Good Spirits

Harriet

On the first day of December, the universe gave to me—

A busted knee, a twisted string of garland, and a cat with an attitude problem.

I don't need any of these things, yet I have all three, vying for my attention as I roll to a stop at the bottom of my porch steps after tripping over a rogue cat.

She meows and scampers after me, offering a sandpaper lick on the back of my hand—as if she isn't the reason I'm stretched out across the sidewalk in front of my little house like the cold open of *CSI: Annapolis*, sparkly garland tangled around my ankle.

Oliver lets out a plaintive meow as I haul myself into a seated position to inspect my knee.

My tights are ripped, and I'll have one hell of a bruise, but it's not bleeding… much. I suppose it could be worse.

Then I see that the feline responsible for my early-morning acrobatics is holding a piece of heavy gold-foil cardstock between her tiny, pointed teeth, and my optimism plummets.

"It could have waited until later, Oliver," I grumble, giving her a pet while she deposits the invitation in my lap.

Frankly, it could have waited until never.

She meows again, butting her forehead into my arm before bounding off. A silent *buck up, buttercup*. She disappears around the corner with a swish of her orange tail, off to do whatever it is she does during the day.

I look at the envelope in my lap. Twenty-five years, and my mom hasn't changed the design once.

When I was a little girl, I would hide in the entryway of her office and watch her slowly write each name.

I used to think her care and attention to detail meant she wanted it to be special.

Now I know she just likes the performance.

I trace over my name: *Harriet York*.

Not a lick of personalization, not a single indication that the woman who addressed this card is the same woman who raised me.

It's the same invitation my father's accountant gets, as well as the rest of the guest list for the annual York Family Christmas Gala.

The envelope arrives every year on December first like clockwork, my mother's commitment to tradition and etiquette unmatched.

I place it in my bag, taking care not to bend the cardstock. As much as I wish it didn't, it matters to me that I received an invitation. It means I'm still considered part of the family, despite how strained our relationship has become.

I haul myself off the sidewalk, untwist the wayward garland from my leg, and collect the bags that landed in the bush next to my railing.

I always have my decorations up by the time my mother's invitation arrives.

My own little tradition for my favorite time of the year.

I spent the weekend digging everything out of my attic and arranging it in appropriate piles, not that it matters now.

The garland artfully looped around my banister is hanging limp.

The giant poinsettia I spent twenty-six minutes adjusting just so is missing a petal.

I fix the edge of the oversize flower so the brand-new bare spot is hidden.

"There," I say. "Good as new."

My aunt Matilda used to tell me there are few things that can't be solved with a shift in perspective and some shiny new trinkets.

I've applied that to my own life by buying obnoxiously oversize Christmas decorations.

I try to find the silver lining, and when all else fails, there's always a blueberry Danish from the tiny bakery down the street to chase the bad mood away.

I don't like focusing on the bad. I never have.

So, I don't.

"Okay there, Harry?" A shadow falls over the short wooden fence that circles my property.

Darryl, the postman assigned to our block, is doing his best to peer over the top of the boxes stacked in his arms.

"All good, Darryl." I limp over and meet him at the fence, taking the top package off his massive stack.

He grins in relief, his thick mustache hiding most of his mouth, but not the deep smile lines by his eyes.

"How'd you know that was about to fall?"

"Probably because you can't see around it." The tower in his hands wobbles precariously, the bag over his shoulder bulging. I frown at it. "Holiday rush? So soon?"

"Nah. I'm just correcting some misdirected mail." He turns to look over his shoulder. "I don't know how I keep getting mixed up."

He's been getting mixed up for the duration of his career, delivering the wrong packages to the wrong people for well over twenty years.

I don't know why a man with no sense of direction decided to become a postman.

I spare a quick look at the package in my hands, then turn him toward the green sign on the corner. "You're on the wrong street. This label says it needs to get to Morris Street. You're on Murray."

He squints at the letters on the paper, an astonished *huh* caught in the back of his throat. "Can't believe I didn't notice that."

Neither can I, considering he made the same mistake last week. Most of us spend our Sundays sorting out who got what and where it's supposed to be. Last week there were so many mismatched packages, we decided to have a potluck, too.

"How about"—I wedge the wayward package under my arm—"I take this and drop it off on my way into work. That way you can finish up this street without backtracking."

His face brightens. "You'd do that for me?"

I've done more complicated things for less appreciation. I smile at him. "I love playing Santa," I tell him with a pat on the shoulder. "See you later?"

He gives me a quick wink over his shoulder, already moving down the sidewalk. "Not if I can help it."

On the first day of December, the universe gave to me—

Two more misdelivered packages to be corrected, a side trip to get Band-Aids, and no blueberry Danish in sight.

"I'm so sorry, baby, but we're all out." Paula frowns at me from the other side of the counter, the lines on either side of her mouth deepening in concern.

I've been coming to Paula's bakery since I was six years old, my face pressed up against the display with blueberries staining my cheeks.

"You want a cranberry apple one instead?"

No. I want a blueberry Danish. The promise of that sweet, sugary delight is the only thing that's gotten me through this hellscape of a morning.

I've dangled it in front of my nose like a carrot on a stick.

But it's not Paula's fault she ran out, so I force a smile and nod, willing to accept literal crumbs from this woman. "Cranberry sounds great, thank you."

She reaches into the long glass case while I inspect my knee. The hole in my tights has expanded, a slash across my upper thigh. I look like some sort of holiday grunge-rock princess with my tweed skirt and knee-high boots. The unicorn Band-Aid adds a little color, at least. That's nice.

"Uh-oh."

I look up. Paula is bent in half, searching her pastry display.

"What's uh-oh?" I ask. I hate *uh-oh*. I don't know how many more *uh-ohs* I can handle today.

"I think we're out of Danish."

"All of the Danish? Even the cranberry? It's gone?"

Her face softens at the utter devastation that seeps into my voice.

I always get a Danish on December first. Always.

"You're here much later than usual," she says, casting a critical eye over the counter. She nods at my busted knee. "Did you get in an alley fight? What happened to you?"

"Life happened to me," I mutter. I'm here later than usual because I was trying to do a good thing, but I guess no good deed goes unpunished.

Mindful of the line starting to form at my back, I scan the selection. All she has left are some butter croissants and a couple of powdered doughnuts.

"I'll take a doughnut." I glance over my shoulder. "Sorry to keep everyone waiting."

"Don't worry about that." She scoops up a doughnut with her metal tongs and places it in a to-go bag. "Why don't you grab a coffee on your way out? We've got that peppermint mocha you like. Tell Imani at the register I said it's on the house."

I force a smile. "Thanks, Paula."

I eat my pity doughnut while sipping at my pity coffee on the way to the Crow's Nest, the antiques shop I inherited from my aunt Matilda a handful of years ago.

Powdered sugar decorates the front of my sweater as I turn down one of the many crooked avenues that twist around downtown Annapolis, following the cobblestone path along the harbor that leads to the Crow's Nest. Nestled at the very end of the street, it waits for me—my home away from home—framed on either side by glittering water.

Cedar shingles. Green trim. A sign in arching gold letters above the door. When I get closer, I'll be able to see the faded pencil marks on the inside of the doorframe from where my sister and I used to measure ourselves every summer.

While my parents kept our physical reports in a tidy manila envelope in their shared office, my aunt Matilda carved our childhood into her walls.

I've always been able to find a home among the forgotten things that clutter and crowd the shelves.

They've given me hope. Kept me company. More than once, I've picked up a lost little bobble and seen the beauty in its imperfections.

I've wondered if I worked hard enough at my bruised and broken bits, if I could be shiny again, too.

I've wondered if anyone might ever see me as something precious.

I step off the sidewalk and onto the small wooden bridge just in front of the entrance, the heels of my boots nearly clicking.

*Walking the plank*, Aunt Matilda used to say with a wink.

I do a little hop-skip over the last board and greet the two massive Douglas firs waiting patiently by the door, a delivery from a Christmas tree farm a couple of towns over.

I plan to decorate the shop while Bing Crosby croons on the ancient record player in the back and shovel enough peppermint bark into my face to make this morning nothing more than a bad memory.