A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley

Twelve

So I Keep Hearing

At home, I still have enough Christmas leftovers not to worry about cooking. I reheat the food in the microwave and serve Jo first. Bram for once is happy playing in his crib and not being in my arms, which leaves me free to fight with Will to make him eat his figurative vegetables. From his highchair, he stares at me as I approach with his warm plate like the evil character of a Western movie who’s waiting to draw his gun.

A fiery battle of swatted spoons ensues.

By the time Jo is done eating, I’ve reached the point of despair. Will hasn’t eaten a single spoonful.

My daughter stares at me with almost pity in her eyes.

“Do you know any tricks to make him eat?” I ask.

Jo studies me for a second. “Well, there could be one, but you’re really opposed to it.”

Hope blooms in my chest. “If it works, why should I be against it?”

“You say it’s bad for our upbringing. You and Dad are against letting us watch TV, especially during meals.”

Right about now I’d sell my soul to the devil to make Will eat, so TV seems like the lesser evil.

I re-heat his food that has gone stone cold, warm plate or not, and turn on the TV.

“Any program he enjoys watching?”

“The Netflix show with the puffins is his favorite.”

I give Jo the remote. “Can you pull it up?”

“Sure.”

With the competent push of a few buttons, Jo has the TV on. An episode begins to play, and Will is so taken with Oona and Baba’s adventures he doesn’t even notice when I bring the spoon to his mouth. He opens up and swallows like a robot. The magic lasts about ten minutes before he pushes my hand away with a decisive, “No.”

I look at Jo. “What now?”

“You have to threaten him, put the cartoon on pause until he eats again. But I should say you and Dad really disapprove of this kind of tactic. You say bribes and blackmail aren’t sustainable in the long term.”

“Pffff, blackmail. This is survival, your brother needs to eat. It’s a necessary means for the greater good.”

“Okay,” Jo says. “I won’t tell anyone. But Mom, do you think it’d be possible to return the dress Daddy bought me for Sarah McMullen’s party and get the one I really wanted?”

Juggling remote and spoon, I take a good look at my daughter. Jo basically sold me her silence on my TV transgression in exchange for a new dress. She’s been subtle and delicate with her request, but laced it with a veiled threat. And since I’ve just said blackmail is okay to use, I can’t even call her out on it. Nicely done, kiddo. She’ll be a talented business woman when she grows up.

“What’s wrong with the dress Dad bought you?” I ask to better understand the situation.

“It isn’t special.”

“And why didn’t he buy you the other one?”

Jo pouts. “Dad said it was too expensive.”

I pause the TV, waiting for Will to open his mouth and restart it when he does. “How much more money are we talking about?”

“Thirty bucks.”

The amount seems so ridiculously low to me, but I still haven’t gathered how bad our finances are with three mortgages and three college funds to sustain.

“How long before you go back to school?” I ask.

“Two weeks.”

I should be long gone by then, but I hope the real Jersey Caroline won’t be too displeased with the arrangement I’m about to propose. “How about I make you a deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

“Today you’ve been very supportive in helping me get a hang of things, I’d like to hire you as my PA.”

“What’s a PA?”

“A personal assistant. The pay is two dollars a day, times two weeks it should cover the difference.”

“The minimum wage in New Jersey is 4.13$ an hour and I don’t even get tips.”

A smile tugs at my lips, but I fight hard not to let it show. I’ve no clue where Jo gets her stats, but she’s a bright young girl.

“Well, sorry, this is a take it or leave it kind of deal. Do you want that dress or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re hired.”

When Will finally finishes his food, I put his plate in the sink and turn to Jo. “What now?”

“Brush his teeth and put him to sleep. I can stay down with Bram until you’re done.” She shrugs, bored. “Grandma should arrive soon.”

“Okay, so how does the afternoon work?”

“Will stays with Grandma and we go back to the shop.”

I pick up Will from his highchair, he’s already rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Do I have a particular technique to make him sleep?”

“Read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to him, he won’t listen to any other story.”

Washing a toddler’s teeth is another experience I could’ve done without in my portfolio. At least the hungry caterpillar delivers on his promises and does a quick job of making Will fall asleep.

I have to confess that watching him sleep in his tiny bed with his arms up next to his face—the same position Sam sleeps in—he’s really sweet. I kiss his soft, puffy cheek and leave the room.

After my mom arrives, Jo, Bram, and I get ready to go back to the shop.

“You can use the single stroller now, Mom,” Jo instructs me. “And I brought my dress to exchange at the store.”

“Shouldn’t you earn the money first, and then exchange the dress?”

“No, the party is next Saturday. I need an advance on my salary.” And before I can counter, she adds, “Trust me, Mom, I won’t let you down.”

I’m sold. I ask her to show me where to find the single stroller, strap Bram in, hang her cellophaned dress on the handle, and we’re ready to go.

At work, Jo goes right back to her fairy tale while I meet my other employee, Elsie, who’s very empathic in her discretion and doesn’t ask a single personal question.

Unfortunately, ten minutes later, I can’t avoid bumping into a customer who thinks she knows me and have to explain the situation to the sweet old lady, who probably has nothing better to do than ask me too many questions about the amnesia. The conversation requires more energy than I’ve left after the lunch break.

Once the elderly lady has been dispatched, I’m more than ready to go hide in a corner and never come out.

I’m quietly heading for the privacy of the office to hole up for the rest of the afternoon, pushing Bram’s stroller along, when Pam steps in front of me fidgeting, fretting to say something.

“What is it?” I ask.

“This week’s newsletter, we ought to send it and pick a read for January’s book club…” She shares a guilty stare with Elsie, who’s manning the café.

“And?” I prompt.

“Well, Elsie and I have been thinking we should have an amnesia-themed month, if that’s not too insensitive to you. Amnesia is a popular romance trope, and the book club would enjoy a lighter read for a change.” One thing I’ve already picked up about Pam is that once she’s on a roll talking, there’s no point trying to stop her so I let her finish. “But usually February is our romance month, so we would also have to explain what happened to you when we put the book forward, which could be a good thing as you wouldn’t have to repeat the story to every single patron you don’t recognize. But it could also backfire…”

“How?”

“You know how people are, nothing ever happens in this town, and once the word is out you have amnesia, a bunch of busybodies could pop into the shop just to snoop.”

I cross my arms on my chest. “I’d rather deal with a few curious customers than having to explain a million times why I can’t remember anything of the past seven years.”

“Great, then that’s settled.”

“Have you already picked a book for the club?”

Elsie replies before Pam has a chance. “We were undecided between a lighter Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella and a nonfiction title, The Vow, the Carpenters’ true story. That couple’s story is so similar to yours, but at least you remember being with Sam, even if you don’t recall marrying him.”

Because it didn’t happen, I want to say. But I keep my reply practical instead. “Why don’t we let the book club decide? Can we put a poll in the newsletter?”

“I’ll set it up in our Goodreads group so I can pick a definitive end date for it. We need to account for enough time to stock the book.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I finally make it to the office and shut myself in with the baby. For the first ten minutes, I relish in the quiet. In the next ten, I organize the desk. By the half an hour mark, I’m already bored to death.

I even peek at Bram hoping he might give signs of awakening, but he lets out a peaceful, bubbly snore in reply.

Resigned to the need for human interaction, I exit the room and ask Pam to show me our method to stock the shelves. She gave me a rough idea this morning, but nothing beats a practical lesson.

I help her carry up the boxes of new arrivals from the basement, and we set up a little sorting area in the faraway corner of the shop where we won’t be bothering patrons.

As I open the first box, I can hardly contain my excitement at the treasures hidden underneath. Each book is a unique story, a different world, or adventure.

As Pam and I shuffle books out of the boxes and discuss their placement—top, middle, bottom shelf, cover forward, spine only, front table new releases, and the honorary window spots—I can’t help but notice again none of the books are from Marley Press. Jackie, my partner at Wilkins and Marley in my universe and former colleague in this reality, did leave Bucknam and founded her own publishing house—totally stealing my idea—even in this version of the world. But in this dimension, the company only bears her name. Still, the titles published are eerily the same.

“Pam,” I say. “I can’t help but notice we don’t stock anything from Marley Press, is that intentional?”

Pam makes a gagging noise. “Gwak, you—we—hate them, they only publish rubbish with no spine—pun intended.”

Despite myself, I blush. “Oh. But surely we can find at least one quality book in their catalog?”

“Not a one, trust me. You always tell me they’re everything that’s wrong with publishing.”

Mortified, I’m scrambling to come up with a reply when an ear-splitting, high-pitched wail rips through the store.

Saved by the baby!

“Guess someone’s hungry,” I say, leaving the last few books for Pam to sort alone.

I free Bram from the stroller and retire to Mommies’ Heaven to nurse him. While the little mothersucker goes to town on my breasts, I reflect on what Pam just told me. I keep hearing Yashika’s voice as she begged me to publish a—frankly stellar—novel and me refusing in favor of publishing yet another empty, ghostwritten celebrity memoir. True, the company I built in my other life makes money by the bucket, but at what price? And couldn’t we make the same if not more publishing worthy stories?

When Bram is done eating, I ask Jo if she can play with him for a while. She’s started another fairy tale and looks like she has a mind to say no. Then she must remember her support isn’t voluntary anymore and that if she wants her new dress, she has to work for it because Jo reluctantly drops her book and goes to Mommies’ Heaven with her brother while I stalk Pam around the shop.

My clerk is helping a middle-aged woman choose her next great romance with the competence and enthusiasm of a real booklover who clearly enjoys her work. Once she’s shipped the customer out of the store with a stack of shiny new paperbacks, I corner her behind the counter.

“Pam, can you show me the store’s books?”

“Oh,” she yelps, and jumps back, frightened. “Caroline, you scared me.” She recovers quickly. “You want to see last month’s figures or what time frame are we talking about?”

“How quick does our accounting system update?”

“It’s basically instantaneous, why?”

“Then can you pull up this year’s and last year’s balances? With only a few days left in December, it should be an accurate enough number.”

“Okay, let me tell Elsie we’re going into the office.”

A few minutes later Pam brings up the accounting program on the office’s computer and with a few expert clicks prints out two reports, which she hands to me.

I stare at the numbers, flabbergasted.

I point at the long string of characters at the bottom of the email. “This is how much we made last year? Net?”

“Yes.”

“After paying my salary, your salary, Elsie’s salary, cost of goods, taxes?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Pam, this number is too big. We would have to sell too many books. The store can’t physically contain all this paper.”

“Well, no, but fifty percent of our profits are from the online store.”

“We sell online?”

“Yep.”

“And don’t shipping fees sink us?”

“No, most of our online sales are for eBooks?”

“eBooks? How is that even possible?”

Pam spends the next twenty minutes explaining our partnership with a major eReader producer and how the move has saved the shop during the Great Pandemic. How people choose to buy from us for the superior quality of our virtual storefront, recommendations, and curated editorial lists. Then she praises my business acumen and basically tells me I’m a luminary.

I’m still too shocked to believe her.

“But if I make this much, plus Sam’s income.” I don’t know how much he makes exactly, but it can’t be pennies. “Why do I live like a pauper?”

“What do you mean you live like a pauper?”

“My house is crap, I don’t have a nanny, a maid, or a chauffeur, and our car is a minivan, a minivan, for Pete’s sake. And all my clothes are rags. You know I don’t own a single designer item?”

“Well, my, Caroline, has this amnesia thing given you a princess complex?”

“Why? What’s wrong with wanting a few comforts?”

“For one, we aren’t in a Downton Abbey episode. You’d never want a nanny to raise your kids.”

So I keep hearing.

“Maura, the woman who cleans the shop, helps you at the house a few times a week. And you don’t need a chauffeur. Where would he even drive you? The five blocks to your house? Which, by the way, is a gorgeous home and not crap by any standard.”

“It’s no Manhattan penthouse, though.”

“No, but you wouldn’t want Jo, Will, and Bram to grow up in the city. And you drive a minivan because it is one of the few cars that can fit three car seats.”

“Okay, but if I don’t spend on clothes, cars, or anything else fun, where does the money go?”

Pam shifts on her feet, deeply uncomfortable. “I’m not your personal accountant, but if I had to guess I’d say you have the kids’ college funds—”

“Do you know how much those are?”

Still uncomfortable, Pam says, “About fourteen hundred each, I think.”

“Per month?” I ask.

Pam nods. “Then there’s the mortgage on the shop”—she taps the papers in my hands—“which is not counted here as you wanted to keep the walls and the business separate.”

“And how much is that?”

“Twenty-five hundred a month. And the mortgage on the house. Jo goes to a public school, but you’re in the best school district in New Jersey so your house must’ve cost a small fortune and the property tax is a bitch.”

My head is swirling with possibilities. So far, I’d assumed Jersey Caroline was a business failure, but here she is, sitting on a golden goose and doing nothing about it.

“If the shop is such a success, why have I not made it a franchise?” I fire at Pam, maybe a little too harshly.

She takes a step back and bumps against a cabinet. “You-you meant to, but you wanted things to happen slowly as you needed to find the right partners for every new location?”

“Meaning?”

“Co-owners who are as passionate as you about books and who share the same integrity. I believe you were in talks with five candidates for three new locations in the northeast. You can find everything in your correspondence.” She takes another step back as if to leave the room.

A sudden thought occurs to me. “Pam,” I stop her.

“Yes?”

“Were we, I mean, are we friends?”

“Yeah, sure, we’re great friends.”

“So even if I’m your boss you’re not terrified of me?”

Pam bites her lower lip. “You’re being a little scary right now.”

“But I’m usually not.”

“No,” she confirms. “You’re the best boss ever.”

“And how does that work with us being friends and me being your boss, too? Do I just let you do whatever you want?” I ask, thinking of the obese cat she brings to work every day.

“Well, you trust my judgment? I guess?”

“And what happens when you screw up?”

“This is a bookshop, not NASA. There isn’t much damage I can do… but you’re always very understanding even if I mess up.”

I consider this statement. “Can you give me an example of a mistake you made, and I didn’t berate you for?”

Pam thinks for a second. And just when I’m convinced she’s about to bullshit me with an, I never make mistakes, she talks, “Like take that time I ordered two hundred copies of A Court of Mist and Fury instead of twenty. You didn’t get mad at me, you just told me they’d sell eventually and not to worry.”

That doesn’t sound like me at all. If an employee at Wilkins and Marley made a mistake that big—comparatively speaking, which would account to making a print order of two hundred thousand copies instead of twenty—I would’ve fired them without a second thought.

“Did my attitude prompt you to do better in the future?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Well, yes. I felt so bad for making the mistake that I organized a Night Court-themed costume party with henna tattoo artists and a sort of speed dating area where people could mingle and search for their Fae mate.”

“And did it work?”

“Yes, we sold every single copy of the book and gained a lot of new customers. Two of them even got married last year after meeting at our party.”

I absorb all this info, digesting it.

Pam must take my silence the wrong way because she says, “Now I’d better go check if Elsie needs my help.”

She heads to the door as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me, which she probably is.

“Thank you, Pam,” I say. “And sorry if I’ve been a little… intense. It’s just that not remembering anything about my life is driving me crazy.”

Pam’s features soften and a smile comes back to her lips. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, glad I could help.”