Free Charming Christmas by Carly Alexander Page B

was enticing. When you’re in show business, you develop this instinct to go toward the cameras, grab the attention of reporters and media people whenever you have the chance. Still, there was no way I could watch at such a public place, not knowing what to expect from Bobby’s show. Talk about blindsided.
    â€œLet me know if plans change.” He saluted me with two fingers. “Ciao.”
    I was tempted to respond with a one-finger salute but restrained myself. After all, I was Mrs. Claus.

6
    T o my surprise, ZZ didn’t glower or grouse when I crept back into orientation ten minutes late. He was passing out stockings and lecturing once again on the importance of setting goals, on the amazing impact this Christmas wish could have on our lives.
    Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah.
    I tuned him out immediately and refocused on Bobby and the debut of the show and the fact that this city would continue to close in around me, shrinking my life down to a claustrophobic sack once the tales of wicked Olivia aired on television. I’d once complained that I’d never felt embraced by this city, but now I was feeling its grip quite well, a firm grasp tightening to a stranglehold.
    â€œDon’t check out on me,” ZZ said softly, leaning close to my ear. He handed me a red stocking with “Mrs. Claus” embroidered over the fuzzy white cuff.
    â€œTo be honest, I’m already gone.” My heart was back in New York, dancing on the line, having brunch with friends and not having to worry about eating waffles or pancakes or bacon because in three performances a day you burn it all off, rushing from my apartment to fit in Christmas shopping before the early performance . . .
    â€œEmotionally, that may be true,” he said. “But since your body is still with us for the next few weeks, it would be nice if the spirit could join in.”
    I gave him a curious look.
    â€œMetaphysically speaking.” He straightened, addressing the group once again. “You’ll find a small card inside your stocking. Take it out now and fill in your Christmas wish . . .”
    Maybe I’d misjudged ZZ. After all, he could have spent this entire day making us read the corporate policy on sexual harassment and chronic tardiness. I took the white card from my stocking and mulled over my secret desires. Not that I am superstitious or even a believer in quiet goal setting. I’m the sort of person who strikes out after what she wants, working through obstacles with single-minded determination. The approach usually worked for me—had landed me a position on the Rockettes. But lately, I was stuck waiting—for my ankle to heal, for my mother to swing back to normal, for Christmas to come and go so I could head back to New York.
    What to wish for? That my ankle was all healed and I was back in Manhattan, back in the Rockettes?
    That would have been my primary desire a few weeks ago but now, somehow, it was not enough. My future seemed tainted by Bobby’s impending show, a commercial franchise with the potential to exploit and malign my image and my name. And then there was Bobby. Blissfully self-absorbed Bobby. Despite his tendencies toward the asshole brigade, despite the fact that he was married now, I still felt that flush of warmth around him, the undying attraction that would have me tossing rose petals onto his grave when I was ninety. Fatalistic, I know, but if his bad behavior hadn’t killed the attraction by now, I had to resolve myself to living with it.
    I wanted it all—the love of my life, my anonymity, my dancing career.
    â€œRemember, you can only write down one wish,” ZZ said as he paced the room. “You need to focus, people.”
    Fine, I thought. I would wipe the slate clean.
    I wrote: I wish for a do-over . Thinking like a lawyer. I figured that left a lot of things open, but then a lot of things in my life needed fixing.
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    That afternoon ZZ