The Eggnog Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page A

don’t hate the people who do it,” Emma said. “I mean, to them it’s a job, and for some of them it provides food and shelter and medical coverage for their kids.”
    I slugged back some ice water. “Your point being?”
    Emma lifted her auburn red hair—hair Clairol would kill for—from her collar, then dropped it onto the back of her navy suit jacket. “I don’t wish these people ill. I just don’t want to go back to that damned office after lunch. The sleaze factor is so high.”
    â€œPoor Emma Dee.” Emma’s girlfriends had started calling her that in middle school, when we decided that her last name, “Dombrowski,” needed fixing. These days, it was one of the first things Emma checked out when she met a guy—his last name. For Emma, a new last name would be one of the bonuses of marriage. “So I guess telemarketing is not the place to find that Christmas lover?”
    Emma shuddered. “Not unless you want him to call you out of the shower to sell you credit card protection you already have.” She shook her head. “I wish this rotation would end.”
    â€œWhen do you finish with the telemackerels?” I asked.
    â€œNot soon enough. I’m there until March first.”
    â€œOh, poor Emma. It’s going to be a blue Christmas for you.”
    â€œIt won’t!” Her eyes flashed with defiance. “This is going to be a wonderful Christmas—the Christmas of my liberation. Jonathan managed to ruin the last few holidays for me and I’m determined to make this the best Christmas ever.”
    â€œJonathan? Brrr.” I shuddered. “Did someone open a window, or did his ghost just pass through me?”
    â€œYou know, I thought I’d miss him, but I don’t. Not at all. It’s kind of scary.”
    â€œHe was more work than he was worth, and you should be glad he’s gone.”
    â€œI am.” Emma fingered the fake garland lit with tiny lights that was draped along the room divider beside our table. “But it’s hard at Christmas, you know? Hard not to have someone.”
    â€œYou mean a man to validate you?” I made a mock gasp. “Emma Dee, I gasp on your behalf.”
    â€œDon’t go all Femi-Nazi on me. I’m talking about a man to exchange gifts with. Someone to share the brandy and snuggle beside the Christmas tree.” Her fingers framed the tiny white bulbs so delicately, I had to stop in my tracks and really listen to what she was saying. It was the ultimate American dream, really—spending a happy holiday with someone you love. It was fodder for Christmas carols and cards, coffee commercials in which Johnny makes it home from war in time for Christmas morning or the man gives his mate a diamond necklace under the Christmas tree, print ads with his-and-hers cell phones spilling out of Santa’s voluminous bag.
    â€œOh, what am I saying? You’ve got Carter.”
    I nearly choked on a lettuce leaf. “Carter is not a boyfriend.”
    â€œThen what would you call him?”
    â€œA boy, but not a friend. Carter is a way to relieve stress. You have a high math aptitude, right? Here are the equations: Great sex = great time. Commitment = annoyance overload.”
    â€œAnd you don’t love him,” Emma said thoughtfully. “I had that with Jonathan, and I’m so glad he’s out of my mainframe. But we deserve more, Jane. That’s my Christmas wish for us. Someone to love. A man for all time.”
    â€œHumbug. We may want a man like that, but December twenty-sixth always rolls around with a few extra pounds, a handful of department store returns, and a truckload of regrets. For me, those regrets usually involve some loser who thinks I understand him because I’m the first girl who’s dropped her bloomers since his wife divorced him.”
    â€œAha! So you have been disappointed,” Emma