The winter of 1980 was a miserable affair in Chicago. Snow, ice, and a bad case of the blahs have left Christine Daae, music teacher and theater geek, down. Taking on a project to cheer herself up brings a strange man into her life. E/C, of course, and my annual Christmas story, with three chapters total. :) Please follow for updates!
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Chapter 1
Advent Angel
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Christine thought if she had to hear Andy Williams assure her that it was "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" once more, she'd throw the office radio out the fifth–story window.
It wasn't the most wonderful time. It hadn't been for years. This year seemed even more dreary than ever. The streets were vile, filled with dirty, slushy, half-melted snow that never seemed to drain or get scraped properly away. It merely hardened overnight into rutted ice, waiting to break your ankle. There was no parking to be had and tempers were fraying, shoppers sullen, and children more whiny than ever.
New Year's Eve wasn't going to be much better. They'd just be drunk and sullen.
Finally the last few minutes grudgingly wore away and the clock reached quitting time. At least for her, working this wretched temp job after school. The poor souls doomed to the evening shift were about to start.
She stood, stretching, and switched off the little space heater under her desk. Taking a temp job at the package store had been an act of desperation. She needed the extra money, and as a music teacher, had three spare weeks over the Christmas holidays.
She shrugged her way into last year's coat, dragged the hood up over her head, and tied the belt tightly. Not that it would do much good against the wind. She found her gloves rolled up in a damp ball in one pocket and cursed. They could have been drying out all day if she'd remembered.
The subway was on time for once, but packed full and reeking of exhaust fumes. Christine had a splitting headache by the time she made it to the suburbs and out to the commuter parking lot where her little car sat buried in snow. It started on the third try, the battery weak and headlights dim. "Just get me home," she told it, "and you can sit in the nice warm garage overnight. I'll even put you on the charger." Reluctantly, the VW Bug rolled through the lot and out on to the expressway.
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The mail contained nothing but bills and more catalogs, and the television screeched an endless stream of holiday cheer and consumerism, in-between bouts of depressing news. Christine ate a bowl of canned soup, hung the coat and gloves to dry over a floor vent, and gave up, heading to bed. The whole day had sucked. Any other time she'd pick up the phone and call her friends, but Meg was with her family, probably baking cookies and hanging stockings by the chimney with glee, drinking spiked eggnog and showing off her new diamond engagement ring. And Raoul…he was where this time? Nassau? The Bahamas? Grand Cayman Island? Somewhere ridiculously exclusive and warm with his family and friends and frat-brother connections, drinking expensive liquor and lying on a beach. Probably flirting with the island girls or some débutante sorority bimbo with more bleached blond hair than brains. She didn't care, she told herself fiercely. They'd broken up after that last fight, and he could just go to the damn beach. She hoped he got the worst sunburn of his life.
A sharp spike of pain let her know she was grinding her teeth again. Christine rolled over, punched the innocent pillow into submission, and forced herself to relax. Tomorrow had to be better.
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For heavens sake, Christine…there's almost always someone who has it worse than you. Try to find them and make their day a little brighter, hmmm? Keep it a secret, like your good deed for the day. You were a Girl Scout, right? Try it. I promise you'll feel the better for it.
She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, smiling. Fredericka Valerius had been her childhood music teacher, a stern, elderly woman who had taught Christine piano and then voice. She'd become much more, almost a surrogate parent as the little blond girl had become a bewildered teen. She'd offered those words one afternoon, exasperated with the teenage girl's angsty, self-pitying attitude.
Christine couldn't even remember the cause of that poor-me afternoon, but she'd taken the old lady's words to heart, and for the next few weeks tried to be a little more observant and kind to those around her. She'd cleaned her room without being told, and did her share of the chores a bit more willingly. She'd left a handful of notes around school, complimenting the girls and boys who were never cool enough to be part of the "in" crowd. She had washed glassware for her favorite science teacher, dusted shelves for the literature teacher, left cookies for the postman, and walked Mrs. Steven's fat and smelly poodle. And actually…it had helped.
She rolled back over and punched off the alarm clock's buzzer before it could start. She'd try it again. Anything was better than her sour attitude of the previous day. Maybe she'd be someone's Secret Santa for a few days. But for whom?
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Oddly enough, her luck seemed to turn that Saturday morning. Her favorite boots were dry and she found the favorite blue cowl-necked sweater she thought lost. She had taken the time to put her little car in the garage last night and hook up the engine warmer, so it was cleared off and greeted her with its headlights-and-bumper smile. Christine patted the Bug on the fender and made it to the commuter parking lot early enough to catch the 7:35 train. She made an effort to smile at all of the harassed customers in the package store, even the ones who hadn't even addressed their boxes or didn't realize that shipping a large crate to Outer Mongolia on 14 December meant it wouldn't arrive in time for Christmas. She kept a sharp eye out for someone who could use some holiday cheer.
Her answer came in the form of a phone call. Christine had loved to sing and dance since she was a toddler, and her relatively poor family had always scraped up enough money for this one indulgence. She had gone to college on music scholarships, and had become an elementary music teacher, but her evenings and weekends were spent with the community theater.
She'd tried out for a role in South Pacific, the upcoming spring musical…and now here was the call-back she'd hoped for.
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Every theater eventually acquires its own share of eccentrics, and The Highlander was no exception. The Directors, Moncharmin and Firman, claimed to have Broadway and West End experience, and maybe they did…there were a lot of jobs that involved work backstage. Adele Giry certainly had some background as a dancer and instructor, and Reyer, despite his sharp voice and exasperated mien, was a good music director. The door guard, an Iranian named Nadir Khan, was a sad-eyed basset hound of a man, tall and big-boned, a once-powerful man and a widower. Each was odd in their own way, but her target was not these. For somewhere, under the building in the basement, was the sound-man and special-effects guy, Erik Something.
He seemed to hang out below the stage, but he was everywhere and anywhere at once—hanging lights, working the soundboard back in the booth, running cables, managing the special effects. She'd even seen him a handful of times, a tall, thin man wearing the usual black of the backstage crew, military-short dark hair and something not quite right about his face. Meg thought he was a creeper and her mother had sharply forbidden the girls from exploring the old basements, but Christine wasn't so sure.
And if she'd ever seen someone in need of holiday cheer, it was Erik.
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She started with a mug.
The previous year, one of her students had gifted her with a mug. It was the most hideous thing she'd ever seen, a leering elf face, but it had the redeeming grace of holding nearly a quart of hot coffee. She had no idea what the man drank, but filled the interior with cocoa packets, tea bags, spiced cider mix, instant coffee, flavored creamer samples, and two miniature bottles of rum and whiskey. One could always make a hot toddy.
She wrapped it in gaudy green paper with absurd dancing reindeer, too outrageous to miss, and tied it with red ribbon. Christine attached a card—Erik-thanks for making us look and sound so good!—and stowed the mug in her carry-bag. She'd have to find a way below to leave it where he might find it.
Her opportunity came mid-evening, in the rush of a large group number. Christine slipped below stage to the workroom where she knew the tech crew cut gels and stored bulbs for the spots and minis. She left the wrapped present on the workbench where she knew he'd see it and was back in the wings before anyone noticed she was gone.
Christine went to bed with a lighter heart that night, plotting her next move.
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The next few school days were crazy with excited kids and frazzled teachers, and the evenings franticly busy with people dashing in to mail packages, late Christmas cards, or buy stamps, paper, or mailing labels, but they were far easier to bear now that she had a purpose. On her way home Christine stopped by McCrory's and bought ingredients for baking and the softest yarn in manly colors she could find. That evening, as the homey scent of sugar cookies baking filled the tiny apartment, she dug out knitting needles and set to work on a scarf.
It had become a game, figuring out when the mysterious Tech Director would be occupied and she wasn't needed on stage. She'd left the box of cookies, carefully iced and wrapped, next to the light board with his name on the label, and the sausage/cheese balls on his desk. A packet of graham crackers, giant marshmallows, and a couple Hershey's bars, complete with s'mores-making instructions, she left in the pocket of his long black coat. One evening she'd had enough time to make two loaves of homemade cinnamon bread, one for herself and one for him, and snuck it into the mail room with his name prominently displayed on a sticky tag.
An only child, Christine had had a lot of practice looking slightly confused and innocent. Four years of teaching children had given her a perfectly straight face. When she noticed his dark figure leaning on the lighting booth window, staring down at the stage, she had no trouble keeping occupied with talking to fellow cast members or looking very busily absorbed in the Director's harried instructions. Once or twice she'd seen him, standing well back in the shadows, arms folded and watching suspiciously. He had to be trying to figure out who was leaving him things as the man rarely left the booths or substage areas.
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"All right, everyone, that's it for the night. We're done." Reyer's voice came thin and exasperated over the speakers. Out in the stalls he rose, pulling off the headset and heading it to his assistant.
Gratefully the cast and crew fled the stage, making a beeline for the reception lounge where everyone had deposited their potluck offerings two hours before. It was the usual amalgam of offerings—deviled eggs, fried chicken, potato salad, cheese and crackers, piles of cut-up fruits and vegetables with dips, nachos, pizza, rolls, sliced ham, cakes, pies, cookies, dessert bars, brownies.
She was the last in line, having stopped by the restroom and checked on her latest surprise in the cloak room. Erik's next gift was there, tucked in a bag and hanging under her coat on the same hook. It had ended up quite long, almost a Dr. Who type scarf, for Erik was very tall and she'd wanted it to be long enough. Christine was rather pleased with it, with its mix of colors—black, brown, grey, navy, crimson, and forest green. She hoped to be able to give it to him tonight.
Christine was reaching for a plate when she noticed the silent presence behind her. Erik had actually joined the group, standing stiffly at the end of the line. Up close, his eyes were an unusual hazel, almost a dark yellow or gold, and he had to be at least 6'4". He gave her a quick glance and turned away as her eyes widened, disappearing back into the hallway.
He wore some sort of facial mask or appliance.
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Thanks for reading and please review. :)
~R