The Russian's Christmas Present

My phone buzzes with my second alarm and a bolt of panic cuts through me. I turn toward Alice, my throat tight and my mouth dry.

I look toward the full-length mirror, the red, strapless formal dress I designed earlier this year suddenly looking out of place.

Homemade.

“Maybe this is a mistake.” My shoulders fall as I exhale, picking at an errant stitch on the ruched neckline, then tug at the fabric around my hips.

Alice is the perfect blend of curves and straightaways. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got twenty more pounds and six fewer inches to stretch it over. I know it’s just business, Martel Kozlov is helping me, and I guess in some way I’m not sure how I’m helping him.

I’ve never much loathed my looks or my body as I’ve gotten older, but for the most part I’m just at the ho-hum end of average I suppose, and a guy like Martel pushes the needle into the red on the sexy scale.

“Don’t let your father’s bullshit insecurities taint your evening.” Alice’s voice is cheerful. “You look fucking killer, and you’re going to own that high-society ballroom. Hold your head high, bid on that hunk of Russian man-meat like you da boss.”

“I envy your confidence.” I run a hand up my neck, trying to brush away the red blotches forming already.

“Listen, look at this dress.” She cocks her hip out and crosses her arms. “How the hell would I know how to make something like this? You look like you should be on the cover of Vogue. So, own it. Work it. Fake it ‘til you make it, girl. It’s all in here.” She steps over and taps me on the forehead. “And in here.” Her finger lowers to my sternum. “Now, get the hell out of here before I put on my best Cherrie Starr pink wig, acrylic stilettos, schoolgirl outfit and usher your ass into Meadowbrook Hall myself.”

We hug and say our goodbyes, and I scoot out the front door, not bothering with a goodbye to my dad, who is on the phone placing a bet as I scurry by the den door.

Meadowbrook Hall is like a dream.

From the moment I pull my 1998 mint-green Ford Taurus, with a taped-up broken taillight and flickering ‘Check Engine’ warning, in through the stone pillars and steel gates, I might as well be in the north pole. Lights are wrapped around every tree, with candy canes as tall as a man lining the driveway.

There’s a gingerbread house almost as big as the house where I live on the lawn to the left of the entry, and a full size Santa’s sleigh with life-like reindeer on the roof.

The hall itself was built as a home in the 1800s by the founder of Woods Steel and Manufacturing, and I remember taking field trips here in elementary school and feeling like kings and queens lived here. It’s been expanded to an event hall with an attached high-end hotel, two restaurants and a bar, and it’s the place that everyone wants to be for any special occasion or lifetime event.

It’s like Christmas personified as I slow my car past a sign indicating guest parking one way and valet the other.

As I try to decide which way to turn, I pull out my phone and the piece of paper with Martel’s number scrawled across it. Even his handwriting is sexy. Raw, messy, but deliberate at the same time. I type in his number and the message and hit send.

Me: I’m here. Parking. Will be inside in a minute or two.

I set my phone back down and my stomach does a somersault. Snow covers the pavement and I know my experience with five-inch heels is marginal at best, so considering the long walk from the parking lot to the entry, I turn toward the valet sign.

Tonight, I’m not going to be embarrassed about anything. Like Alice/Cherrie said, fake it ‘til you make it.

I pull up in front of a black-suited young man about my age, who races around to the driver’s side of the car just as the engine makes a loud clunking sound, followed by a little backfire, causing other guests lingering outside to turn and stare, but I hold my head high.

“Ma’am.” The valet opens my door and I step out. “Here’s your valet ticket. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you.” He holds my hand for a long moment as I get my feet on the wet ground and pull my black shawl around my shoulders. “Hey,” I lean towards him on a low voice. “The locks don’t work, so don’t worry about locking it up.”

He nods with an understanding look, then adds, “You look beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying…”

“I mind.” A voice from behind me booms and I twist my head to see Martel standing there, shooting daggers at the poor valet driver.