December 24

CHELSEA IN CHICAGO...

C HELSEA WOKE UP IN R AMONA’S BED AGAIN IN A MESS OF RUMPLED sheets, alone too, but this time that was really the least of her concerns. Last night, in the midst of everything she wanted to happen with Carlos, and perhaps more, she’d almost let her secret slip. And it wasn’t even her secret, truly, it was Joan’s. And it was working its way out of her like a splinter. When she finally checked her phone from the prior evening, because literally no one, not even Helena, should have been looking to get in touch, she saw the flurry of texts from Joan—obsessing over Ramona as if she’d lost her own child in a shopping mall. And for certain, it wasn’t Ramona spending time with Jay that Chelsea was worried about.

By almost telling the truth, Chelsea had sampled the feeling of it, making it much harder to deny what was the right thing to do. Maybe she’d never meet Ramona, but the more involved she became with Carlos, the more entangled, the more intimate, the more exposed, naked even, the more she felt guilty about hiding from him what she knew. Ramona was like his sister; he’d said it often. And he’d want to protect his sister from someone who’d nearly ruined her trip, or worse. If not for the laughable impotence of the neighborhood Sentry Patrol in Malibu , Chelsea thought. At least Joan didn’t call the real cops .

At some point in the night, after her view from the top of the town and the vibes that somehow led to kissing Carlos (again) and then a return to Ramona’s bed, before she woke, as he said he would, Carlos slipped out. But this time, as Chelsea smiled, knowing he hadn’t seen any more of her work in progress—the painting now so blatantly of him, there’d be no denying it. This time, she’d taken much care to put everything away, just in case. What else could make her eagerness so obvious, so predictable? She’d wanted to ask what the rule was about, why he made the declaration in the first place—that he wouldn’t stay, like he was trying to push her away. Like he’d need to. With only two more days ahead in Chicago, she was leaving anyway. Perhaps it was his honesty that drew her to him. And perhaps it was her dishonesty that would finally pull him away—regardless, the guilt seemed to be getting progressively worse.

For certain, in that very moment, before she went out for the day, before she started her last true day with the city of Chicago, she could have copped to it and done the right thing. She could have pulled out her phone, called Carlos, and simply said, Hey, I was wrong . She could have explained, It was Joan who called the Sentry Patrol on Ramona, Joan who wanted to cover it up, and me who agreed not to say anything . But the truth comes with certain consequences that Chelsea was afraid of. Because now, the dwindling time remaining to spend with Carlos simply seemed to matter deeply. At minimum, she’d need to complete her painting, but there was some newly awakened part of herself that also felt very much unfinished.

At least she had no need to wonder when she’d be seeing Carlos again. This evening was the trip around the world that Mrs. Tucker promised for Christmas Eve, and Chelsea was looking forward to it more than she ever imagined that she would. She had only a few more preparations left to sort. As Chelsea made herself ready to head outside—black coat, hot-pink gloves, hat, and hand warmers—she realized how quickly she’d learned to bundle up appropriately for a Chicago winter. Cold weather would do that, make you learn quickly. And so, with only a few short hours remaining in the shopping day on Christmas Eve, Chelsea was out the door on a mission downtown. She mastered the Red Line on the L train, anticipating its screeching arrival and feeling its rumble underneath her seat as she rode it south to the stop right next to Millennium Park. She knew it best and only from television when it served as a world stage on a historic election night. And it was spectacular then, but the Christmas version was entirely different, especially in person.

It was as if the city itself were alive and whispering to her the sights and sounds of the season. Ramona’s welcome note had said, And if you like ice skating, you’ll love the rink at Millennium Park. It’s right next to the big sculpture. The giant silver-pebble art piece was as big as the trees and visible from the sidewalk as Chelsea approached. Reflecting the lights of the decorations nearby, it was an irresistible setting and close enough to brave the cold just for a few pictures. Perhaps it too would be something she’d paint one day.

At the rink, Chelsea watched the ice skaters make their organized circles, watched those who were learning slip and fall. One person who noticed her waved her over with a gesture and shouted, “Come join us!” She smiled and waved back instead, and then snapped a few photos, including a somewhat silly selfie, that would suffice for a souvenir of the place.

She walked down Washington Street past the old Macy’s, which took up an entire city block, all the way until she reached the twinkling lights at the edge of the bustling Christkindlmarket—a German reference to the entity who was meant to bring gifts to children on Christmas Eve. Chelsea had less than an hour to find a gift before the entire outdoor market closed for the season. That meant she couldn’t be distracted by the smells of rich cinnamon and roasting nuts or the savory aroma of the German sausages cooking. In part because of the time, but also the cold, she walked briskly through the miniature village of wooden vendor booths resembling small Bavarian-style homes. Their red-and-white-striped gable roofs were decorated for the season with strung lights hanging at the edges like icicles. It was a perfect place for the theme of Mrs. Tucker’s holiday party, bringing all the world straight to a single family’s house on the city’s South Side. With a shiver, Chelsea stopped at a stall to make a quick purchase of a ready-made hot chocolate, savoring the aroma and warmth in her hand. Moving again, en masse with the crowd, Chelsea sipped and browsed until she came across a carefully decorated beer stein that she chose as a gift. And as her contribution to the potluck, a few steps down, she purchased a bottle of spiced glühwein and tucked it in her bag.

All that was left was to make it back to Ramona’s. She savored the last sips of her too-quickly-cooled hot chocolate and tossed it in the bin just as she felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket. She stuffed a gloved hand in to retrieve it, rooting around awkwardly like trying to grasp a slippery fish.

“Hi, Helena,” she said, after stabbing at the screen to answer.

“Happy Christmas, Chelsea dear!” Helena’s voice rang out spiritedly from the earpiece. It was almost contagious, the merriment she heard, and it was a welcome accompaniment on her return. “I trust the holiday is proceeding better than you thought.”

Chelsea debated what she was going to tell Helena, as there was so much. With days left and a bit of hope, she wondered if this trip could make a difference in the circumstances that had brought her here. And so, she decided that she would share with Helena what was most important to Helena.

“It’s going well. I’m painting again.”

“Well, darling, that’s fabulous! Do tell, is it another Heartbreak , perhaps?”

And Chelsea thought about that. Of course, Helena would wish for the lightning in a bottle. But the word itself did strike a pang in Chelsea’s gut, a sharp stab of apprehension, remembering the feelings from heartbreak that she’d barely managed to bury, and how long it took such wounds, once cut, to heal. That she could once again lose something that mattered, perhaps that was the charm of it and the risk. Maybe this trip would lead to a heartbreak, one anew with Carlos. She’d have to leave soon and lose him in a million possible ways—to distance and broken promises to call and visit. Yes, perhaps, yes, another heartbreak.

“I could... see that,” she said. “I’ll be at my best again, I think... very soon.”

“That’s perfect, then.” The quiet on Helena’s end of the call sounded like hesitation. In the silence, Chelsea could hear the unsaid, what Helena seemed unsure of asking. “And... you’re... all right?” she said finally, hopefully, softly, a true question being asked in earnest.

Chelsea inhaled sharply; the cold air stung its way through her nostrils and down her throat, all the way into her lungs. She was awake, aware, and present. Because in that moment, with all the promise of the evening ahead, the answer was obvious.

“Everything’s wonderful,” she replied and continued her walk underneath the darkening skies.

JOAN IN MALIBU...

J OAN RARELY USED THE TRIPOD-MOUNTED BINOCULARS IN HER upper living room. Like the bronze nautical scope in the far corner, the large binocular apparatus situated against the windows was meant for more decorative purposes—to highlight the proximity to the ocean. Inside her house, anywhere facing west, you’d be looking at the majestic expanse of the Pacific—by design. At high tide, when the water swept in to cover the concrete piles beneath her home, the sea became her backyard. The scope was helpful then, to watch the sailboats in the distance, or the birds—to tell the difference between a brown pelican and a double-crested cormorant perhaps, or to turn it upward at nighttime to figure out whether she was viewing a star or a planet as a glowing orb in the sky. But this day, Joan dragged the heavy rig across her custom sixteen-foot Pasargad rug and placed it in the opposite corner of the room, incidentally next to the fireplace, and specifically pointed directly at Chelsea’s place next door.

She’d frustrated herself the night prior by falling asleep on her sofa, too sleepy from the wine she drank to properly wait up for Ramona’s return. This left the execution of her newly hatched plan to secure Ramona’s presence at Christmas hanging in the balance. Already it was Christmas Eve, and there was no time to waste. Fully alert and espresso-caffeinated, she waited to ensure she caught a glimpse of her new neighbor. Now, if you asked in that moment, What in the hell are you doing, Joan? —for example, as a regular observer might at least think to say—she would tell you that she just felt... responsible. She felt responsible for Ramona. She wouldn’t be able to tell you why, however, not even with any of the words of her extensive vocabulary. Instead, she’d see flashes in her mind of moments past, like her mother in her youth, speaking with the other neighborhood mothers about “those people” and whether they’d be moving in. And she’d think of the moment she moved in here in Malibu and was given the number of the private patrol, told to call if she saw or heard anything unusual or suspicious. Anything . And that made her feel safe. Safety was so important; concern was as much a personal virtue as vigilance was. And vigilance... required observation and surveillance.

Chelsea’s home was less than a third of the size of Joan’s, without a lot of options for where a person inside there could be. From her elevated position through her scopes, Joan had a full view of the next-door deck and side window of Chelsea’s primary bedroom that happened to face Joan’s house. If the bedroom blinds were closed, as they usually were when Chelsea was there, Joan couldn’t see a thing on the inside. But Ramona as a resident seemed to enjoy more of the morning sunlight. The opening in the blinds didn’t show Joan much, but she could see movement that would tell her Ramona was there, and not with Jay.

As soon as she saw a glimpse of what she was looking for, or rather whom, Joan was ready to spring into action, but this time, much differently than the inauspicious start to Ramona’s stay. This morning, her plan was to make it to Ramona before Jay did, invite her to brunch today, and at the perfect moment, invite her to Christmas tomorrow. It’d be official then, having Ramona share a table with her and her kids, eating the lamb Joan prepared (or, still, possibly the roast?), just like part of the family, fully accepted, because Joan most surely accepted all, loved all people no matter what they looked like, or who they loved, or how they identified—except Jay. She did not love Jay (never did), or her ex-husband, David, for that matter (not anymore), and most certainly not that reprehensible woman-child that David married.

Joan had committed to standing there as long as it took, binoculars against the window, waiting for any sign to pounce. At least, until she got distracted. Her phone rang, confirming a pickup for one of the gifts she ordered, and while dealing with the minor hassle of it all, she realized that, more than anything, she really needed a second cup of coffee. The second cup of coffee led to her remembering she needed to brush her teeth again to preserve her whitening job, but then the closet was open next to the bathroom, beckoning for her attention. In her closet there was the matter of locating her Chanel snow boots for her January trip to Aspen, which she found just as she remembered again that she was meant to be checking on Ramona. And having missed the opportunity with her spyglass— now all but entirely forgotten on her upper level—she decided that she would just head over next door and ring the bell.

Joan walked the twenty-five feet down her driveway, out of her gate, and into the quaint white pickets of the entrance to Chelsea’s little beach cottage. When she rang the doorbell and waited, she heard shuffling on the inside, which she was sure was Ramona. And she hoped to goodness (for Ramona’s sake, of course) she was alone.

“One second!” She heard the words in Ramona’s voice called out from behind the door. And then a minute later it opened, pulled by a sleepy-looking Ramona leaning against the frame in a bedtime shorts set, crossing her arms around her chest. She must be so relieved to see a friendly face , Joan thought. And she figured, such relief likely rendered Ramona so happy that she was speechless, which was the explanation she provided herself for Ramona’s lack of enthusiasm, or even a proper greeting. Of course, Joan could have alternatively thought that perhaps this woman, standing across from her, who she barely knew, was annoyed. That she was sleepy and irritated by yet another unannounced caller at her door. But Joan only created explanations that made her feel better, not worse. And so, accepting her preferred version of reality, she smoothed down the perfectly set waves along the sides of her middle part and adjusted her sunglasses with a smile.

“Good morning!” Joan threw the greeting at Ramona like a party popper, meant to explode the space between them with virtual cheer. When Ramona barely moved, Joan continued, shifting her gear up one notch. “I just wanted to drop by and invite you to brunch over at the Malibu Pier.” Still nothing from Ramona, no sign of response, so Joan continued, knowing she needed to put a bit more fuel on the fire. “It’s a tradition I used to have with my kids, but you know, they’re in San Diego until tomorrow, so I thought it could be something to share with you .” It was just a tiny lie about her kids—they never did Christmas Eve brunch, but Joan felt like Ramona was on the verge of saying no. Most important, the you that Joan meant was the ultimate invitation— You , my new friend, Ramona. You , a person I’ve decided belongs here. You , who are so welcome you don’t even know how welcome you are.

“Umm... now?” Ramona said after a long pause.

“Now.” Joan smiled, trying her best to reach maximum hospitality. “Or in a bit, whichever works best for you, in case you need time to get ready.” Joan smiled so big she felt her face stretch.

“Is it... fancy?” Ramona wiped her eyes and brought her hand up to her hair, patting... her... braids? Were those braids?

She’ll probably want to tidy up , Joan thought. “Oh, no, dear, not fancy at all.” Joan thought of the night at Geoffrey’s when the two of them first dined together. What Joan had in mind was very different, café style, relaxed. Easier to talk, to open up. “Totally, totally casual,” she said, and then couldn’t believe she forgot to add the most important part. “And...” Joan could barely contain her excitement to share, “the owner is a Black woman!”

“Oh, how great,” Ramona said flatly, squinting at Joan—the sun was coming up behind her from the east and making a rare winter appearance before the early afternoon. “I was up late, so kinda planned to sleep in.”

Joan felt instantly deflated. And she chose to let it show. The same approach usually worked like a charm with her kids. “Oh... of course... I just thought that you might want to see Malibu Pier, and I definitely didn’t mean to disturb your—”

“I... I can go—” Ramona replied, cutting her off. “Can you give me, like, an hour?”

Joan felt a sense of decisive victory. It was already an auspicious day. No sign of Jay, and Christmas would be hers.

***

O NE HOUR AND THIRTY MINUTES LATER, THE CAFé AT THE M ALIBU Pier was bustling with people and the extra twinkle of Christmas Eve morning. It was full of tourists (to Joan at least), and very few of the regulars she recognized. But she managed to snag a table by the water’s edge, and she and Ramona waited for their food orders that would replace the plastic number flag planted upon the painted wooden slats of their tabletop.

“This is nice that you used to do this with your kids,” Ramona said, settling into her seat on the white wooden bench. The ocean behind them was relatively calm, lapping gently against the weathered-white poles of the pier. The breeze was light and refreshing, and the air smelled like the brine of the sea. Even the sun was cooperating, lighting the day as perfectly as any day of the summertime, having already burned off most of the clouds from the sky. That was what Joan focused on, rather than Ramona repeating the tiny little lie she told earlier, or the fact that she’d now have to double down on it for the sake of conversation.

“Christmas traditions are the best,” Joan said. Now that , that was true and a perfect setup as well. She didn’t intend to waste time getting to the point. “Do you have any traditions with your family in Chicago?”

“Just my mother’s Christmas Eve party,” Ramona said. “She always wanted to bring the entire world to our neighborhood, to remind us that we’re all a part of something, of somewhere so much bigger.”

“That sounds so... festive,” Joan managed. But it was the opening she’d hoped for. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, picking up on Ramona’s mention of Christmas Eve, thinking of the risk of Jay and his greedy need for attention, she decided to hedge her bets, leave nothing to chance, and invite Ramona to her plans for the evening and then for Christmas as well. “I’m sure it wouldn’t compare, but I’d love for you to come to my house, tonight . We could do a Christmas Eve at the water. Sit on the deck, watch the sunset... have some wine and chat—”

“I’m so sorry,” Ramona cut her off. “I... already made plans.”

Joan was shocked. “Oh?” And then her worst fears started to cloud her mind like a gray rainstorm over the sea. “With that guy , Jay?” She couldn’t help herself.

To Joan, Ramona looked surprised. But of course, Joan knew. It was how men like Jay operated. Meet women on the beach, at work, strike up something under the guise of friendliness, and next thing she knows, she’s taken advantage of and left for the next conquest. Something like this could ruin Ramona’s trip. Her whole life even. But most important, it could ruin Joan’s plan.

“Um-hum,” Ramona said, only partially penetrating Joan’s cascading thoughts.

“You know, Ramona, men like that... they... come to the beach for... opportunities . You wouldn’t want to be one of those opportunities. You know what I’m saying?”

Ramona laughed. “Hardly,” she said, chuckling through the entire word.

Ramona doesn’t realize the threat , Joan thought. The danger of people like Jay; they could seep into your psyche, make you make decisions you’ll regret later.

“Regrets can last a lifetime, that’s what I would say to my daughter.” Joan moved her hand so the server could set down her salad. She picked up her fork and held it like a pitchfork. “Not everyone can be trusted.”

“That’s for sure,” Ramona said. “My first thought was that he might have been the person who called the patrol on me when I first got here. That’s ridiculous, right? How would he? It could have been literally anyone . But then I realized that since it happened, I’d been wondering that about everyone. And if I kept doing that... well, I can’t let that shape my entire trip, right? Imagine, looking at everyone like a suspect...”

Joan hesitated and felt her eyes widening behind her sunglasses. An accusation had just whizzed past her like a bullet, a narrow miss. Her breath caught in her throat. The mistaken identity and the call she’d made, the tiny little quite-harmless goof. It was almost impossible to imagine that the experience still bothered Ramona at all. Why can’t she just let this go? Joan wondered silently. She seemed to be having such a wonderful time. But it wasn’t an opportunity to waste.

“And you’re sure he isn’t?” Joan said, quickly gathering herself and channeling her best attempt at pure curiosity.

“I’m as sure about him as I am about you,” Ramona said, laughing.

Joan thanked God for Botox, as she hoped her face registered no sign of a tell. She smiled quickly. Ramona thought it was someone else . Realizing this, Joan laughed too—just as someone would who was in on the joke.

“How much do you know about him?” Joan asked. And if someone perhaps asked, Aren’t you being a little nosy, Joan? she would say that at the moment she was acting as a concerned friend. Because caring was concern, and concern required questions.

Ramona’s eyebrows furrowed, as if she was confused. Joan continued to crunch upon her salad as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Finally, Ramona replied, “He’s your neighbor, don’t you know him?”

“He lives on the beach?” Joan almost spit out her arugula.

“Yeah, four houses down from you. You didn’t know?”

Joan had absolutely no idea. And it was so confounding to her, perhaps the absolute last piece of information she’d expected to receive. How? and Why? and of course, the question of Where did his money come from? flooded her mind all at once. But most of all, she didn’t want to seem like a bad neighbor, or a person who didn’t see people, or who couldn’t see people correctly. But when she opened her mouth, there was nothing that would come out. And she tried again to the same effect. So, she did what she knew best to do, she got straight to the point of getting what she wanted.

“Well, then, it seems you’re busy this evening, but what about Christmas, dear? You’ll join us for dinner?”

Ramona looked confused. But that, Joan had anticipated. All that mattered now was whether she’d say yes. And in the seconds of Ramona’s hesitation, Joan decided two things: that she would make the lamb and the roast, and that Jay had turned out to be a much more formidable opponent than she’d expected.

CHELSEA IN CHICAGO...

C HELSEA WATCHED THE CITYSCAPE OF C HICAGO PASS BY HER IN a blur. Just days ago, it was a completely unfamiliar place. Now, she almost felt like she knew where she was going. And in some way she did. She was headed to the Bronzeville area again, on Chicago’s South Side, just like what Carlos said, close to the gallery they’d visited together.

Making an adjustment to the skirt of her dress, Chelsea watched the progress of her trip on the phone that rested in her lap. Melba Tucker’s house was on East Forty-Eighth Place, east of the city’s MLK Boulevard and just north of Washington Park. As Chelsea got closer, the neighborhood changed in wild swings, from carefully tended blocks to those that looked as if they’d been abandoned years ago. There seemed to be so much history reflected in the architecture, some preserved, some virtually ignored. The artist in her searched for the meaning in it. From time to time, when the car stopped for traffic, she pulled out her phone to take pictures of both the beauty and the blight.

When they finally came to a full stop, having arrived at the Tucker home, she was greeted by a stately greystone, narrow and elegant, with a fa?ade of rough-cut large bricks. The door and accents on the bay window frame were black, and at the top of the three stories was a gable roof. Beyond an iron gate, the railing of the stairs leading up to the front door was woven with holiday lights, and large candles glowed in the first-story windows. Chelsea could see others walking up and could hear the sounds of merriment before she even managed to step out of the car onto the sidewalk.

“Have a great time,” her driver called out. “I’m jealous.” Chelsea smiled and thanked him as she shut the door. The air was brisk outside. Freezing. She adjusted her coat and the package containing her gift from the Christmas market and her glühwein potluck contribution. Two people in fur coats were entering ahead of her, reminding her of how far she’d also come from the ratty coat contraption she’d traveled with that would likely never stop dripping sand.

“Come in! Come in!” Chelsea heard Mrs. Tucker say, as the door in front of her opened. Chelsea walked forward quickly, crunching on snow and salt, in part because she was just so, so cold, and also so she wouldn’t have to make a solo entrance. Melba greeted all her guests by name, including, “Chelsea, you made it!” in a version of genuine joy that made Chelsea feel immediately welcome. In the entryway, directly in front of her were a set of stairs along an exposed-brick wall, and to her left a room of all exposed-brick and wood, carved built-ins, and a fireplace that spoke of the original era of the house. There was so much charm in the décor, all warmth and family. All over the walls and on tables were pictures of people she’d seen in decorations at Ramona’s place—Ramona and a younger Carlos; her brother; Ramona and her parents; Mrs. Tucker on her travels, in uniform and out, in pictures with her family and what seemed to be her colleagues.

Melba swirled Chelsea out of her coat, and someone swept it away before she could notice where it was going. But it made a momentous reveal—she was clad strikingly in a long strapless tartan-plaid dress with a serious poof in the skirt. The tartan was fitting for her own Scottish roots and happened to scream “Christmas” with its crisscrossing colors—traditionally red for the myrrh, the green for frankincense, and yellow was symbolic of gold.

“Don’t you look pretty!” Melba pulled out a portion of Chelsea’s skirt between them. “This is just gorgeous, just gorgeous!”

Chelsea’s face stretched into a wide smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “Thank you—I tried to stay on theme,” she said, relieved she didn’t go with sparkles.

“Girl... you understood the assignment.” Melba laughed, and Chelsea savored the words like music. “Come, make yourself at home. Drinks are on the table just here.” Melba pointed to a long table to her left. “And appetizers and food are here on this table.” Chelsea’s attention was directed to a long table farther back in the room, surprising her by how deep the narrow-looking house actually was. Chelsea offered up her gift and alcohol contribution, which was again swept away by someone wearing a catering uniform. “My cousin,” Melba said, smiling. “She’s in culinary school, so I guess that makes me her biggest client so far... but not for long.” Melba was beaming with the pride of an elder, which you could easily tell contributed a great deal to a person’s well-being. Her spirit of mothering was expansive, room filling. Chelsea wanted to breathe it in like an intoxicating fragrance. Melba thanked her with a hug and then shooed her toward the other guests.

As Chelsea walked forward, she became increasingly conscious of being a stranger here, and that Melba Tucker was the only person she knew in the room. There weren’t many people there, and Carlos wasn’t due until after his overtime shift.

Chelsea, looking around for anyone else familiar, for anyone else with whom she might have something in common, perceived that she was the only white person in the room, a feeling she’d dealt with before, in Bronzeville with Carlos. Again here, everyone else was a brown of some sort, but so what? Chelsea thought and resolved to be comfortable. She reminded herself that she liked her tartan dress, and found delight in appreciating the gorgeous bursts of color around her. She wasn’t alone, or isolated either, but rather surrounded by other people and the rousing sounds of their merriment. Taking a deep breath, similar to the ones that calmed her nerves, she started to look for what more there was in common. The exercise brought immediate relaxation and interest. Some had on elaborate and colorful African attire, big and formfitting. There was a woman wearing a sari and another in a Hawaiian-style dress. She felt a bit of a kinship with a darker-skinned man in a bright-red plaid suit jacket and matching red suede shoes.

The drinks table was its own marvel. There were bottles of French Bordeaux and Spanish Riojas and Tempranillos, and to Chelsea’s surprise she hadn’t brought the only bottle of glühwein—there were at least two more. There were beers from everywhere, ranging from Mexico to Austria to Michigan. There was vodka and liqueurs, Italian aperitivos like Montenegro and Aperol. And Ethiopian honey wine alongside sake and a bottle of what looked like peppermint schnapps. It was a world tour right on that table and a perfect place to start for Chelsea. She poured herself a basic concoction of vodka and cranberry and turned in the direction of a “nice dress” compliment that seemed to come from behind her. There was a woman in a dress of gorgeous Ankara cloth, bright and fitted around her curves. Thankful for an opening to socialize, Chelsea returned the compliment and asked enough questions to start a conversation.

Unfortunately, however, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t entirely focus. Not on what the woman next to her was saying, nor the exact words she was using to say it. Every time the door opened, her attention went there and there alone, looking for Carlos. When he did finally appear in the doorway, Chelsea, who had been enjoying perfectly interesting banter, felt like her whole world had lit up, a Christmas tree with the lights on, bringing a glow to the entire room.

“Heeeyyy!” Carlos walked into the room with his arms up as if he owned the place. “Merry Christmas, y’all!” His gloved hands held bottles and bags, and he moved quickly through the same entry ritual as Chelsea had. Watching him, her heart rate started to increase, her breathing became that of excitement, anticipation. When his eyes met hers, finally, she could relax. Away from everything she knew, everyone familiar, she felt at home.

RAMONA IN MALIBU...

I N THE FIRST YEAR EVER THAT SHE’D MISS HER MOTHER’S C HRISTMAS Eve party, Ramona instead looked out upon the ocean from Chelsea’s windows, preparing for a new type of adventure. It was the third day in a row that she’d spend with Jay, a detail that was not lost upon her. Thankfully, in the way that their plans seemed to continually evolve, it was simply a matter of saying yes. It was always just yes, simply yes. Any denial of the building attraction she felt was becoming increasingly difficult, especially since it was more like a natural side effect of a string of delightful interactions.

Given Ramona’s reasons for this trip, companionship was unexpected. Usually for Ramona, physical attraction came first, as it had for her and Malik. But that had ended, hadn’t it? This new awakening of feelings, of interest sparked by Jay, left Ramona feeling slightly conflicted. True, she hadn’t heard from Malik in weeks, a detail that she used to care about, or rather obsess about. Only now, in a matter of days, she’d essentially stopped thinking about him. When she thought toward her future, she envisioned her own dreams. And lately, there was no Malik in anything she imagined. She’d even stopped dreaming about her wedding. These days, she was thinking about surfing and wondering what else she could do with her body if she took more possession of it, even if that meant just to rest.

And while Ramona—the daughter of two working-class South Side parents, who made her way to the Gold Coast—was never one to give up on a dream, or a person, or anything really, it was almost impossible to deny that the version of life involving her and Malik together seemed to have run its course. And what made her smile, just a bit, and then fill with dread, was that she didn’t want to deny it any longer. But then, on the other side of letting Malik go were the questions, both big and small, that Ramona feared the most. Like, How could a person choose and then un-choose her? And How could he want to get married and then walk away so easily? And Did he want the ring back? Or even, Did she want to give it back? Most of all, perhaps the deepest concern, she wondered whether she’d ever find love again because What if, somehow, it was all her fault?

Ramona sighed and settled deeper into the seat. Tonight , she reminded herself, Chicago is a world away . Her mother had already sent pictures of the party—the decoration in progress. Look at the lights!! she wrote in her text, attaching an image of the fully decorated Christmas tree and the candles she always placed in the front windows. She sent pictures of feast preparations, the salmon going into the oven and the pounds of crab legs set to boil—a true annual splurge. She sent pictures of the early guests, and Ramona caught a glimpse of a single white person among a growing sea of brown faces, someone she’d seen before, with unmistakable bright red hair and this time wearing a long plaid dress. It was the same person she’d seen in paintings around the house here. Cute , she thought, recognizing Chelsea. And then realizing with mounting panic that was Chelsea... at her mother’s house. What was she doing there? And what if she let something slip about her being in Malibu alone? Ramona quickly texted a message to Carlos.

RAMONA: What’s Chelsea doing at Ma’s party? Can you make sure she doesn’t say anything about me here alone?

Ramona waited, relieved to see the three dots appear.

CARLOS: Merry Christmas to you too.

And then three dots again and another message from Carlos.

CARLOS: All good, don’t worry. I’m on my way there had to get that double time pay.

RAMONA: You play too much.

And then her finger hovered over the send button. Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she let out a long exhale and added:

RAMONA: Merry Christmas.

She finally hit send. She never expected that Chelsea as a houseguest would weave her way into a Tucker Christmas Eve, but her mother was good at finding anyone who needed the warmth of family. If she could help it, she’d never let so much as a stranger spend the holidays alone. And someone staying at Ramona’s house? Never. If her mother caught wind, it’d be like they were family all along.

Ramona imagined Melba just stopping by to see if Chelsea had plans. To make sure that even a stranger felt welcome and anything but alone in Chicago at Christmas. Maybe Joan was like that as well, Ramona thought, remembering her invitation made over lunch. “You’ll join us for dinner?” Joan asked at the pier. Ramona felt guilty for not giving a commitment, and still felt somewhat guilty now. Put simply, something about Joan made Ramona uneasy. For all the attention, and hospitality, for all the baked goods and fancy invitations, something just didn’t feel... genuine. And because Ramona couldn’t make sense of it, she’d purposely held herself back. Just maybe besides, a small part of her wanted to see Jay instead. So, with great difficulty, she’d asked Joan if she could let her know tomorrow for certain. But now, thinking of her mother, Ramona decided she’d make it a point to go. And why not? Joan had taken such care, just like Ramona’s mother would, to invite her out, to make her feel welcome. Now, after all that had happened, with only the evening and one day left in her trip, Ramona was making an effort to put the early incident of her arrival behind her. At least, she was trying to forget about it, as if it hadn’t happened—except, it had.

Ramona was enjoying her trip, but every time she left Chelsea’s house, she still checked the door three times just to make sure she could get back in. She made sure she had the reservation confirmation available and had added Helena—the rental contact—to her Favorites list, just in case. She kept the key in the top back pocket of her purse and reached her fingers for it before she left, every time. And, despite what she’d said to Joan, even as she tried not to, she still looked at everyone she encountered with just that tiny residual bit of suspicion that kept her disconnected in a way that perhaps she was already too used to. Like nowhere in the world belonged to her, that every place was somewhere she didn’t belong. That there was nowhere she could be free—except on the water. On the waves, in that surf, on the board. The ocean met her as it did anyone else, and that was an experience that she did not get to have on land.

***

J AY’S ARRIVAL WAS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR, WHICH R AMONA didn’t expect, nor did she expect him to rush in with a “Mind if I use the restroom?” only to pass by in a blur.

“It’s on the righ...” But before Ramona finished, he’d already disappeared around the corner after a seeming mental coin toss over which direction to turn in the already efficient space. When he finally reappeared, wiping his hands on his slim-fit dark washed denim, Ramona expressed her confusion about why he was in such a rush coming from four houses away.

“I didn’t come from home... errands,” Jay explained. “On Christmas Eve, everything closes early, almost nothing’s open tomorrow.”

Noting the time, Ramona wondered aloud how in just a few hours she and Jay would find any magic at all on this Christmas Eve, especially when the sun was shining over what looked like just another ordinary day in Southern California.

“Never underestimate a determined man with good intentions,” Jay said, ushering the two of them out the door.

And then the two of them were whipping their way down the PCH again, water on the right, sun overhead, and Ramona was glad she’d managed to maintain her twists, pulled into a half-up and half-down style today that let the top explode festively in a spiky cascade of corded tendrils. Her hair could blow and not be unruly—a lesson she learned from the sea air on the night of the bonfire. Next time, braids... The thought crossed her mind for what must have been the fifteenth time that week. One way or another, a Black girl on vacation travels with her hair as an often temperamental plus-one.

“So, you said you always have fish on Christmas Eve...” Jay said after turning down the radio. Still, the wind made its way through the open widows, flapping their clothes like applause, making it hard to compete for the loudest sound. When he turned to Ramona, Jay was nearly yelling. “There’s only one true way to have fish in LA...” he said, voice at full volume.

After just ten minutes on the road, they pulled into a place with a sign that said, DUKE’S MALIBU, and that looked like a large tavern restaurant straight out of a surfer movie. They walked into an interior that resembled a mix of a tiki bar and a beachside hut, if the beachside hut was absolutely full of bustling dining booths and tables. Based on the size of the crowd, Ramona wondered if they’d manage to get seated before closing time. But of course, there came Jay, smiling his goofy kind of smile with the Hawaiian shirt–clad hostess following closely behind and holding two menus.

“She comes to my classes sometimes,” Jay leaned across the table to say, once they were settled. They’d been placed in a booth with a great view of the Pacific, showing off its ribbons of exquisite turquoise at low tide. Ramona lowered her menu to look at him. “And I don’t charge her sometimes,” Jay added with a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t do it for the money, anyway.” Ramona watched a mischievous look cross his face. “You mind?” He placed his hand on top of her menu, prepared to pull it away. Ramona felt the sense of challenge fill her, the instinct to grip the menu tighter. They tugged over it for a moment, and then Ramona decided to go with the adventure of it and let it go.

Jay seemed thrilled to have the responsibility, to be in charge of the experience. He clearly enjoyed having her trust. And perhaps for Ramona that was her greatest and most elusive gift. When the waitress arrived, he ordered fish tacos for them both and two beers that Ramona had never heard of.

“ Fried fish?” Ramona asked, thinking about the reputation of the “healthy” Californian lifestyle. “What about grilled?”

“ Never ,” Jay said. “Everyone knows the only respectable fish taco is fried.”

When the food came, Ramona understood what he meant. Battered fish was cradled in a tortilla under cabbage slaw, pico de gallo of tomatoes, cilantro, and onions, plus a creamy dressing with the tang of fresh limes. Ramona lost herself in the crunch and taste of it, the combination of flavors, the freshness of the fish. Her mouth awakened, and the satisfaction of her senses tickled its way through her body, so much so that she closed her eyes to relish in the delight. Maybe it wasn’t the assortment of fishes her mother would serve, but just this one was perfect in this way, another reward of trusting what was to come.

CHELSEA, SOUTH SIDE, CHICAGO...

C HELSEA WAS SURPRISED AT HOW QUICKLY THE FIRST FLOOR OF the Tuckers’ greystone filled after Carlos’s arrival. The din of the conversation blending with the music, blending with the drinks she’d helped herself to, made for a delightful energy within the evening. She wasn’t feeling as self-conscious, and Carlos was there now, engaged with her and others in conversation near the heavily ornamented tree. He’d introduced her to a creamy concoction he called coquito, which she’d never heard of before, but it was delicious—like cream, or coconut, or coconut cream and spices, cinnamon for sure, and then definitely some alcohol, rum perhaps—that felt appropriately festive, but certainly strong. She made it a point to slow down, although she could have easily had as many glasses as were in the entire container.

She’d had enough, however, to turn her head into a delightfully boozy, comfortable blur. She was smiling, and Carlos was talking, saying something, and people were laughing, she was laughing, and then his face looked suddenly like he’d seen a ghost.

“Oh shit!” he said, and then covered his mouth. Everyone turned to him and then to the door. Someone was walking in. And just then, Chelsea felt like she might be in danger, that they all might be—perhaps an intruder had come who wasn’t supposed to be there. She felt the quick strike of anxiety below her ribs, the shot of adrenaline through her system that set her heart to racing and triggered her hands into shaking a bit. The woozy warmth was exchanged for a crisp sharpness, an over-awareness of her surroundings. She gasped without knowing why exactly she was gasping, other than this sense that something bad was happening or about to happen, and it was that apprehension that her body processed even despite her happy buzz of just a few moments prior.

But then “Malik!” is what she heard Mrs. Tucker say with a sound of... was it surprise? Cheer? And then Chelsea recognized the name from that first day with Carlos, who, by the way, now looked like an actual ghost to her right, his usually brown face entirely ashen. All of a sudden Chelsea felt dizzy and needed to sit down. “What... wh... where’s Ramona? You’re back early?” Chelsea heard Mrs. Tucker continue, and it sounded like words in a tunnel.

“Excuse me,” Carlos moved by in a blur; his presence became nothing more than a rustle in her ear of his clothes as he passed. In four paces he was over there at the door talking in a hushed tone to Ramona’s mother and to the newly entered Malik. This was a reunion of sorts, one of obvious confusion as the conversation moved from one person to the next with Carlos doing most of the talking. In an almost admirable seamlessness, he moved all three of them toward the back of the room and then they disappeared as a group into the kitchen, followed closely by a man who Chelsea recognized from the family photos and surmised to be Ramona’s father.

RAMONA IN MALIBU...

A T THE EXACT MOMENT R AMONA’S PHONE BATTERY DIED, SHE was at Jay’s house laughing at the fact that they’d actually seen snow that evening in Southern California. Earlier, at Duke’s over lunch, when she wistfully mentioned snow in the middle of a gorgeous day of Malibu sunshine, the last thing she expected was a response from Jay. She was explaining that in the frigid temperatures of Chicago, off the lake in the relatively flat areas of the Midwest, it was common to have snow at Christmastime, and this was another reason that holidays just weren’t made for the West Coast. In reality, she was teasing, giddy from a great meal and starting to feel like the company she was keeping couldn’t hardly be bad at all with such great taste.

He’d guided her through yoga, taught her to surf, introduced her to beers she normally wouldn’t have touched, and finally showed her that there was a much more elevated experience of fish and it was in the center of a taco, fried of course. Her feeling of elation was rapidly building into a measure of trust, not just of Jay, but also of her experience and decision to come, believing now that nothing more could go wrong. She even started thinking about that first misfortune, the one with the patrol, as perhaps just the cost of being Black, perhaps of having locked herself out, or perhaps just the usual breaks and maybe the only setback she’d suffer. Even so, when she whimsically said, “But there’s no snow,” she hadn’t expected Jay’s response of treating it like a wish to be granted. And all of this unfolding as it did contributed to Ramona letting her guard down at precisely the wrong moment.

From Duke’s, Ramona and Jay hopped in his car, whipping along the PCH with the Pacific on their right, all the way down until it turned into a freeway, which turned into streets which, eventually after a lot of traffic, turned into a parking structure at someplace called The Grove. As the daylight was dwindling and the hour approached for all of the shops to close—early in the observance of the holiday—Jay rushed them along through a faux Christmas village worthy of a movie set. A trolley rolled past a perfectly ornamented red-and-white chalet for Santa, and in the background, stores beckoned with as many decorations in the windows as goods for sale. In the town square center of it all was a fountain that seemed to dance along in synchronization with the piped-in music that played from everywhere around them. To Ramona, she’d entered a magical place, one with bows and tinsel tied around palm trees, and lights that somehow found their way to almost every available surface. It smelled like peppermint and sounded like children’s laughter when they got everything they wanted from their list of toys, no matter whether they’d been naughty or nice.

In the middle of it all, as Ramona turned to take everything in, sure enough as the sun had shone earlier, from above her indeed it did start to snow. It was snow, lots of it, fluffy and white and falling everywhere, to the delight of all the people around them—the last snow of the day, in the closing hour. They’d made it in time. Ramona turned her face up with delight. This was the best moment, the one she didn’t expect, that brought with it the lifting excitement of surprise. The drifting white snowflakes canvased the night sky, making a contrast against the palm trees above, filling the space around Ramona and Jay with magic. The music started to play again, and Andy Williams’s classic voice confirmed—with an orchestra of strings and a chorus to back him up—that it was, in fact, the most wonderful time of the year.

A wave of elation carried Ramona all the way back to Malibu, zipping up the PCH again, this time with the water on the left, all the way around the bend where she knew to soon expect Chelsea’s small little cottage by the sea. But why go there and sit by herself? It was evening for certain, but the evening wasn’t over yet.

“Do you have any more of that cinnamon beer?” She turned to Jay in the driver’s seat. It was good timing, as they were just about to pass his place. He wasted no time saying that he did, bottles of it, part of his errands that day. And that’s how they wound up at his house again, with Ramona’s focus on the wonderful time she was having—satisfied with Carlos’s assurance that he’d take care of everything that could have gone wrong in Chicago, which was going very wrong by now. So, this was how it happened that, at the worst possible time, Ramona’s phone sat in her bag, running through the last flimsy bits of its battery until the screen went entirely black.

CHELSEA, SOUTH SIDE, CHICAGO...

B Y THE TIME C ARLOS RETURNED TO THE DWINDLING PARTY, Chelsea’s nervous energy had wound up and then wound back down again. Over the time of his absence, as more and more people trickled out, Chelsea ran out of conversation. She sat, nursing a plastic cup of some Austrian beer that someone said she should try. From the look on Carlos’s face upon his reentry, and that of the person walking beside him called Malik, plus Melba trailing and Ramona’s father too, the party was over. It wasn’t quite Christmas, not at all, and Chelsea wasn’t sure if the cheer would return anytime soon to the Tucker household.

“Hey, you ready to go? I can take you back to Ramona’s.” Carlos appeared at her elbow, his voice registering unmistakable exhaustion. Malik said his goodbyes to Ramona’s parents and disappeared out the door into the night, the way he came. Melba and her husband split ways to speak to the last guests, clearly forcing the appearance of hospitality. It had been a long time that they’d been in the kitchen in the back. Bottles were empty, food trays nearly cleaned out.

“Is everything all right?” was all Chelsea could think of to ask Carlos, even as it clearly was not.

“It will be,” Carlos said distractedly. “But it won’t be tonight.” His phone was in his hand, and he was typing aggressively and sighed when his finger drifted over to the right side of the phone, Chelsea presumed to hit send. “Ramona’s not answering her phone. It’s going straight to voicemail,” he said. “And she’s not replying to texts.”

Chelsea bit her lip. She could always send a message to Joan to check on Ramona, but she wanted to leave Joan out of it. “Maybe she’s sleeping?” Chelsea offered to Carlos’s back. He hadn’t heard her, and she let him go anyway to retrieve her coat from wherever it had been taken, along with his. All the merriment of earlier had been drained out of his demeanor. His shoulders slumped, dragging at least an inch or two off of his impressive height.

He returned with two coats on his arm. “Let’s go,” he said tersely, handing Chelsea her coat with the unmistakable pink mittens still tucked in the sleeve. She finished the rest of the beer in her hand with one gulp and held up a finger mid-swallow to signal that she was going to make her goodbye to Mrs. Tucker. Even despite the turn of events, the evening had been one of unforgettable colors, tastes, and experiences. Melba Tucker had indeed brought a sampling of the whole world to Chicago, to a greystone on the South Side. Chelsea felt enormous gratitude for being included.

She found Melba in the back, straightening up the bottles on the drinks table, looking as if she didn’t quite know what else to do with her hands, or herself, for that matter.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Chelsea called out. Melba looked up, distraction showing in her face. She looked pained, worried.

“Of course, dear,” she said. Her voice missed the sparkle Chelsea had come to expect. “Carlos is going to see you home?”

Chelsea assured her that he would.

“Okay... then,” Melba said.

Chelsea hoped that she wouldn’t see the woman cry. And she hoped that this wasn’t how they’d say goodbye. Not like this. But it wasn’t something she could fix. Almost by instinct, Chelsea lurched forward and wrapped her arms around Melba and held her, inhaled her, remembered for a moment what it was once like to hold her own mother and be held by her. And recalling the pain of seeing her mother sad, she felt the helplessness of a child. So, this hug, that was all she could do, for now.

“Okay,” Chelsea echoed, wishing that there was more to say. She released Melba before the tears came to her own eyes and turned toward the exit. She did not dare look back.

Carlos was already at the door, holding it open. The rideshare car had arrived to take them back to Ramona’s. And Chelsea hoped that this car ride wouldn’t be her goodbye to Carlos either, but it felt like a distance had somehow developed between them, as if they were traveling together in the backseat of a car but growing further apart each minute that passed. Carlos did not look up from his phone.

“Still nothing from Ramona?” she asked.

“Nah, nothing.” Carlos turned to her. “I’m starting to worry for real. I mean, who turns their phone off on Christmas Eve? Maybe something happened to her, or someone called the cops again, or...”

“It was just the patrol.” Chelsea tried to quickly redirect his thinking, ease his worry. “They’re harmless.” Behind him the lights of the city whizzed by as the car headed north toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan. The car hadn’t fully warmed her yet, and so Chelsea, thinking the matter settled, with a shudder of chill, huddled herself closer to Carlos to warm up and to shake off the moment.

“It’s never just the patrol,” Carlos said, backing away from her. “You wouldn’t understand.” And he turned to look back at his phone. There was nothing for Chelsea to protest. She didn’t understand. What was harmless to her was maybe life and death or at least felt like it to someone who the world treated differently. She was shielded from knowing that. And as much as she wanted Carlos to feel better, the only thing she could offer then was the truth.

“Carlos, it was a one-time thing.” She said it low and slow, fully aware of what she was doing, and what she was saying. Carlos looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“What, exactly, was a one-time thing?”

“The patrol, Carlos. It was that neighbor... the woman next door, Joan. She...” That was all that Chelsea could get out before Carlos turned away. His eyes closed and his head slumped, turning side to side as if to escape what she said and the knowing that it created.

“So, you knew... and you lied .” As he spoke, the air in the car stilled, became stifling.

Chelsea scrambled for an answer. “I promised Joan I wouldn’t say anything. She made a mistake. I asked her to leave Ramona alone. To let her enjoy her time. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think for a second that Ramona wouldn’t be safe.”

“But I asked you...” Carlos’s jaw twitched. He took a breath in through his nose, keeping his mouth closed tight. Chelsea could see his body tense, clenched. He pulled his hand up behind his head and gripped the back of his own neck, still saying not a single word.

“I know, but I just didn’t want to ruin... I’m sorry. Are you...” Chelsea couldn’t quite find the words to address something so wrong that she’d done or find the courage to ask if Carlos was mad or if she’d lost him. Because in her heart, she already knew.

“I’m choosing my response to you,” Carlos said, his voice quiet and controlled. To Chelsea it felt like an ending, a goodbye. One that she didn’t intend but couldn’t prevent. Finally, he turned to her just as Chelsea felt the car roll to a stop. They were in front of Ramona’s place. “Chelsea,” he said. “I just thought you were... different... and that you knew. For some people, mistakes are life and death. And if you can’t understand that... then, I don’t know what else to say.”

Chelsea moved to open the door. It wasn’t me that called the patrol , she thought. Still, something about the circumstances made her feel as if she was responsible. As if there was something she was supposed to do but that she couldn’t quite grasp. And she didn’t understand, but she wanted to. So badly, she wanted to.

“Is this something we can talk about?” she asked so eagerly it was almost begging. She wanted to plead with him, Please come upstairs . She wanted to say, Please let me fix this . But there was nothing more she could offer.

“Not tonight,” Carlos said. His voice was flat, empty. Chelsea stepped out of the car. “Merry Christmas,” Carlos said.

“Merry Christmas.” Chelsea said it back to by instinct, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all. She turned to walk into Ramona’s building and didn’t hear the car drive off until she reached the entry and was halfway inside. Carlos was gone.

Chelsea went upstairs, exhausted and spent. She took off the dress and lay on the bed in full makeup in her underwear. Phone in her hand, she pulled it to her face. She opened a message and typed to Joan.

CHELSEA: Where is Ramona?

RAMONA IN MALIBU...

I F IGNORANCE IS BLISS, THEN IN THIS TIME WITH J AY, R AMONA was in seventh heaven. In his living room, after some minor effort of arranging cut logs in the drum of the Malm fireplace and tending to slightly uncooperative kindling, he managed to light the fire, which filled the entire space with a crackling glow of both warmth and character. He delivered a well-timed joke about having few decorations for the holiday, causing Ramona to remember that Christmas was ubiquitous, but not a day of any particular import to everyone and not to people of his faith. Still, for guests and general nostalgia, a very small tree sat in the corner on a side table, one that seemed to be prefabricated with both ornaments and lights. He plugged that in with a somewhat satisfied “There, now it’s Christmas,” and grinned at Ramona as if he’d done something great, which he had, just for her, adding considerable charm. Here with him, she felt twinkly too, like a shiny thing of light, and tinsel, and bows.

Ramona was happily curled up on his sofa, comfortable enough to not only take her shoes off, but to also bring her legs up and rest her feet on the overstuffed cushion underneath her. She inhaled the cinnamon-and-coffee-laced fragrance of what was quickly becoming one of her favorite drinks and lifted her gaze to the view of the ocean that was still the commanding focus of the room. Its character at night was serene, feminine, calm, dark, and mysterious.

“Some music?” Jay called out as he fiddled with a complex-looking set of electronics beneath the television mounted on the wall. Ramona nodded to him as he looked up at her. “Christmas or something else?”

“Let’s try Christmas,” Ramona said. And in response, Jay reached for a tablet screen near his blinking arrangement of technology gear, swiping and tapping with his finger.

“Do you know there are like, five hundred versions of ‘The Christmas Song’?” He turned to her as if he expected a response.

“Well, just pick one,” Ramona replied.

“Okay, Sinatra or Nat King Cole?”

Ramona’s brow furrowed. “Um, you know I’m going to say Cole...”

“Then let’s start with that.” Jay smiled and turned back to his tablet. “Nat King Cole it is...” And suddenly the room filled with the sounds of violin strings and a deep velvet voice singing about chestnuts.

Jay joined Ramona on the sofa, not too close so as to be touching, but close enough that she could feel the additional heat of him, the presence of him nearby. Near enough that she instantly remembered the night before and felt the want of that again. There was a draw she felt, one that she couldn’t explain. Any lingering guilt had already drained from her, somewhere around the time of his manifestation of snow. But truly, this new and expanding version of herself, one that had been birthed in just a moment of freedom, wasn’t ready to reenter the shell sized by her previous life. She no longer wanted to feel obligated or confused. Because finally now, she wasn’t confused at all. The desire that had been building inside her was sharpening to a point, an ache in the direction of Jay. And with that feeling, she only wanted to be wanted in return—by him.

The air between them was awkward and filled with the crackling energy and expectation of romance. Like a room full of ignition fuel primed for one simple little spark. The two of them were a gear cranked all the way forward, a tension spring ready to snap. And all Ramona needed was a single excuse, because it had been months, months since she’d been touched, caressed, and made to feel the hunger of her body. That craving inside her was buried so shallowly, just one touch, one light caress could surface it uncontrollably.

All insecurities about her shape, her size, her hips, ass, and thighs, whether her breasts were too large or too small, or whether her hair was cute, or makeup was right, whether her lashes were on or off, nails done perfectly—all the things she’d become accustomed to relying upon, her checklist of confidence—none of it mattered. Jay was right, the only thing stronger than fear was curiosity. And Ramona was terrified. Scared of being rejected, scared of being misunderstood, scared of making a mistake, but now, in this moment, right now, she was most afraid of wasting time.

Ramona looked at Jay, trying to slow her breathing, deciding what to say. Her skin was tingling electric, aching to be touched by him. He was beautiful in the lighting—his profile, the strong lines of his silhouette—the glow of him was bronze.

“Why are we here?” Ramona finally spoke, slicing into the magic of the music, which had magically transitioned to a melodic Mariah Carey rendition of “O Holy Night.”

Jay turned his gaze away from the water and to Ramona. “Isn’t that the kind of question you ask yourself ?” He smiled at her, leaning toward her, closer now. “Where do you want to be?”

Ramona took in a sharp breath. The truth was obvious. “Here,” she said. “Where do you want to be?”

Jay met her eyes with his and held her gaze. “With you.” As he spoke his hand crossed over the remaining space between them. He reached for her hand and took it in his. He brought it slowly to his lips and finally she felt them, softly, sweetly, as they brushed against her skin. And all she could think about then was kissing him, of meeting his lips.

Tonight, she would tell the truth. She was curious, and curiosity was stronger than fear.

She was falling there, caring less, letting go.

And so it was Ramona who then kissed him back. It happened without thinking—her hand leaving his and reaching around him to the back of his neck and feeling him respond. Then, her lips met his in softness, just softness at first and a gentle exploration between the two of them. Jay’s response escalated quickly. He reached back for her, wrapping his hands around her body, squeezing a release into each part he touched. Her arms, her shoulders, the upper part of her back. As they kissed, and the desire in Ramona built, the tension released in other places, and along with it the limitations and restraint.

She felt lifted and carried on a wave of yearning, of hot and hungry want, of a deep need to be touched. She relished the feeling of cool air in the room in contrast to Jay’s hands that unbuttoned her blouse and delivered their bare warmth against her breasts. Those hands took in progressively more of her to caress and release. His hands were an instrument expressing his own hungry desire, beyond his lips that continued to cover her with their softness. His lips brushed against her neck and where it met her shoulders, her clavicle, the top of her breast while his hands found the outside of her bra. It had been so long... so long since... since being wanted, since feeling like the object of pure and shameless desire, and since her own arousal pushed her far beyond the borders of concern. Jay’s eagerness for Ramona seemed to match her own for him—his interest in exploring her, even the ripples, the round places that she worried about; too round, she’d think at other times, but tonight, he wanted them too. He held them, squeezed here and there and kissed her harder, more intensely, through it.

By this time, after minutes or hours of this, Ramona had no idea, when Jay finally pulled back from her, she was naked from the waist up, her pants open, with her most personal parts exposed. He too was naked from the waist up, with nothing to be unsure about. When she’d placed her hand between his legs earlier, felt him hardened and met the sturdy thickness of him, she realized that he had nothing there to be ashamed of either. And when he stood up in front of her, pants open at his waist, exposing the hard lines of his lower abdomen, the parts she had seen to some degree on the beach, but closer now, she wanted to touch him, to feel that part of him, the ripples of him beneath her hand. She wished to slide her palm over his skin and feel his firmness that contrasted so much with her softness. The intoxication of it overwhelmed her.

“Let’s go.” Jay reached his arms down toward her to take her hands; the sinewy muscles of his biceps and forearms flexed in response to her attaching to him. He pulled her up from the sofa cushion to stand against him, kissing her again, squeezing more of her that he could reach. Her breasts, all of her breasts this time. Her ass, he gripped, pulling her to him. Inside her, arousal activated, as it had been before, but more intensely now; the most intimate places began to swell. Her lips were bruised with kissing, engorged now fully, and the lower lips mirrored this engorgement as if they too would be touched very soon.

Ramona knew the way to his bedroom already, and he wrapped himself behind her, his arms around her, hands still touching, touching everywhere, as he ushered them together to his bed under the illumination of the moonlight. Ramona’s thoughts swirled, but mostly she allowed herself to be wanted, to be consumed with and met with desire until she and Jay, with the moon as their only witness, became the undulations of the ocean together, rolling as waves and crashing, building an ebb and flow of their movements like the tide. Jay’s release Ramona could feel like a torrent, all power and force. His noise was satisfying to her, a low and long groan, and then in her ear he actually whispered, “Thank you... thank you... thank you...” as he kissed her again softly, softly and sweetly on her neck, her face, her ears, all the places his mouth could reach as he lifted himself away.

But Ramona was aroused still because she had not climaxed. She often did not and had lost the expectation of it. So, she breathed deeply and was surprised to feel his hand again between her legs, in the soft place there, so very slippery still. He felt and tickled a bit.

“Did you—”

“No,” Ramona whispered, the honesty breaking through her as easily as her longing did.

“Can I—” Jay’s fingers completed the rest of his question. He used them as brushes, featherlight strokes against her most sensitive part, brushing, brushing, steady and slow, across and across again, one after another as the feeling built in Ramona.

“Yes, yes, that... that feels—” Ramona bit her lip to stifle the escaping moan. The strokes he was making, the overwhelming nature of it, the gentle rush built into something greater within her. It became no longer peaceful in her body as the cresting wave crashed through her, all through her in a disaster of pleasure, gripping her body in thrashes, and she did finally release it all, leaving nothing other than peace, quiet peace, and the silent witness of the ocean from the window.

In Jay’s bed, Ramona lay next to him, breathing deeply, aware of the presence of his body, the smells of the sheets, and the unmistakable salt air of the ocean that filled the place with a certain electricity. By now the high tide had pulled the sea under the house, to become one with it, and it was almost as if they were floating, floating on an island of just the two of them. It was her Shavasana, and in this peace, she drifted into sleep as the living room music kept playing the sounds of a jazz trio and the soulful melody of H.E.R. singing a sultry promise that Christmastime is here...

JOAN IN MALIBU (SHE RARELY LEAVES)...

J OAN F OX HAD NO IDEA WHERE R AMONA WAS. W HEN SHE RECEIVED Chelsea’s text asking after her whereabouts, she was in her lower living room, sitting in a pile of her own creation, shoulder-deep in wrapping paper drinking Chablis (definitely not Chardonnay). “Where’s Ramona?” she read aloud. In response, from built-in speakers in the ceiling above Joan’s head, Bing Crosby sang about glistening treetops. She pulled out her phone and typed back to Chelsea.

JOAN: How would I know??? Isn’t she with Jay?

Joan looked out through her huge glass windows to check the sea. The strip of narrow beach outside had disappeared now—the high tide meant that it was close to eleven in Chicago. She looked back at her phone, confirming the time but focused now on the three little dots in her message box that kept appearing and disappearing.

“Dammit, Chelsea, what?” Joan said to the phone, irritated. Here she was, just trying to enjoy what was left of Christmas Eve, alone , as she hadn’t planned to be. But if she was, in fact, going to be spending Christmas Eve with just the sounds of recorded cheer, she wanted to do so in peace . If Ramona had just accepted her plans, Joan’s plans, she wouldn’t be in whatever mess had been caused.

With a little chime, two new lines of text appeared on Joan’s phone from Chelsea.

The first was:

CHELSEA: Her phone is going straight to v/m

The second was:

CHELSEA: I had to say you called patrol but wouldn’t do it again.

“Fuck!” Joan yelled, entirely without meaning to. Hearing herself curse was jarring, and despite being alone, she looked around for someone who’d heard. But there was only the sea outside. She hadn’t used such language since her days back in Bakersfield, long before she leaned into her new role in Los Angeles of actress turned high-powered plus-one. Cursing was unbecoming, what her mother did after late nights in the diner. She was far past that now. It was unexpected of pretty and charming girls, and Joan was Joan Fox now, still , in a four-thousand-square-foot place by the sea.

She had half a mind to walk over to Chelsea’s place and bang on the door, demand an audience to explain herself, her point of view. To deliver all the justifications and reasons why in the situation, the action she took, as controversial as it was perhaps, was truly, deeply, seriously her only option. It was her right to feel safe, after all. And what was so wrong with that? She stood up, walked over to the window, but she couldn’t see much from her lower level. So, up her majestic circular staircase she climbed to her upper living area, toward her binoculars that she still hadn’t moved. The lights were out next door. There was no motion from the bedroom window, nothing on the deck. Ramona wasn’t home. Ah, but maybe she was at Jay’s ? Joan experienced the minor glimmer of hope that she could just march down there then, wherever there was, bang on that door, and demand the return of Ramona. Ramona was hers, her new friend for Christmas. Now that she knew she was a person... or rather, knew who she was as a person. Same thing really, right? Joan was filled with the sudden surge of knowing exactly what she’d do. She’d save Ramona once and for all from the clutches of Jay, because that was her mission now. He lived down a few houses, as she recalled hearing. But in which direction? How many houses? Joan realized then that she had no idea at all where Jay lived. He was just the man on the beach with the loud music. The womanizer who taught classes to take advantage of women. She hadn’t thought of him as a neighbor, or realized for even a second that the beach was also his. And so there Joan was left, floating in indecision, waiting for her next best idea. Because there was no way she was going to lose now.