Charming Christmas (30 page)

7

A
lthough Nick's “Santa complex” that night at the tavern charged up our spirits and kept us laughing, I still wanted some answers. Maybe he was really just Nicholas from the Midwest, but if that was true, what had compelled him to travel all over the world? And who had footed the bills for this aimless wandering? I mean, it's not like Santa impersonation was a marketable skill sought in the global job market.

Gia's theory kept niggling at the back of my mind, worrying me. Was it possible that Nick kept moving to avoid criminal prosecution . . . or Mob violence?

Part of me didn't want to believe that our personnel division would have committed a blunder so litigious as to let us hire a criminal. The other part of me just didn't want Nick to be a bad guy. Both parts of me knew it was time to find out the real truth (as opposed to Nick's excuses).

There was only one thing to do: raid the personnel files.

I suspected this bit of espionage was in violation of company policy and maybe even a few laws, but I couldn't help myself. I had to know.

Jennifer, the HR clerk, was all smiles until I admitted that I didn't know his last name. That brought on a few questions, some of which put me on the defensive.

“It's just that he interviewed so well,” she said, scrolling through a list on her computer. “You're not thinking of firing him, are you?”

“That would be a shame,” Jennifer went on.

“It's not in the plans at this time,” I said quickly.
Just hand over the records, Mugsy!

Instead of files, Personnel now stored employee information in their database, of course. As Jennifer printed it out for me I was glad I'd decided to go through official channels instead of skulking around for Nick's nonexistent file after hours. I could imagine myself tripping through this office in the dark feeling around for files—an adventure worthy of a few bruised shins and a dozen paper cuts.

“Let me know if you need me to intervene,” Jennifer said as she handed me the printout. “I'd be happy to meet with him.”

I bet you would,
I thought, digging my nails into one palm to stop myself from being so territorial. I'd sat on his lap once. So had half of the kids in Chicago. It hardly meant commitment.

As soon as I stole away from Jennifer's cubicle, I was reading.

Nicholas Smith. Date of birth: November 3, 1970. So he was older than I was, almost ten years older. And he was single. Yippee.

After that, all interesting data ended. I wanted to double back and yell at Jennifer that she'd left all the good stuff out.

Nick had supplied three local references, one of whom had been called. She admitted that she was his aunt, but pledged that he was always a good boy, a scout and all. His social security number didn't set off any red flags in the computer, and he had been fingerprinted and cleared of any criminal record, thank God. Under previous employment, he'd listed “Santa Claus”—har-har—at department stores in New York City and in Dallas, Texas.

 

 

“Did you call the stores he used to work in?” Gia said when I ran the information by her in Santaland. “Because I'll bet you'll find out that they burned down in mysterious fires.”

“You have got to put a leash on that imagination of yours,” I said, panicked at the thought that she could be right. “But I'm going to do some of my own investigating before I go too crazy.”

“Like what?”

“Check out his place. There's a local address listed.”

“Breaking and entering?” Gia grabbed my arm. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I'm just going to walk by, check out the neighborhood,
maybe
see if he's home.”

Her dark eyes stared blankly at me, as if I were sneaking off with her last tube of eyeliner. “Oh, you bad girl. You're falling for him, aren't you?”

“Me?” A squeaky denial is a worthless one.

“Just be careful tonight. Take your cell phone and call me if you need to be rescued.”

“I won't,” I insisted. “But it looks like the elves in the back need to be rescued for dinner. Why don't you take one checkout, I'll take the other until their reinforcements get back?”

Sometimes I found checkout very satisfying—the mere passing of a wand over bar codes to create revenues. Modern-day magic.

As I finished checking out items for a woman who seemed to hunker down under one of those strap-on baby bundles, an older woman in a suit approached and handed me her card. She introduced herself as Grace, from the Department of Social Services, Chicago. She was working on collecting toys to fulfill lists submitted by children in foster care. “What I really want to ask you is, would Rossman's be willing to make some Christmas wishes come true this year?”

“Oh, Grace.” I felt my chest tighten at the answer I had to give. “This is a bad time.” I still needed to bring the toy revenues up, now more than ever, and if I wanted Uncle PJ to take me seriously at all, I couldn't cave and just give away the profits because I was a soft heart. “I'm sorry.”

She reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. “I understand,” she said. “Believe me, I've heard it all around town, but we have to try. Just for the kids, you know?”

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat.

As Grace walked away I asked myself what my nana would have done. Would my mother have turned this woman down because toy profits had slipped last year? What would my father have said?

Then, clear as a bell, his favorite expression came to me.

“It's only money. We'll make more!” He'd said it time and again.

Sliding Grace's card into the pocket of my Mrs. Claus suit, I realized that this was not the Rossman's way. We were a family and a store that supported our community. And yet, I tucked that card away and returned to work.

Hating myself.

8

N
ick's address was on the South Side of Chicago, an area I was somewhat familiar with from attending the University of Chicago. This neighborhood had gone through dramatic changes, from the influx of money in preparation for the 1893 World's Fair to the deterioration caused by industrial pollution and the encroachment of poorer neighborhoods some thirty years later. In the 1950s the university had led an effort to take back the neighborhood, a campaign that had proved to be successful as they preserved many classic Prairie School homes and some beautiful green parks.

However, looking up at the tired shingled building Nick called home, I wondered how this block had evaded restoration. Most likely these buildings were divided into rental units leased by students, the type I'd seen in class—the hang-out guys who lived on the quadrangle and lingered in coffee shops and bookstores and required no more than a mattress to crash on at night.

I pressed into the hedges as a couple passed by, both in watch caps and puffy coats. Now that I was here, I wasn't so sure what to do. Talk with his neighbors? Sit in the car and stake him out?

Somehow, standing out here in the cold was not the answer. I decided to head back to my car to think about it. Halfway down the block, I saw him coming. Or no, maybe it wasn't him. Hard to tell under that scarf and a fleece-lined cap . . . I played it cool, walking as casually as I could against the wind, but he stopped right in front of me, his breath coming out in a puff as he just stared at me from behind a brown grocery bag.

“Mrs. Claus, are you stalking me?”

“Oh, that is you,” I said, trying to distract him.

“And I saw you hovering in front of my place. Wassup?”

“I used to attend the university,” I told him, pulling my gloved hands into my coat for warmth. “I was just visiting the old neighborhood.”

“Oh, sure. And this block is in all the architectural guides. Note the blatant disregard for any architectural style. The charming use of asbestos shingles. The subdued landscaping reminiscent of a desert spa.”

“Okay, I came looking for you.”

“Ah, at last a confession.” He smiled, then cut up the driveway to his apartment. “Okay. Since you were honest, you can come in.” I was three steps behind him. “Unless you want to stand out here and turn into a Popsicle.”

“I'm coming,” I said, curious to see how he lived.

Nick's place was on the second floor, but at least he had a private entrance in the back of the old house. Inside, it wasn't as bad as a lot of student places. The floors had been stripped to the old wood, and a printed oriental rug warmed up the sitting area. A laptop was set up on the coffee table, the screen saver flashing Santa's sleigh as reindeer pulled it over moonlit rooftops. He turned the computer off, then started unloading groceries on the kitchen counter.

“If I'd known you were coming I'd have gotten two hoagies. Do you like eggplant parmesan?”

“Sure, but I don't want to take your dinner.”

“You're not. I always get a foot-long, and I'll give you half, but the salad is mine.”

As I wandered around the apartment, rubbing my hands together to thaw, I paused in front of a desk with books flopped open and assorted papers, printouts, notes, ads, and old newspapers. A mess, but with its unique sense of organization, not unlike the resources for a student term paper. There was an ancient phone, a heavy, square unit with a cord. “Where'd you get this dinosaur?” I asked, hoisting it.

“It came with the rental, and I find it useful since I'm not a fan of cell phones. Our whole nation is now talking via satellite. We are in jeopardy of losing the face-to-face meeting, the way we lost storytelling as an oral tradition.”

I was back at the desk, trying to read some of the papers without making any obvious moves like picking something up. One printout's headline was
St. Nicholas Center
. Another paper read:
Christmas Trees, Xmas, Candy Canes, Poinsettias. . .

“Did you find what you're looking for?” he asked.

“Where's your Christmas tree?” I asked, cued by the printout. “Your crackling fire? All those little elves who help you make toys?”

“Got 'em stashed in the basement. You know, you're making me nervous. Do me a favor, sit down.”

Glancing back at the coffee table, I saw he had set two plates out along with red wine in juice glasses.

He patted the back of the couch, the only seating in the room. “Take your coat off and tell me why you really came by to snoop on me. Here, I'll take your coat.” I handed it to him and he flung it over his shoulder, glancing back to watch it land over the television. “I always wanted to do that.”

I couldn't help but grin at his irreverence as I sat on one end of the couch and pulled a plate onto my lap. “Are you taking a class at the university?” I asked casually.

He sat beside me on the couch and dug into his salad. “Nah, I'm too old for that. I've moved on to the school of life. But the rent here was right, and the place came furnished. And I'm not going to let you distract me until you answer my question. Why are you here?”

I pulled a piece of warm crust from the end of the roll and popped it in my mouth, stalling for time as I chewed. “I don't really know. I'm very good at what I do, but I guess I'd make a lousy undercover operative. I wanted to confirm that you live here, somehow confirm your identity. You know, your employee file is rather thin, Nick. According to those records, your past job experience adds up to four months of work. I've got to protect Rossman's, and honestly, I want to know the truth about you.”

“That burning curiosity.” He took a deep bite, then shook his head as he chewed. “I noticed that with the elf kids, too. As soon as people find out there's something you don't want to talk about, that's all they want to hear.”

“It's human nature. Understandable.” The red wine warmed me right down to my toes. I took a second sip for courage.

“Sure, but why am I fair game? I don't see people asking you to expose the skeletons in your closets, Mrs. Claus.”

I dropped the sandwich back onto the plate. “No. Probably because my problems are so public.”

“Sorry. I wasn't taking a shot at you; I'm just annoyed that people won't leave me alone. Really, I'm an hourly employee, a Christmas hire. In less than three weeks Rossman's will be telling me bye-bye.”

“So we should leave you alone?”

“Please.”

“I agree with you in principle,” I said. “But I . . . I can't leave you alone.”

He put his plate down on the coffee table and turned to me. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

“I don't mean . . . I mean . . .”

“You've taken a personal interest in me,” he said.

“Yes, that's true.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mrs. C.” He took the plate from my hands and moved closer.

“I meant for business purposes,” I stammered.

“No, you didn't.”

I sighed, unable to look up at him. “You're right, I didn't. It is personal, Nick, but this is not something I do. Certainly not well . . .”

“You're here, aren't you?” He lifted my right hand to his face, kissed the palm, then pressed it to his cheek.

“Just barely,” I said hoarsely. I let my fingers sink into his hair, round the back of his head, thrilled and alarmed that he was able to read my mind.

“You're doing fine,” he said, leaning close to nibble my earlobe. He pressed against me and suddenly I was leaning back on the couch and our bodies were touching in very important places as I fell into Nick's kiss.

 

 

The next morning I awoke to rumbling walls. Not an earthquake, but a bass guitar. I rolled over in bed, realizing I was naked under the comforter of Nick's bed, his warm, furred legs beside me. I scooched against him and wrapped one leg over his, content in the moment.

“That's Oscar,” he mumbled, putting a hand on my butt and squeezing tenderly. “Downstairs tenant. Bass guitarist. Not bad when he performs at the appropriate time. Which is not now.”

“Mmm.” I let my hand run along the bare skin of his back, massaging between his shoulder blades. I didn't care that the bass guitarist had woken us up. It felt so good to touch another human being, so soulfully beautiful to connect, that I dreaded having to leave Nick's bed. “For the first time in a long time, I wish I could take the day off from work.”

“You probably could,” he said. “You're the boss. But I can't. No excuses for the Santas for hire. Miss a day and big bad management will fire our asses.”

I smiled. “I'd put in a good word for you, but I really have to go in.”

“Oh, come on. What's so important that you have to go in?”

“Let's see . . . The board meeting is December twenty-first, and God knows what else my jerk cousin Daniel might have up his sleeve. I'm sure you heard about how he'd trying to usurp the CEO position from me. And I've got to stay on the toy sales. I made a deal with my uncle. If I get toy sales up 50 percent over last year, he's going to support my appointment to CEO.”

Nick opened his eyes at me. “That's a mouthful.” He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. “I read about some of Rossman's corporate maneuvers this week in the
Tribune
. Your cousin sounds like a real piece of work. Is he any good?”

“My unbiased opinion? He'll run the chain into the ground if they let him.”

“So why is he wasting everyone's time?”

“Ego, I guess. And quest for power and money.”

“And what motivates you?” He opened his eyes again. “What makes Meredith tick?”

“There's some ego involved, along with family pride and a sense that I think I'm really good at what I do.”

“I believe that. But I don't understand this toy campaign. It flies in the face of what Rossman's used to represent in Christmases past. The tradition of charity at Christmas. Raising the store's profile with parents through giving, not pilfering profits.”

“Okay, now you're sounding less like Santa, more like Robin Hood.”

He moved his hand to the base of my spine and rubbed gently. “I'm just thinking big picture. Rossman's at Christmas, the way it used to be when the store was lit up like a Christmas tree and each kid used to receive a little plastic whistle or a toy balloon for free. It was a true celebration of the Christmas season.”

I sighed. “And what does that mean? What does Christmas mean to you?”

“A time of charity. The magic of Christmas comes from people stretching beyond their daily lives, doing good deeds for others, even when that requires some personal sacrifice.”

“Well, retail and magic don't mix,” I responded quickly, though I hated sounding that way. “Bah humbug. I sound grouchy, I know.”

“Really. Lose the Scrooge, and I'll give you one of my famous back rubs.”

Lose the Scrooge . . . It was easier said than done, but definitely worth a back rub.