Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Uh-huh . . .” I placate him as I grab a tiny red cup off the tray a smiling Starbucks barista holds out, offering samples to the passersby. Generally speaking, I find this sort of holiday-themed chain-store nonsense to be everything that’s wrong with the world, but I’m not so lofty in my principles as to pass up complimentary caffeine.
Too late, I realize the itty-bitty cup is more whipped cream and sprinkles than coffee. But to be totally objective, I’ll grant that the chocolate peppermint flavor’s not quite as terrible as I always imagined it would be.
I wind my way through the slow-moving crowd, giving Jerry only half of my attention, waiting for the magic phrase that I know is coming because it always does.
“. . . so we can save everyone time and headaches if we talk plea bargain . . .”
There it is.
Some of my colleagues call him Jerry Dodger—less because his last name is Dodge and more because the man will try to dodge going to trial ten out of ten times.
“Jerry,” I interrupt. “Come on. I don’t settle for nonorganic, non-GMO bananas in my smoothies. Why would you think I’d advise my client to settle on what we both know is going to be a slam-dunk verdict in my favor?”
He makes a grumbling noise. “You think all of your cases are a slam dunk.”
Jerry’s lucky I’m trying to tap the last glob of Starbucks whipped cream into my mouth because it keeps me from pointing out that every time he and I have gone toe-to-toe in the courtroom, my cases have been a slam dunk.
“Come on, Katherine,” he cajoles. “Think about your client. Think about justice.”
I crush the mini sample cup with my fist and drop it into the trash. “You want to talk about justice, Dodger?” I say, letting the nickname slip out on purpose. “How about while you’re out in Connecticut with your in-laws, you ask Santa for a pair of balls and actually try to fight for your client for once.”
Jerry’s sigh is weary and resigned. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, Katherine. We always do.”
He pauses. “We’ll still see you for New Year’s Eve, right?”
Oh yeah. Me and Jerry? Kind of, sort of friends. And I don’t have many.
“Um, of course,” I say indignantly. “I wouldn’t miss it. You’re sure I can’t bring anything? Apps? Champagne?”
“Absolutely not, we’ll have plenty of both. And hey, rumor has it, we’ll have something else to toast other than the new year. Partner, right?”
I’m glad he can’t see me wince, and I force my voice to sound cheerful. “Fingers crossed!”
“Really? I thought you would have heard by now—”
“Hey, look, I’m sorry I bit your head off just now,” I interrupt, as much because I know my rampage was harsh, even for me, as well as because . . .
Well, I don’t want to talk about becoming partner.
“Please, Katherine. You know I enjoy our spats. I give as good as I get.”
I purse my lips. Well, I don’t know about that . . .
I decide to quit while I’m ahead. “Have a good Christmas. Tell Jamie I say hello.”
“Will do. Remind me again what you’re up to for the holidays?”
“Oops, Jerry? I’ve gotta run. Another call coming in.” I hang up. And feel a little bad about the lie, but it’s for his own good, really.
Like I said, I don’t have many friends. My frizzy hair and acne may have faded with age, but my sharp edges haven’t. I try not to burden the few people who care about me with the truth.
The Grinch was lonely.
And loneliness?
It cuts the deepest at Christmas.
TWO
TOM
December 23, 11:07 a.m.
You know who I’ve never understood?
The Grinch.
What sort of person actively dislikes the festive happiness of the holiday season?
Well, actually, I know exactly what kind of person. I married her. And divorced her.
But that’s a story for another day, and by another day, I mean never.
Let’s move on.
Now, that is not to say I channel Buddy the Elf or own a Santa costume or anything. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that December in New York? It does something to me.
Take, for example, Manhattan’s iconic Fifth Avenue. Sure, it’s a little crowded at Christmas.
Okay, fine. A lot crowded. In January, this would just straight-up piss me off.
But in December?
Fifth Avenue is a good kind of crowded. There’s a sort of unique contagious energy that comes from a huge mass of people all trying to enjoy the same things within a limited amount of time. The iconic Rockefeller tree, the Rockettes, a half-dozen ice-skating rinks, The Nutcracker, festive window displays, Nativity scenes tucked inside historic churches . . .
Not that, as a local, I actually do any of that stuff. But I like knowing it’s there.
I smooth a hand over my tie—red with candy canes, a gift from my mother—and inhale deeply.