All That and Then Some

ALICE - Would I Lie To You?

WE'RE JUST DAYS AWAY from Christmas now. I've coaxed Maeve into baking cookies with me even though she said she was wiped out from her early mornings at Margolie's.

"But I need your help," I whined. "You know I can't bake. Nothing ever turns out."

"That's because you refuse to follow a recipe," she retorted but sighed and helped me get the flour and things out.

Now, we're standing companionably in the kitchen, side-by-side, me mostly watching and tasting, her doing all the measuring because I can't be trusted to do it properly. Our first batch of shortbread had melted into a single sheet of yellow mush because I'd used too much butter (she said). I blamed the oven.

"Here," she hands me a rolling pin. "You can crush the candy canes for the peppermint crackle."

I laugh because that's the job I used to give her when she was little until she proved that she was better than me at the whole business of baking. 

"That's a baby job!" I complain, flicking a pinch of flour at her.

"Mum, stop it. You'll make a mess," she says sternly, turning back to her mixing bowl, but with the hint of a smile on her face.

That's my girl, I think. There she is.

I'm just about to do something wildly embarrassing for both of us, like give her a big soppy hug for no reason, when the doorbell chimes.

"Another delivery?" Maeve tuts. "I thought we were having a 'true meaning of Christmas' Christmas this year."

I shrug helplessly and wipe my hands on a dishtowel as I move toward the door.

What I find on the porch is, in a word, unexpected. Rather than the sad, brown packing taped cube of the usual delivery, I am stunned to find an oversized bundle of flowers in white and green, winking at me prettily through clear, crackling cellophane. The whole thing is tied with a big red bow.

"Wait, who are these from?" I call at the disappearing back of the harried delivery driver. He shrugs unhelpfully and climbs into his big van.

I pick them up reverently and look them over. Beautiful white lilies nod sleepily around soft wintery greens. Because I've been raised on hallmark movies, my involuntary first instinct is to assume they're from my husband. He has been really off-ish with me ever since I told him about the retreat — since before that even — and this must be his way of apologizing.

I clutch them happily to my chest and close the door behind me with my foot.

Maeve has emerged from the kitchen to see what I've got. At the same time, Vic happens to be coming down the stairs. I look up at him brightly, ready to thank him for the unexpected peace offering, until he grumpily says, "Who are those from?"

The card, which I pluck out from amongst the flowers and read aloud, generates more questions than answers.

--

Because it's Christmas. Union Station Bar, Friday at 4pm. xx~J

--

"Who's J?" I ask in bewilderment.

"Joss Carvil," Vic states unequivocally.

"No, it's not," I say with more confidence than I feel. It could be, I guess. But why would Joss send me flowers? Why would he be asking to meet me at the station directly across from the King Edward hotel where I'm already reluctantly booked to meet his sister Justine for our 'getting to know you' dinner.

"Oh!" I exclaim, relieved, "Justine Carvil. Kiss Kiss J! I'm meeting her for dinner at the King Eddy on Friday. Maybe she wants to meet at the bar first."

Vic looks at me critically as if to say, don't be blind, but I shake my head. It must be Justine. Although it's still weird. Why flowers? Why the Union Station Bar instead of across the road in the hotel's much nicer bar? I try to imagine Justine in her elegant Armani and unscuffed Louboutins sitting at the sticky topped bar where commuters get pissed before going home to their suburban families. Does she have a secret passion for Coors Light on draft? Something about it doesn't quite add up.

But the alternative — or allowing Vic to suspect he's right — is equally impossible.

I look at Maeve for support, but she just shrugs and lopes back to the kitchen.

"Justine," I say again, placing the card back into the flowers carefully as if the whole thing had just morphed into a live grenade.

THERE IS NO FURTHER mention of the flowers. They sit on the hallway table, nodding prettily as people walk by with their eyes averted. Even though their scent, fragrant evergreen and creamy clove from the lilies, permeates the house, Vic and I are pretending they don't exist by some mutual collusion. I have a feeling that we both stop and take a long, wary look at them when nobody else is around.

Friday is only two days away.

I can't decide whether I should go to the Union Bar or not. On the one hand, if the invitation is from Joss, I have to be concerned about the message my attendance would suggest. Namely, that he can just JossTheBoss me around at his whim. But also, flowers and a date at the bar have the undeniable whiff of extramarital dalliances. On the other, we're days away from a formal legal agreement bringing our companies together (in a KingKong/Fay Wray sort of way), and the whole thing could easily be explained through a business lens.

Then again, if the invite is from Justine, then it could amount to nothing more than a pre-dinner drink. Perfectly harmless.

The card's lack of specificity is its greatest threat.

In the end, I decide not to decide and instead eat an entire pan of warm cookies.