The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

They've Made Their Lists. . .

Celeb obituary writer Jane Conner can sum up a person's life in three hundred words. She could sum up her love life in even less: Great sex = great time. Commitment = annoyance overload. But with the holidays bearing down like a freight train from You Screwed Up-ville, Jane's about to get a second chance she never expected. . .

. . .Checked 'Em Twice. . .

Ricki Conner has run her life on signs from the universe, and right now, she's looking for guidance about her boyfriend, Nate. He keeps reassuring her that his divorce will be final by Christmas. So why is there still no ring on Ricki's finger?

. . .But Who Says "Naughty" Can't Be Nice?

When the pregnancy test turns pink, it's a good sign. . .unless you've had wild ex-sex with your former boyfriend while the current one was out of town. Now, Emma Dee gets to ladle out the eggnog while saying, oh by the way, I'm pregnant with another man's baby--drink up, everybody!

Christmas. It's a time for going into debt, dates from hell, and maybe even a miracle or two. And for three women on the brink of potential holiday disaster, it just may be the season to toast the best times of their lives. . .

Release date: August 15, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“People have died for millions of years and been put to rest without my shining obituaries,” I told my boss over the phone. “I think you’ll survive one day without me.”

“Of course, of course, Jane,” Marty responded in that hushed New York accent that reminded me of a younger, less hyper Woody Allen. “But first and foremost, I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Ms. Jane Conner on a sick day! You, who never call in sick and rarely take vacation. Well, are you okay?”

“Fine.” I pressed the hot teacup against my forehead, over my temple, against the throbbing cheek that wasn’t plastered to the phone. My eyes burned like pearl onions and the network of pain inside my head was so tangled and intense, I just wanted escape. “I’d be perfect if I could have everything above the neck surgically removed.”

“Oh, dear.” Confusion and concern mixed in Marty’s voice. “Well, that’s not good at all, is it? We’ve got to get you into shape.”

“I’m working on it.” The teacup was scalding my cheek, but somehow that felt good. “I’ve got an appointment with an ear, nose and throat guy to zap this thing once and for all.”

“Good. Very good.” Sometimes Marty Baker spoke so softly I imagined he’d trained for the priesthood. It’s amazing that a man as kind as Marty had risen to a position of power in the editorial pit of snakes, but I counted myself lucky to have him as a boss. Besides his mild manner he was cute in a nebbishy sort of way. He’d be a possibility if I didn’t have steady studly Carter. “Good to see a specialist,” he went on. “Well, okay, then. You rest up. The only questionable item is the Yoshiko Abe interview.”

I switched the phone to my left ear and pressed the hot mug to my aching cheek as I remembered the Japanese violin prodigy I was slated to meet this afternoon. “Oh, right. Can you reschedule?” I wanted to sit with an adolescent musician like I wanted a hole in the head. On second thought, the hole in the head might assist in sinus drainage.

“She and her mother are flying to San Francisco tomorrow for the Klein competition, then back to Japan, so it’s just got to be done today. But not to worry. I can put someone else on it. Genevieve will do it.”

Genevieve? My nemesis.

“Not her,” I objected, trying to avoid the image of Genevieve Smythe resting her pert little size six Pradas on my desk and laughing at my notes. “Can you give it to someone else?”

“Oren is on loan to Arts until after Chanukah, and Lincoln is on vacation. It’s got to be Genevieve.”

“I’ll do it.” I hated myself for saying it, hated that I’d spend the afternoon cajoling another pent-up prodigy instead of pampering myself in bath gels, but it seemed to be the only way to make the image of the diabolical, power-mongering Genevieve disappear from my scope. “Make the interview for three at Oscar’s and I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” Marty sounded concerned. “It’s not fair to you, really. If you’re not feeling well—”

“Just reschedule it, okay?” I said, losing patience with Marty’s idealistic concerns about fairness in the workplace. Did he really believe in that myth?

“Okay, okay. Oscar’s at three. And you feel better, okay? Let me know in the morning if you need more time to recover. We’ll talk tomorrow, then.”

Tomorrow. Closing my eyes, I imagined that by tomorrow I would feel better. Tomorrow I’d be able to breathe through my nose, wonder of wonders. In a few days I would wake up and not have to spend the first hour of my day hacking and snorting into a tissue. I would be freaking out from cigarette cravings and wanting to have sex with my boyfriend again. Order would be restored, damn it.

I hung up from Marty and went back to my number two priority after getting healthy—my novel. I tucked a strand of jet-black hair behind one ear and hitched my nightgown up so that I could sit in lotus position on the sofa with my laptop balanced on the triangle of legs. Since I had the day free—sort of—I had planned to crank on the novel, a work in progress that I had started writing in the middle, mostly owing to the fact that I understood the gravity of a killer first line and therefore had not yet been able to come up with one.

The first line.

Ignoring the pain in my face, I sucked the salt from the end of a pretzel stick and wondered what that elusive opening sentence might be.

Every book needs a great first line to hook the reader with subtle promises of texture and intrigue, engaging emotional involvement, poignant insights, pithy observations, and yeah, some of that romance crap, too.

“Sure, romance sells,” my agent friend Raphaela had told me. “But follow your muses. Do something different. God knows, we’d all like to read something fresh.”

“Fresh,” I said now over a mouthful of pretzel. “Right.” So I’d have to trash the story of my ill-fated marriage and the subsequent steady stream of loveless relationships. Not that I really cared. In the city that never sleeps, romance—especially bad romance—was so ten minutes ago.

I gnawed on the pretzel, savoring. Numm . . . burnt black on one side, fat crystals, crispy but not crumbly. With my sinuses clogged I could only half taste it, which made it less effective as a placebo: I still wanted a cigarette. Was it a mistake to quit smoking while I was trying to break into a new field of writing?

I had a good thirty pages under my belt, which my friend Emma Dee was reading for me. Thirty pages of smoking sex and cutting dialogue. As soon as I sold this book, which, of course, I had to write (a mere technicality!) I could quit my job at the Herald and stay home every day. I leaned back against the upholstery and focused on the pretzel taste, slightly diminished since my sinuses were blocked, but I wasn’t going to let a sinus infection ruin my cushy morning at home. This was the life of a freelancer. Big sigh! Sleep in. Work in my nightie. Ignore the phone. I hadn’t felt so free since my mother died nearly four years ago.

Which might sound like a terrible thing to say, but there you have it: having watched her suffer on a respirator during the last few months of her life, I’d been relieved. As the oldest child, and the only one in town at the time, responsibility for Alice’s care had fallen on my shoulders during the short span from diagnosis to death—May to October. A smoker all her life, she wasn’t surprised to hear lung cancer, though I think she’d hoped for a fighting chance of survival in the beginning. But two months after the diagnosis, she was told to get her affairs in order, and less than a month after that my mother, a former Poet Laureate at Columbia University, could barely rasp out a simple haiku. That summer had ticked off so quickly: the doctor’s visits, the daily pilgrimages to the apartment I’d grown up in on the Upper West Side, the negotiations with health care workers and the addition of oxygen tanks and a fat hospital bed that faced the sliding glass windows. With my younger sister Ricki up in Providence starting summer semester of grad school, I’d been thrust into the caretaker role, the loyal, local daughter who could do nothing more than be present to observe the process with a sense of alienation and helplessness.

If death is truly the final journey of a lifetime, shouldn’t we have some say in planning the itinerary? I could accept losing my mother, but to see her slip gradually into breathlessness was an image that caused me pain for years.

I shuddered, then noticed the blank monitor mocking me. Quickly I typed:

Just because I haven’t nailed down a plot doesn’t mean that I won’t.

Yes, the words still flowed for me, along with postnasal drip. I was blowing my nose as the phone rang again. I snatched it and barked out a hello.

“Jane, it’s me. What are you doing home?” It was Ricki, her voice backlit by strains of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and the jingle bells that chimed whenever the door of her shop opened.

“You sound like a Hallmark commercial,” I told her as I balled up the tissue and tossed it into the pile on the coffee table.

“My life is a Hallmark commercial,” she said merrily. After grad school Ricki had followed her heart and (in my opinion) a beef jerky of a man to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where she’d opened up a shop that featured warm and fuzzy Christmas paraphernalia.

When I had visited her last August I’d felt a mixture of amazement and horror at my sister’s skill in creating a Christmasland that featured holiday crafts and decorations, a myriad of exquisitely decorated trees, and an overwhelming potpourri of scented items. I was impressed by the functional items such as napkins and chair covers and potholders—all decorated with miniature Santas or angels or holly sprigs. With the smell of spiced cider and the chime of the bells, the shop transported sweaty tourists from the beach to a wonderland of Christmas nostalgia. “This shop is like a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life,” I’d accused my sister, and Ricki had swooned over the connection, adding: “I love that movie! I sell the DVD in ‘Film Forest,’ that section behind ‘Santa’s Workshop.’”

That was my sister, the Christmas junkie. I wasn’t sure how her studies at Brown University had led her to this sentimental retail folly, but at least she seemed to enjoy what she was doing.

“I called the office and they told me you were sick,” Ricki said. “What’s up?”

“Another sinus infection. And this after I gave up smoking.”

“Janey! You’re smoke-free? Congrats! Was it going to be my Christmas present?”

“Don’t get too excited. Right now I’d kill for a cigarette, though a butt just might kill me.”

“Poor baby! Are you taking care of yourself?”

“I’m on it. This time, I’m not messing around with the GP. I’m going straight to a specialist. Got an appointment with an ENT in—” I checked the clock—“soon. I’d better get out of here.”

“Are we still on for the ‘Singles in the City Christmas’ dinner? I was just about to book my flight to New York but I wanted to make sure you’re not planning to fly off for an interview in Belize or Paris or Prague.”

“I write celebrity obits now,” I said with the dull tone of a woman announcing the death of her career. Granted, in the beginning I’d been intrigued by the formula—encapsulating a life in three hundred words or less, but lately I’d become bored with it. Dead Reporter Walking. “My days of exotic assignments are over, at least for the time being.” Not that I’d ever landed an international assignment, but it was useless to remind Ricki that my promotion to the Death Squad was a far cry from a Pulitzer nomination. The day I was hired by the Herald, Ricki called various Manhattan liquor stores until she located one that would deliver a bottle of champagne. She was my one-woman cheering squad; the quixotic optimist to my goth fatalist.

“So we’re on for Christmas?” she asked. “I’m planning to come early this year. We can ride the Ferris wheel at Toys R Us and wait in line at FAO Schwarz. Ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Lunch at Tavern on the Green. Dessert at Serendipity. I love New York at Christmastime!”

I pictured myself chain-smoking out in the cold while Ricki sought Christmas inside the Fifth Avenue department stores. I would need an entire carton to keep up with my sister the tourist. “I was thinking more along the lines of a stiff vodka at Firebird,” I said, “but the answer is yes, book your flights. We’ll do the holiday thing here.”

“Oh, goody. Goody gumdrops.”

“Ricki, I think the Christmas music is affecting your brain function. And what about Nate? Tell me he’s not going to sulk for months because you’re spending Christmas with me.”

“Nate’s going up to Providence to be with his kids. He’ll be fine,” she said. “You go, see your ear, nose, and throat guy. Feel better.”

“Later,” I honked, my head thick with congestion and pain. And already it was time to close my laptop and get dressed and seek help from the sinus guru. Hard to believe it was December already, but I was relieved that Ricki was coming for Christmas. She would make me drink spiced cider, watch a few Christmas videos, and mist over about that little girl who thinks she’s found Prancer. Nothing wrong with having a good Christmas cry with your little sister at Christmas. Hey, what are holidays for?

The plot of my novel—or the lack thereof—haunted me in the shower, on the subway, and on the street as a hansom cab eased through traffic in a chorus of horse clops and jingle bells. I was still sifting through the air for ideas as I stepped into the waiting room of Dr. Parson’s office, a chrome and glass affair with a Park Avenue address that made me marvel at the fact that my insurance would cover a tony specialist with these digs. I was a writer in need of a story, a person in need of a way out of her own life. Not that I hated writing obits for the Herald. It was just that, pardon the pun, it was a dead-end job in a stifling cracker-box environment, and writing a breakout novel seemed like the perfect route to the superhighway of financial and creative freedom.

A well-moisturized woman in the waiting room leaned over her crossword puzzle while an elderly gentleman tried to nap in the corner. Not too crowded. Hopefully, I’d be in and out faster than you can say “sinusitis.”

I skirted around a fanciful tree, fake evergreen branches iced with silver snow and dotted with lavender ornaments and lights, and leaned my elbow beside a menorah to sign in at the cutout leading to the receptionist’s brightly lit office. “Nice tree,” I told the receptionist, adding, “though I’m surprised you don’t give equal time to Kwanzaa. Maybe an ear of corn or a unity cup?”

A vacant smile froze on her face. “You are so right,” she said in the blank tone of a person who didn’t have a clue. “And you are?”

“Jane Conner.”

She handed me a clipboard with forms and asked for my insurance card. I wondered if I could center my novel on doctors—exploit this behind-the-scenes medical drama. But as I filled in the perfunctory information, I overheard the nurses and clerks talking about where to order lunch, complaining that one deli always got the order wrong, while another was pricey.

Hardly inspiring.

I was stuck leafing through the magazines fanned out on the glass end tables. A nice selection, though with my headful of pain I wasn’t up for tightening my abs, eating heart-smart or checking off lovemaking dos and don’ts. Sarah Jessica Parker smiled slyly at me from the cover of Vogue’s “Age Issue” (like that’s a winning topic!) and Jennifer Aniston’s dream marriage was yet again the featured phenomenon in another magazine. I flipped to the contents pages, scanning for celebrity names who might be missing from our files. Part of my job at the Herald was to make sure we had an obit prepared in advance, a profile that we could tinker with over the years, doing the final update upon death.

“I can’t believe you do those things before the person dies,” my friend Emma had said back when I first started filling in on the Death Squad. “Isn’t that like reading the last chapter of a thriller before you buy it?”

“You’d be surprised at how much of the paper is written in advance,” I told her. “Don’t you remember last fall when that local paper ran an editorial about the Yankees losing the playoffs when the team actually won? The news staff tries to cover all possible outcomes, but in that case some bozo ran the wrong piece.”

“Still, it seems weird,” Emma had said. “A little morbid.”

Emma works in banking, and I guess the mentality there is that you do not count your deposits until the money comes in. Fair enough. I think I managed to diffuse her indignation by selling myself as a biographer: a writer who works hard to capture the essence of a person’s soul and the sweet nut of his or her greatest accomplishment. There’s truly an art to writing an obit; I’d realized my lack of craft when my mother died and the rest of the family had expected me to compose the customary death notice for the paper. I remember striking all the creaky adjectives in the form—“beloved” and “loving” and “dear” and “adoring.” None of those words described my mother, and yet when they fell out of the announcement it read like a synopsis from TV guide. I struggled with that sucker right up till the print deadline. Then there was the formal obit, the one that was supposed to indicate something of her personality by mentioning book clubs and bridge clubs, her professorship at Columbia, her raspy smoker’s voice at poetry readings. I would have failed miserably without the words from Mom’s older brother, who said: “She was a tough broad who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to let you know, a real New Yorker.” If I were asked to write my mother’s obit all over again today, I’d still quote Uncle John.

I reached into the neat fan of magazines to pick up the smiling face of Tom Hanks and wondered what he was up to these days. He seemed like the ultimate Mr. Nice Guy: spending time with his kids, giving supportive quotes about wife, Rita, appearing at charity events, stepping out of the limelight to produce films so that someone else could win the Oscar for Best Actor. Never met him, and in the office Genevieve had started the file on him so I didn’t really have the authority to chase him. But the article said he was filming a movie in New York and was planning to spend the holidays here.

Hmm.

If I were a supportive mush-ball, I’d pass this information on to my colleague. But I’m not, and Genevieve has a habit of stepping on the toes of my Manolo Blahniks as she minces toward the boss.

I would see if Mr. Hanks would do lunch. That had to be the greatest perk of the job: the response that rippled through agents and assistants and development people the moment I mentioned that I worked for the New York Herald. Some obituary writers used the phone and the Web and explained their mission in dulcet tones, but I liked to meet my subjects over lunch with a cocktail and a laugh. Last year one of my lunch dates, an anchor for a major network, had dubbed me the “Angel of Death” after a whimsical exchange at a high profile restaurant that made a few columns here in New York.

Was I flattered? Absolutely. Although I certainly didn’t grow up wanting to write obits, the Herald is known for its editorial send-offs of the dead. Überfans of obits across the country read the Herald in search of clues as to how life cycles play out—similar to the reasons people read biographies. Obit buffs also appreciate the way our profiles reveal a defining line of the deceased: the fingerprint that made the person unique, the trait that identified their soul. So for me to be dubbed one of the best of the best—even if the field was a graveyard, so to speak—was truly an honor.

My boss, however, wasn’t too pleased at my publicity flash. “I worry that we’re getting off-track a bit,” Marty had said in the hushed tones of a funeral director. “Yes, we cover celebrities, however, the Herald has never been a publication that seeks glamour. We need to pursue a well-rounded segment of the population: politicians, humanitarians, Pulitzer Prize winners. The Cuban immigrant who changed the face of child care in this country. The anthropologist who devoted his life to finding Bigfoot. The middle-class man who soldered an invention in his garage . . .”

Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

Marty and I had covered this ground before.

“I’m one step ahead of you,” I had assured Marty, telling him about how I was meeting with the winner of a bake-off in Minnesota as well as with one of the scientists leading the way in brain-stem cell research. And that bake-off winner wanted money for a twenty-minute phone interview.

“Jane Conner?” the woman in white jacket called. I tucked away my career stress and followed her into an office where lacquered chests holding various pointed metal devices of torture surrounded a padded chair with a headrest. I looked over at the toxic warning on the red wastebasket and let my heavy head roll back against the chair, reminding myself to ask the doctor why I kept getting these insipid infections.

“Ms. Conner?” Dr. Parson cordially shook my hand. His dark eyes and hair were a striking contrast to his lab coat, which seemed cut extra small to make him appear taller. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. How did you hear about me?”

Translation: Bring on the accolades.

“I work at the Herald,” I said, peering through the black hair that feathered over my eyes, “and everyone there says you’re the master of sinuses.”

That brought an intense stare, but no smile. He strapped on a headband with a silver disk in the center, and I couldn’t help but think of Bugs Bunny impersonating Elmer Fudd’s physician. “And what seems to be the problem?” Did he say “pwob-wem” or was that my imagination?

“Chronic sinus infections. This is the third time since September, and I’ve had it.”

He slapped on latex gloves, staring at me as if I were suspect. “What makes you think it’s sinusitis?”

“Major headaches . . .