2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) (20 page)

“She didn’t say a word to him about Christmas,” Fynn
said in disbelief, running his hand through his hair, the golden waves tumbling
back into his face again. “She was perfectly polite, talked about the weather
and his day. Then I saw her hand him an envelope and tell him not to open it,
just send it on to the North Pole. The
real
one.”

“But I thought you said she already mailed her list.”
Catherine was bewildered, looking over at Cara who was staring intently in a
nearby store window.

“She did. I know she did. I was right there.”

“Then what the heck was it?”

“A spare. She said she’s been keeping a copy in her
jacket pocket just in case she happened to run into Santa sometime before
Christmas.”

“Where? At the supermarket? Or school?” Catherine
blurted.

“That kid of yours is a riot,” Tara guffawed. “She’s
got it all figured out. Too bad you guys are in the dark.”

“Not helping,” Catherine growled.

“Listen, why doesn’t Fynn take Cara, and you and I can
see about getting our hands on the letter.”

“You want to try and mug Santa?”

“If we have to.” All seriousness. “Maybe you can
distract him, ask to try on his big red coat since you have the same shape.”

“Funny.” So not.

“Lighten up,” Tara urged.

“Is that another fat joke?” Too bristly to back down.

Tara ignored her. “My guess is Cara’s not the only kid
who gave Santa a letter. Kids probably do it all the time. They probably have a
whole pile of them behind his throne.”

“Don’t tell me you’re proposing we steal little kids’
letters to Santa,” Catherine said warily.

“At worst it’s a gray area,” Tara huffed. “And even if
you want to call it ‘stealing’, it isn’t the post office so we aren’t talking a
felony. And no stamps are involved so it isn’t valid mail anyway.”

“Sssh,” Catherine hissed, pointing at Cara just a few
feet away.

“You know they probably just trash the letters and
lists at the end of the day anyway. So we’re doing a service. Making the load a
little lighter.”

“That’s what you’re going to call it?”

“Why not? I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl.”

Catherine turned to Fynn who had been all too quiet
during Tara’s dalliance through the gray space of robbing Santa’s Village. “And
you have nothing to say about this?”

He shrugged in a way that said he had nothing better
to offer. Which meant they really were at the end of their rope.

“So we’re in agreement then,” Tara prodded, satisfied.
Then, to Fynn: “You keep Cara occupied.” To Catherine: “We’ll sneak back and
find the letter.”

Another shrug from Fynn.

Catherine stared at her husband in disbelief that he
was buying this, and even worse, he was selling her up the river. Not stepping
in to say he would take care of it, offering to do a Bonnie and Clyde with Tara
and leave his pregnant wife out of it so their baby’s mother didn’t end up with
a rap sheet.

“I can’t sneak anywhere,” Catherine reminded them both.
“I’m like a bull in a china shop.”

“Well, I promised myself I’d never hire another
pregnant lookout after Georgia mucked up that job at his place.” Tara thumbed
toward Fynn in reference to the break-in they’d plotted to steal Caramellie
from him. “But since you’ll only slow me down, lookout it is. On a good note, a
woman in your condition won’t look like she’s up to no good.”

***

“I’m ready,” Tara said, coming up behind Catherine where
she stood behind the Santa’s Village exhibit, just outside the cordoned off
area. She’d been left there to surveil operations and determine the weak points
for penetration, but all she’d succeeded in doing was thinking of all the ways
this could go wrong.

“What’s that?” She pointed at Tara’s head.

“A disguise.” With a
duh
tone, adjusting the
elf hat she’d either bought or stolen or borrowed in the interim.

“It doesn’t disguise anything.”

“But I’ll blend in.”

“It doesn’t match the other elves though.”

“It’ll fool any passersby,” Tara reasoned. “Then all
we have to worry about is the real elves.” She stepped over the fencing
barricade and starting out across the cotton-batting snow.

“Great, the
real
elves,” Catherine muttered,
realizing Tara spent a lot of time in la-la land.

Tara reached the platform that held Santa’s chair and
pointed to a large wrapped present standing nearby, mouthing
trashcan
to
Catherine and reaching inside it to pull out a fistful of envelopes and construction
paper letters, shrugging her shoulders like they were robbers playing charades.
Catherine shrugged back. Fynn was the one who had seen Cara’s letter; the only
one other than Cara herself who could likely identify it in a lineup or pile. She
mimed opening and reading them the best she could.

Her eyes skipped to the front of Santa’s Village,
where the elves were still occupied with elfin tasks. As she scanned beyond
them, she noticed a sign posting that the village was closed from twelve to
twelve thirty. Catherine’s eyes bugged out and she tapped her wrist at her
friend, pointing toward the sign. Suddenly Tara dropped everything and unbuttoned
her coat, and Catherine wondered if she was about to streak through the North
Pole as a horribly inappropriate diversion. But instead she tucked her shirt in
and started shoving fistfuls of letters down inside it, causing it to balloon
out with each new load.

“Excuse me, ma’am, what exactly are you doing?”

Shit.

Tara froze in place while a not-so-jolly elf headed
right for her, because her lookout sucked at being lookout.

“I was just… uhhh… checking the display,” Tara
explained, glancing over the elf’s shoulder at her accomplice, like she
expected Catherine to back her up, come dashing through the fluffy snow,
claiming to be Tara’s portly supervisor, there to conduct a training session on
just how to handle an exhibit “situation” quietly and fly under the
radar—unlike what just happened right here. She could give Tara a failing grade
for covert exhibit ops, while at the same time commending the elf himself for
having his eyes open and keeping his nose clean. They needed more elves like
him on the elf force, watching all their Ps and Qs and keeping an eye out for
suspicious characters even if they didn’t fit the mold of knife or bomb
wielding types and instead looked like suburban soccer moms—who could be just
as dangerous when radicalized.

“Checking the display?” the elf asked, disbelief loud
and clear.

“Yes, I heard there was a… problem with it, and I… was
sent to make sure it was sound.”

“Sound?”

“Yes, I’m from corporate.”

“Corporate what, exactly?”

Catherine could see the elf reaching toward his waistband
and a black thing that was just detectable under the jagged, jester-style edge
of his striped elfin shirt. Mace? A stun gun? She didn’t think elves would use
real bullets. In fact, she would have figured them for using some kind of candy
weaponry—bazooka gum, gumdrop grenades—but she wasn’t going to stick around to
find out, edging away and out of his periphery, leaving Tara to her own lying
devices as her friend was led into Santa’s house, where they probably sat
around drinking and smoking and playing poker between shifts. Not a cozy and
comfy and inviting space like Santa’s house should be. Maybe this was an evil
elf, hell-bent on wrapping her into a chair and shoving sharpened candy canes
under her fingernails to get what he wanted out of her.  

She bit her lip, waiting for Fynn’s reaction.

“Tara got picked up?” he finally said, scratching his
head.

Catherine nodded. She’d waited until they were back home
to say anything, acting like the fact that she’d come back to find them without
Tara was nothing unusual.

“You just left her there?”

“They didn’t catch me! And I have our family to think
about!” Righteous.

“It’s mall security, Catherine. Not real cops.”

“I didn’t want Cara to get mixed up in it, and she
would have if we tried to bail Tara out.”

“They don’t have a jail at the mall.”

“Why not? They had a jail at The Vet in Philly and
that was just a stadium,” she challenged. “And what if Cara found out what we
were doing? It would have ruined Christmas.”

A pause. “Maybe we are going too far with this Santa
thing. Is it really the end of the world if she finds out it’s all just a
story?”

“Gosh, Fynn, I’m glad you’re not my dad.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Illusions are good for kids. Some at least. And Cara
has already lost out on the one where parents are infallible. Where mothers and
fathers will always be there for you. Forever and ever. She’s had enough
reality,” Catherine reasoned.

“What do you propose we do then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Her phone buzzed from across the room and Fynn glanced
at the screen. “It’s Tara.”

Catherine gulped. She had kind of hoped to avoid
facing her, even through the phone. She would never have made a good marine,
that was for sure. And even worse, she thought of all those movies where
criminals didn’t take kindly when they got caught and their accessories got
away scot-free, and they spent their time rotting in prison, plotting revenge.
What if Tara did something like that?
It was just mall security,
she
reminded herself. What’s the worst that could come of it? Banned from the mall?
I could do her shopping for her. My penance.

He handed her the phone. There was a picture of an
envelope with “To Santa” on the front. Then a message: Come alone. Bring 2
extension cords, 1 pair Manolos (the blue ones), 37 Fire-Roasted sauce packets
from Taco Bell, 1 BIG FAT SORRY.

A friggin’ ransom note.

“Is that Cara’s letter?” Fynn asked, looking over her
shoulder.

“I don’t know. Could be. Could be a forgery.”

“I guess we have to hope for the best,” he shrugged. “And
you better get your ass over to Taco Bell and start ordering.”

“What the hell is wrong with her?” Catherine growled.

“I think it’s the least you can do.”

“Really, Fynn? Do you know how much those Manolos
cost? And I only wore them once.”

He stared at her blankly.

“They’re shoes, Fynn. Shoes.”

“So? Give them to her. Isn’t Cara’s Christmas worth
more than some fancy shoes?”

“Yes,” she said lowly. “I should have known she would
try to gouge me. Why did I ever let her get involved?”

“Because you wouldn’t have gotten the letter at all if
you didn’t.”

“Maybe.” Unwilling to commit to anything definitive.

“Face it, the woman’s got guts. Without her we’d be
S.O.L. right now.”

Catherine humphed.

“What does she need extension cords for anyway?” he
asked, an afterthought.

“Probably her vibrator.”

“Are you serious?” he blushed.

She waved it off. “My guess is she wants them for the
lighting contest. Probably needs cords that are long enough to reach her
neighbors’ outlets so she can ‘borrow’ extra power.”

He looked nonplused, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“You can bring her a couple of mine. And as for the shoes, hand them over. I’ll
run out to Taco Bell myself and get the sauce. What’s that for anyway? And
don’t tell me she uses it on her nipples or something crazy like that.”

Catherine smiled in spite of herself. “I think she
just really likes it and you can’t just buy it anywhere.”

Relieved. “Okay, well, I’ll get those and you start
working on a sorry worthy of getting us that letter.”

She made a
do I have to?
face, but he stared
her down.

“I’ll do it, but I’m not going to like it.”  

“That’s your prerogative.”

“Oh, don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“The same one my mom gives me whenever she thinks I’m
making the wrong decision or a bad decision or otherwise acting crappy. It’s
like I-told-you-so
but even worse, because it’s floated out there before
I even do anything.”

“I’m just saying that she’s your friend. She has been
your friend since before we met. I think you need to—”

“You don’t even like her! You think she’s nuttier than
a fruitcake. And I’m pretty sure you have said exactly that.”

“What does it matter what I think?”

“Of course it matters. You’re my husband. We are
one
,
remember?”

“I can name a thousand things you don’t consult me on—that
you don’t even want my opinion on—every day, but on this you’re deferring to
me
?”

“Like what?” Catherine challenged.

“What kind of tissues to buy, for one.”

“Lotion should not be in tissues, Fynn. I’ve said it
before and I’ll say it again. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

“But I happen to
like
tissues with lotion, and
you still won’t buy them. Never. No way.”

“Because if I bought them I would need to have two different
kinds of tissues everywhere. Lotiony ones for you and the timeless standard
kind for me. I can’t use tissues with lotion for my makeup or for—”

“I know your whole platform on tissues, dear, I’m just
making a point that you don’t listen to me on so many things, so why would you
give a flying flip what I think about Tara, who I am actually fine with so long
as she isn’t getting you in trouble.”

“Like today?”

“She was doing something for us. And
she
went
down for it. That’s called friendship if you ask me.”

“But that doesn’t excuse the fact that she’s here in
the first place.”

He shrugged. “Single. Pregnant. It’s a lot. So she ran
to you. Her friend. What would you do in her position?”