The undisturbed snow in Central Park glitters like diamonds in the night, catching Nora’s eye as she chases her runaway dog. Elliott drags his leash over the icy walking paths, and every once in a while, Nora swears he turns around and laughs at her.
“You are a mangy mutt!” she calls out. In response, Elliott makes a sharp turn to the left, plowing through a pristine powdery snowbank and emerging on the other side, back into civilization. With snow on his massive snout, he heads toward the nearest sidewalk, oblivious of traffic and pedestrians.
“Adopt a mastiff, they said,” she mutters breathlessly. “It’ll be fun, they said.” She glances over her shoulder, hunting for her husband.
“Jack!” she calls when she doesn’t see him. “He’s headed toward Mercy Street.”
She breaks a left and leaps onto the sidewalk, her snow boot sliding just a bit on landing. She rights herself and sprints after her dog, who in spite of her grumbling, she loves more than life itself.
Ahead, through the sparkle of festive Christmas lights adorning the street, Elliott lopes through the shoppers peering into store windows. Some look at him curiously, and some step back in horror when they see the two-hundred-pound canine lumbering in their direction.
“He won’t hurt you!” Nora calls out. “He’s a giant baby.”
Elliott emits a deep bark, as if to argue.
“I’m going to kill you!” she hollers.
She can tell he’s finally slowing down. He pants a bit more, and gallops down the sidewalk, as people part to allow him through. No one has the courage to step on the giant dog’s leash and bring him to a stop.
He pauses in front of a dimly lit store at the end of the street, sniffs at the door, and then nudges his way in. The door, apparently, hadn’t fully latched, but it does so now after he walks through.
“Got ya,” Nora crows as she races to trap him inside.
The old door has brass bells overhead that tinkle when she pushes it open. The smell of cinnamon and orange hits her nose, and she comes to a stop. Soft Christmas carols come from an old record player in the corner, and as Bing Crosby croons, Nora scans her surroundings. Antiques of all sorts are crammed into every inch of available space. Vintage Christmas decor is out on display; dark old wood surrounds her at every turn.
“Hello?” she calls.
She takes a few more steps and comes eye to eye with a Victorian doll dressed in caroler’s garb, complete with a mink muff. The doll unfortunately has only one eye, which does give Nora pause before she continues poking her way through the cluttered shop.
“Hello!” a deep voice calls. Nora looks up and spots an elderly man emerging from the back. He’s got a lion’s mane of white hair and bushy white eyebrows. He’s so large that he dwarfs her traitor of a dog, who trails closely on the man’s heels, happily munching on something. “I assume this hungry boy is yours?”
Nora nods. “I’m so sorry for intruding. I was walking him, and his leash slipped out of my hand. He thinks this is a great game to play.” She eyes her dog, who has crumbs on his muzzle. “I assure you, no matter what he told you, he’s not hungry,” she adds wryly.
The door opens at that moment, and her husband bounds through, panting and tired.
“Oh, good,” he manages to say. “I thought I saw you come in here.” He looks around, his hazelnut hair hidden beneath his stocking cap
“Oh, no. Did he break anything?”
The old man chuckles. “Not a thing.” He eyes the two of them. “I was just getting ready to make a nice cup of hot cocoa. Would you folks be interested?”
“Oh, we couldn’t,” Jack says at the exact same time as Nora answers, “That would be amazing!” She’s rubbing her cold hands together.
The old man laughs again. “I think we’d better get the lady some chocolate.”
Jack winces. “I don’t want to spoil the fun, but I’ve got a conference call at nine. I barely had time to walk the dog with you tonight.”
Nora shoots him a look.
“But sure.” Jack sighs. “Of course we’d love to join you. It’s the least we can do—you caught our dog. If I have to, I can take the call from my phone.”
“I didn’t so much catch your dog as he caught me,” the old man says as he leads them to a quaint sitting space on the side of the store. “I was just getting ready to have some cookies, and I’m supposed to be avoiding sugar.” He gestures for them to sit on the antique settee and then turns his attention to a small portable stove.
“My name is Padraig; you can call me Pad. I’m afraid I don’t have much gingerbread left to offer you,” he says apologetically. “Elliott here sure liked it, though.”
He motions toward an empty plate, where crumbs line the bottom. They match the crumbs on Elliott’s muzzle, and he shows no remorse whatsoever as he wags his tail at Pad.
“Oh my word,” Nora breathes. “I’m so sorry. He has no manners when it comes to food. You’d think he’s starving, but he is the best fed dog you’ve ever seen, I promise.”
“He’s not wanting for groceries,” Pad agrees, staring at Elliott’s stout frame. “But there were just a few out on the plate. I thought it was only going to be me, after all. Having company is a nice surprise. Christmas isn’t meant to be spent alone, after all.”
Nora shoots another glance at her husband. Humor the old man, her eyes say. He’s lonely.
“You’ve still got a few days left to shop,” Nora reminds him. “Do you have any family coming?”
He shakes his large head. “No family to come,” he tells them as he stirs the milk. “My wife died years ago, and we didn’t have any children. You?”
Both Nora and Jack visibly flinch.
“We don’t have children,” Jack answers him, almost stiffly, taking the pressure from Nora. “But we do have family. We’re actually not from the city. We both grew up in a small Wyoming town. Our parents want us to come visit, but this year, our schedules are just too crazy.”
“Work?” the old man guesses.
“Always.” Nora sighs.
“Jack works on Wall Street. It’s dog-eat-dog, and he never has any free time.” Her tone is slightly sharp and a bit resentful, even to Pad’s untrained ear.
“Your schedule isn’t much better,” Jack mutters. He glances at Pad. “She’s an editor for a publishing company here in the city. It was supposed to just be an easy breezy job to occupy her after college until we started a family, but it grew a life of its own, and now she’s on track to be the editor in chief within a few years.”
“Well, now,” Pad drawls, spooning heaps of chocolate powder into red mugs. “That surely sounds impressive.”
“It is,” Jack agrees. “She’ll be the youngest editor in chief Parker-Hamilton has ever had.” His tone is also a bit resentful, and his wife shakes her head a little.
“Thirty-seven is young to be an editor in chief, but old to have a baby,” she explains to Pad. It’s clearly a sensitive topic, and both she and Jack hate that they’re talking about it in front of Pad. “I got sucked into building a career. Jack doesn’t think it’s possible to do both.”
She grimaces, and they try to change the subject, but as Pad hands them their hot cocoa a few minutes later and sits down across from them, he brings it back up.
“These days, plenty of women in their older thirties have babies,” he offers. “Or so I’ve read.”
“We barely have time for our dog,” Jack tells him. “We have to hire someone to come check on him twice during the day and to walk him during the week. You’ve seen how he behaves. If we can’t make time to appropriately care for a dog, how can we make time for a baby?”
“I reckon priorities change after little ones come,” Pad says easily, sipping his frothy brew.
“Or they don’t, and we’ll end up paying lifelong therapy bills for our kid,” Jack answers.
“Choices are always within our control,” Pad reminds him. “If you want to make time for something, you can.”
“Not so easily done if your spouse doesn’t agree,” Jack answers.
Nora’s head snaps up. “I’m not the only culprit here. I’m quite positive I can have a worthwhile career and still be a great mother. You’re the one who can’t even take an hour every evening to walk our dog together.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jack mutters back.
It’s a sore subject, and Pad finally steers away from it.
“Marriage is funny, isn’t it?” he muses. His blue eyes study the couple in front of him. They’re a beautiful pair, tall and slender, near the same age. By all appearances, they’re perfectly matched, yet they aren’t touching now and, in fact, practically lean away from each other on the couch.
Jack absently strokes Elliott’s head, with his other hand balled up and tucked beneath his leg.
“They say that after a while, married folks even start looking alike. Thank goodness that wasn’t the case with my Maria.” He laughs, his bulbous nose red. They laugh with him as he runs a hand through his thick unruly hair. “But you two—you’re a perfect
pair. How long have you been married?”
“Since college,” Jack answers. “We got married the summer of our sophomore year.”
“Our parents thought we were too young,” Nora adds. “We’d known each other our whole lives, though, and we knew what we wanted. We thought.”
Pad eyes her now. “You thought?”
“Things change, I guess.”
Her tone is sad, almost hollow.
“Things do change,” Pad agrees. “Changes can even be made backward, if you do it just right. But whatever the case, things can change. Sometimes, you’re just too close to something to see what needs to be done.”
Changes can be made backward? His words seem nonsensical. Jack and Nora exchange a covert glance.
“Do you live here alone?” Nora asks him, trying not to be intrusive but suddenly a bit concerned.
“I do,” he tells them. “Having an apartment behind the shop saves on money, and everyone knows that Social Security isn’t what it used to be. I putter around here all day, and I work on my story. I’m writing a book, you see. Or trying to.”
Nora suddenly tenses and hopes it’s not apparent. The worst part about being an editor is that whenever someone finds out, they inevitably try to pitch her a book.
Padraig doesn’t, though. Instead, he turns to Jack. “It’s nearing nine o’clock. Would you like to use one of the back rooms to take your call?”
Jack glances at Nora. Even though they clearly resent each other, he still wordlessly checks with his wife. Pad notices.
“Nora will be fine here with me,” he tells Jack. “I’ll keep her entertained with stories of my Maria.”
Nora nods slightly and smiles. “Go ahead, Jack. I’ll be fine.”
When Jack stands up, Elliott sprawls onto the floor, taking up all available space. He makes sure, however, to keep one paw touching Nora’s foot.
“He had a bad upbringing,” Nora tells Pad. “He was used as a bait dog for dogfighters. See the scars?” She points to various scars on Elliott’s head, neck, and torso. “It took him some time to get used to normal life when we first adopted him. He’s come a long way, but he definitely likes to stay near us.”
“How does he get along during the day when you’re gone?” Pad asks.
“That’s why we have to hire a dog sitter,” she answers. “He doesn’t like to be alone.”
“Poor ol’ boy,” Pad croons. Elliott’s tail thumps the ground, even though he doesn’t open his eyes.
“His shenanigans have exhausted him,” Pad announces.
Nora laughs. “You’ve certainly got his number. He’s got a good heart but an eye
for antics.”
Pad laughs with her. “That’s the only way to be,” he answers. His own blue eyes sparkle merrily.
“I can tell that you’re familiar with that particular trait.” Nora grins. “Jack used to be that way, too.”
Pad raises an eyebrow.
“I think Wall Street changes a person,” she finally answers. “It’s so high-pressure, it’s so cutthroat . . . he’s forgotten who he is outside of that.”
“That’s too bad,” Pad says, clucking his tongue a bit. “Maybe you should try to remind him.”
“I have.” She sighs. “He pushes my buttons, I push his. Our lives haven’t turned out the way I thought they would. I wanted a family, Jack wanted a career. When I started getting promotions, Jack was so supportive. He loved that I was building a career, and I loved that it made him happy. But I always thought that eventually, I’d have a baby. Now that I’m pushing for it, he’s using my career as an excuse. I’m resentful, and so is he. I guess we’re just not in a good place right now.”
“Have you acknowledged that out loud to each other?” Pad asks. “That’s an important thing to do. If you identify something, you can fix it.”
“Not really,” she admits. “But we both know it. I’m sorry for oversharing with you—we aren’t usually like this.”
“Sometimes, a situation simmers and simmers until it comes to a point where it’s about to boil over,” he says. “Would you say you’re about at the boiling point?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’m afraid of that, yes.”
“What do you think the answer is?”
She thinks on that. “I don’t know. But I wish I did. We need to remember who we used to be and why we love each other, I guess. It’s too easy to focus on being mad. I guess that’s the simpler thing to do.”
Pad respects her frankness and tells her so.
“I was married for a long time,” he says. “Would you like some advice?”
She nods. “I’d love some.”
“Nothing matters but each other,” he tells her solemnly. “In the end, nothing else matters.”
“In a perfect world, maybe,” Nora replies respectfully. “Nowadays, everyone has work and no time and responsibilities—”
“We’ve always had work and responsibilities,” Pad interrupts. “You just have to narrow down what’s important to you and focus on that.”
“It sounds so simple to say,” Nora says.
“Sometimes not so simple to do, though,” Pad agrees.
“Because everything is important. Our jobs. Our dog. Our families.”
“You said ‘our jobs’ first,” Pad points out.
“I meant them in no particular order,” she replies, but her cheeks flare.
“What specifically is keeping you from visiting your families this Christmas?” Pad asks bluntly.
“I . . . well, we . . .” Nora stutters. “Jack has conference calls and pressing things.
I have edits due on four different manuscripts by January 1, and I’m only partway through. We don’t have time to travel to Wyoming. Sitting in airports, having our luggage lost, sedating Elliott for the trip . . .”
“Too much trouble?” Pad asks, a strange tone in his voice.
“No. Just . . .”
“Not enough time,” Pad says.
“Yes. And Jack really doesn’t like Christmas. It’s a long story.”
“Well, time is finite,” he says. “But some things are worth stretching it for, Nora. Your folks won’t be around forever.”
“No, they won’t,” she agrees, feeling her chest get a bit heavy. “I know.”
“If I had my folks or my Maria back, I’d move heaven and earth to see them for Christmas,” Pad says, his voice wistful.
Nora’s chest gets even heavier.
“I bet so,” she says, her voice small. “Jack and I . . . we don’t celebrate Christmas in a big way. But we do love each other.”
Before Padraig can reply, Jack emerges from the back.
“All done,” he reports, and then he notices the serious looks on their faces. “What did I miss?”
“Pad was just telling me how much he misses his wife and his parents,” Nora tells him. Her husband glances at her.
“I’m sorry, Pad,” Jack says. “The holidays must be difficult.”
“Oh, I’m used to it now.” Pad waves his large hand. “And visiting with nice kids like you makes it bearable.”
He smiles.
Jack stares down at his wife. “We should probably be getting home, Nora,” he hints. Pad gets to his feet, taking Nora’s cup.
“If you’ll bear with me a moment, I’d like to give you something. I have just the thing.”
He leaves them staring after him as he wanders up and down his shop, hunting through shelves. “Nope, not that,” he mutters, pushing aside a crystal candlestick shaped like a reindeer. “Although that is certainly timeless.”
He pokes around for several more minutes until he crows in delight.
“Eureka!” he says, emerging from the aisles, a slightly dusty snow globe in his hands.
The scene inside is that of a quaint glass family gathered around a fireplace decorated for Christmas.
He shakes it and hands it to Jack.
“This is the gift for you to give to your wife this year, Jack.”
Jack startles, and for a minute, it almost seems like he hadn’t considered what he was going to give her, and Christmas is in less than a week.
Nora pretends not to notice, but her stomach sinks.
“Like I was saying . . . we don’t really celebrate Christmas,” she begins.
to say, but Jack is already thanking the elderly man.
Pad glances at Nora as he pulls out paper to wrap the globe. “I think you might be my friend Beth’s editor. I was her critique partner for a while. Beth Jacobs?”
“Oh!” Nora’s head snaps up. “Yes. I’m her editor. She’s an amazing human! What a small world!”
“Isn’t it?” Padraig agrees.
Jack tries to pay for the snow globe, but Pad won’t hear of it.
Instead, he touches his nose. “How about this: someday, if I ever finish it, Nora agrees to read my manuscript.” He finishes wrapping up the globe, puts it into a small brown sack, and offers it to her. “Whattaya say?”
“I say that you are more creative than most at pitching me your book,” she replies with a smile, taking the sack from him.
He smiles. “Well, writers are creative,” he says. “But editors are, too. Editors revise worlds until they’re absolutely just so, and that takes creativity.”
She seems unconvinced.
“You refuse to believe that there’s nothing a good red pen can’t fix. Right?”
Jack nudges her. “He’s not wrong,” her husband points out. She glares at him.
“You know that if you work hard enough, and study the sentence from every angle, you’ll convey the situation in a way that makes the scene real to the reader. You’ll pull the reader past the point of no return, a place where they’re your ride or die. Right?”
“How does he know what ride or die means?” Jack mutters quietly to Nora.
“You’re right,” she announces, surprising Jack, but not Padraig. “I do revise sentences to be better. But I never get to create. That lies in the blue pen, not the red. That is in the writer, not the eraser.”
“Oh, pish. That’s nonsense,” Pad tells her. “The slightest revision, and a world is changed. You know that, Nora. The editor fine-tunes the details until the world becomes better than the author ever thought possible. Without you, the world would be flat and one-dimensional, told from only one perspective. The editor offers a layer of enrichment, an outside perspective, that the author wouldn’t have had alone.”
“That’s . . . so insightful,” Nora says softly. “I’ve never considered it that way before,” she admits.
Pad nods knowingly. “So, with that in mind, Nora, what would you do if you could create your own world?”
Nora considers both his question and his original request.
“Okay, I’ll read it,” she finally tells him. “If the synopsis holds together.”
“It’s a deal,” he says with a grin. “And maybe I can come up with something more creative than a synopsis. But you’re avoiding the big question.” He looks at them both and points at the brown gift bag.
“If you could shake that snow globe and make a wish, creating the world you’d want . . . what would it be? Think on that, both of you,” he tells them, then pats Elliott’s big head. “Be a good boy, Elliott,” he says to the dog. “Come back and see me anytime.”
He nods at the couple. “You have a merry Christmas. This old man has gingerbread to bake.”
With that, he disappears into his back rooms without a backward glance.
They walk home in near silence, each lost in thought as their boots crunch in the snow. They’re almost to their condo building when Jack turns to his wife.
“I didn’t tell him Elliott’s name,” he says. “Did you?”
Nora thinks on that. “I don’t remember. But I must’ve, because it’s not on his collar.”
The door of their building opens, and the doorman greets them.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Blake,” he says. He bends slightly to Elliott. “Good evening, young sir,” he adds to the dog. He looks at them. “Can he have a treat this evening?”
“Of course, Matthew.” Nora smiles.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a treat that he carries specifically for Elliott. Elliott wolfs it down in half a second, licks his chops, and then promptly drools on Matthew’s shoe. The doorman doesn’t miss a beat. He simply pulls out a tissue and wipes it off, something he’s done a hundred times before.
“Have a good evening,” Nora tells him with a chuckle.
The couple makes their way to the twenty-second floor and emerges into their condo. Many would call it luxurious, but both Nora and Jack find it a bit empty and cold tonight.
Nora pulls the snow globe from the bag and sets it on a bookshelf in their bedroom. They brush their teeth in silence, turn off the lights, and fall into bed.
They manage to do all this without touching.
Elliott jumps onto the bed and sprawls between them. They both fall asleep snuggling with the dog instead of each other as they ponder the question that the kind but strange old man in the antique shop had left them with.
What would you do if you could create your own world?
Moonlight shines into the window, falling upon the snow globe.
The glittery snow stirs, lifting into the liquid, surrounding the glass family in a flurry that lasts several minutes before once again settling into motionless silence.
Sunlight hits me square in the eyes, and I groan, scrambling to find my phone and turn off my wretched alarm.
Wait. My alarm.
I haven’t slept until my alarm sounded in years.
I open my eyes. The sun is midway through the white winter sky. I snatch up my phone and look at the time.
9:43 A.M.
I have a slew of texts, emails, and phone notifications. I blink, then blink again, trying to clear my head.
How in the world did I oversleep?
I gaze around the room as I try to remember what I’d done last night. My champagne silk robe is strewn across the white chair. My matching slippers are next to the bed, where they belong. I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. ...
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