Charming Christmas (22 page)

8

A
s luck would have it, after I dropped off Tyler and called Bree to vent, I kept getting her voice mail. Then when I arrived at Rossman's and stopped in Jaimie's office, I saw her job-share partner and realized it was Jaimie's day off. Not that I couldn't call her at home, but the woman had a three-month-old baby to take care of; did she really want to hear my frustrations with laundry, dishes, and cooing baby bearing down on her?

Really, if I wanted to get myself out of Neverland, it was time I grew up a little. Fortunately, the Mrs. Claus suit made me feel calm and dignified, a lot more grown-up than my usual painter's pants and cotton henleys.

Santaland was crowded that day, and I spent a good deal of my time walking through the line of children, giving out lollipops and making conversation to help them pass the time. One family was three generations of women—mother, daughter, and granddaughter—and as I talked with them I realized the grandmother was a dead ringer for Agate. I joked with her that she reminded me of my mother, and she countered that she simply couldn't be old enough to be the mother of Mrs. Claus.

Watching the older woman hustle her grandchild along, I wondered if my mother was playing grandmother to anyone. Was she still living in the Bay area? Did she have any idea I had a son now?

I felt a twinge of curiosity, especially since Tyler had been asking about her lately. “I wish we had some family,” he said sometimes when I was tucking him in at night.

“You know, you do have family. There's your dad, and his parents live in Pennsylvania. Would you like to meet them sometime?”

“I guess.” Always a half-hearted response, without the same interest that he showed for Agate. He fantasized that Agate was much kinder than she'd been, and I didn't have the heart to correct him.

 

 

“You should have told me you were going to the studio. I need to stop by and get some paperwork signed by one of the producers,” Bree said when we met for coffee the next morning. Jaimie was also there with Scout napping in his stroller, and though Bree and I argued about holding him she refused to let either of us disturb him while he was sleeping.

“How can a kid nap already at nine o'clock in the morning?” Bree asked, watching as Scout pressed his cheek into the fabric of the stroller.

“It's easy when he's up at five,” Jaimie said.

“Up at five.” Bree winced. “Ach! That's going to be my life if I get this job with
AM San Fran
. Which is why I need those references signed at the studio. In fact, I'm going to call over there right now.” She flipped open her cell phone.

“Don't worry, I have to go back,” I said. “TJ wasn't there. The show was on hiatus and they were showing an old segment.”

“What?” Bree squinched one eye shut over her phone. “They're not on hiatus. I saw it last night, with the mayor doing a guest appearance.”

I shook my head slowly. “You must be confused . . . It was probably an old one.”

“No. He was talking about marrying gay couples in San Francisco. I'm sure . . .” She held up a finger to pause as her call connected. “Yes, this is Bree Noble. Well, hey, Milo, how's it going? Listen, are you guys on hiatus this week?” She nodded, wincing. “No. Oh, goody. I have something for you . . .”

My heart dropped heavily in my chest as the truth sank in. TJ had been there yesterday; the entire staff had been there, and they'd lied to me, they'd turned Tyler away.

That hurt. Most of all, I felt stung for him, five years old and turned away at his father's door.

Jaimie finished tucking a blanket around Scout's waist, then turned back and touched my arm. “Oh, Cassie, that's awful. What a despicable man.”

I wrapped my hands around the paper coffee cup, trying to think of the best way out of this one. “They all lied. Well, at least Tyler doesn't know that. He'll never have to know.”

“Of course not,” Jaimie said. “But it sounds like TJ is really pushing you away. What are you going to do?”

I collapsed on the bench in her office and slapped my hands over my face. “I've really made a mess of things, haven't I? Tyler would have been so much better off if I'd stayed with TJ. Moving out of his house was the beginning of the end.”

“Oh, come on!” Bree slapped her phone shut, her nostrils flared in preparation for a fight. “Do you actually think you could have tolerated that man one more day? Honestly, staying on as TJ's dutiful girlfriend would not have been a positive role model for your son.”

“It wasn't always a bad relationship,” I said.

“Don't sugarcoat the past, Cassie.” I had always considered Bree to be the bolder of my two friends, but Jaimie could be relentless as a bulldog when she sank her teeth into an issue. “Moving out was the end of a long good-bye that probably started when Tyler was born. You noticed how TJ started pulling away from you when you had the baby.”

“Well, sure,” I said, “but a lot of men do that.” And when it happened, I really didn't mind. The routine of our lives, the hours on the set in rehearsal and lighting and rewrites seemed old and staid in comparison to the days and nights of my baby, feeding him until he fell asleep in my arms, waking in the night to hear his sweet breath in the bassinet beside me. Scout let out a baby sigh, and I turned to Jaimie. “Haven't you noticed Matt pulling away since Scout was born?”

She frowned. “Truthfully? I can't say that I relate. Matt is all over this kid when he gets home from work.”

I straightened the stack of sugar packets on the table. “It's frustrating. When is TJ going to figure out he has a son, ready and willing to love him?”

“Let's see . . . like . . . never?” Bree scowled at me. “Sorry for the tough love, honey, but TJ obviously is not the paternal type. He is what he is. And if you look back with a modicum of honesty, you'll remember hating him at times.”

“When you were first on the show?” Jaimie prodded. “Remember how he treated you? How he was sleeping with you and a summer intern?”

“Remember when you wished he would die? When you tried to kill him on the Presidio?”

I laughed. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“But there's a grain of truth in it,” Bree said.

She was right.

One afternoon a bunch of the crew from the show went running on a hilly trail at the Presidio, and I went along hoping to be part of the crowd. But one of the writers got on me about the condition of my running shoes (dilapidated) and the cost of changing sets for our skits (a union issue). Of course, I expected TJ to defend me, but he jumped in, adding a few nasty slurs about my latest set design. By the time we approached the green rise of the hill, I hated all of them, TJ especially. I challenged him to a race, which he felt obliged to accept, and then I pulled ahead.

“Hey, you're fast,” he called, loping up beside me.

“Mmm-hmm.” My pulse beat steadily as my legs pounded, but it felt good to push on. As we passed other joggers, I wondered if TJ had ever had his heart checked. He was a little overweight. If I pushed really hard, maybe his heart would pop.

I pushed ahead until the muscles in my legs burned with pain.

“You're really fast, Carrie,” he gasped from behind me.

“Cassie,” I tossed over my shoulder as the Golden Gate Bridge rose before me. “Cassie . . .” I muttered as I sprinted over the rise, hoping to hear him drop behind me . . .

“Okay,” I said, returning to the coffee shop. “I hated him at times.”

“And this is the man you want to father your child?” Bree asked.

I shrugged. “That's a done deal.”

Jaimie reached out and squeezed one of my hands. “What we're saying is, cut your losses now. You got Tyler out of him, a real blessing. Why don't you let it go at that?”

“Take the kid, take the money, and run,” Bree added.

“But a child needs parents. Tyler needs his father.”

Bree put her hands over her ears. “I totally don't buy that. And if parents are so important, where is your mother? If you really value family, why did you cut her off?”

Jaimie looked sheepish. “That's a little harsh, Bree.”

“It is, you meany,” I told Bree. “But there's some truth in it too.”

Jaimie checked her watch. “I gotta go. Scout has an appointment with the pediatrician.”

“I have to get to work.” I stood over Scout and touched his smooth cheek. “But I'm glad we did this. It's always a pleasure to get chewed out over coffee.”

Bree threw her arms wide for a hug. “Honey, we're hard on you because we love you.”

“Great. I'd hate to hear what you'd say to me if you didn't like me.”

9

T
hat day Jaimie was picking Tyler up from school and keeping him until I finished work—a new arrangement we'd worked out so that he didn't have to spend quite so much time at the store at night. Not that he was ever a problem hanging around in Santaland, but it worried me that our schedule was keeping him away from a home environment for so long. Although he was well behaved, I had to remember, the kid was only five.

I was busy playing Mrs. Claus, trying to negotiate with twin boys, one of whom didn't want to see Santa, when Fred climbed onto the snow platform in Santaland. “I hate to get caught here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “If I don't watch it, Buchman'll turn me into an elf, but you need to know about this.”

Immediately I thought of Tyler. “What's going on?”

“We had a short on the second floor. No fire, thank God, but two of the breakers popped. When I reset them, those snowflake lights in the bedding and lingerie departments stayed dark. Seem to be shorted out, and I'm wondering if they caused the circuits to pop.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. Those things have to be at least fifteen years old,” I said. I'd been reluctant to hang those old snowflake lights throughout the store, concerned that they weren't as energy efficient as new lights, but there wasn't enough money in the budget to replace them. “So now we have two departments with dark decorations?”

He nodded. “Don't know what you want to do. Your call.”

“Actually, this is one problem that demands a higher authority,” I said, heading toward Santa's platform.

Fred scratched his chin, confused. “Santa Claus?”

“No! Mr. Buchman.”

 

 

As Fred and I went before Buchman's ornate Santa chair to deliver our news, I felt as if we were subjects granted an audience with the king.

“The snowflake lights?” Buchman tugged down his white beard. “I take it those are the lights strung throughout the store?”

“Yes. I was able to purchase new lights for the window displays, but we were stuck with these old snowflakes throughout the store.”

“Sounds like a possible fire hazard. We must replace the lights that are out on the second floor immediately. As for the others, that decision can wait until tomorrow.”

“We close in fifteen minutes.” I looked at Fred. “Did you have plans for the evening?”

He sighed. “Not anymore. I'll go get the ladders.”

As the shoppers began to dwindle, Fred and I quietly set up ladders in the back of the bedding department and began to remove lights. The snowflake lights had to be untangled from the garlands thick with Christmas balls and bells, then replaced with new strings of white lights from our Christmas shop before the garlands could be reinstalled in display areas.

Half an hour into the job, Fred and I were stringing garland piled on a sales counter when Mr. Buchman appeared, no longer in a Santa suit but wearing a shirt and loose tie, his arms folded as he watched the process.

“This is going to take a while,” Fred said.

“Indeed.” Buchman tapped his chin. “Tedious work. Do we not have garland with prestrung lights?”

“Rossman's doesn't carry it.”

He nodded. “Well, we may be forced to dispatch an emissary to one of our competitors in order to obtain the decorations we need throughout the store. For tonight, though, let me lend a hand.”

We showed him what to do, and Buchman began stripping the old lights out on a third set. As we worked, he questioned me about the cost of new lights and about the best places to purchase them. He asked Fred if he could snoop around in the morning and drum up operating costs for running the snowflake lights during the past few Christmas seasons.

“I would love to replace all the lights in the store,” he explained, “however, we must present a brief cost analysis before we embark on the project.”

“And you can sell the old snowflake lights on eBay,” Fred said. “At least, you can sell the ones that still work.”

“A shrewd plan,” Buchman agreed. “Sure to offset costs. Another thing to investigate.”

By the time the lights were replaced and rehung, the store was empty except for the night guards. Fred lowered the overhead lights for maximum effect, and the three of us gazed up into the warm halo glow that set off the sparkling purple, red, green, and blue of the ornaments. The merry elfin figures that surfed the garland and rode the jingle bells were silhouetted in the darkness, as if resting for the night.

“Lovely,” Buchman sighed, and for a moment the air in the shoe department seemed magical, like the fluttering excitement and expectation of a Christmas morning.

Then, suddenly the mood fizzled as Fred went to the wall and brought up the lights. “See you tomorrow.”

Inside the ladies' locker room I nearly fell on the bench, so tired. I tugged off my boots, undid the coat of my Mrs. Claus suit, and let my fingers smooth the white fur trim as I hung my head.

Bone tired. Mr. Buchman pushed hard. I felt my eyes closing when the air stirred.

“Ms. Derringer . . .”

I lifted my head.

“Based on our conversation I've worked up some costs on the matter of replacing the old snowflake lights, and it appears that your instincts were correct.”

He stood before me, his hands clasped together, his eyes intent on me. I was slumped down so that the jacket fell open, exposing my black teddy and significant cleavage.

“Well, that's a relief.” Reflexively, I straightened, which probably revealed even more.

Mr. Buchman didn't seem to notice. “Energy efficiency is a primary, long-term concern, and cost analysis indicates that . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes trailed down my body, following the gentle rise and fall of my chest. “That we should buy a new set of bulbs. Smaller bulbs. Nothing too . . . too flashy.”

He was losing his train of thought because of me, and I liked that feeling. I stood up and stepped toward him, taking his hands and slipping them inside my open coat. His eyes went wide, but he didn't stop me as I placed his hands over my breasts. “I was thinking small and very compact.” I directed his fingertips around the nipple of one breast, which pressed tautly against the fabric. “Just about that size?”

“Yes, that would do quite nicely.” His voice was barely a whisper now, his eyes simmering with heat.

His fingers worked skillfully, and I suspected that Mr. Buchman knew his way around a woman's body. I wanted him and I knew he wanted me. A bad idea, with this whole employee-boss thing going on, but there was no denying the dampness between my legs. As I reached out for his crotch, he turned away suddenly.

“Mr. Buchman?” Desire burned through me. I wanted to have sex with him now, worry about the fallout later.

“Ms. Derringer.” He took a composing breath, then turned back to me. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

 

 

“Oh, God, do you think he's gay?” Jaimie gasped when I told her the story of my rejection that night as I was picking up Tyler. I'd had to twist the details a little to keep the identity of the rejecter anonymous. “Maybe you freaked him out.”

“I'm sure he likes women,” I said confidently. “This guy is straight. I think the freak-out was more over the boss-employee thing. Worried about fishing off the company pier.”

“This is someone who works at Rossman's?” she probed. “Who?”

“I can't say. Really. You don't want to know.”

“Did you tell him how discreet you can be? That you don't want to date him, you just want sex? That no one at work needs to know about it? Except me, of course.”

“We didn't talk about it. I was undressing, he sampled the goods, then took off.” I didn't mention the incredible letdown I'd felt when he turned away.

“So what are you going to do?” Jaime asked. “Will you be embarrassed to see him tomorrow?”

“I don't blush over sex,” I said, fastening the Mrs. Claus coat.

“You . . . Oh, Cassie, you wouldn't! Not in the store . . . during the daytime.”

“Calm down, Ms. Rossman. The store isn't open yet, and it's not a holy place.”

“I can't believe this is happening on my day off!” she said. “Call me as soon as you . . . just call me.”

 

Mr. Buchman's refusal had ruined my night's sleep, his face appearing as a giant visage washing through my dreams. I was determined to end that now, this morning, in his office as scheduled. It was still early, too early for the secretaries to be manning their desks in the corridor of the third-floor offices. I knocked on Buchman's door, then stepped inside the shadowed office and closed the door behind me.

He looked up from the light of the monitor, dropping his hands from the keyboard. “Ms. Derringer . . .”

“Mr. Buchman.” My pulse beat faster than normal, and I pressed my back to the door, drawing composure from the coolness of the metal. “About last night . . .”

“Yes, we should talk. I . . . I want to say I'm sorry if I compromised—”

“Don't. You don't have to go there. I'm just sorry you left.” I moved over to his side of the desk, hitched up my skirt, and sat up on the desk with my bare knees inches from his chest. “Here's what I'm interested in. A discreet relationship. No emotional attachment.”

“Do you think we can really do that?” he asked, swinging his chair toward me.

“I know I can. You know I have a son, other demands on my time. I'm in no position to get involved.”

He drew in a breath and ran his fingertips along the inside of my thighs, reaching in under my skirt. I sucked in my breath as he set my nerve endings on fire.

“But you're sure this is what you want?” he asked as his fingers explored, teasing.

I let my head fall back as I succumbed to the warm sensations between my legs. “That, Mr. Buchman, is exactly what I want.”