A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley
Sixteen
All I Want for Christmas Is You
Once I’ve had a taste, I become addicted to making love to Sam. I’m transported back to those early months in our relationship when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
In my life as Caroline Wilkins the single, multimillionaire power woman, sex was another practicality I had to tend to. Whomever I was doing it with, I wanted only one thing from them: release. And I tried to reach it as quickly and efficiently as I could, impatient to get rid of my companion the moment the deed was accomplished. With Sam, I don’t mind if he takes his time with me. In fact, when we take it slowly—mostly at night when the kids are asleep—I relish the journey just as much as the final destination.
Delayed gratification: someone, somewhere, had a point.
Not to discount our daytime quickies, they aren’t any less thrilling or exciting or satisfying. Morning, evening, slow, fast, it doesn’t matter. I’ve turned into a stalker. I ambush Sam every chance I get to rip his pants off, and now that he’s between jobs and around the house all day, that happens a lot.
Sam needs time between one project and the next to recharge his artistic batteries, so he always schedules two to three-week breaks between jobs. But the Koi Hotel was such a demanding endeavor that he took an entire month off.
And with him at home, my life has gotten a lot easier on the kids’ front. Sam’s sabbatical couldn’t have come at a better time. Whether he stays home with the kids, or comes to the bookshop with us, or takes one or two off my hands, I can finally breathe. And, compared to when we lived together after college, he’s stepped up his house chores game a lot too.
When the holidays end, life improves further. With two kids in school out of three, I feel like being on vacation. I’m rested, energetic, and sated—I won’t pretend all the sex isn’t a huge mood booster. And even when Sam has to begin the design phase for his new commission, I’ve got enough of a grip on this mommy and wifey life to handle daily struggles like a pro.
On the first Wednesday Sam is back to work, early in February, he jumps up in bed at five in the morning with a sudden inspiration for his new project—a spa center that asked him to decorate the pool area like an ancient Roman thermal bath. I’m awake as well, since Bram demanded his morning feeding earlier than usual. I didn’t feel like sitting in the nursing chair, so I brought the mothersucker back to bed with me.
Sam, as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve, pulls up his pants, hopping from foot to foot as he rambles about nymphs and fauns. When he’s fully dressed, with clothes that don’t match at all—sweatpants, a button-down white shirt, and an ugly Christmas sweater that somehow escaped laundry day yesterday, he comes over to the bed and smacks his lips on my forehead.
“Sorry, Charlie Bear, I need to get this image out of my head before I forget it. I’m probably gonna be drawing all day, but I’ll be back in time for dinner. Are you good?”
“Yeah, honey, you go do your thing, I can take care of the fort,” I say, confident I’m telling the truth.
When Bram is done eating and asleep again, I take advantage of the early hour to take a long, hot shower before the gang gets up.
I put Bram in his crib with a move I’ve perfected to slide him on the mattress and drop his head gently so he won’t wake up, and get naked. The warm water soothes my oversexed muscles—doing it in every corner of the house is not always comfortable and some positions require a certain athletic stamina—until my legs turn to jelly and the heat and the steam become too much and I have to get out.
I wrap myself in a towel and lay on the bed, extending my hand to Sam’s side, regretful this won’t be one of those mornings. Then, a minute before the alarm clock goes off, I turn it off and get dressed. I switch on Bram’s monitor and go downstairs to make breakfast. Once everything is ready, I wake my princess with a series of tiny kisses Jo claims to hate and to be too grown-up to receive, but that I suspect she secretly loves.
“Mom,” she shoves me away, indignant. “I’m awake, you can stop that now.”
I sneak in one last kiss on her forehead before getting up. “All right, sweetie, time to get dressed, chop, chop.”
Jo is very independent, so I leave her to choose her own clothes and move on to Will’s room.
With him being younger, I’m allowed way more cuddles. I sneak into his twin bed and lift him onto my chest, just enjoying his weight on my ribcage for a while. When he stirs, I encourage the awakening with more serial kisses and a little tickling. Will wakes up, already smiling. He was a little sulky when we first met, but he’s progressed to become a joyful, lively kid who smiles all the time.
Will turns his chin up and kisses me multiple times on the cheeks in return. I hug him closer to my chest.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” I ask, preparing myself for his usual plea to skip school.
“Do I have to go to school today?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So that you can get an education and become even smarter than you already are.”
“And why do I need an education?”
“To be free to do whatever you want in life.”
“I want to be a race car pilot. Do I still need an education?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because then you’re going to be a smart pilot.”
Over my dead body, I add in my head. The sole idea of Will inside a race car at whatever age makes an icy shiver run down my spine. I don’t even know how I’ll cope when he’ll be sixteen and driving around in a regular car. I shudder the fear away. That milestone is thirteen years in the future. No need to worry about it now.
“Since you’re going to be a famous pilot, do you want to wear your Cars sweater to school today?”
“Yeeeeeeeeesssss!” he screams, covering my face with even more kisses.
I help him get dressed, and we make our way downstairs together. While Jo eats her milk and cereal, I feed Will his favorite blueberry yogurt and then get started on my breakfast.
Will gets bored pretty soon and demands to come down from his highchair. I let him down, he plays for a minute by himself, and then asks to sit in my lap.
“Let me finish eating, and then I can pick you up.”
He looks at me with big puss-in-boots eyes and brings his hands over his stomach. “My tummy hurts.”
I know I shouldn’t encourage the lying, but I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips.
“Your tummy hurts?”
Will nods.
“And would sitting on Mommy’s lap help cure your pain?”
Will nods again with a cheeky, scarcely toothed smile. How can anyone resist? He’s just too cute. I pick him up, enjoy a long hug as he wraps his arms around my neck, and then I turn him over to finish my oatmeal. The usual battle for possession of the spoon and domain over the bowl—me, to eat, him, to play—begins.
Since it’s raining outside, I pack everyone in the minivan, check that I’ve taken Bram’s bag, that Jo and Will both have their bags and snack packets, and we’re off.
At Jo’s school, I execute a perfect drop-off. I pull up in the right lane, stop for exactly the allotted number of seconds, and I’m back on my way without the school traffic patroller even having to raise an eyebrow at me, let alone pick up his whistle.
At Will’s kindergarten, I have to park, since three-year-old kids can’t be dropped off by the side of the road. The rain is still pelting down without mercy. I debate trying to juggle an umbrella and a toddler and decide against it. I unbuckle Will’s car seat—he loves to climb to the front on its own—and pull both our rain-jacket hoods low on our foreheads, asking, “Ready for a run?”
Will laughs like crazy all the way from the parking lot to the school and only mildly protests when I leave him with his teacher.
“Hi, Caroline,” another out-of-breath mom calls out. A fellow rain jogger, I bet. “What a day, uh? Isn’t Sam doing the drop-off this week?”
“No, he started on a new project and he’s back to work.”
The mom, whose name I don’t remember, sighs dreamily. “Am I too forward if I tell you all the moms here would give an eye to have a husband like him. Sam has been the talk of the group ever since school started after the holidays.”
“Has he? Why?”
“For one, he was the only dad doing the drop-off. And he’s always so kind to everyone and looked so competent and involved with Will. I bet he even changes diapers and reads bedtime stories…”
I blink. “Don’t all fathers do that?”
The woman laughs now. “Oh, dear, no. Nope. No way. My John doesn’t know what a Diaper Genie is.” She pats my shoulder. “He’s a keeper, that husband of yours.”
I leave the perhaps over-eager mom with mixed feelings swirling in my chest. On one side, I’m proud because Sam really is the best. On the other hand, I feel like a fraud. I landed in this perfect life thanks to one cosmic misalignment, I didn’t choose it. The real me is the stupid cow who let Sam go, the idiot!
I’m still nervous and figuratively kicking myself in the butt when I get to work. So when Pam approaches me with a face that promises a verbal onslaught, I have zero tolerance and raise a hand to stop her and answer all her yet-unasked questions, “March book club, we have to make a pick I know. We should do romance again, yesterday’s meeting was so enthusiastic. Some ladies wanted to double down again and go for two books also next month, what do you say about something tragic a la Nicholas Sparks and a comedy to compensate, perhaps the new Christina Lauren?”
Pam nods and takes a breath, ready to talk. I prevent her again, speaking first, “I uninstalled and reinstalled our administrative software last night before closing. If it still freezes, I’ve had it, we’re going to upgrade. I saw the delivery truck pass me on the way, so I guess the new releases have arrived?”
She nods again.
“Then we can split the stocking of the shelves and, yes, you can have fantasy and young adult as long as you do the thrillers, too.” I pause for breath. “Was that all?” I conclude. “Did I forget anything?”
Pam’s mouth gapes open for a moment, then she closes it in a tight-lipped smile. “Is your memory coming back?” she asks.
“Nope,” I reply.
Pam’s smile fades and she points at my head. “I’m sure your memories are in there somewhere.”
As the first signs of a panic attack—cold sweats, dry mouth, tachycardia—creep on me, I try to keep a poker face, and mumble, “Sure,” before getting away with an excuse. I lock myself in the employee bathroom and hyperventilate in front of the mirror as I’ve just realized I’ll never remember my kids being born, or Jo’s first word, or Will’s first steps.
I splash water on my face, trying to remain calm. It’s okay. It’s already a miracle that I stole Jersey Caroline’s life. For the millionth time, I wonder what I’m doing here, how it’s even possible, but the only explanation I came up with is that in this parallel universe Jersey Caroline died hitting her head, and while we were both in a coma, we switched places.
Oh my gosh, does that mean I kicked the bucket in my world? Oh, hell, if the future Melodie showed me is to be any reliable, no one will be too heartbroken. Except maybe my parents and my sister, who, inexplicably, still love me in the present.
As my breathing slowly returns to normal, I decide that if one Caroline really had to die, it’s better that I went. Jersey Caroline, besides being a mother of three, is way happier than I ever remember being in my old life. Sure, she has to put up with a little more poop, regurgitation, baby food, and tantrums than ideal, but she is loved—I am loved. The kids love me, Sam loves me, and everyone I know likes me. I wouldn’t go back now, I could not go back to that life.
Another deep breath and I’m ready to return outside. I drop my bag in the office and since Pam has already started with the stocking, I help a college kid locate The Official LSAT Handbook and check him out.
I’m changing the registry’s paper roll when the bell over the entrance door chimes, signaling a customer has entered. I look up and my old life and new one collide.
Jackie Marley enters the shop. She gives the place a once-over, which ends in a meh expression—slight downturn of her lips and an eyebrow raise—as if she was expecting much more than what she’s seeing. She shuffles about the two large, round tables at the entrance with our featured new releases, opens a hardback or two, and recloses them after a few pages, still deeply unimpressed.
When I can stand it any longer, I come out from behind the counter and go to greet my former partner—in this life just an ex-colleague I haven’t seen in seven years.
“Jackie,” I call out loud. “Is that really you?”
She spins on her five-hundred-dollar heels and gives me a once-over. Her smile widens, probably to compensate for what she’s really thinking. “Caroline!” she exclaims, and while her lips keep smiling, her eyes roam over my clothes and widen slightly. Jackie looks as disgusted as I initially was when I first perused Jersey Caroline’s closet. But nowadays, fancy clothes and designer labels have no appeal. All I care about is that the stuff I wear is comfy and machine washable and dryable. Plus, I get spilled on or painted on too often to wear anything remotely high fashion. And sweatpants also have the privilege of being easy to pull down in case Sam is around—no pesky zippers that get stuck, no hard buttons to wrestle open, just a cozy, yielding elastic band.
“You look fabulous,” Jackie lies through her teeth. The moment her visit is over, she’s probably rushing home to wash the suburban taint off herself. Which poses the question: what the hell is she doing in my shop? “You haven’t changed a bit,” she proclaims, as if it were a big compliment.
She, on the contrary, has had a little work done—nose, lips, boobs—nothing too obvious. The best plastic surgery money can buy.
“You look wonderful, too.” And since I can’t stand her presence much longer, I cut to the chase. “What brings you into this neck of the woods? Got lost?”
“Aww, Caroline, can’t an old friend visit?” Not when we haven’t seen each other in seven years. “You know I was heartbroken when you never came back to work after having Lo.”
“Jo,” I correct her, thinking she didn’t even wait for my maternity leave to be over before she stole my idea of founding a new publishing company taking with her all of Bucknam’s unsatisfied authors. Jackie left out the Wilkins part of the name and went for a clean Marley Press instead, executing my plan to the last detail—or so the internet told me.
“Ah, Josephine, right, I forgot about your Little Women obsession. Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve heard about the independent press I’m running,” she says with false modesty.
Finally, we’re getting down to business. “Sure,” I say, hoping flattery will help me get rid of her faster. “Everyone has heard of Marley Press.”
“Really?” she asks, throwing another side-stare at the new release table. “Because you don’t stock many of our titles.”
Try none of them. “They’re not for our target audience,” I explain.
“Which would be?”
Amazing readers who want to lose themselves in a beautiful story. “Aw, you know,” I say instead. “Small town folks.”
“Even so, you held a release party for Isabel T. Mercer a few months ago that made quite a splash. Got a feature in the New York Times, everyone was obsessed with We Raise Together for weeks.”
“Yeah, great story,” I confirm.
“The thing is,” Jackie continues. “We’re releasing this new memoir in six months by Ashlyn Farnborough, My First Twenty-five Years, and we’re sparing no expenses for the launch. It’s going to be an instant bestseller.”
“Yeah, it will,” I say, blushing with shame. That crap book is the same I picked over Yashika’s debut author. In my previous life, I was as blinded by greed and an easy buck as Jackie is in both worlds. In my role as CEO of Wilkins and Marley, I couldn’t see we were publishing one trashy title after the other. Publications no one would remember in a few years, but guaranteed to fatten our coffers in the immediate.
“Congratulations,” I add. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me or the shop.”
“The thing is that Ashlynn saw the big splash We Rise Together made and the fuss the media kicked up… and she’s put it in her head she won’t have her release party anywhere but here, you know how stubborn celebrities can be,” she says with a tone that implies—you have no idea at all, you simpleton suburban housewife with a hobby bookshop you run to avoid day-drinking.
To be fair, that’s exactly how I judged this alternative version of myself when I arrived in this universe.
“Sorry, Jackie, but Ashlyn Farnborough’s first twenty-five years wouldn’t be a good fit for our readers.”
“Of course, we’d pay a pretty penny to host the party in your store,” Jackie continues as if I haven’t spoken at all.
I shake my head. “Still not a good fit, I’m sorry.”
“Come on, I’m sure your business could use a little cash influx.” Again, she says business as if she meant silly pet project.
“Thanks for your concern, but we’re doing just fine.”
That’s my competitive nature kicking in. I know I should be the bigger person, but her invasion of my turf with her Prada coat, Manolo Blahnik, and general Manhattan snobbism, has rubbed me the wrong way. I’m perfectly aware I don’t need to compete with this woman, on any level. Her life’s goals dangle at the end of a Botox needle and how many zeroes her bank account can reach. All things I left behind me. Despite that, I feel the irresistible urge to defend my choices to her. “We’re opening a second store in Boston in a few months.”
“A second store?” she asks, faux-impressed. “You don’t say.”
“Yep, the first of many more. In ten years, we could replace Borders.”
“Well, let’s hope you don’t end up in the same ditch instead. Is your word final on the release party?”
“Yeah, celebrities’ first twenty-five years of very interesting life are really not a target for my readers.”
“A dollar left on the table is a dollar lost,” she trills.
“I can live with that.”
“Very well, I wish you all the best with your little shop and your small life.”
Jackie storms out a la Cruella Devil, door slamming and glass rattling included.
I go behind the bar and make myself a latte I don’t drink. I keep the warm paper cup between my hands and stare at the foam, reflecting.
In my universe, that is the woman I chose as my partner. The idea now makes me recoil. And while Jackie and I were never best friends even in my old life, Manhattan Caroline more than tolerated her. Gosh, I was Jackie. Two peas in a publishing house.
I’m glad I never have to go back to that life.