LitanyLane

Christmas Eve

London, England

2029

Rose Fierro

Honestly

The man in the bowler hat did another quick turn around the shop. He peers at the lilies from every angle before turning to inspect the tropicals. He then considers the bouquets in the fridge. I suspect they are a bit avant-garde for him. He turns to the shelves and puts his hands on his hips in apparent defeat.

He toddles up to  the counter, “Do you have anything in the back ?”

The back ? What does he think this is?

“Maybe something…festive.”  he says, reaching for the word.

“Festive?” Festive ?

“Like that.” He points rather aggressively to the iridescent gold vase behind me. A dozen white poinsettias are firmly planted in it. Lettie had outdone herself with it. She’d tied a festive gold ribbon on it and added a pine cone accent. She’d also placed some sparkly curly nonsense in the pot, but I’d taken it out.

“Ah”, I turn back to him, “That’s already been sold.”

“I mean…it’s Christmas Eve. If they haven’t picked it up yet. Maybe I could….”

I wait for him to finish the sentence. Just to be sure he was being that ostentatious. 

“Maybe I could buy it”, He finally says. Oh. He was that ostentatious.

I look back at the arrangement.  It was the sole poinsettia arrangement left.

“It’s not for sale–”

Wait

A woman had been in the shop with him. 

I’d barely seen her out of the corner of my eyes. Now she stood like a shadow just to his right. She was wearing Christmas pajamas. She was faint, but she seemed transfixed by the poinsettia arrangements.. Whatever she was…was barely anything. An imprint or memory at this point.

Some strong emotion  or memory was briefly reigniting her existence. Holidays often did that. .

“Alright,” I decide, but it’s not for him, “You can buy it, but I don’t have time to wrap it.”

“What about tea ?”He asks eyeing the tea cart in the corner. The cart that had already been cleaned and reset.

“Certainly.” I manage through slightly gritted teeth.

I burn the tea and am a bit careless with the cream and sugar. The man pays as slow as he does everything else. I’m lucky to get him out at 4:30.

“I’m late.” I say to no one in particular. 

I run to the back of the shop and go through the discarded flower pile. There are a handful of poinsettias with minor imperfections. I don’t have Lettie’s expert eye, so I just arrange the imperfect blossoms in a chipped silver vase. I throw in some ferns for greenery. I’ve certainly done worse. 

My tote is already packed with provisions;  kettle , instant noodles, orange spiced tea and  paper cups.I also grab the coffee cake a customer had brought in this morning. It would go well with the tea.

I’m almost out the door when I remember:

“Keys.”

I dart back into the shop. I run to the backroom and up the staircase to my flat. 

Where was it ?

 It wouldn’t be in my desk. I rummage through the closet until I find a file folder of  important documents concerning Mercier. When I don’t find the key there I go through all my suitcases and bags 

Nothing.

I go through my books next. 

Victory.

The key is tucked away in a second edition Alice in Wonderland. I also find a copy of The  Abridged  Christmas Carol. Might as well bring that too.

By the time I head back out it’s started to rain. On today of all days. I lock up and run as fast as I can (which I’m told is not fast at all) to catch the last train to France.  I arrive just in time to see the last train putter off into the night.

I venture back into the streets to find a driver. It takes an hour before I find one willing to drive. It just takes an obscene amount of money.

“Going home for Christmas. " he asks once I hand him the stack of cash.

“Something like that.”

+++

It’s a quiet 3 hour ride to Versaille. He slows the car when we turn on Monet Drive. He carefully admires each estate and I know what he is thinking.

“It just keeps going”, He says

I spy a new house being built on Mrs.Potts property. Apparently she’d sold part of it to pay off debts. There was no rule stating that homes in the Monet Historical Homes Association had to be historical —-but this would cause drama. Drama I was glad not to be involved in. 

He finally turns off Monet Drive and speeds towards the gates of Mercier. 

I forgot the gate opener. 

There is a soft spark in the air and the gate slowly opens. The driver continues down the long winding path until Mercier, with all its perfectly imperfect symmetry, comes into focus. 

He slows to a stop and I pay him a little extra. The door opens as smoothly as the gate. There is a tinge of mildew in the air. The cellar had probably flooded again. Most of the furniture and tables are covered in dust clothes. It’s quiet and there is a staunch chill. I flip on a few switches and after a while the electricity hums on.

“I’m in here”,  a voice calls.

I follow the voice to the parlor . The fireplace is on and a Christmas blanket is rolled out in front of it. I plug in the kettle and slice up the cake.

“How about some music”,  Aunt Lucie suggests. She (With great thought) settles on the floor. Her dark bob has a slip of gray in it. Maybe it’s the fireplace, but there is a youthful glow to face. She appears a little over 40 and her red dress seems familiar somehow

I spy the old record player in the corner and it starts to play.

“These poinsettias are lovely ! One of Lettie’s creations ?” Aunt Lucie asks.

“I think we both know this atrocity is mine.”

“Stop. It’s amazing !”, Aunt Lucie proclaims. She admires my arrangement as if it were made of gold.

“I had something  a bit nicer but my charitable heart gave it away.”

She gives me an incorrigible smile, “How kind. Finally getting into the Christmas spirit ?  I bet your heart grew two sizes.”

“Goodness. Let’s hope not.”

“Merry Christmas, Rose.”

“Happy Christmas, Aunt Lucie.”

The End

A/N

Present

Clara misses her flight to Aspen. She and her family will be reunited in Lipari.

Future

I hope it comes across that all of Rose’s lines are sardonic. 

In my head cannon, 21 year old Rose is an eccentric heiress who, after bouncing from art college to art college, moves to London and opens a gothic flower & tea shop (even though she is far from a florist).

 I would love to write a mini series where she solves bizarre cozy mysteries with the help of her Ghost!Aunt Lucie. 

Ahem, do I hear BritBox calling ?

Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries X Ghost Whisperer (Essie Davis is actually a great picspiration for Lucie ).

At some point I started wanting to redeem Lucie. She’s a  bold, charming, unlikable female character. Helping Rose would be her way of atoning for all the bad she’s done. 

Lucie was Rose’s ‘Guardian Angel’ until she was 4. When Fierro becomes a part of Rose’s life, Lucie decides to keep her distance and haunt an old Abby in Ireland. Fierro moves back to Ireland in PLT. It’s there that Rose and Lucie reconnect.  In PLT Clara says she doesn't want Rose around her anymore. Though Lucie briefly comes back to help Rose in PLT II.

Rose knows that Lucie is a ghost and that she is her grandmother. She just sees her more of an aunt figure. She also knows Lucie was married to her father and that her father somehow survived death.Even as an adult, Rose doesn’t know all the details or why her parents and Lucie have a tense relationship

In my head cannon, Clara and Fierro are always out and about in an attempt to uncurse themselves. They've asked Rose to keep an eye on Mercier while they are away. If I were to write a cozy mystery that would be my excuse for them not showing up. I’d want Rose’s stories to stand alone.