Carol for Another Christmas by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Author:Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US

Eleven

Monica smelled gingerbread, mincemeat, pine needles, and cedar logs burning in the fireplace. She sat up, rubbed her aching back, and looked around her suspiciously. The apartment looked normal enough, but from beneath her office door, lights twinkled red, green, gold, and blue. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “Show-time.” She remembered this part in the story. This was where Christmas Present was hiding in another room, waiting to lower the boom on—Scrooge. But Scrooge was who would be waiting. And he knew she knew. So that was all right. It was a waste of time, of course, but she felt a little more in control. It was like that guided-dreaming stuff someone had mentioned at one of her product launch parties.

She had obviously guided Scrooge through her early life, wanting him to understand the choices she’d made and that she wasn’t really such a bad person, after all. And now—and now, well, she wished they could just skip the whole thing. Just at this moment, her life was a bit of a nonevent, personally speaking, which was the only criteria Scrooge seemed willing to accept.

But she was finally in control. No more calling people up dunning them on Christmas, hearing them whining, making excuses, or, more rarely, cussing her out. She was wealthy; she had a friend in the government, a new project that was going to revolutionize computerized communications, and a staff that was, if not loyal, at least bound to her by ironclad contracts. Finally, she was in the driver’s seat. It was her office. She could go right back to sleep if she wanted to.

Then it started. Somehow, something had gotten into the loudspeakers in her room and over and over the tape played computer-generated cat meows singing, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

It was more than she could bear.

She jumped up from the couch, threw the pillow aside, stormed to the office door, and threw it open. Some big, fat guy in a bathrobe was sitting at her computer. He looked stoned. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he said, in a booming but strangely familiar voice. “Come in and know me better,” he said.

“Just what do you think you’re doing at my terminal?” she demanded.

“Why, I’m not doing anything. You and your company, however, are sending a universal message of best wishes for Christmas and all holidays the people of the world hold in their hearts, with peace on earth, good will to men—”

“How about women?”

“Everybody,” the fat guy said with a maniacal Santa Claus laugh as he stood and threw his arms open. “Everybody.” This wasn’t Scrooge. This guy was about seven feet tall.

“Look,” she said, “I’m just not in the mood for Christmas this year, okay? I have a lot on my mind. Tell Doug I really appreciate the trouble he took to come and haunt me but—”

“Hurry,” he said, opening the office door so that an icy blast laden with snow swept in, which was impossible because there was a great deal more building between her and the outdoors.

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