We go every year! It’s your favorite store!”
“I just thought...we’d try something different this year,” I defended, swallowing hard as I stared at the towering store waiting on the other side of the street. It had now become a tainted ominous thing in my mind.
“You? Wanted to try something new?” Margo teased.
“Hazel, don’t be silly,” my mother shot back with a tone that made me feel five again. “We’re going to Palmers and that’s that. It’s a tradition, and one that you have always loved.”
Before I could argue any further, the crosswalk light changed and off they went...leaving me frozen there for a moment before I finally submitted to sprinting after them.
My stomach was uneasy as we approached the massive building with its beautifully arranged windows that once made me so happy. I had given up on trying to fully take in the grandeur of that year’s display, knowing that it would be the last. It was too hard to adore all the big and little touches, while also being painfully aware of the fact that it would never happen again.
The inside of the store was no better. I used to relish in the feeling, scents, sights, and textures of all the special holiday displays and merchandise. I made a point to include many stops on the shopping list every year, but it was an accepted fact that the majority of the goods would inevitably be purchased at Palmers. Because they were simply the best.
But with every step I took, now all I could see was Chris Palmer’s scowling face in my mind. I imagined him walking around behind me, ho-humming each and every single little thing that might have previously brought me joy.
It didn’t take long for my mom and sisters to pick up on my darkened mood either. Margo, as usual, was the first one to point it out.
“What’s gotten into you?” she huffed. “You usually love it here. Why do you look like you just saw a puppy get run over?”
“Jeez, Margo!” Mom squealed. “What a terrible thought!”
“Well, that’s how she looks.”
“It’s just this article I have to write for work,” I explained. “I was so excited about interviewing the owner here about the big annual display. But it turns out, Jack Palmer is retiring and I was left to deal with his grumpy grinch of a son...Chris.” I made a point to say his name with all the disdain I could possibly express with one syllable.
“What’d you expect?” Margo asked. “The guy’s probably a millionaire. You didn’t think any of them actually cared about Christmas, did you? They only care about how it lines their pockets.”
“It doesn’t help that he’s one of the most eligible rich bachelors in the country,” Payton added. “They just did an article on him in GQ last month.”
“Since when do you read GQ?” I asked.
“Josh has a subscription,” she shrugged.
“I don’t know why,” I scoffed. “He certainly doesn’t look like a guy who has any interest in it.”
Both Margo and mom nudged me from either side, giving me a silent warning about our agreement to stop teasing Payton so much about her terrible taste in boyfriends. They were convinced it was why she kept cycling through them so much, just to get on our nerves.
“Anyway, to answer your question...Yes, I did actually think they cared about Christmas,” I continued. “Why else put so much love and time into their window dressings and make it such a big affair? I thought it was their gift to us. It was part of what made everything about this place so special during the holidays. And now I’m expected to lie and write this stupid article like I don’t know what a greedy scrooge he is behind closed doors.”
“Whew. He’s really gotten under your skin.” Margo widened her eyes, looking amused. “He must be cute.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“A cute asshole?” Payton pressed.
“It’s impossible for me to find a guy like that attractive,” I told them. “A guy who doesn’t like Christmas. Pfft. Who would willingly throw out one of our city’s biggest holiday joys at that! It’s blasphemous. A complete travesty to everything I thought this place stood for.”
“A reminder that this is a department store,” Margo groaned. “Not the magical realm where Hallmark movies are made.”
I ran my fingers up and down the plushness of a cashmere sweater hanging on the rack in front of me with a not so subtle pout. “It felt like that to me though.”
“You never answered our question,” Payton sang.