Up on the Rooftop (3 page)

He sounded so lame, like some needy geek around a pretty girl. Which he was. Before he had gotten into Harvard, hell, before he had become an investment banker, long before he had money, he had been the math geek in the corner of the high school cafeteria, lost in his numbers, unable to talk to any girl he found attractive—even if (especially if) she had asked him about her math homework.

“It’s not a costume,” she said in that same frosty tone. “It’s my work outfit.”

His face probably matched her suit. He didn’t even know how to apologize without making things worse.

“Ah,” he said. “It’s just unusual to see people in red uniforms standing on rooftops in the lull of a snowstorm.”

“Oh,” she said, “the storm is over—at least here. It’s moving north and east.”

She sounded so sure of herself.

“That’s not what the weather people say.” Marshall had checked his phone twice to see the weather, wondering if his labors this morning had even been worthwhile. The weather experts seemed to believe the blizzard would continue—in one form or another—until November.

“Well, we have much more sophisticated equipment,” she said.

“We?” he asked.

She shrugged. “The people I work with. We have fantastic equipment, especially about the weather. We have to.”

Because they spent their days on rooftops? He felt confused. “I suppose I can’t ask who you work with.”

She shook her head. Her sandwich was almost gone, and he hadn’t even noticed her eating it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He flashed on that face he had seen on one of the rooftops—the first one?—the face that looked like a disembodied head. Was that one of her partners? Or was that a trick of the light?

He was about to ask her, when a strident female voice cut into their conversation. “I don’t know who you are, young lady, but you look nice.”

Marshall and the pretty non-elf woman looked toward the sound. It came from Mrs. Bain, two tables away, her lunch crumpled in front of her, her tray pushed to one side. Nigel had his head down, trying to finish his Whopper Jr.

Mrs. Bain leaned toward them as if she was going to speak confidentially, but she didn’t lower her voice at all.

“But,” Mrs. Bain continued, “that man is one of those bankers who steals from people. He’s not the sort of person you should idly converse with. He’s despicable.”

“What?” The pretty non-elf woman frowned at Mrs. Bain, then looked at Marshall. “Do you mean him?”

He almost closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face.

But she didn’t look disappointed. Just confused.

“I don’t understand all the customs here,” she was saying, “but why would a banker have snow removal equipment on the back of a big truck?”

Marshall’s breath caught. She had
seen
that? She had been watching him too?

“He probably repossessed it,” Mrs. Bain said with great certainty. “It would be just his style to repossess the equipment when people need it most.”

“Mom.” Nigel touched his mother’s arm. “He’s been digging people out all day. That’s how we got out of our driveway.”

Mrs. Bain gave Nigel an alarmed look. “You let him on our property? You were supposed to shovel.”

Nigel bowed his head and grabbed some French fries as if they would save him. His face was as red as Marshall’s had been.

“To be fair, Mrs. Bain,” Marshall said, “there was too much snow for anyone to handle with a shovel.”

“Fair?” she snapped. “Don’t you talk to me about fair. Don’t you talk to any of us about fair.”

Marshall sighed. He knew better. He shouldn’t have engaged. He never should have said anything. And now the pretty non-elf woman probably thought he was some kind of monster on top of being a clueless tongue-tied idiot.

“Mom,” Nigel said softly, without looking up. His fries were arranged in a neat row on his tray. “You’re not being nice.”

Mrs. Bain stood, then grabbed her empty tray, and Nigel’s half-full one. “Someday, Nigel, you’ll learn that there are people in this world who don’t deserve nice.”

Marshall would have had to agree with that, but only because he was angry, and he didn’t dare say anything. Why had she butted into his life? Why did she want to ruin it?

Oh, yeah, because people like him had ruined hers—and his was the face of the disaster, at least to her. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

“Where I work,” the pretty non-elf woman said, “we believe all can be redeemed, if they realize they’ve been naughty.”

It took Marshall a moment to understand what she had said. First, he had heard the word “naughty,” and that had conjured the wrong image for him. He didn’t need to hear her say the word “naughty,” not after he had thought it—twice.

But he got past that (he hoped) and realized that the pretty non-elf woman was defending him. It was such an unusual experience that he didn’t know what to say.

“Lie to yourself all you like, honey,” Mrs. Bain said. “A man like that will disillusion you fast enough. Come along, Nigel.”

Nigel shot Marshall another apologetic look. Marshall nodded as imperceptively as he could, and watched as the two of them stalked off. Well, as Mrs. Bain stalked. Nigel trailed like a lost puppy.

“What did you do to them?” the pretty non-elf woman asked.

So much for defense. Guilty until proven innocent. Actually, guilt by association. Years of association, actually.

He had no idea how to explain any of it, especially to a woman who clearly wasn’t from around here. She had been kind. She didn’t need to hear about his strange existence.

“It’s a long story,” he said.

“Well,” she said. “I’ve got some time. I’m ahead of schedule, and now that I’m done with this Whopper thing, I’m going to try something else.”

Then she grinned, got up, and headed back to the counter.

He watched her in surprise. He had no idea where she was going to put another entire meal—and he shouldn’t be watching her, not like this, not with the word “naughty” still floating around in his brain.

He should do the honorable thing: He should get up and leave. Right now. That way he wouldn’t embarrass himself any more and he wouldn’t upset the neighbors.

But this was the nicest anyone had been to him in a long time—at least, anyone local.

Only she wasn’t local.

And somehow, the job she did had something to do with being nice.

So maybe “nice” was just a reflex for her. Still, it made him feel better. He hadn’t realized how down he had been until the pretty non-elf woman stood up for him.

He sipped his now-cold coffee. Then he realized that the Burger King was quiet. Most of the patrons were staring at him. Most of them recognized him, either from the neighborhood or those ill-advised neighborhood meetings.

If the pretty non-elf woman stayed here for a few days, she would want a good experience. And people wouldn’t be nice to her if they thought she was a friend of his.

He put the lid on his coffee so that he wouldn’t spill it, and stood up. He needed to leave. Not for him so much, but for her. She didn’t need to get sucked into his world, not even for an hour, not in a fast-food restaurant where half the neighborhood had gone for lunch. She had looked so joyful when she had come in here.

He didn’t want—even inadvertently—to trample on that joy.

5

HE WAS CUTE. No, he was better than cute. He was
nice
. And really handsome with that dark hair (which needed just a bit of a trim), a little stubble from his long day, and the redness in his cheeks. She hadn’t seen a man with such redness in his cheeks this far from home, and she found that she liked it.

Julka stood at the end of the line, bouncing a little on her feet. She liked him, even if other people didn’t seem to. He seemed kind. She had no idea what he had done to that horrible lady. (Then Julka sighed at herself: she wasn’t supposed to think of anyone as
horrible
, just unreformed.) And even though he had supposedly treated that lady poorly, he had shoveled her walk, saving her little boy from doing work that might have hurt him.

Because the handsome man was right: anyone with snow experience knew that too much snow had fallen in a short period of time to get rid of it with a simple shovel. It would take mechanical equipment (for the non-magical humans) or some real magical muscle to get rid of the snow in a timely fashion.

And as she had learned throughout her long years at the North Pole, some snow simply refused to be gotten rid of.

She made herself look at the menu. So many choices. If she had known that there were this many choices in all of the various restaurants in the Greater World, she would have stopped eating Delbert’s cooking long ago. She had Greater World money, with more of it appearing as she completed each day’s task.

Julka turned toward the table only to see the handsome man get up. His shoulders were hunched forward and he was holding his tray in his left hand. He looked defeated.

Something in that interaction with the horrible woman (to heck with it: that appellation was staying) had really bothered him.

“Don’t go,” she said, slipping out of her place in line. “I’ll buy you a fresh coffee.”

He gave her that sad smile of his and shook his head. He came toward her, and said softly, “Look, I’m not the most popular person here, and talking to me might ruin your time in this town. So it’s best if we don’t—”

“Nonsense,” she said. “They already saw us talking. Whatever damage there was is done. Besides, I have some things to ask you.”

His sad smile got sadder.

“No,” he said. “It’s best if we just part ways now. But thank you for your kindness. It means a lot to me.”

Then he bowed his head, and walked out of the Burger King.

She almost hurried after him—she hated seeing anyone that upset—but he had been clear. He didn’t think it was good for her to be talking to him.

Which just showed his kindness again.

After he disappeared from view, she rejoined the line. Everyone was staring at her—except for the people who were studiously avoiding her gaze. No one was talking.

“What did he do?” she asked the silver-haired man in the table next to her.

“I’m not sure,” the man said, his tone dismissive.

But she wasn’t going to let it go. “What do you mean, you’re not sure. Everyone is treating him like he’s done something awful.”

“Well, he did,” the man said. “We’re just not sure what.”

“He was an
investment banker
,” said the little old lady at the table across from the man, her tones hushed as if she had called the gentleman Julka had been talking to a sex crimes pervert.

“Isn’t that a common job?” Julka asked.

“Not exactly,” the woman said. “And he is retired.”

“So what is the problem?” Julka asked.

“Well, those bankers,” the woman said, “they caused the meltdown.”

Meltdown? Oh, the woman meant that financial thing that happened a few years back. Julka had to study it in Advanced Greater World Studies, so that she could converse about it. The “meltdown” had a serious impact on children worldwide, making Santa’s services even more necessary, and overwhelmed him with extra work.

“You think he had something to do with that?” Julka asked, referring to her handsome gentleman. How could he have? He seemed so nice.

“They all did, those bankers,” the woman said in hushed tones.

“And some of ‘em really screwed people,” the silver-haired man said. “They took money from everyone, leaving us with nothing.”

Julka looked out the door, as if she could still see the gentleman. “So why was he digging people out?”

“He seems to think we’ll accept him as a neighbor,” another woman said snidely from the back. “But we never will. Him and his ilk, they ruined us.”

A bunch of others nodded.

“Can’t you forgive him?” Julka asked.

Everyone stared at her as if she had grown a third head.

She shrugged. “I mean, he seems really sorry.”

“There are some things in life,” said the silver-haired man, “that sorry doesn’t solve.”

6

MARSHALL WAS COLD, wet, tired and discouraged. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t quit until he’d finished the last of the neighborhood, but as he drove down the one plowed street, he saw orange wooden saw horses on the road, with a hand-made sign that warned of more downed power lines.

Earlier in the day, he would have figured out a way around so that he could finish his self-assigned mission, but this time, he simply didn’t want to go on. He wanted to get home, take a warm shower, and forget that the day ever happened.

Part of the problem with his neighbors was his house. It was too big for the neighborhood. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t built it: he had bought it, back when he was feeling flush—a large Tudor/Colonial blend that actually worked. It sat on a rise overlooking the entire neighborhood, and underneath the house proper was a gigantic garage that originally housed the first owner’s antique car collection.