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IfI can manage to strike out on my own.
The New Hedge Community Center is a hodge podge of humanity. It shares a building with the police department, the city administration offices, and the local DMV, so I’m turned around when I enter. Marjorie Clements and Liz Langer are up ahead, walking down the corridor, their heads together, talking. I know they’re on the committee, so I jog to catch up with them. Liz teaches third grade at the elementary school and Marjorie works as a commissioner for the power plant. They’re both long-time pillars of the community.
“Aria! So nice to see you,” Liz says as I join them at the elevator.
“You two going to the festival meeting?” They’re not wearing the Christmas blazers. Huh. I wasn’t expecting them to just be in their regular clothes.
“Yes, are you?” Liz asks. “We hoped you’d come. We need your help now more than ever.”
“I heard about the . . . concerns.”
Marjorie places a hand on my arm. “Honey, you don’t know the half of it.”
Liz grows quiet, her brows jamming down over her eyes. We step into the elevator, my stomach turning at the thought that not all is right with the festival.
“Well, any pointers for me before we get there? I’ve never done this before.”
“You’ll catch on quickly,” Marjorie assures. “It’s a bit of a disadvantage to be joining in so late in the season because most things have already been decided and done. But we’re happy to have someone your age to help us out. We have to leave a legacy for the future generations.”
“What do you do for the committee?” I ask them as the elevator opens to a bright hallway. I follow them through the double doors. “I’ve never been up here before.”
“No one has. Committee members only,” Liz says. “Marjorie and I have done most everything over the years. It takes all year, you know. We’ve been meeting and planning this year’s festival every week since January.”
That is hardcore, I almost say. But we’ve reached the committee room, so the sentiment washes out before I can say it.
My senses are assaulted as I take in the room. It’s a slightly worn, kitschy, overwhelmingly New Hedge version of Santa’s workshop.
“What?” I stammer. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” At least thirty people fill the room, all talking, all busy. The cacophony of colors and sounds assaults my eyes, but somehow there’s an organized rhythm to it.
“We love having people join the committee.” Liz clicks her tongue. “If only people knew what they were missing.”
“Well, we love having therightpeople join the committee. We don’t accept everyone who applies,” Marjorie adds.
Overstuffed and aging recliners of all different shapes, sizes, and colors, complete with folding trays that hold laptops, phones, and charging stations line the room. Cozy Christmas quilts are thrown over the backs. The floors are flagstone, and three walls are covered with white boards and bulletin boards holding fabric swatches, print offs, drawings, and calendars. Costumes hang on a rack in the corner. It screams “my grandma’s bridge club meets a think tank bursting with Christmas cheer.”
“You made it!” Mara Franks rushes to me and wraps me in a hug. “We’ve got your station right here.” She ushers me to the far corner around the semi-circle of recliners to one with cornflower blue upholstery.
I sit, still in a daze at this odd juxtaposition, enjoying the pillowy squishiness of the chair.
I don’t even have time to get settled beforehewalks in.
Chapter 5
Theo
What is Aria Robinson doing at the Charles Dickens Christmas Festival meeting my boss forced me to go to?
And what is this place? A Christmas dreamland for adults ages fifty plus?
There is so much going on all around me, I don’t know where to land my sights. There are at least thirty older model recliners, most of them seating Gen X-ers and Baby Boomers. I recognize many of them from work, the rec center, or my Saturday morning grocery shopping.
Liz Langer, the one who reached out to me this morning after Weatherby demanded I come, rushes up to me. She tugs on my hand. “Welcome! It’s so nice to see fresh faces here!” She turns to an older gentleman seated on a black leather recliner. Her voice goes up several decimals as she leans toward his hearing-aid-assisted ear. “Isn’t it nice to have fresh faces, Stewart?”
He nods, and I can only stare. I feel myself growing itchy where she’s holding my hand. And come to think of it, my whole arm itches.
Which might be because I’m not a fan of Christmas. Even as a kid it brought up painful memories.
I love people. I probably couldn’t be a very good attorney if I didn’t. But right now I’m about as comfortable as a fish with a hook stabbed through its scaly lip.
