Charming Christmas (25 page)

I could just imagine the days ahead. Cozy storytelling around the stone hearth in Agate's stone cottage. Tyler skipping through a field of wildflowers behind a white-gowned Agate who turns to take his hand and tells him she's so proud he'll be participating in his first skyclad ritual . . .

Hold on. Rewind to the part where I tell Agate that, much as I trust her love for Tyler, I don't want him coerced into practicing Wicca or veganism or anti-faux grois or whatever the cause, at least, not until he is of a more discerning age and ready to make his own informed decisions.

I took her hands in mine and her dark eyes snapped onto mine, as if trying to receive a telepathic message. “Thanks for coming, Agate.”

“I'm glad you called. Tyler is a dream.”

“Thanks. I'm not really sure how we do this,” I said, feeling awkward.

“We meet again. Maybe a few times. You come to the cottage and I'll visit your place. Before you know it, you'll know my number by heart again.”

I hadn't forgotten it over those six years, but I didn't want to admit that just yet.

“Don't worry, honey.” She nodded at Tyler and pressed a palm to my cheek. “We'll take it slow.”

13

I
have always prided myself on being a mother who listens to her child, a mom who is in touch with his needs and worries.

Which would explain why I lay in bed that night after my reunion with Agate and needled myself over Tyler's wish to be saved from his father. I kept reminding myself that he was five, still a child who didn't understand the ramifications and consequences of a life without a father. I was the adult here; I knew better.

I flipped onto my other side, my ear folded uncomfortably against my pillow as I picked at the metaphysical wound. How did all of this look from Tyler's perspective? He was well-adjusted, got along well with friends at school. He was secure in his mom's love, saw other kids getting along fine without a dad, and he didn't know his father well.

From his size 8 sneakers, he didn't know what he would be missing by not having a father.

I rolled over on my back, the weight of molding this little life heavy on my mind. Tyler was too young to understand the sense of loss and emptiness caused by growing up without a father. The snide comments from kids in high school about whom my mother had slept with. That cold, abandoned feeling and the yearning to know why he wasn't there.

Besides, I'd read reports of the risks fatherless boys faced—a higher rate of youth suicide, of dropping out of high school. And boys who grew up in homes without fathers were twice as likely to end up in jail than kids from two-parent families. Those statistics seemed so cold and distant, silly to think of a five-year-old in those terms, but when he grew to be a man would I kick myself for not pushing him toward his father?

I had to press on. Bree had an appointment at TJ's studio in the morning, and I was going with her. If my legal shark hadn't managed to get a bite of TJ yet, maybe I could get through to him this time.

From his turret bedroom Tyler snored slightly, then his breathing calmed. “Good night, moon,” I whispered as doleful moonlight slid in over the café blinds. “Good night.”

 

“He's an aaaaaass! She's an aaaaass. They are all major assholes!” Bree's bright Midwestern twang carried so well through the bus that I thought I saw the driver turn and scowl from way up front. We were on a bus from the studio, trying to make some sense of the meeting with TJ and his “people,” and Bree's reaction reassured me that I was not the screwball here in the TJ situation, even as it worried me that we might get kicked off the bus before we got to the downtown area. The woman sitting across from us seemed on the verge of complaining. One more “aaaass” was going to drive her over the edge. One look at her rinsed red hair and plaid tam-o'-shanter and I sensed that she'd been pretty close to the edge before we came aboard.

“How did we ever work in that looney bin?” Bree asked me.

“Work there? I lived with the guy.” I couldn't shake my three-by-five monitor of TJ making inane comments about fatherhood. “We must have been smoking some very potent stuff.”

“And we weren't even smoking at that point. Grrr . . . If that Melissa told me about her fabulous alma mater one more time, I was going to pin her diamond ass to the freaking bulletin board.”

I shot a look at the tam lady, who now seemed resigned to clicking her tongue as she watched passing buildings.

“Our lives were different back then.” The conciliatory note in my voice surprised me. Maybe I had let go more than I thought. Certainly, after today's meeting with TJ, I'd learned something, hadn't I?

“TJ is not a nice person,” Bree said firmly. “Think about that when you try to hook him up with Tyler. Do you really want him in that environment, with the ‘me' focus? What kind of an example does it set when everyone is catering to this man, this cranky, shortsighted, morally depraved man?”

“You've got a point,” I said, thinking back on the meeting in TJ's dressing room. TJ insisted on keeping his two head writers in the room, Melissa Diamant and a geekmeister named Jersh. I'd been flanked by Bree, who is quick with a comeback but was so caught up in putting down Melissa, the woman who'd replaced her on the show, that she didn't have much to contribute to the discussion of Tyler's future.

I had tried to ignore the two writers and proceed with a more personal discussion of Tyler, but TJ was clearly put off by the fact that I'd hired an attorney. He felt threatened, and his response was to toss off a barrage of one-liners.

“Have you lost your mind? Why would you pay a high-priced shark to come after my ass if you're going to show up here and chew it personally?

“I wish the kid well, but I was always honest about who I was, right? You didn't expect me to wake up one morning with the sudden desire to change diapers and push a stroller, did you?

“If you think the boy needs a father, go out and get him one. Someone qualified. You wouldn't hire a plumber to do an electrician's job, would you?”

TJ's face, on a three-by-five monitor, haunted me as I rode the bus from the studio to Union Square. Of course, I'd argued back with saintly patience and restraint, knowing that losing my temper would only alienate TJ that much more. I'd kept pulling him back to the topic that mattered—Tyler. And he'd kept rolling his eyes and claiming that he was not a bad person, that he was not father material, that he just wanted to be left alone.

After a very sour thirty minutes, I'd decided to retreat from the battle in hopes of winning the war. The personal approach was unsuccessful, but Nina had other tactics. I would back off and let her work her legal magic.

“Are you going to be okay, honey?” Bree asked as the bus neared my stop at Union Square.

“I just need to move on right now. Bury myself in some work so I don't have to think about being disappointed with TJ.”

As we said good-bye, I realized that I'd misjudged TJ. He wasn't Charlie Brown . . . not at all.

At Rossman's I changed into my Mrs. Claus suit, wanting to lose myself in a pack of bawling children whose problems could be solved with a potty break and a lollipop. By the time I was in costume it was after two. Time to report in at Santaland, but I just couldn't, not yet. I had to see Buchman. I felt a strong physical urge to have him, to lose myself in his arms. With all that was going wrong in my life, he seemed like the healthiest stress reducer.

His secretary told me he was finishing a call with Tokyo, that I could go into his office and wait. I stepped in and waved, surprised to see him wearing dark-framed reading glasses as he went over some paperwork with the caller. The glasses gave him extra sexual cachet, and as I locked the door behind me I felt as if I were about to seduce a college professor. Very naughty.

He was wrapping up the call, saying something about his job here. That he was wrapping it up here. Expected to be dispatched to Tokyo or maybe New York in the new year.

My heart seemed to stop beating for a second. Buchman, leaving?

As soon as he hung up, I pinned him down. “So you're leaving after the holidays?”

“That has always been the plan, much to the relief of the staff. Actually, if I may quote Imogene from shipping, ‘thank God that windbag is outta here in January.'”

The idea of his departure, of Mr. Buchman not filling this office, filling my days as well as some nights, made me a little sick inside. Suddenly, sex play lost its appeal. “I knew about the plan,” I said. “I guess I assumed it was off for the time being. I'm going to miss you. Our mornings together.”

He removed his glasses and put them on top of his papers. “You'll miss our mornings? Ms. Derringer, I do believe you've been using me as an object of sexual desire.”

“And that would bother you because . . . ?” I left it open so that he could fill in the blank, a feeble attempt at a joke.

Buchman turned away and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I'm sorry,” I said, feeling clumsy. “Most men are in it for the sex, aren't they? And you're right. That's where my head has been. I don't have time to be emotionally involved right now.

“I've got Tyler to take care of. And his father. I've been chasing after his father, trying to get him to act like a father.”

“Yes, of course. But do you mean to say you've never been emotionally involved in our . . .
mornings
together?”

It was my time to turn away, and I had to move quickly so that he didn't see the tears filling my eyes. All along I had wanted it to be about sex—just a physical relationship—but now it was clear that I'd become attached to Buchman in other ways. As a friend to Tyler and as an escape. I enjoyed his company, his self-deprecating sense of humor, his way of moving on quickly from one subject to another.

“She turns away, lest he note her eyes rolling mockingly to the back of her head.”

“No.” I turned back to him, shaking my head. “That's not it. I've gotten more attached than I wanted. Really, it's meant a lot to me, our time together, and I—” I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to swipe away the tears.

“Oh, Ms. Derringer, come here, please.” He rolled his desk chair back and swung me into his lap so that my head rested against his chest, just under his chin. “Shame on me for making you cry.”

“It's not your fault.”

“Please, just this once will you let me believe it is about me and not some other bloke who looks like Charlie Brown and appears on the televisions of half the world every night.”

So he had been listening; he had been keeping tabs on the events in my life. I held my cheek against his chest, afraid that if I looked in his eyes I'd burst into hysterical sobs. Here at last I'd grown fond of a man, a person, and he was already on his way out of my life.

“It
is
about you,” I whispered.

“Oh, you are a gorgeous creature but a terrible liar.”

“Can I ask, what are the chances of you staying here in San Francisco?”

“Slim, Ms. Derringer. Chicago is already making noises about reeling me in.”

“Will you make me one promise?” I asked. “Promise you'll spend Christmas with us? It would mean a lot to Tyler, and to me.”

He fell silent.

“Did you have other plans?”

“Actually, I had investigated the hot turkey platter at Denny's; however, I shall have to forgo it for the boy. Christmas is truly about children, is it not?”

“Children and generous hearts.”

“Yes, well, perhaps your ex will come through as a generous heart this holiday season. Christmas might be just the thing to melt his cold resolve and deliver him to his son's doorstep.”

“That would be nice,” I admitted. “But I've realized something about TJ. He is not like Charlie Brown, not the downtrodden underdog. The slumped shoulders and hands in his pockets, it's all an act. TJ lacks the social consciousness and pure heart of a Charlie Brown.”

“So you're saying exactly what? That Tyler's father is a failed man because he does not resemble a comic-strip character? Hmm. I'm not sure I could ever meet your high standards.”

“I'm saying that today, for the first time in years, I got a clear look at TJ Blizzard and I didn't like what I saw.”

“Yes, I got that part. But back to the comic strip. If you were to peg me, could I rank among the Pigpens of the world? Or perhaps the canine Snoopy.”

“Stop!” I pinged his arm.

“Woodstock? Odie?”

“Now you're in the wrong comic strip.”

14

A
s we switched into high gear to serve all the children who needed Santa in the height of the season, I pushed Buchman's departure to the back of my mind, telling myself that it was all for the best. He'd been the perfect choice for a transitional relationship, and to be honest with myself, he'd been a fine role model for Tyler. Buchman fit into my life very well, but I'd always known he was a temporary fix. Come January, we would all move on with resolutions and renewed spirits.

I didn't hear a word from TJ until just before Christmas, and then the message came through his famous lawyer, a weasel of a man named Eric Cartwright. In that disarming way that so many lawyers have, he decided to pay me a visit one evening while I was working in Santaland.

“Do we have to do this here? Right now?” I gave the attorney a harsh look. “If you didn't notice, I've got a few dozen kids to coddle along to the North Pole, with just two days till Christmas.”

He folded his arms, barely creasing the lines of his expensive suit. “Your lawyer stated that time was of the essence—your terms, not ours.” I turned away, hating this weasel man who followed me as I escorted a little girl up the stairs. He nearly hit his head on the low doorway leading into one of Santa's visiting spaces—a cottage cute as a country dollhouse—but he kept talking. “And my client is concerned about his reputation. He's a public figure.”

I turned back so quickly he stopped short of slamming into my chest. “His reputation? I'm Mrs. Claus. How about my reputation as the woman beside Santa, the baker of cookies and mender of the red suit each year at Christmas?”

I thought it was at least a little funny, but weasel face apparently didn't share my sense of humor. Across the snow path I saw Buchman peeking out of his Santa den, his blue eyes locked on me and the lawyer. On this particular night he was filling in for a sick Santa, and to my relief he quickly came around the path to join us.

“First, I want you to know our offer is nonnegotiable,” the lawyer said, “and it's a one-time deal. You don't accept it tonight, the offer is withdrawn.”

“Sir, everything is negotiable,” Buchman interjected, having joined us, “and your terms sound somewhat illegal—a little shaky, shall we say? However, go on.”

“The terms are very simple,” he said. “You'll get your 17 percent of my client's income no matter what, possibly more. Beyond that, my client has two offers. A, he will sign away parental rights and give you sole custody. Or B, if you want my client to see the child, we've compiled this list of dates that he's available. Of course, with the demands on my client's schedule, he would need assurance that he'd have full visitation of the boy on these dates.”

My heart beat merrily as he handed me the list. At last, I thought, a light in the darkness. TJ was coming through, revealing himself as the father I knew he could be. He wanted Tyler, for quite a few days of the year, from what I could see on the list before me. They included December 24, 25, 26. January 1, 2. February 14. The entire week of Tyler's Easter break . . .

A puff of air escaped my lips. “Is this a joke?”

The lawyer grinned. “Not at all.”

“Christmas Eve?” Buchman was reading over my shoulder. “And Christmas Day? Oh, and the day after that. And Valentine's Day. St. Patrick's, I believe, isn't that March 17? Why, I believe your client managed to mark off every holiday of the year, and then some.”

The realization cut through me as I stood there staring at dates. This was half of the year—and all summer, those precious months when there's no school and we spend afternoons in the park or take trips down the coast.

TJ would take my son away from me for the sole purpose of hurting me, ruining holidays, heaping guilt and longing onto my heart, squeezing the sweetness and joy from my life. “Bastard.”

“Easy, Mrs. Claus.” Cartwright was smiling now, a weasely, thin-lipped grin. “You've got that reputation to uphold.”

“Indeed, and it's certainly in jeopardy if she's seen around men like you,” Buchman told him.

“So what's your decision?” Cartwright zipped his expensive leather portfolio. “Hate to rush you, but as I said, this offer is only good today.”

“You want me to make a decision now?” I gaped at him. “I haven't talked to my lawyer. This is all a negotiation.”

“Not for my client. I meant what I said: that's our final offer. Take it or leave it.”

I looked from weasel lawyer down to the list of dates. Losing Tyler to TJ in this way would be devastating, probably for all three of us. This was not what I wanted. But I knew it wasn't what TJ wanted, either. He was bluffing, forcing my hand, putting himself in a position to look like the good guy when in fact he wanted me to refuse the offer and absolve him of all involvement and guilt.

I couldn't let him do that. I couldn't let him buffalo his way out of Tyler's life.

“Fine.” I folded the paper into quarters and tucked it into the pocket of my Mrs. Claus suit. “Tell your client I accept his offer. He can have his son for holidays, weekends, vacations. . . whatever.”

Cartwright paled.

“Cassandra.” Buchman touched my arm. “Why don't you take a moment to think this through?”

“I've thought of nothing else for the past five years,” I said, stoically staring down the lawyer. “My son needs his father, and I've promised myself I'd do everything in my power to make that happen. Do you want me to sign something, Mr. Cartwright?”

“I don't . . . Well, yes, you'll need to do that. In my office,” he stammered, clearly taken aback. “Sometime next week, I suppose.”

“After Christmas?” I pressed him. “So then, TJ won't be taking Tyler this Christmas? Or is that still on the table?”

“Oh, my client is taking the boy for Christmas, all right,” Cartwright snapped.

I held up my hands in mock surrender, trying to ignore the sickening feeling in my stomach caused by this whole charade. “Fine. Just trying to get things straight. I'll have Tyler ready on Christmas Eve,” I said, picturing my son dressed in a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with a suitcase and his favorite teddy bear. Such a pathetic ruse TJ had cooked up . . .

“Christmas Eve, then.” Cartwright tucked his portfolio under his arm and headed down the Christmas path, his Gucci shoes padding softly on the white carpet of fake snow.

“Oh, God.” I hugged myself. “What did I just do?”

“I was wondering that myself,” Buchman said. “What were you thinking? Surely, you don't intend to give up your son?”

Of course I didn't, but things had become so complicated. “I've got to call my lawyer,” I said, thinking that I would never reach her at night. “Tomorrow. Why is it that the bad guys can afford lawyers who make house calls at night?” It was at that moment that a slight movement in the sleigh beyond Buchman's shoulder caught my eye. As my eyes focused, the sensation of horror blossomed.

Tyler. His glassy eyes shone at me from the crook of the sleigh. He pulled back, scared and near tears.

“Oh, honey . . .” My arms flew toward him and I realized he must have been there during my entire conversation with Cartwright. What was he thinking? Did he hear everything? “Tyler . . .”

But he squirmed in the other direction, hopping off the back of the sleigh and disappearing behind white frosted bushes on the Christmas landscape.

“Let me go,” Buchman said, backing away quickly. “You don't want to corner him at a time like this.”

But I did want to go, I did want to run after Tyler and corner him and pull him into my arms and tell him that I would never give him up. Never.