Charming Christmas (31 page)

9

B
efore I left Nick's place that morning, he made us coffee and threw in a comment about me coming back another night. Although he seemed casual about it, in my mind that comment was suspended in the air with puffy hearts and flowers circling it, with a choir singing Handel's “Hallelujah!” in the background.

Nick wanted to see me again.

He liked me.

And I felt as if I'd stepped into the sunlight for the first time in years.

Great sex is a very good thing, but when you couple that with emotional connection, the results are a giddy satisfaction that lifts the soul. I felt like a better person after being with Nick, as if his goodness had rubbed off on me a little. Silly, I know, but I sang in the shower that morning and nearly caused a wreck on the way to work because I stopped to let another car go in front of me.

Of course, there was still an inaccessible part of Nick, the secret part that he withheld, but I was confident that eventually he would trust me enough to share that, too.

That morning when I got to Rossman's, I went directly to my office, which seemed to be gathering dust while I spent my time down in Santaland hawking toys. I sat at the computer and ran some numbers to get a sense of how toy sales impacted our total monthly sales figures.

The numbers didn't surprise me. I formatted the results into color graphs and started copies printing as I fished into the pocket of the Mrs. Claus suit and found Grace's card. Her voice mail picked up, so I left a message asking her to call me.

As I sat back in my leather chair, it occurred to me that I generally didn't make such sweeping decisions without consulting Uncle Len. I put my hand on the desk phone, then paused.

Not this time.

Instead, I clicked on the Internet connection and went surfing for local children's charities. Maybe I wasn't CEO of Rossman's, but I was still manager of this store, still a Rossman, and it was about time I flexed a little corporate muscle and pulled this store back in line with my nana's dreams.

 

 

That day Grace returned to the store and we toured the toy department, trying to estimate the inventory and type of toys that would best serve the kids in Chicago's foster-care program. The cost of funding the entire program was significant, but I knew that Rossman's maintained a fund for charitable donations. I told Brian, the manager of toys, to go ahead and help Grace get everything she needed.

Over the next two days, Gia and I sorted through various charitable programs that served children. We decided to co-ordinate efforts with Joy of Toys, a program that sent volunteers into schools in the city's low-income neighborhoods. In less than twenty-four hours we were able to begin sending out batches of toys from wish lists, delivered by a Santa and three elves from our Santaland.

Nick and I brainstormed over a program that would help employees direct Rossman's money to charities of their choice. “I read somewhere that it's not enough to just give the money,” I told him one night as we drank wine from juice glasses under the fluffy comforter of his bed. “It's in the doing. The act of doing something positive for someone else provides positive feelings, even health benefits for the person performing the good deed.”

“Yes, I've seen those studies.” He sat up and rested his chin on my knees. “So you want to guide each employee to perform a good deed?”

“But I can't force them, and I don't want them to feel like Rossman's is reaching into their pockets.”

“Good point. Maybe we can bring a social agency into the store. Through a church or nursing home. You want some kind of wish list. Have the person in need write down something they could use, like pots and pans, or a set of sheets, or a warm sweater.”

“An organized list. But each employee has a chance to go through it and choose something to shop for at Rossman's. We could give each employee a twenty-dollar credit. Maybe they can even help deliver it to the person if they have the time?”

“Now you're talking. I've seen that done with Christmas trees. Each ornament on the tree is a card that gives the recipient's first name, age, and wish.”

“That would work.” I put my wine on the crate that served as a nightstand and turned toward him. “We can use the tree in the atrium. We'll call it a wish tree this year, and the ornaments on the first floor will contain wishes.” I scraped my hair back, then flung it in the air. “Oh, Nick, I love this idea!”

“Merry Meredith, your hair is flying!” He tossed the comforter back and made a dive for me, growling. “I love it when you get all benevolent!”

I laughed, then quickly squeezed my eyes shut as our bodies came together.

 

 

We worked so well together, Nick and I. Whether under the covers or planning charitable programs or just cajoling children in Santaland, we were a great match. Granted, my experience with relationships was limited, but Nick was the first guy I could speak to with a feeling of balance and equality, the first guy who ever talked to me through sex and listened to my breathless answers. So many firsts. After a week of sneaking into his bed nearly every night, I realized that this was probably the first man I had ever loved. I desperately wanted him to be the first and last, but those mysteries remained, like a bubble rising between us. Nick still eluded my questions about his past, his former occupations and family, though sometimes small glimpses of his childhood crept in, especially when he was around the kids. Stories of sledding in the winter and swimming in lakes on hot summer days. One story reminded me of my own summers on the lake, about how he and his friends had swum out to a floating dock and found a snake lingering in the deep water under it. Everyone was afraid to swim back to shore, and the group of boys lingered on the raft for an hour until Nick decided that the snake had to be a stick if it hadn't moved during that time. He dove down after it and popped up to the surface a hero, stick in hand. The boys had returned to shore, sunburned but charged up with a great story.

“Was that a true story?” I asked him later, as we drove from the school back to Rossman's. “The one about the snake in the lake? Or is it part of the grand Nicholas mythology?”

“There's no mythology,” he said. “I don't lie about my life.”

“Really? Isn't that the whole pretext of the Witness Protection Program—to live a lie?”

He scoffed. “I'm not living under an assumed identity. You know that. I'm Nicholas Smith, and I'll fill in the blank spots soon after Christmas. I'll answer all your questions some time in the new year. How about that?”

“Why don't you tell me now, and I swear I won't tell a soul. Don't you trust me?”

“It's not about trust,” he said. “It's complicated. I promise you, I'll tell all in January, if you'll just give me till then.”

“I am not a patient person,” I admitted. Though January was just weeks away now. Considering the depth of my feelings for this man, what was wrong with giving him some space? Give the guy a few weeks. I could do that. “It's torture, but I can wait,” I told him. After all, I'd been in a waiting pattern all my life.

 

 

The new programs brought a noticeable lift to spirits in Santaland. The wish tree was so enticing that customers wanted to participate, and we were able to open the program to many of Chicago's social-service agencies. The elves returned from school deliveries with stories of children who had touched their hearts, and Jesus asked me if there was a way to schedule more class visits before Christmas Eve. “The kids appreciate us so much,” he said. “I wish my grandchildren could be there to see this interaction. I feel honored to be a part of it.”

Chicago newspapers wrote us up as “the store that makes Christmas wishes come true” and touted, “Roll out the Holly—Rossman's Claus Is Coming to Town!”
AM Chicago
sent a reporter to one of our Joy of Toys visits in an elementary-school classroom, and one of the networks sent a local news team to our Santaland to get the inside story the following morning.

As luck would have it, just as we were closing up that night, two strings of lights burned out in the Santaland entrance.

“It's a wonder they lasted this long,” the designer told me as I reached up to the top of the ladder to feed her the new lights. “These babies burn constantly, and they're three years old.”

I thought of my hasty budget cuts at the beginning of the season. Next year, I would allot money for new lights.

The string Felicia now hung on the trellis held tiny icicle clear lights shaped in figures. They were difficult to see until Felicia plugged them in, and at once dozens of tiny toys were illuminated in the silvery branches of the trellis.

“Hey, what's happening?” Nick poked his head out of the gingerbread house and joined us. “That's nice.”

“They're beautiful, Felicia.” I moved along the trellis to take in the many shapes—spinning tops, balls and bats, dolls, trains, trucks, and cars.

“Cute, aren't they?” Felicia squinted up. “I think they work for Santaland.”

“They remind me of the ornaments on our Christmas tree at home,” I said quietly. “They were in the family for years. Austrian crystal. Clear glass shaped into boats and trucks and dolls.”

Felicia folded the ladder up and hoisted it in one arm. “I'm glad you like them. Let me know if any other decorations go astray when the TV crew gets here.”

As she headed off, Nick came up behind me and put his arms around me. “Mrs. Claus, I do believe you've had a secret life, too.”

“I don't think so,” I said quietly as I stared up at the magnificent lights. No, for me the only secret was that I really had no life at all. The secret was, my life had just begun.

Nick was delighted with the way Rossman's had turned into a store with true Christmas spirit. “Do you feel the magic?” he asked everyone around him as he strolled through Santaland. “Can you feel it?” he said, looking right at me.

“Always,” I said, reminding myself that he was talking about Christmas magic. And actually, I had to admit that I was feeling something. Scary after these last years to have a Christmas connection once again, but I realized that if my actions made a happy memory for one boy or girl, that was all I needed.

The only downside of the Christmas of giving was Uncle Leonard's dark disapproval. “Newspapers and TV shows . . . Bah . . .” He waved a hand. “Who needs them? We're not publicity hounds, here.”

“Weren't my parents in the press all the time?” I reminded him. “They were America's favorite couple.”

“The media are fickle. They'll love you today, lynch you tomorrow.”

“I'm okay with it, as long as they're sharing the love,” I teased him, but he refused to be cajoled. He didn't like the giveaways, didn't want our employees to visit schools in high-crime neighborhoods, didn't think it wise to ally our high-end reputation with certain parts of town, and most of all, he didn't like the idea of “tossing away” Rossman's money.

“Giving away toys at Christmas?” He raked his hands through his hair. “Meredith, it's crazy nutty. Doesn't make sense at all. This is the one time of year when customers want to buy toys, and you give them away?”

“Uncle Len, what we're doing is very important,” I told him. “We're reaching out to people, helping the community. And what's good for Chicago is good for Rossman's.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, darling, but I don't get it, and I hate to say it, but I know this will bring you down, Meredith. You realize I can no longer support your election to the board?”

Although I wasn't surprised, it still hurt to hear him say it. “Of course,” I told him. “I understand.”

Once again, it would be the poor little heiress battling the big bad board. But this time, I was ready to take them on. This time, I had Santa on my side.

10

“H
ere's a question for you, Mrs. Claus,” Nick said one cold December night as we scraped the last creamed macaronis from a pot in his kitchen. “Here I live in a rented, barely furnished dump, but we spend every night at my place.” He wiped a smudge of cheese from his mouth and straightened his sweatshirt. “What's the deal? Aren't you going to invite me over someday? I clean up nicely.”

I turned away and dropped the pot into the sink. “My house isn't as comfortable as this place,” I said, thinking of the living room on Astor Street with its cathedral ceiling, the oak center-hall staircase, the checkerboard wood pattern of the lacquered library floor. “It was my parents' place.” Full of ghosts and memories. I was still afraid to use the good china, still reluctant to track mud on the patterned wool runner. “I live in two rooms, the bedroom and the den. Sometimes I feel like I'm just visiting, home from college for the weekend and they're away at the lake house.”

There, I'd said the words, though it seemed so ungrateful. “I must sound spoiled. It's a beautiful house, really, and you've probably read that I've got pots of money. I could redecorate like that.” I snapped my fingers. “But I can't. I haven't quite figured that one out yet.”

“There's no rush.” He pulled me against him, surrounding me with his arms. “You've got time, and you're welcome to stay here, always.”

I breathed in the fabric-softener scent of his sweatshirt, grateful to have found this man. Of course, I didn't want to think about how my parents would have reacted to my involvement with a “Christmas hire”; that was a bit of snobbery I'd put behind me. This conscientious, hardworking man was far more lovable than any of the society kids I'd been pushed to date.

“Guess I won't be getting invited to a sleepover anytime soon,” he teased. “Which is probably good, since I don't own a pair of pajamas. Haven't had one since my aunt got me that pair with a Batman cape.”

“Better watch it or you'll reveal your secret identity. And to think, all this time I might have been sleeping with Bruce Wayne.”

 

 

The last full weekend before Christmas brought crowds and camera crews that had most of the Santaland staff working overtime. By Monday morning I felt as if someone had bonked my head with one of those giant cartoon hammers. Turning over in bed, I pressed against Nick, sucking up enough warmth to make the cold dash to the shower.

“Don't go,” he said. “Stay in bed and go in later with me.”

“Can't.” I sighed, nuzzling my face against his chest. “The board meeting is Wednesday. I've got to prepare.”

“You've been preparing for that sucker all your life,” he teased. “If they don't choose you, they're blithering fools.”

“I gotta go.”

As I drove to work a few flakes began to fall. I turned on the wipers, gripped the steering wheel, and tried to stave off the tremble that threatened to rock my body. My fear of driving in snow conditions wasn't quite irrational, but it was highly impractical living in Chicago. I made plans to hire a driver that evening. Ever since my parents' accident Uncle Len had wanted me to use his service, but it seemed so extravagant to have a driver in a black limo take me everywhere.

I spent the morning in my office, printing presentations that would be covered and bound for Wednesday's meeting. I grabbed a quick lunch in the store café, then changed into my Mrs. Claus suit.

The accumulating snow had slowed some of our customers, but Santaland was crowded with preschoolers in shiny vinyl boots and puffy coats who dropped mittens and twisted hats as they waited in line. As I moved along the path, talking with the children, I wondered why the line was moving so slowly. When I made it to the front, it was apparent that something had broken down. Gia was sitting cross-legged, leading some kids in a game of rock, paper, scissors, and Kevin nodded as Jennifer from Personnel pointed at a clipboard.

“Finally.” Gia beamed a smile up at me. “Some sanity has arrived.”

“There you are. We just called up to your office but you were gone.” Jennifer grabbed the clipboard from Kevin and thrust it at me. “Here's a list of some possible replacements. If you want to choose two or three, I'll call them in immediately.”

“Replacements for what?” I asked, fighting back the feeling of dread.

“For Mr. Smith. He called this morning, said he couldn't be here during this next week.”

“Mr. Smith?” I wasn't tracking, but then Jennifer wasn't winning any communications awards.

She lowered her voice, so the kids wouldn't hear. “One of your S-A-N-T-A-S.”

“Nick?” The dread twisted into a sharp pain. “What happened?”

“He was a great Santa,” Kevin offered.

“I know, I know,” Jennifer said sadly. “It's a shame, but we'll do our best to fill his shoes, and quickly.”

I tried to fight the panic that moved through me, toxic as poison. Where was Nick? What had happened? What could have possibly changed since this morning when I leaned over his bed to kiss him good-bye?

The snow . . . Could he have been injured? But he was going to take the el to work . . .

One of the other elves signaled, and Gia jumped up and led two kids from her group in to see Santa. “This is slowing us down already, and it'll only get worse,” Gia said, moving closer to the rest of us. “Can we put someone like Kevin here into Nick's place? Then hire an elf?”

Kevin's face burned red. “Thanks, Gia.”

“That's a great idea,” Jennifer said. “Should we go with that?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, unable to look at the names on the clipboard. “Go on, Kevin. Get someone to help you find his costume, and Jennifer will take it from there.”

I rushed up to my office to call Nick's apartment, but there was no answer. And he didn't have a cell phone.

I paced behind my desk, wondering what could have happened, trying to ignore the sense that this was trouble. Something was wrong. Otherwise, he would be here, down in Santaland, listening to children and making them smile.

There was a knock on the door, and Gia poked her head in. “Mind if I come in? Wow, these digs are not very impressive. You'd think they'd do better for the store manager.”

“The Rossmans don't go for frills. We pass the savings on to the customer,” I said without looking up from my cell phone.

“And you look awful.” She stepped closer, cocking her head to stare at me. “What happened? Where's Nick?”

I crossed my arms, hugging myself. “I don't know.”

“Did you two have a fight?”

“No, nothing like that. I left him sleeping at his place this morning and now . . .” I shook my head. “He's disappeared.”

Gia nodded sympathetically. “What an asshole.”

“Looking back, I'm thinking I'm the asshole.”

“It's not your fault. Granted, we knew there was something mysterious about him. But really, to just disappear when he could be a man and break up to your face.”

“Do you think that's it? He doesn't want to see me again?”

She winced. “I don't know, Meredith. That, or he got called in by his parole officer. Or his wife threatened suicide if he doesn't come home.”

I moaned, sinking into the leather chair.

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to go over to his apartment right now, see if he's okay, but since he's not answering the phone, I doubt he's there.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I rested my elbows on my desk, sinking into the lowest of lows. “I don't know. I'm a Rossman. I guess I just go on.”

“I would have a good cry,” Gia said. “You know, sometimes being a Rossman must really suck.”

“It does. It definitely does.”

 

 

By the time I left work that night it had stopped snowing. As the driver headed south I could see that most of the side streets had been plowed, sometimes leaving a wall of snow over parked cars. People were out, bundled in hats and mittens and boots, digging out their cars, stomping ice chunks, scraping snow from their sidewalks.

As the driver turned onto Nick's street, I took out my cell phone, thinking that I'd call Nick one more time, just in case he was inside the apartment. I flipped it open to make the call, then noticed that the volume had been turned down and that I had a message.

A message from early this afternoon.

“This is the address, Ms. Rossman,” the driver said, turning toward me.

I grabbed my purse and moved toward the door. “Can you wait for me here, please? I don't know if he's home.”

The driveway and walk were not shoveled, covered with a pristine sheet of white. My boots sank into a foot of frozen fluff, the Italian leather too thin to provide much protection. I should've invested in some Rossman's vinyl snow boots.

The porch light shone yellow over Nick's entrance. I headed that way, pressing my cell phone to my ear to listen to the message.

It was him.

“Meredith, honey, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this in a phone message . . .”

My boots scraped up the steps, marking the virgin snow.

“There's something I need to do. Something I have to take care of, and it's going to take a few days.”

I slid my key in the lock and popped the door open to the dark, still kitchen. The only light was a pale glow from the digital clock on the stove, the only noise the hum of the old refrigerator. I stamped the snow from my boots just inside the door and pressed inside. I had to know if Nick had taken his things . . . if he would really be coming back.

“It came up suddenly and . . . You gotta know I hate to cut out on you like this. I made the commitment to Rossman's, and I know it's a busy time there. I feel bad about flaking on that, but this part is sort of beyond my control.”

His laptop was gone. The mound of papers that covered the desk was removed.

The bathroom counter was bare.

I felt sick. Had I been duped? Was I the deluded one?

“I'll be back, Meredith. I'll be back for Christmas. And then I'll be able to tell you everything.”

“Oh, sure.” My breath formed puffs in the blue darkness as I cast about his bedroom, looking for something, anything that might show he was coming back.

The closet held an empty suitcase and boxes. The top dresser drawer was empty, but the others held jeans, socks, and sweatshirts . . . his beloved sweatshirts.

I took out his favorite, the red one with Nick's Bicycle Shop printed on the front. He wouldn't leave this behind. He was coming back. He'd promised.

The sudden blast of bass guitar riffs startled me. Oscar. A swell of warmth in this very empty apartment.

I tucked the shirt under my arm and headed back to the car. Hadn't I promised that I'd wait for Nick?

I didn't like the way he'd handled this, and I was going to give him hell about it when he came back. But for now, I would wait. I would wear Nick's sweatshirt to bed and hope that he'd be back to reclaim it. Oscar played me out as I locked the door and sank down the snowy steps.