Page 9 of All About Christmas

Various bouquets and plants are displayed in front of the flower shop. From containers of red roses, sunflowers, and chrysanthemums to autumn arrangements with moss and twigs.

The drizzle that heralds a wet autumn trickles down and makes me look like a walking piece of cotton candy. I don’t understand why, in this age where anything is possible, there is still no hair product on the market that effectively tackles frizzy hair.

I heave a deep sigh and step into the store. The little bell above the door rings and the sweet, floral scent drifts toward me. The place is warm and humid, which makes the houseplants visibly happy. Carefully, I step through the store, but see no one.

“Hello?” I say in a slightly raised voice. “Is anyone there?”

The sounds of laughter chime, but I can’t tell exactly where they’re coming from.

“Hello?” I repeat hesitantly.

“Just a minute!” Indefinable sounds drift toward me, and then a woman appears in view. Her cheeks sport a red blush, and she’s wearing a colourful dress with a busy lily print. She has her red hair piled up on her head and secured with a large pink flower. I estimate her to be about my age.

“Hello,” she says. “My apologies. How can I help you?”

“No problem.” I walk up to her and smile kindly. “My name is Holly Winters. I work for the show All About Love .”

The woman’s mouth—whose name, according to the email, is Rose—drops open slightly.

“Oh, dear,” is all she manages to exclaim.

“Yes, I understand it’s a shock,” I reassure her. “The chances of you being chosen are very slim, of course, but to me your letter really stood out.”

“Oh, yes, I gathered that,” she nods.

I open my mouth to talk further about how I want to make an item about her search for her silent admirer, but then I clench my jaw again. Her words sink in slowly. She’d already gathered that?

Seeing my confused expression, she looks at me apologetically and continues: “I think there may have been some miscommunication in your office. Someone’s already—”

“Holly!” A voice I had hoped not to hear again today, at the very least, interrupts Rose.

Slowly, very slowly, I turn my head toward the private area at the back of the store.

I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth. “Olivier,” I finally say with a nod that’s just for show so Rose won’t think anything crazy. “What are you doing here?”

It comes out a lot more vicious than intended, and I see Rose frowning in confusion.

“Same reason as you, I guess,” Olivier says, grinning. He hangs so casually against the window frame that it seems like he comes here every day. “I was just telling Rose that I’m only too happy to add her to my segment.”

“Yes, it all sounded very nice.” Rose nods enthusiastically. “The whole idea of a dating sh—”

She is interrupted by Olivier, who makes a sound of denial. Rose turns in his direction again. “Sorry, should I not have said that?”

I look at Olivier mockingly. “A dating show?” I chuckle. “You seriously want to do a dating show in All About Love ?”

It’s clearly difficult for him to keep a neutral face. His brow seems tense, and slowly his eyes narrow to slits.

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks. “People like it and it’s well regarded.”

Rose coughs softly, but Olivier and I continue to look at each other severely.

“Um... Do you guys even work for the same show?” she asks cautiously.

“Of course,” I reply. “But I have a better proposal.” I turn to Rose again and manage to crack a smile. “I would like to make my segment entirely about the quest for your secret admirer.”

Rose looks at me in amazement. “An entire segment? Is that possible?”

“Of course it’s possible. Unlike what Olivier has in store for you, it will all be very romantic and cozy. None of that showy stuff.”

“Pfft, says the one with the pink hair,” Olivier mumbles from the doorway.

With a swift movement, I turn toward him again, my arms firmly crossed. I can’t help it, but I feel a little offended. “Excuse me?” I say, exasperated. “I can tell what time it is from here because of that flashy watch of yours.”

Olivier turns his wrist so that he can look at the watch. The silver sparkles in the light above the counter. He purses his lips disapprovingly. “Holly here was complaining just yesterday that not enough nice emails had come in, if you really want to feel appreciated...”

“What a low blow!” I look at him angrily. “You just said—”

“Um... guys?” Rose tries to gently interject.

Olivier shakes his head. “Nonsense. I didn’t mean that at all...”

“Guys!” shouts Rose really loud now. Her voice echoes through the store.

I clench my jaw, and Olivier, too, seems to realize that we have just been unprofessionally bickering in front of a potential contestant.

Rose looks from me to Olivier and back again. “I, um... I think I’ll pass,” she apologizes. She focuses on a button that is still attached to her dress by a few loose threads and then adds, “Well, actually, I’m pretty sure. But thanks for the offer.”

Olivier opens his mouth, probably to subject Rose to his smooth talk, but even before he can say anything, she continues, “So, um... I think it’s better if you go.” When we don’t respond immediately, she continues a tad helplessly, “It’s busy.”

We both look around, and the only other soul present is a fat humming fly that buzzes by and collides against a window with a small tap. Over. And over.

“Shit,” I mutter, my cheeks stained red with shame. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t appropriate.”

Rose shrugs her shoulders but doesn’t correct me.

“Well. Thanks for your time.” I nod politely and turn around. Behind me, I hear Olivier also mutter something resembling an apology; then he follows me.

When the door closes behind us, he turns toward me. His briefcase dangles next to his legs, his knuckles white from gripping the handle so tightly.

A brief silence falls, filled only by noise from the passing scooters and cars. I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it.

“Thanks,” he says bitterly.

I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Excuse me? You’re the one who made it personal.” I suddenly stroke my hair self-consciously. I’m happy with this colour. It’s not a bright pink, just a soft shade. A little pastel. It’s actually blonde with a pink tinge.

He breathes a deep sigh and shakes his head. “Well. Fortunately, I have other people to fill my segment with. The way I heard you talking in there just now, you’re not so lucky.”

Before I can react, he turns and stalks toward the parking lot. I look after him angrily, my hands clenched into tight fists.

Jerk.

I wipe some raindrops from my face as I hang up my coat before walking to my desk.

Olivier, thankfully, is not back yet. His list of candidates is probably longer than a small child’s average Christmas wish list. That’s simply an added advantage when you come up with such a tacky idea as a dating show.

My foot taps impatiently on the ground. It’s Friday. I really have to come up with something or this is a done deal. I can think of common, ordinary segments. I’ve helped José with that over the years. Selecting a letter that stands out is another story.

“Ugh!” I lower my face into my hands. I can do two things now: either get a bottle of wine on the way home and get completely drunk, or consume five cups of the caffeine sludge coming out of the coffee maker and sift through the emails one more time.

Refusing to give in, I straighten my shoulders, get up, and leg it to the kitchenette. I grab a mug from the shelf and place it under the coffee maker. On the little screen, I choose a latte macchiato. The machine starts bubbling and squeezes some sort of concentrated liquid into my cup.

“So, you dare.” I look up and see George walking toward the scrap paper with his duffel bag full of letters.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

George nods to my hand holding the steaming latte securely. “That’ll hurt. I should go retrieve my antacids from Norbert.”

I bite my lip. I really hope they fix that coffee maker soon. In any case, I don’t dare touch it anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asks when I don’t respond immediately. “You seem a little tense.”

I give him a warm smile. “I’m fine. But thank you.”

“All right. Well, I’m going to dump some more letters. Seriously, when will people learn to read?” He turns around again and walks on. I can just barely hear him growl that it’s “on the damned website” as he drags the letters behind him with much theatrical sighing and groaning.

Wait a minute...

The thundercloud that has been floating over my head since the visit to Rose’s flower shop has suddenly disappeared. I set my latte on the countertop and almost skip after him.

“Hey, George!” I call out. “Hold on!”

I feel like Harry in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone when letters rain in from every opening in the house.

The ground is littered with envelopes, but unlike Harry, I don’t jump into the air hoping to catch one when it would be much easier to just drop to my knees and pick one up off the floor.

Well, in my case, the letters don’t fall from the sky either, they come from George’s big duffel bag that I was allowed to sift through as long as I put everything in the shredder myself afterwards.

I’ve already opened quite a few and the first thing I notice is that many of the letters are written in classic, slanted handwriting. It reminds me of the birthday cards my grandmother used to send me.

More and more, I get the impression that by accepting only digital mail, we are writing off an entire generation. And that’s a real shame, because there are better stories in this bag than in the inbox. A stack of letters with stories that stand a good chance begins to build on my right side.

I’m so engrossed in all the storytelling that I’ve lost all sense of time. Outside, it’s dark, and the cleaners began cleaning up a while ago. When someone opened the door to the old paper room and saw me sitting among all the torn envelopes, they pulled it shut again just as quickly.

I can’t blame them.

My fingers pick open the envelope of yet another letter, and I begin to read.

Dear Reader,

Let me first introduce myself: my name is Olaf and I am ninety-four years young. Now I hear you thinking: that man lived through World War II, saw Martin Luther King give his “I Have a Dream” speech and was able to watch the first moon landing on live television—how can he call himself young?

I can call myself young because that’s how I feel right now. It feels like I am fifteen years old again and the butterflies are fluttering through my stomach. I am in a kind of permanent state of joy. And the reason for that is called Maggie.

I got to know Maggie in my teenage years.

She was the prettiest girl in the class, and whenever I saw her in her Sunday clothes at church, my heart would skip a beat.

She had beautiful blonde braids and expressive, light eyes.

I was hopelessly in love without having even exchanged a word with her.

When I finally gathered the courage to tell her, she said she felt the same way.

But then her parents decided to move to the other side of the country, and we lost track of each other.

My teenage heart was in a thousand pieces.

Back then, there were no modern means of communication like WhatsApp or even email.

Our contact faded, but that didn’t mean she disappeared from my mind.

Now, eighty years later, I am in an assisted living home, and you can guess who was sitting across from me at the bridge table, with grey-green eyes that twinkled as much as they did then.

And, dear reader, exactly the same thing that took place eighty years ago happened again. We both fell in love instantly and can’t believe our luck.

I would love nothing more than to be able to call Maggie “my wife” in this life. Therefore, I would love to marry her in the little church where I could always admire her in her Sunday dresses.

Unfortunately, due to our health, we are unable to organize a wedding ourselves. That is the reason why I would like to seek the help of your program.

Would you please help my Maggie and me? I would give anything to see her walk down the aisle.

A heartfelt Christmas greeting,

Olaf

A warm feeling spreads through my chest, and my eyes get a little moist. “Yes, Olaf,” I say softly to the paper. “Yes, I want very much to help you and Maggie.”