James

 

 

I didn’t intend to go down the hill to town today. It’s ridiculous, really, how I ended up wading through Phoenicia’s last-minute shopping crowd while everyone else up at Mom’s house had all their presents tucked under the tree already. It’s my own fault, though. I managed to leave the Tiffany lamp I bought for my mother’s collection sitting on my penthouse couch as I left to drive upstate.

 

My distraction was understandable; my mother had just informed me that Andrea, my ex, would be staying with us for Christmas. The smartest thing that surgically-enhanced little gold digger ever did was ingratiate herself with Mom. I’ve been looking forward to getting away from my New York City problems for a few weeks. It irritates me to discover that one of the worst of them has followed me home for the holidays.

 

Mother has never forgiven me for breaking up with Andrea, and has tried to get me and Andrea back together more than once. She doesn’t understand that Andrea is a high- maintenance gold digger who whines and nags to get her way and refuses to even contemplate having kids. Even if Andrea wasn’t a bitch, she’s not the one for me, and both she and my mother refuse to see that.

 

In a way, the errand is a welcome vacation from the tension up the hill. Andrea, demanding that the heat be turned up to eighty, has spent the whole day since I showed up slinking around in a gold lamé mini dress and matching pumps, with her red hair piled artfully and hard gray eyes ringed with kohl. Clouds of musky perfume follow her around; like her artfully revealing taste in clothes, it once attracted me, but now it makes me a little sick.

 

I can’t breathe until I go out. Andrea refuses to go out in the cold with me, for which I’m grateful. The only part of me that still likes her is my cock, and the sway of her hips in that tight, shimmering dress had gotten my libido and me into a hell of a fight on the way out the door. It leaves me distracted and thinking of sex—and wishing I had someone kind and friendly to have a little fun with.

 

Andrea is a particular type of high-end sex worker who doesn’t like viewing herself that way. But her brand of trophy wife isn’t there to love your kids, or ease away your stress, or do much of anything besides look good on your arm, spend your money, and fuck. Like an escort. Once I realized what she was truly after—and it took me longer than I like to admit—I tried to free myself of her, but she already had her hooks sunk into my family.

 

Driving helps clear my head. Early winter in New York this year was been short on snow until last week, when we got dumped on for four days straight. Now the worst of it is cleaned up enough for people to move around normally, but the whole landscape on either side of the winding mountain road is blanketed in two feet of white.

 

I pass by the Whitman’s Dutch revival mansion, an enormous white structure with soaring gambrel roofs, a profusion of columns, and trim in scarlet and green. Even during the day those two have enough lights and decorations that their sprawling front lawn looks like a fairy land. The local kids love it; so do I. Andrea, predictably, called it “garish,” but she has all the Christmas spirit of a coal hopper.

 

Phoenicia has gentrified a little over the years, some of the touristy shops giving way to boutiques and specialty stores. One thing it’s always been, though, is big on holidays. But when I pull onto the main street and start looking for parking, it looks just a bit like the Phoenicians have gone overboard. What is with all the mistletoe?

 

I’m still wondering about that a half an hour later as I step out of the tobacco shop where I’ve picked up an inlaid wood desk humidor for Mom’s new boyfriend, Mitch. It, and the antique jewelry box I got Mom as a substitute gift, nestle in cocoons of tissue paper inside my shopping bag. I’ve got nothing to actually do back at Mom’s place aside from making small talk and dodging Andrea, so I’m trying to come up with excuses to prolong my shopping trip.

 

My phone goes off as I step outside, and I sigh and reach into my pocket to check it. My mother’s number. Of course. Andrea would never call herself, not when she can get my poor, gullible mom to summon me home for her.

 

Mom means well. She just desperately wants me settled with a houseful of cute grandkids, and Andrea has lied to her about her intentions this whole time. My mom is a very honest woman who has so little experience with lying that she can’t tell when she’s being led on. So Andrea uses her, and she argues in Andrea’s defense in return.

 

I tuck the phone back into my pocket, determined to at least have a few more minutes to myself. I’ll tell her I was in the shop buying the humidor. It’s the excuse I gave for coming down here, anyway. I’m certainly not admitting to my mother that I left the lamp she’s been coveting for months on my damned couch.

 

Fortunately, her birthday’s in January, so she’ll just have to wait to get it then.

 

Phoenicia is lovely as always. I would settle here myself if it wasn’t so far from everything I’m doing. As it is, I’ve thought seriously about weekending over here in a house of my own. But God, the crowds are thick today. Not that that’s any surprise, given the date.

 

I stand out of the way as best I can, trying to ignore the sharp smell of the mistletoe hanging everywhere. Maybe I can duck into the cafe for some lunch. Or even grab a few more gifts to tuck under the tree. I’m looking up and down the street, weighing my options, when I notice a lovely young mother approaching me.

 

She’s small, youthful, and almost delicate looking, with large, innocent green eyes, wispy blond hair gleaming like spun gold against her pale cheeks, and lips painted a simple pink. I can’t see much of her figure under the gray wool blanket she’s got wrapped around herself and her child, but that doesn’t matter. I’m already charmed. Especially when I notice the lack of a wedding ring.

 

Behave, I warn myself, though really, the lady’s sweet face reminds me of how I’ve been longing for a little more sweetness in my life. Especially after spending the morning dealing with that bitter, gilded viper that’s invaded my mother’s home.

 

The cherub she has with her is dark-haired and olive-skinned, her brown eyes full of wonder at the world as she gazes around. The two of them talk for a moment—and then the mother notices me and hesitates.

 

I quickly pretend not to be watching her, busying myself again with my phone. I text my mother with “in shop, call soon” and glance up again, noticing the blonde gazing at me all wide-eyed. I’ve been recognized.

 

It happens sometimes, even though I’ve been behind the cameras in various capacities, instead of in front of them, for over ten years. Most people reach a certain level of stardom and wealth and blow it on a lavish lifestyle, drugs, friends, what have you. I invested it, determined to create a production company where I could create good movies without tripping over corporate politics.

 

Things turned out better than expected. So I’ve been out of the spotlight for a while, at least on that level. I’m the man behind the curtain now.

 

But not to this one. I see the old dazzle in her eyes for a moment, and then the most charming attack of shyness that I have ever witnessed. For a moment I wonder if she’s going to walk up to me, or run away. I’m disappointed when she lowers her gaze and moves to walk around me instead.

 

Then the little cherub in her arms, mischief in her eyes, leans over and lays a smooch right on my cheek!

 

The poor woman freezes, her eyes flying wide open again, and looks up at me in a panic. I let out a laugh, even more charmed than before, and glance up at the bundle of mistletoe hanging directly over my head. “And a merry Christmas to you too,” I inform the little girl, who is grinning hugely.

 

“Oh my God,” the woman mumbles in such a mortified tone that I want to pat her shoulder and tell her it’s okay. I mind her personal space, though, and just maintain my smile and shake my head.

 

“It’s no trouble. She caught me fair and square!” I give the woman a smile, and she starts to relax, seeming a little baffled that this is actually happening. Poor thing. It’s all right, dear, I’m not going to bite!

 

Unless you want me to, of course.

 

There was a time in my career when that starry-eyed look coming from a beautiful young woman would have had me angling to get her into bed. With fans, it’s generally fairly easy—and fun for all, at least when I do it. Looking at her and at the soft light in her eyes when she gazes up at me, I’m tempted to do it again.

 

“Yes, I did catch you,” the little one insists, and then says firmly, “And that means you owe me and Mommy a cocoa! The kind with the whipped cream and peppermint sticks!” She even pokes a finger into my chest.

 

The poor woman. It’s all I can do not to laugh as she gives her opportunistic child a look of horror. “I—I’m sorry,” she starts, but I just smile and shake my head.

 

“Don’t you worry about any of that. I’m charmed, and fortunately for us all, I could really use the distraction.” I gaze down at her as she stares up at me, still slightly starry-eyed. Her little girl is beaming with such deep self-satisfaction that I almost start laughing again. This kid really knows what she’s doing.

 

“My name’s James,” I say warmly, never breaking the woman’s gaze. I’ve missed having someone look up at me like I hung the moon, especially after Andrea’s hot-cold mix of manipulative sweetness and disdain. There’s nothing manipulative about this woman. “What’s yours?”

 

“Lorena,” she murmurs tentatively, as if she’s worried I might be playing a prank on her. “This is Cindy.”

 

“Well, pleased to meet you both,” I reply, before gesturing toward the cafe. “Now let’s all get a hot drink, shall we?”