A Winter's Tale
Light the Night Fantastic
A Few Days Later, 7 pm, Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village
Mel stared, transfixed, at the Turkish star-shaped paper lanterns adorning the holiday shop stall, one of many in the town square as of late, to help usher in the holiday season. The center contained five or six-petaled damask pink etchings, followed by ones in paler aqua, glowing against the evening chill. Several inches away were a dark amber-hued paper star, a crimson origami-styled design, and a couple of cheerful daffodil-hued celestial lanterns as well.
Glancing ahead at the next stall, she noticed a healthy adornment of holly coupled with lime green and cherry-colored baubled décor. Madame Mayor certainly knew how to bring the community together, and support local businesses, she thought, as she breathed in the delicious scent of roasting chestnuts and—was that—?
"Hot cocoa?"proffered a familiar British voice. It was Abigael, holding two identical cups of the frothy concoction.
"Thanks," murmured Mel appreciatively as they continued walking, taking cautious sips all the while. These days, it seemed Abigael appeared nearly everywhere, almost akin to an eternal shadow, but one of the best possible sort. It was difficult to put her finger on it, but the brunette seemed very attentive to her needs—whether she was hungry, cold, or stressed out, Abigael knew the remedy for just about everything.
And for that, Mel considered herself lucky. Lucky to have such a colleague.
Because that's what they were, right?
The pair rounded the corner, passing the ornaments pop-up, coming across a bevy of Christmas trees and a chorus of carolers. Coworkers…just coworkers.
Yet, she wondered whether it was her imagination, or if she and the woman beside her could be more—more than colleagues, more than coworkers, more than business partners. It was the blooming camaraderie over the past week or so that warmed her soul in indescribable ways, which also had the town talking.
"EXTRA! EXTRA!" The local tabloids read the other day. "Coffee-Pleather Merger, a Match Made in Heaven?"
"Oh dear sweet Jesus," Mel recalled muttering, upon glancing at the impossible-to-ignore headline from where she stood in her—their—café, her face turning beet red as she continued to prepare her Gingerlady lattes and, at Abigael's behest, a couple of boozy snowmen shakes, their stick-like arms made of frozen dark chocolate ganache. "I-I'm sorr—" she began, but Abigael placed a finger on the former's lips.
"Are you?" the Brit inquired with a delicious twist of her lovely lips. "Because I'm most certainly not."
7:30 pm, Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village
Mel thought over their lunches, her colleague's hand draped across her own shoulder at turns, laughing over the latest baking fad or fail, her teeth glimmering bright as luminous pearls, its owner whom Mel wished to know and study ever the more. Were those lunches…dates?
She thought back to a couple of days before, when she had found herself in what Abigael called "her lair"—her small apartment directly behind the pleather pop-up storefront. There were countless Rembrandt-style oil paintings decorating every inch of free moss-hued wall space, the main source of light being—was it ten or eleven—candles? Mel half-expected the figures painted within each artwork to move, and was almost disappointed when they didn't.
Over a chaser of brandy, the pair had begun sharing their art designs for various drinks and snacks to tantalize and tease the taste buds of current and prospective customers. A miniature gingerbread house, Jack Skellington style? Double fudge red velvet crinkle cookies? Snickerdoodles with Madagascar vanilla and Vietnamese cinnamon spice?
Nothing was off the table. Peanut butter chocolate kiss cookies. Gummy Santa hug hat cookies. Neither was, apparently, whatever that was, Mel posited silently, noting how Abigael's slender porcelain hand skated past her own wrist, a ghost of a whisper, perhaps, a foreshadowing of something…more, if she herself was brave enough to venture forth—and embrace it.
Was she brave enough?
Mel pondered the question, surrounded by the scented pine, mounds of snow, and festive "Here we go, a wassailing," whispering in Abigael's ear of a detour for hidden scenic lights.
7:44 pm, Alley off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village
"Where are we?" asked Abigael warily, as Mel beckoned her to follow through a somewhat foreboding hidden alleyway. "You're not going to seduce me solely for my recipes, are you?" she inquired with a somewhat bemused expression, though obscured by the surrounding darkness.
Mel turned to her, intrigued as to the direction of this conversation, but not daring herself to hope. Not a single iota. "Abi, who do you take me for?" Seduce? Is that where we are? Are we—a thing—?
"I kid," responded the brunette, though not as much as she herself supposed, if entirely honest with herself. The female pair traversed the dank corridor, sidestepping bits of faded wet confetti and what appeared to be sodden remains of Christmas poppers.
7:45 pm, Harbor off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village
"Are you sure we're not lost?" she asked, for what was likely the umpteenth time.
Mel stopped a moment later. "Abigael, close your eyes. I'll tell you when to open—"
"Mmmhmmmm…." the Sussex lady, somewhat skeptical, nevertheless did as Mel requested. Please don't leave me in an alley—I regret my much-earlier actions—is this how they do things in this country? A jumble of fractured thoughts and theories surrounded the Brit, who was altogether unsure of Mel's motives.
"Look—" breathed Mel a second later, as Abigael's eyes sprang open, revealing a dazzling, bedazzled array of glittering lights, adorning countless sailboats, canoes, catamarans alike, in a positively nautical holiday-festooned setting.
8 pm, Harbor off Christmas Market, Spruce Hill Village
They sat companionably at the pier, legs swinging, overlooking the body of water glittering nearest them, sweeping in an ombre design, darkening further ahead to a rich plum-indigo, reflecting the twinkling stars dancing across the night sky. The water, Mel knew, extended for miles in every which direction, and had a certain meditative quality about it.
"Oh, Mel," sighed Abigael, positively in ecstasy. "It's simply lovely."
The pair sat for several minutes more, listening to the rush and curl of the waves below, before Mel began to speak once more, of something she sensed she needed to get off her chest. "Why did you steal it?"
Abigael frowned. "Steal…?"
"The organic vegan gingerbread. Ok, more monopolize than steal, but—"
"I didn't steal it," Abigael replied softly, her fingertips nearly grazing Mel's own.
"Really?" Mel raised an eyebrow, somewhat unbelieving. Then…why?
"I took the gingerbread because it gave…well…" the brunette paused, hesitating. "It gave me an excuse to bother you—"
"Bother—me?" Mel wasn't sure whether to laugh, or—do any manner of things—one of which could involve clasping her hand in her own—but what if that was a bad idea? Mixing business with pleasure?
Abigael nodded, her eyelashes fluttering ever-so-entrancingly, as the distant choir broke into contemporary song—"All I Want For Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey. "I thought if I did, and you were annoyed enough…we'd see each other more…"
And in that moment, time slowed down, the sparkling tea lights providing a certain coziness and warmth enfolding the women as they ruminated and spoke aloud their tenderest, deepest confessions. And in doing so, Mel thought to herself that Abigael Jameson-Caine had never looked more kissable in her life.
Leaving caution to the wind, they each tucked a lock of hair behind the other's ear and giggled, knowing where their lips would travel, how their paths would remain intertwined for the near and distant future, realizing their destinies were forever fused in fruitful entrepreneurial abundance.
Later That Evening, 11 pm, Mel's Bedroom, Vera Manor, Suburbs of Spruce Hill Village
She ignored the knowing looks exchanged between her sisters and Harry as she snuck in well past 10 pm. Who's the juvenile delinquent now? Maggie wanted to say, though Macy was seen jabbing the youngest in the ribs. Don't ruin the moment, Macy seemed to say, as Harry nodded in agreement. It had been ages since they had seen her just this happy. Exuberant, even.
Reader, I kissed her. Mel wrote the following four-worded entry into her Tumblr, attaching the perfect glimmering nautical tealight Instagram photo, this time curated from the oh-so-exotic location of Provence, France. And—done. She recalled her marble visage, wavy dark hair, that tiny freckle nearest her right cheekbone, and the velvety, mint-scented smoothness of her—
Hola Lilla! Mel turned to her phone, thoughts of Abigael momentarily interrupted.
Oh. In the course of the evening's events, Mel had almost entirely forgotten about her online correspondence. Oh right. Om and Lilla.
What was to become of Om and Lilla? she wondered to herself, hoping that Om was the woman she had grown delightfully acquainted to in the past month, weeks, and days since their less-than-stellar first meetup. Or accosting. But what if she was wrong?
Hello Om, Mel finally typed. It's been one very long and crazy day…