At one point or another, everyone is faced with an opportunity that will fulfill their greatest desire at the cost of their greatest dislike.
I was at that point.
I tapped the ‘play’ button again, letting the warm tenor stored in the message on my phone echo against my ear.
“Hello, this is Mr. Nicholsen from the Fairmont San Francisco.” His voice was alluring—like the sweet smell of sugar inside a pastry shop. It made my mouth water, my stomach clench; it made my body want what the voice implied—the delicious male it came from.
Maybe that was why I saved it—or one of the reasons.
“This message is for Ms. Holly Jolly.” Here there was a slight pause, and I could hear the smile in the man’s melodic voice as he made no attempt to hide his bemused grin at my name.
Holly Jolly.
I knew it was ridiculous.
This was what happened when you were the daughter of two devout Jehovah’s Witnesses who didn’t indulge in holidays, and who were purposely ignorant of all their trappings—your name became the epitome of merry mockery.
The irony of being named for a holiday I was forbidden to participate in was a unique form of wintery torture that plagued me every year when I was younger.
‘Have a holly jolly Christmas.’
It was literally the one thing I couldn’t have. Not the presents. Not the carols. Not the trees and traditions. So, I didn’t bother to try.
I’d lived with it for almost three decades and in all that time, I’d had yet to find as much cheer from the name—or the holiday it stemmed from—as everyone else around me.
“I’m calling because I’d like to offer you the unique opportunity to be the pastry architect for our legendary holiday Gingerbread House. If you are interested, please give me a call back. We’d love to get you out here as soon as possible.”
That was why I saved it—to remind me of the opportunity. Not to listen to the sugar-coated voice that offered what could be the pillar of my career at the expense of one of my worst nightmares.
Clicking off my phone, my head pressed back into the back seat of my Uber.
Outside the window, every lamppost was wrapped in garland and lights. Signs for San Francisco’s infamous Santacon were plastered on every restaurant window.
I groaned. How… jolly.
Christmas was in the air—my own personal version of pollution—and it was topped by an invasion of gaudy red-garbed men drinking their way through the city like an animated army of exaggerated cheer.
I held my breath as the light turned green, the electric Prius struggling with each start up the mountainous streets of the city.
Two more blocks.
I could see where the road disappeared two lights up as it leveled off at the top of the hill where the Fairmont Hotel was seated. A castle on a hill.
Hopefully the uphill battle to get there wasn’t any indication of how this job was going to go.
All for a gingerbread house.
“So, are you here for vacation?” the older Asian woman driving the car asked as we waited at another red light—on another hill.
“No.” I smiled, feeling bad since she’d been trying to hold a conversation with me since she picked me up at the airport and all I could manage were one-word answers. “I’m going to be working at the hotel.”
“Doing what? Bartending?” She peered at me through the rearview, her eyebrows kissing her hairline. “Now’s the season, when all the Santas come and drink—”
“No,” I broke in with a quick smile. “I’m a pastry architect.”
“A what?” It was pure coincidence that she happened to slam on the brakes so we didn’t run a red light at the same moment her question came out.
“A pastry architect,” I repeated, familiar with this strain of conversation.
Truthfully, it was much simpler to navigate a discussion of what in the Dickens a pastry architect was compared to why I, Holly Jolly, hated Christmas.
“Do you have Instagram?” I’d found it was much easier to show people some of my creations to help them understand.
“Oh, no. I practice social media distancing.” She shook her head.
I fought to keep my expression unfazed and explained, “I went to school for architecture but then decided to become a pastry chef. So, I create pastries—desserts—that are very intricate and detailed, in a sense building them rather than baking them.”
It was easier to see the blend of geometrical figures and architectural designs in my social media portfolio. It wasn’t a common job because I served a niche market. Not many people care—or