Jimmy Christmas and Daisy Dalrymple set about building a snowman within minutes of arriving at Primrose Park. After they had rolled the base and middle sections – middle firmly planted on top of the base – Maid Marion, wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit, bright red lipstick, and looking as if she had just come from a photo shoot for Vogue, sauntered into the clearing and asked, “Want an audience?”

Jimmy raised his head and grinned.

Daisy grabbed a clump of snow, compressed it tightly between her palms, gave it to Maid Marion, and said, “Head. We need a head. Make this bigger, please.”

And she did.

Meanwhile, Lilly Snow and Mouse Meekly, as soon as they had arrived at the park, walked directly to the small platform where Chiquita Bamberger was chatting informally with her constituents.

If a serious subject came up, such as pot holes on a side street or noise pollution, she airily waved it away with the words, “Not today. Today is for celebrating.”

When she saw Lilly and Mouse on the periphery of the crowd, she gave a shrill whistle like someone hailing a cab, caught their eyes, and waved them over. Then she edged away from the others and drew Lilly to her side.

“Mouse,” she said. For even the mayor had come to call him that, “Would you please get us some hot chocolate?”

So Mouse saluted Chiquita and ambled toward Rocco’s food truck.

But he never came back, because Pilar Pellegrino, the waitress with whom it was his wont to flirt, was standing at the truck’s window adding spoonfuls of tiny marshmallows into steaming cups…and looking completely intimidated by the twenty or so people clustered just outside.

Mouse called over their heads, “Pilar!”

Pilar located his face half-hidden amongst a score of knitted caps.

She smiled.

Then someone in line requested a cup of cocoa, and a frantic look returned to her eyes.

“Need help?” Mouse shouted.

“God almighty, yes!” she cried.

And that is where the love-struck actor spent the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, Mayor Bamberger had tucked Lilly Snow’s hand into the crook of her arm and began to lead her away from the Carousel.

She said, “I hear from Noah that he offered you a job and you turned him down.”

As they walked, the two women made an interesting contrast. Chiquita, thin, wiry, stylish, head high and neck elongated, a dancer to the core. And Lilly Snow, huge blue eyes, a spray of freckles over a small nose, wearing a red and black flannel shirt over blue jeans, but somehow projecting the image of a girl in a summer dress on a hill top, being bathed in burgeoning spring.

“No wonder that damned parking space fell in love with her,” Chiquita Bamberger thought.

Lilly responded to the mayor’s statement.

“Yes. Noah offered me a job.”

“But you turned it down?”

“That’s true.”

“Are you still looking for employment?”

“I am.”

“If you don’t mind my asking…”

“You want to know why I won’t work for him.”

“I do. Noah is a splendid young man. Very much the cowboy on his snowplow. I don’t know how any girl could resist him.”

“I agree.”

“But…”

Lilly stopped walking, turned to face Mayor Bamberger, and said, “I think he likes me.”

Chiquita nodded. “So do I.”

“And I think I might be dancing on the peripheral fringe of liking him.”

“Interestingly put,” Mayor Chiquita said. “So what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem. And I don’t want there to be one.”

“Go on, Lilly. I’m intrigued.”

Lilly looked down, toed a clump of snow out of her path, and looked up again.

“Noah Pitt is a strong man,” she said. “Strong, smart, rugged, a little cranky at times, but very good looking. Dozens of women must be after him.”

“Hundreds,” Chiquita concurred.

“Well,” Lilly continued, “I don’t want to be one of them. I don’t want to be too available. I don’t want to be waiting for him in his office after he was out playing all night, and I don’t want to pester him about buying ink cartridges, returning phone calls, or paying bills.”

The mayor’s eyes widened.

Lilly went on.

“I want an old-fashioned guy-girl kind of a thing. I want to be asked out on dates. I want flowers, I want to laugh at silly jokes, and I want popcorn at the movies. If our Mr. Pitt is at all interested in me, it’s my job to be my standard operational, irresistible self, but it’s his job – at least until he has captured my heart – to do all the work.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2021. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com