That Holiday Feeling

"Dad, you don't understand."

"Mackenzie, enough."

Carrie Weston hurried through the lobby of her apartment complex. "Hold the elevator," she called, making a dash for the open doors. Her arms were loaded with mail, groceries and decorations for her Christmas tree. It probably wasn't a good idea to rush, since the two occupants appeared to be at odds--which could make for an awkward elevator ride--but her arms ached and she didn't want to wait. Lack of patience had always been one of her weaknesses; equally lacking were several other notable virtues.

The man kept the doors from closing. Carrie had noticed him earlier, and so had various other residents. There'd been plenty of speculation about the two latest additions to the apartment complex.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly. Her eyes met those of the teenager. The girl was around thirteen, Carrie guessed. They'd moved in a couple of weeks earlier, and from the scuttlebutt Carrie had heard, they'd only be staying until construction on their new home was complete.

The elevator doors glided shut, as slowly as ever, but then the people who lived in the brick three-story building off Seattle's Queen Anne Hill weren't the type to rush. Carrie was the exception.

"What floor?" the man asked.

Carrie shifted her burdens and managed to slip her mail inside her grocery bag. "Second. Thanks."

The thirtysomething man sent her a benign smile as he pushed the button. He stared pointedly away from her and the teenager.

"I'm Mackenzie Lark," the girl said, smiling broadly. The surly tone was gone. "This is my dad, Philip."

"I'm Carrie Weston." By balancing the groceries on one knee she was able to offer Mackenzie her hand. "Welcome."

Philip shook her hand next, his grip firm and solid, his clasp brief. He glared at his daughter as though to say this wasn't the time for social pleasantries.

"I've been wanting to meet you," Mackenzie continued, ignoring her father. "You look like the only normal person in the entire building."

Carrie smiled despite her effort not to. "I take it you met Madame Frederick."

"Is that a real crystal ball?"

"So she claims." Carrie remembered the first time she'd seen Madame Frederick, who'd stepped into the hallway carrying her crystal ball, predicting everything from the weather to a Nordstrom shoe sale. Carrie hadn't known what to think. She'd plastered herself against the wall and waited for Madame Frederick to pass. The crystal ball hadn't unnerved her as much as the green emeralds glued over each eyebrow. She wore a sort of caftan, with billowing yards of colorful material about her arms and hips; it hugged her legs from the knees down. Her long, silver-white hair was arranged in an updo like that of a prom queen straight out of the sixties.

"She's nice," Mackenzie remarked. "Even if she's weird."

"Have you met Arnold yet?" Carrie asked. He was another of the more eccentric occupants, and one of her favorites.

"Is he the one with all the cats?"

"Arnold's the weight lifter."

"The guy who used to work for the circus?"

Carrie nodded, and was about to say more when the elevator came to a bumpy halt and sighed loudly as the doors opened. "It was a pleasure to meet you both," she said on her way out the door.

"Same here," Philip muttered, and although he glanced in her direction,...