New Year's Resolutions Read online

  New Year’s Resolutions

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To Mouse

  With all her winning ways, cunning skill,

  and uncanny expressions in every photograph. Sleep well.

  Chapter One

  The midnight train rumbled on the overhead tracks, carrying commuters to homes or parties at the height of the new year. Below, the windows in the business district were lighted in patches, the bang of Chinese firecrackers from an illegal and impromptu celebration in a nearby alley.

  Abigail Nesbit gazed out at the chill streetlights through the window of a Chinese restaurant, where she was seated at a red-clothed table strung with gold Chinese characters cut from paper. A “Chinese New Year” on the date of the Western world’s calendar, the predictable brain child of her friend Maureen, who was seated on the opposite side of the table with her husband Richard.

  “Happy New Year,” proclaimed Abigail, as her gaze moved from the windows frosted with cold to her wristwatch. “Isn’t this better than the big dropping ball in Times Square?”

  Richard blew a loud blast on a paper horn, incurring the cringing but polite glance of a busboy clearing one of the empty celebration tables. “Is that sarcasm from you, Abby?” he asked, a moment later.

  “No, no,” she answered, stretching her legs beneath the table. “There’s nowhere I would rather be right now than with you two.” At a gesture from Maureen, she passed the half-empty bowl of noodles.

  “How did you ever learn to use chopsticks?” asked Maureen. “I’m always the one stuck with a fork at Asian restaurants.” Her metallic party hat was lopsided, the gold letters for the new year beginning to peel away already.

  Abigail’s honey-colored hair was without a party hat, the sequins dotting her pink sweater the only metallic glint on her person. Her free hand played with a pair of chopsticks resting on an plate of egg roll remains and cashew chicken.

  “I learned from a foreign exchange student in college,” she answered. “A Chinese pianist, actually. We had the same music mentor.” Abigail’s instrument was the cello.

  Reaching into the basket in the middle of the table, she drew out a fortune cookie sealed in the package. “Here goes,” she said, popping open the end as the couple across from her settled themselves more comfortably in anticipation of what would follow.

  Another of Maureen’s ideas: fortune cookies to predict the New Year’s luck. Something about this tradition made Abigail think of black-eyed peas for dinner or the grapes eaten at the stroke of midnight in Mediterranean cultures. A romantic idea that appealed to her artistic heart in comparison to the ordinary champagne and kiss on the band’s cymbal stroke.

  Abigail had no one to kiss for the midnight celebration. Perhaps explaining her aversion to romantic crowds swaying to “Auld Lang Syne,” a song she claimed to detest.

  The cellophane wrapper peeled away, the cookie snapped in half. Abigail’s fingers retrieved a slip of paper from inside and unfolded it.

  “A good friend is a good fortune,” she read aloud. Holding the paper aloft in triumph.

  “Does that mean you’ll make new friends this next year?” asked Maureen. “Or if your current friends–” pointing to herself, “are a boon. Maybe we should have some rules on how to interpret these.” Her own fingers popped open a cookie’s cellophane.

  “A business profits by the resourcefulness of its leaders,” Maureen read.

  “That’s for me,” said Richard, with a chuckle, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He was an accountant for a recording studio whose books had given him grief for the past year.

  “It could be for me,” argued Maureen. “I do have a business, you know.” She designed greeting cards part-time for an online vendor.

  “Or me,” said Abby. “Maybe I was supposed to open that one. As a sign that the school won’t cut funding for the orchestra this year.” As she spoke, she opened another cookie.

  “Your heart is open to new emotions.” Refolding the slip of paper, she added it to the pile of one beside her elbow.

  “Is that a love sign?” asked Maureen.

  Abby laughed. “I think the chances are slim. The last few dates have been a bust, remember? I’m probably permanently out of practice now.” She reached for another cookie in the bowl. “Invest yourself in good things, so great things will come to you.”

  “Hey, every new date has the potential to be the last one,” said Richard. Although he meant it as a kind piece of advice, the double meaning made Abigail and his wife snort with laughter.

  “You make it sound like I’m cursing myself–don’t you think I would be happy if the gods of luck gifted me with a boyfriend?” she asked. “An actual relationship so I’m not going home to an empty apartment–”

  “–and your fridge full of takeout boxes?” asked Maureen. “Maybe if you took a cooking class like you swear every year, you’d actually meet a guy.”

  “He’d have to be a big fan of Thai food,” answered Abigail, sticking out her tongue. She twisted the plastic package from the cookie, tying it in a knot.

  Richard crumpled his own slip of paper into a wad. “Repeat,” he announced, tossing it onto his leftover steamed vegetables. “So what about New Year’s resolutions?” he asked. “I, for one, resolve to finally clean out our storage space in the apartment building.”

  “You should resolve to do something about that record collection taking up space in our living room,” said Maureen.

  “What about that clutter that constitutes your jewelry design hobby?” Richard snorted. “All those boxes of beads, those little metal rings I keep stepping on–”

  “Hey, I keep all those things hidden in the guest room, not taking up space where people can see them,” Maureen argued. “Unlike your records–”

  “You can’t put vinyl in storage, it ruins,” said Abigail. “How are you going to win this debate?” she asked, propping her chin on her fists as she studied the couple arguing across from her. The hidden smile in the corner of Richard’s mouth, Maureen’s habit of touching his elbow every time she made a point–these were the aspects that made their relationship real. Their ability to fight without losing the deeper connection rooted beneath music albums and turquoise pendants.

  She had no idea what that felt like, since her romantic connections were limited, a history of relationships without anything special. She’d dated a few men she hoped would have something more special in mind than dinner dates, but nothing happened. The sparkle always faded for one or both of them in a matter of days, ending with stagnant encounters and a sense of disappointment.

  Unless something changed, Abigail wasn’t likely to know this emotional connection anytime soon. Her closest connection to anyone was her best friend Maureen and her music students, a group of fourth graders sawing away on three-quarter violins and puffing air into horns and woodwind reeds as she patiently instructed them in classical scores simplified for beginners.

  Abigail loved her job, no question about it. But a part of her wanted to love something–or rather, someone–a little more.

  “So what’s your resolution for the new year, Abby?” asked Richard. “Any special requests you’d like to share with us?”

  Abby shook her head. “I n
ever make my resolutions ‘til the day of,” she answered. “So you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, if you want to know.”

  “Why wait?” asked Maureen. “Tell us now, so we can blow tomorrow on something more fun. Like football games or ice skating at the rink.”

  “No can do,” Abigail said, laughing. “Besides, I have a ton of stuff to grade tomorrow–all those recital tapes and copy sheets. Better make your plans without me.”

  Two’s company, three’s a crowd. Even Abigail knew better than to test the boundaries of friendship with a couple of newlyweds as the third wheel in every social scenario. Things were different between her and Maureen since her friend’s marriage. It wasn’t just Richard, it was something else. The presence of a bond greater than both of them, making ice cream binges and pajama parties seem forced and childish, as if they were pretending to return to their past.

  Maureen made a pouty face. “All right, then I’ll bring you some stuffed grapes or something from the party,” she said, referring to the inevitable impromptu gatherings that took place at their apartment during the holidays. “Maybe a bottle of champagne, so you can toast the new year in properly.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Richard, “we had better share a toast right now–the three of us, I mean. To seal the luck from all these fortune cookies.” As he spoke, he raised his nearly-empty glass of rice wine, the thought of its taste making Abby shudder as she raised her own.

  A new rule made up in their game of pseudo-traditions. Maureen must be proud tonight.

  “To new year’s resolutions,” said Abigail. “May this be the year they finally happen.”

  “Amen,” said Maureen, clinking her glass against the other two, then taking a swallow from it. Her face crinkled. “Ugh, this stuff is awful,” she said.

  “But champagne’s not part of the new tradition,” Abigail reminded her, eyebrows waggling in response. Richard hid a smile as he downed the contents of his own cup.

  Outside the window, the red light of the restaurant’s sign cast the remaining patches of snow in a rosy glow, a passing cab’s headlamps winking by in a bright flash. A crowd of late-night celebrators passed by, bulked up with coats and mufflers against the cold.

  “Doesn’t this place close at two?” said Richard, checking his watch. “I think we’re the last ones here.” He glanced at the empty dining room with its Asian wallpaper, a gilded dragon suspended along one wall. The sound of dishes clattering, a woman’s laugh, emerged from somewhere behind the kitchen doors.

  Abigail watched the parade of New Year’s partiers beneath the lamplight, the glimpse of sequins and satin black ties visible wherever the wind snatched open their coat collars or scarves. A woman in a long cream-colored gown held the train of her dress in one hand, the other protectively enfolded in the grip of a man’s fingers. He gazed down into her face, catching her eye as she chatted with animation to another in their group. For a moment, she paused, her face beaming up at his own as if transfixed, before she resumed her conversation again.

  It was a look of a lifetime of love; they would share the same glance throughout their lives, on New Year’s Eve when they were eighty. This was Abigail’s thought as the couple disappeared around the corner of the building, hands encircled between them as they trailed behind the others. A ripple of disappointment passed through her once they were gone, causing her to rest her elbow on the windowsill, prop her head as she strained her gaze into the darkness after them.

  “Every New Year’s should be like this,” said Maureen. “I’m glad we thought of this, aren’t you?” Nudging Richard’s arm. “And to think you wanted to go to some music lounge for a concert.”

  He passed his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her close. “Happy New Year’s, dollface,” he said, doing his impression of James Cagney’s gangster voice even as Maureen squirmed away with a mock grimace.

  “Same to you, hot stuff,” she answered, pinching his cheek.

  Abigail’s face was pressed against the glass, thoughts lost in the haze of rosy lights and darkness. “Happy New Year,” she whispered, to nobody in particular.

  Chapter Two

  In the same city, a few minutes before midnight, a party was in progress in a townhouse apartment. Windows overlooking the lights of the city below, winking gems of gold and red, white orbs flickering in the distance.

  Henry Weimar plucked the olive from his cocktail glass and sipped its contents, gazing out at the scene from his perch on the edge of the window seat. Chic decor in a building that reeked of history, the apartment of one of Harkin Publishing’s authors who had a reputation for giving a party to remember. Hence, his accepting the invitation, even though it meant going stag to yet another celebration.

  His hostess, Celia Detmark, maneuvered her way to the middle of the crowd, banging a mini brass gong to command their attention.

  “It’s almost time, everyone,” she announced. “Grab your glasses and get ready to greet the New Year!” In response to her words, the waiters from her catering staff made the rounds with trays of Greek liquor in shot glasses, passing them out to eager guests ready to toast in the midnight moment.

  Henry recalled a variation on an old tradition, grapes on a skewer submerged in glasses of champagne at his publishing firm’s party last year. He scarfed down five before the stroke of midnight–five months of good luck, supposedly. Not that it did him much good–life was the same this year as it was for the last one. Books in need of cover art, new artists in need of connection with his firm, and an empty apartment waiting for him at the end of the day. Possibly he needed another crack at those grapes.

  Accepting his glass from the tray, he raised it in toast to his reflection. Staring back at him in the window was a lank face clean-shaven, with dark hair cropped close above his open shirt collar.

  Not exactly handsome, but good looking enough. At least that’s what Lois had told him in a playful mood. This thought dimmed his mood a little more as he tossed back the contents of his glass to the sound of guests counting down the seconds.

  A burst of confetti as someone tossed handfuls into the air, a pair of Henry’s coworkers from acquisitions sharing a smooch beneath a vintage mistletoe ball suspended from Celia’s ceiling. The sight made Henry’s heart skip a beat, stirring feelings of longing despite the dizzy sensation from the liquor. From now on, he would stick to traditional cocktails, martinis with olives instead of exotic drinks.

  A few voices struck up the first refrain of “Auld Lang Syne,” others picking it up as the sound reached them in the crowded room. Arms around shoulders, tipsier guests leading the sway in a friendly fashion. Henry saw studded sequined gowns, the glint of white light from crystal cocktail glasses as waiters passed by to collect the empty toast round. A sea of sparkles like the city below, only in an overly-warm apartment overlooking the fashion district.

  Something about the song made him melancholy; he realized that he had never cared for its lonesome quality, the forlorn, dragging nature of its words. Burns, wasn’t it? The poet–he must have been low on Scottish grog when he penned those lines. Perhaps even shut up in a dank cottage in some lonely rural outpost. How did such a sad little piece become the staple for happy crowds filled with too much liquid cheer?

  These thoughts tended to plague him, the criticism of poetry and writers, the turn of a phrase in a literary masterpiece–surprising, considering how little he actually read. The thought of reading anything longer than three or four pages in his spare time had grown unappealing as a result of burning too much overtime in the publishing industry. Matching artists with writers, proofing covers and manuscripts left him tired of words; all his energy moved into his fingers to mark typos, answer emails, twitter friends or edit his personal blog. Writing in the form of short, quick, and efficient statements was different from paragraphs of winding staircases, characters groveling in monologues about broken hearts or tedious misunderstandings.

  As he turned from the window, he spotted a movement of black fitt
ed satin, a rope of pearls dangling like a twenties movie star. Celia Detmark had abandoned her gong and was on the move again to fulfill her hosting duties.

  “Henry, you’re not circulating!” His hostess nipped his sleeve as she passed by. “What are you doing hiding in the corner with your glass when there’s so many eligible young women for you to meet? Have you met Elise in–”

  “I’ve met Elise,” he assured her. “Actually, Elise and I worked together. A couple of times.” He neglected to mention that he rejected her artwork–twice–for the mystery author whose cover he coordinated for the publisher.

  “Well, then, what about Martha? I know you haven’t met Martha–she’s recently divorced.” Something in Celia’s voice made this sound like an asset, a sign Martha had already practiced for their upcoming relationship with a previous breakup. A reminder that pained Henry slightly, as if his previous cases of love were more like experiments than possible permanent connections.

  He sensed impatience in Celia’s tone, implying she was in a hurry to match him up and make him happy so she could move on to other guests in need. The song around them had diminished as someone turned up the sound system, a partying jazz beat that had a few guests dancing in each other’s arms.

  Celia’s field of expertise was Manhattan decor, as he recalled, not love advice. The firm’s talent for that field was a relationship guru known as the “Heart Surgeon” on the talk show circuits.

  “Are those fireworks?” Henry glanced out the window again, trying a new tactic to switch subjects. Frowning, Celia craned her neck to see the view below the concrete sill.

  “Fireworks? Surely not, unless it’s from the river... Jerry would know–where’s Jerry? Jerry, darling ...” She slipped past him towards a man cradling a cocktail as he chatted with a couple seated on a divan.

  Jerry was almost as bad as Celia; an architectural guru who entertained guests with long and rambling stories about his experiences with clients, always ending with a punchline quality even if there was nothing remotely funny about the story. To be caught by Jerry was to be a fish entangled in a net of pointless vagaries.