Page 97 of The Summer of Christmas

The snow swirled. Ivy couldn’t see past it. But she could hear the opening of the Beach Boys song “Little Saint Nick,” otherwise known as the Christmas disaster song. The snow stopped enough for her to see a door. She opened it to see her Christmas future. A Christmas party was going on in a lavish home high in the Hollywood Hills.

“Hey, Ivy,” some guy yelled. He looked like Griffin, an older Griffin. He was wearing glasses. “You can see Santa from this view.”

“Is that Griffin?” Ivy asked.

“It is. You always hired him. He’s been in every one of your movies,” said Young Ivy.

“How many movies did I write?” wondered Ivy.

“Credited or uncredited?” asked Young Ivy.

“Credited,” she answered.

“Three.”

“Really? That’s it?” Ivy gasped. She’d expected so much more from herself.

“Enough with the credits. The show’s running long,” Young Ivy said.

“So, this place is mine,” she said as she grabbed a Christmas cosmo from a passing waiter. “I guess I made it.”

“You did. You’re one of those highly paid script doctors. You’re very rich. You fix everyone else’s script problems. Never your own.”

“All my dreams came true,” Ivy said, not loving this dream.

“Well, not all of them,” young Ivy said. The real Ivy wasn’t listening. She had spotted the future Ivy being the life of the party, the center of attention.

She stepped in and found an older version of herself. “Is that me?”

“Yeah, you kept yourself in great shape.”

Ivy went up to herself and looked closely at the future Ivy’s forehead. “I had Botox!”

“That’s not all the work you had done.” Suddenly, some old white guy with a full gray beard appeared. His nickname was the Silver Turtle. He leaned up and kissed Ivy, flush on the mouth. Something that was totally gross.

“Why am I kissing Grandpa?” Ivy asked.

“That’s not Grandpa. That’s Eric. The Silver Turtle. Rich media guy. He’s your third husband.”

“My third husband? I’ve been married twice? To whom? Drew?”

“That was strike one. Strike two was a Spanish financier named Alfonso. You lived in Madrid for a year.”

“And now I’m married to Grandpa? What happened to Nick?”

Suddenly the snow appeared. When it stopped, they were outside the famous TCL Chinese Theatre. Spotlights were spraying in the night. She saw all the people from the party, all the people from her childhood, and all the people from now—filing into the theater.

She walked in and smiled. “Everyone I know is here.” Ivy stopped herself. Eyes scanning the backs of heads. She did not see who she was looking for. “Nick—where’s Nick?”

Young Ivy shushed her, popcorn in hand. “The movie is about to start.”

Ivy sat down. Took some of the dream popcorn, which she couldn’t seem to eat. The movie started. It was a funeral. She recognized the scene. It was the one that had not been shot yet. It was Nick’s funeral.

“Ivy, where’s Nick?”

“You killed him, Ivy.”

“Where is he?”