,” I say. “It was one of my father’s favorite jokes.”
She laughs. “You got me. Is he coming today?”
I look out the windows facing the bay. In the far distance, nearly on the horizon, an icebreaker—Christmas red—slowly churns through the frigid waters, making a safe pathway for other boats and ships.
“He passed away when I was young, along with my mom.”
“Oh, my gosh, Susan. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. May I ask how it happened?”
My eyes remain on the boat. “A drunk driver,” I say. “They were on their way here, actually, dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, for the town’s big Christmas party. They were carrying on the tradition of my grampa and grandma.”
“Like you’re doing with the store,” Kathleen says. She puts her hand on my back. “I can’t imagine.”
There is a very long silence.
“May I say something?” she finally asks. “Something personal?”
I turn to look at her. “Of course.”
“You are so, so strong, Susan. To go through all of that, to come out the other side the incredibly smart and savvy woman you are, to continue the legacy of Sleigh By the Bay and to give Phillip a second chance is something few of us could do. It’s a testament to the foundation and love your grandparents gave you and to the fact that you want to make the world a better place.”
My eyes flit back to the icebreaker before it disappears, a red Santa cap just floating away, and I cannot help but think that Kathleen’s words are like that ship, knocking down chunks of a frozen wall I’ve built over the years to protect myself.
Second chances. Jordan. Holly. Phillip. My Hot Santa.
Maybe all that ice has inhibited passage into my heart.
“Thank you,” I finally say. “That means more than you’ll ever know.”
“Ladies.”
We turn.
“Phillip,” Kathleen says.
If you were to call a casting agent looking for an actor to play an East Coast literary novelist, they would send you Phillip Strauss. He resembles Jeremy Irons, back in the day, with his piercing eyes and longer hair—gray at the temples—that falls just-so. He wears brow line tortoise eyeglasses—a term I learned from Holly—a more modern version of the 1950s glasses my grampa wore when he was younger. His eyes do not look distorted behind them, and I wonder if they’re merely an accessory.
“Welcome to the Perry Hotel,” I say. “And huge congratulations on Must Be Nice.”
“Thank you, Susan,” he says. “This is just lovely. These views are simply breathtaking.”
“This hotel was built in 1899 and is the only one of Petoskey’s gorgeous turn-of-the-century hotels still in existence,” I say. “In 1916 Ernest Hemingway hiked and camped his way to Northern Michigan from his home in Illinois with a friend. When he arrived in Petoskey, Hemingway stayed right here at the Perry Hotel. He paid seventy-five cents for his room before heading to the family cottage, Windemere, at Walloon Lake.”
“You’re a fount of knowledge,” Phillip says. “A walking map of Michigan.”
I hold up my hand, and Phillip flinches.
“I’m not going to slap you,” I say.
“You have every right after my last visit.”
Second chances. Maybe he has changed.
“We use our hand as a map in Michigan. It’s shaped like a mitten. See?” I point to the tip of my middle finger. “You’re here. Hemingway’s summer home was on Walloon Lake, a glacial-formed lake that is one of Michigan’s most majestic inland lakes. It empties into Lake Michigan. Walloon Lake is right down here.” I point again on my hand.
“Fascinating,” he says.
There’s something I now realize about the way he says fascinating that gives me pause. It comes out as “fashinating,” a bit slurry. I look closely at Phillip. His eyes are a bit bloodshot behind his glasses, and he smells like he had a hard night—or morning—and has put on loads of cologne to cover the alcohol.
“Born and raised here.”
“There’s something to be said for roots and staying put, especially in such a quirky little town. It’s so rare these days.” He looks at me and smiles. “You’re practically a dinosaur.”
Dinoshaur.
I know I should take this as a compliment but, considering our past experience, it feels a little like a dig.
“I hope you had a good night’s sleep?”
“I did,” he says. “We got in late from Chicago. Two stops there yesterday and a load of media appearances, thanks to Kathleen. Publisher is saying presales and first week’s sales are very strong, especially at the big-box stores.”
“Well, we have a wonderful event planned today. Our Bay Book Club are our special guests, and they loved your first novel...”
Phillip gives me a look, and Kathleen shifts on her feet. Their reactions silently say, That was two books ago, thank you very much.
“...they’re literary readers, and I will get them to buy your book not only for their January discussion but also for holiday gifts. I’m hoping for sales of over a hundred books this afternoon.”
“Wonderful,” Phillip says.
Men and women begin to file into the Rose Room, chatting and perusing the long table of books set up by the entrance that Leah is managing.
“We should meet and greet,” I say.
I walk Phillip over to meet Dee Whitcroft, the head of the book club and head of pretty much every charity event in Northern Michigan. Her family owns a massive swath of prime lakeshore property that’s been sold over the years—as the region has become a vacation mecca—to real estate and commercial developers. Her home on the lake is built to resemble a ship. It sits on a bluff and as you approach looks as if the home is floating atop the water.
“Is that a Birkin bag?” Phillip asks Dee.
“You have an exquisite eye, Mr. Strauss.”
“I have an appreciation of the finer things,” he says. “Great literature is like great fashion. Works of art.”
The two take some champagne and continue chatting. I slip over next to Leah.
“Is that...” she starts.
“Yes, it’s the Holy Grail of purses,” I say, finishing her thought. “Holly posted about it once. She said it was worth more than my house.”
“I thought she said it was worth way more than your house.”
“Thank you, Leah.”
“Sorry. That didn’t come out right. But this event is. If he schmoozes Mrs. Whitcroft enough, she’ll buy a thousand copies and give them away at her charity events. Win-win for all of us.”
Tuxedoed waitstaff circulates amongst the guests as silently as ghosts, serving champagne and light hors d’oeuvres. After fifteen minutes or so, we take our seats. I sit on one side of our round table with a group of women who have been customers of the store since my grandparents first bought it. Phillip sits across from me, next to Dee. A luncheon of planked whitefish—a Michigan specialty in which the locally caught fish is cooked and served on a cedar plank alongside garlic mashed potatoes and vegetables—is served along with wine. I notice that, in less than ten minutes, Phillip’s wineglass is empty and he’s motioning for a refill. When I see him slam that and gesture for another, I stand in a rush—rattling my silverware across my plate in order to introduce him earlier than expected in hopes he might not slur his speech or start singing “Sweet Caroline.”
“It is my great honor,” I start, the microphone producing a blast of shrill feedback, “to welcome New York Times bestselling author Phillip Strauss here today to talk about his latest novel, Must Be Nice, which is earning rave reviews. And we are more than honored that Phillip has made Sleigh By the Bay a part of his launch week’s tour. It’s the highest compliment to us as a community of readers. Thank you, Phillip.”
I continue, reading Phillip’s bio and a summary of the novel. Then I stop for a moment. I always love to make a book and an author as personal as humanly possible for readers in order to make them fall in love with the person behind the book, and goodness knows Phillip needs that love from me.
“Phillip and I were talking about Ernest Hemingway earlier today, and how he stayed at the Perry and summered at Walloon with his family, but did you know, Phillip, that in a December just like this some 103 years ago, Hemingway wore an Italian cape and uniform while addressing the Ladies Aid Society about his World War I experiences, and during the event he met the Connable family, who connected him with an editor from the Toronto Star newspaper. This interaction in Michigan started his career as a European correspondent with the paper. Michigan may be known as the Mitten, but I think the analogy goes deeper than that. We are always willing to reach out a hand to others, from those in need to those we admire. With that in mind, let’s put our hands together for Phillip Strauss.”
I lead a round of applause.
“Phillip?” I call for him to take the podium at the front of the room.
He makes his way toward me, wineglass and papers in hand, in a way that can only be described as a bird flying in a hurricane. I return to my seat. Phillip plops down his wine on the podium, grabs it for support and then begins to laugh like a madman.
How much of a head start has he had today?
“You come to a place like this, especially in the winter, and it’s no wonder Hemingway drank so much, is it? Am I right?”
There is shocked silence, followed by a smattering of nervous giggles.
“Susan was very loquacious in her introduction. One might think Hemingway was actually here with his latest book. He’s not. I am.” Phillip laughs.
What is he doing?
“The reality is I wrote a masterpiece on the level of some of Hemingway’s greatest novels, and Susan is hosting me because she was forced to host me.”
Why is he doing this?
He takes a gulp of his wine.
“Isn’t that right, Susan?”
All heads turn toward me. I search to find Kathleen. She is on her phone in the lobby. I motion for her.
“Susan?”
“I’m hosting you,” I say, my heart pulsing in my temples, “because I believe in supporting authors and bringing a diverse group of voices and books to Northern Michigan.”
Phillip laughs again and grabs a piece of paper from the stack on his podium. He flaps it in the air. “Like Desiree Delmonico?” he asks with a dismissive grunt. “I’m preceding the Queen of Steam? Is that one of the ‘diverse’ group of voices you’re bringing to your readers?”
The world around me dissolves. As a bookseller, I’ve been involved in countless confrontations, from rude customers to angry authors to bats in the store. I can handle anything. But the one thing I cannot tolerate is a mean drunk.
“Different readers have different tastes,” I hear myself saying. “Many simply want—and need—an escape from this world, and a book can take them anywhere in their minds. Who are you to say what is a better, or a more literary, book than another? Who are you to decide what authors deserve attention and what authors do not? Who are you to demean what book someone chooses to read? The common denominator is that our community reads, and that’s a glorious common denominator, don’t you think?”
One clap turns into two, and soon the room is echoing with applause and cheers. I turn. Even Dee Whitcroft is standing.
Phillip lurches off the podium and storms across the room. I follow.
“What the hell just happened?” Kathleen asks, catching up with us in the lobby.
“He hasn’t changed,” I say.
“Neither have you.” Phillip pivots to face me. “I know you tried to kill my career. I thought I’d return the favor.”
“You pathetic drunk,” I say.
“Okay, enough,” Kathleen says, stepping between us. “Can we just call it a day?”
Phillip pulls keys from his pocket. “I need some fresh air,” he says.
At first, I think he is going back to his room to change and go for a walk, but I look more closely and see the keys are for a rental car. I race forward and pull the keys from his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“How dare you!” I suddenly yell. “You should be ashamed!”
“For what?” he says, red-faced.
“For caring so little about anyone but yourself! You may be an ass, but I won’t let you kill yourself or anyone in our community.” I glare at him. “Even an ass deserves to live. I pray you get clarity.”
He storms out, footsteps slowly fading as he heads down the staircase, and the lobby falls eerily quiet save for the buzz in the Rose Room.
“I’m so deeply sorry,” Kathleen says. “What can I do to make this up to you?”
“Don’t represent him?” I offer, lifting my shoulders.
“‘A man without ethics is a wild beast loosed upon this world,’” Kathleen says.
I look at her.
“Albert Camus,” she explains. “I signed a contract, and there is an ethics clause in it. He’s breaking that clause, and I plan to speak with his publisher about his actions as soon as we’re done talking. Know this cannot and will not be tolerated. He will not treat another bookstore like this.”
Kathleen continues. “I know that’s not enough, but I promise I will not let him act like this again. Publishing, as you know, is a small circle. And believe me, I can and will quietly get the word out about him until all of publishing is playing the telephone tag like we did as kids, and Phillip’s image is forever tarnished.”
“You would do that?”
“I’m a publicist. I can do anything. And this doesn’t require an ounce of spin,” Kathleen says. “I can spin Phillip’s books, life and career, but I can’t spin his soul. None of us can hire a publicist to spin our own lives. We don’t need to anyway. We do a good enough job of that all on our own, don’t we?”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get real with you?”
“You’re not already?”
Kathleen laughs. “I can apologize for Phillip until I’m blue in the face, but you’re never going to get an apology from him.” She looks at me for the longest time until I shift on my feet. “And I have a feeling from the way you reacted to him that’s not really the apology you’re seeking.”
“It isn’t,” I say.
“This is totally none of my business, but have you ever spoken with a grief counselor?”
“I did for much of my childhood,” I say, “and well into my thirties, but, as you might know, grief is a tricky thing. It’s like the ice on our bay. Despite being aware of it and doing everything possible to clear it away, you still have no idea how thick it’s gotten and how dangerous it is until it’s too late.”
“You’re a strong, brave woman,” Kathleen says. “Thank you for having the courage to stand up to him. Thank you for having the courage to stop him from driving. Thank you for being you.”
The emotions of the day hit me, and I hug Kathleen tightly.
“It’s hard to be me,” I say.
“It’s hard to be anyone these days.”
I laugh.
“What do you wish for Christmas?” Kathleen asks, releasing me. “I owe you.”
All I wish for Christmas is the way it used to be, I think.
“To sell about a hundred books other than Phillip’s so I can break even today,” I say instead. “That would be a Christmas miracle.”
“Well, then, I’m your Christmas miracle worker,” Kathleen says. “I have an author whose debut is going to be a Reese Witherspoon book club pick in January. Nobody’s supposed to know yet, but it’s our little secret, right? We can get those preorders before anybody else. Let’s go.”
We head into the Rose Room, and Kathleen beelines for the podium.
As she begins to speak to the room, another boat—red as Santa’s cap—floats on the bay, knocking away the ice yet again.