“Clark? Clark, are you awake?” she whispered. Half of her didn’t want to disturb him, while the other half of her demanded she wake him up. It wasn’t even midnight, after all. There was so much Christmas left and so little time to prove its worth to him. Fortunately, he saved her the trouble of waking him.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” he whispered back, as though they were in a crowded movie theater instead of his own living room.
The next phase of Kate’s plan wasn’t really for him. It wasn’t even part of the plan. She’d been doing Christmas without parents for most of her life, which meant she was fairly stuck in her ways. There was one tradition she refused to compromise on.
“I was wondering… Do you have a copy of A Christmas Carol?”
“No idea. Why?”
“I read it every Christmas Eve.”
She thought she’d brought her own copy for such a scenario, but a quick scan of her backpack earlier in the evening revealed only pajamas, a change of clothes for Christmas Day, a toothbrush, and a box of white chocolate pretzels. Perhaps during her packing she assumed the multimillion-dollar mansion would contain at least one copy of the greatest novella in the English canon; if she had a manor and an estate, she’d have a million copies. It was, after all, her favorite book.
“Really? But don’t you…” Clark leaned forward, popping out from behind the panels of his chair to scoff in disbelief, “You basically watch A Christmas Carol every day for like, a month and a half, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but…” Kate played with her hands. One of the reasons she’d gotten the job at the festival was her reputation in town as the “Dickens-obsessed girl.” She could practically recite the original book by heart. What they didn’t know was that after the festival ended on Christmas night, she tucked herself into her bed at her dad’s house and read the book over and over again, just so she could pretend she was still in a magical world of hope and joy, rather than a booze-soaked nightmare. Kate didn’t feel inclined to tell Clark the entire truth, so she danced around it instead. “Usually, once the festival is over, I go home and I’m too keyed up to sleep. It’s my favorite book, so it puts me in a good mood.”
“Follow me,” Clark said, rising to his feet.
“Where are we going?”
“If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in the library. C’mon.”
Kate caught a passing glimpse of the library earlier, but walking in and fully immersing herself in it almost knocked her back a step. She’d never been in this room before. It was off-limits during all Christmas Company events. Belle’s library in Beauty and The Beast had nothing on this beautiful collection of leather-bound tomes. The Woodward Library in the center of town, until now Kate’s favorite place in the world, paled in comparison. She thought back to the stack of three rotating library books on her bedside table and her falling-apart copy of A Christmas Carol. Rich people may not have had it easy, as Clark’s stories about his childhood suggested, but they did have an endless supply of books, which Kate could absolutely get on board with.
“There must be a million books in here,” Kate said, awed.
“I think it’s closer to two thousand. Let’s check the card catalogue.”
“There’s a card catalogue?”
“How else would you find anything?” Clark arrived at a carved wooden chest pockmarked with orderly drawers. Each was labeled with a series of letters. He rifled through the Da-Dl drawer, moving the cards with practiced efficiency. Kate could only assume he was too cheap to digitize his office. Everything in Woodward Enterprises probably operated on card catalogue. “Dickens… Dickens… Oliver Twist. Tale of Two Cities, A… Pickwick Papers… I’m sorry. No A Christmas Carol.”
To his credit, Clark really did sound sorry. This morning, he probably would have jumped for joy and rubbed the absence of the classic story in her face. The taste in Kate’s mouth bittered with disappointment.
“Maybe it’s somewhere else?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Clark said, even as he dug through the catalogue for a missing or misplaced card. “But why don’t you read it off your phone?”
“That’s not the same.”
She realized how petulant and selfish the refusal made her sound; she didn’t care.
“It’s a shame. I’ve never read it.”
They’d discussed this character flaw of his before, but now Kate felt she could really shine. All her life prepared her for this moment. Adopting a practiced British accent, she dipped into the same performative storytelling style she often did when reading the abridged children’s version to the little ones in the festival cast.
“Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clerk…” Kate stopped. That wasn’t right. “No. Was signed by the clergyman, the undertaker…” Again, she messed up. “No…”
When she looked back up, Clark graciously hid his laughter behind a hand clenched over his mouth.
“Are you trying to recite it right now?” He managed between tightly gritted teeth.
“I used to have it basically memorized.”
“Is that a brag?”
“It’s a tradition,” she defended as they made their way through the illuminated house back to the pine-scented living room.
“Then read it on your phone.”
“You don’t get it. The book itself is important. It takes me to Victorian England. Reading it on my phone reminds me I’m here in this time and this place. The paper is a medium across time.”
“Listen. I like you, but you are a huge nerd. You know that, right?”
Despite her disappointment, Kate laughed. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that and it wouldn’t be the last, but coming from Clark who cobbled his own shoes and whispered when the TV was on, it was a hilarious accusation to hear. “No one knows better than me.”
But if loving Christmas and trying to get others to love it too made her
