11
“I
don't want to tell you this . . .” Gia began.
“But you will,” I said without looking away from the computer monitor. I was trying to weed through my e-mail before this morning's presentation to the board, and I knew it would be better to forget Nick and focus on the meeting right now, but I couldn't help myself. “Go on, lay it on me.”
“Well, I talked with Jennifer in Personnel, and she says Nick left a message for his final check to be forwarded. To some address in Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania? But he said he grew up in the Midwest. Where in Pennsylvania?”
“Jenny-pie wouldn't give me the address, of course, but I'm sure she'll roll over for you.”
Pennsylvania. The only things that came to mind were Dutch pretzels, Amish people riding in buggies, and William Penn, the colonial. And once I'd flown over Pittsburgh and the pilot had pointed out where the three rivers met.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. “I can't be thinking about Dutch pretzels when I'm presenting to the board.”
“I love those giant pretzels, the hot ones, with lots of salt.” Gia perched on the edge of my desk. “They're so yummy.”
I shot her a look. “This isn't about pretzels. Do you have something else to tell me?”
She bit her lower lip, her gold loop earrings jangling as she nodded. The earrings were a bit much for an elf, but at least she'd stuck with the emerald nose stud. “There was this report about an escaped prisoner on TV. And it got me thinking. I went on-line and did some research, and it turns out this guy escaped from prison in Pennsylvania, right around the time Nick and I were hired. Like a week before. You can check it out on-line. The name of the prison isâ”
“Don't you need to get back to Santaland?” I interrupted.
“Yeah, but . . . Are you saying you don't want to hear this stuff?”
“I can't think about it, Gia. It may sound naïve, but I promised Nick that I'd wait for him, wait for his explanation of everything, and that's what I'm going to do.”
“Oh.” She straightened. “Oh. I get it. You fell in love with him.”
“You need to get back to work,” I told her, logging off my e-mail. “And so do I. I'm next to present to the board.”
“You look like hell,” she said. “Nothing personal.”
“Aren't you supposed to tell me to give 'em hell?”
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Over the years I had developed an ability to switch to autopilot in business matters; I was able to tamp my emotions down and keep them suppressed while I operated at full tilt, presenting a program, thinking on my feet, juggling numbers in my head.
Autopilot helped as I presented my Christmas charity campaign. I made it through the presentation with a modicum of enthusiasm. Even without Nick, my support of our charity programs would not waver. The wish tree had transformed the spirit in our store, and our support of foster children and children from families with financial difficulties took the power of Rossman's far beyond anything I'd ever imagined.
When I'd finished the presentation and fielded a few questions, Uncle PJ lowered the boom.
“My problem with all of this is the element of social services, which is not germane to the business of retail,” he said, his face emotionless behind the globes of his eyeglasses.
A few other members joined in, sharing his concerns about cost, reputation, and focus of our corporate mission.
“Really, Meredith, if you want to save lives, join the Peace Corps.” That from Marcus Aldridge, who seemed to live in Uncle PJ's back pocket.
“I'm quite familiar with the business of retail,” I said. “Ultimately, much of our business comes in because of our reputation for giving. But this issue is about more than dollars and cents. It's about Rossman's place in the Chicago community . . . in the world community.”
Uncle PJ frowned. Clearly I was losing him. “Honestly, Meredith, your parents were much more frugal. I'm not sure that they would have approved the sort of spending you've already authorized here. Really, darling, you've gone overboard here.”
Uncle PJ loved to call me “darling” in that derogatory way.
“Did you even once stop to think what your parents would have said about all this?”
“Actually, PJ, I did.”
Everyone seemed to suck in their breath at my quick reply. Nobody snapped back at PJ Rossman, not even politely.
“My mother was a very pragmatic person. She did not approve of many of the excesses in American society. However, she would not have been able to tolerate the thought of a child going without a single toy at Christmas. If Rossman's didn't fund the toys for those foster children, my mother would have taken the money out of our own family budget and paid it gladly.”
PJ's eyes were unreadable beyond the watery reflection of his wide glasses, so I turned to Uncle Len. “You know that's true.”
“Yes, yes, that's how she was.” There was a slight catch in his voice. “Evelyn would have stopped at nothing to make sure the right thing was done.”
“She had a big heart,” Uncle PJ charged. “Not like your father.”
“Actually, I believe my father was the real softy in the relationship. I remember when I was going off to college. I was accepted at Stanford, but at the last minute I found out that I didn't get the scholarship I'd applied for. It was an essay competition, and my work wasn't the best. I worried about how much money this would require of my parents. A huge expense. My mother agreed that it was a pricey institution, but my father just laughed and told me he couldn't be prouder. He was proud that I got in. As for the expense, he said, âIt's only money; we'll make more.'”
A few of the members laughed.
“I remember him saying that,” Nella Greeley said.
“That was Karl,” Uncle Leonard said. “I used to ask him if he was going to print it in his basement.”
“Yes, well . . .” When Uncle PJ spoke, the room went dead. “I must say, you've certainly presented a substantial body of material to make your case. I suppose your father was right.” His glasses flashed as he turned to me. “It was worth the tuition.”
I blinked, realizing that he was complimenting me, probably for the first time ever.
“Yes, that was an excellent presentation,” Nella agreed.
“Leonard will let you know the results of our votes after we finish up,” someone else added.
The door was opened and I was suddenly thanking them, gathering up my portfolio, and exiting to the hall, where Gia was pacing, the bells on her curly-toed shoes jangling. “Finally, you're done!”
“Did you come to cheer me on?” I asked.
“Oh my God, no! I wanted to come in and get you, but the secretary wouldn't let me.” She scowled at Helen, who didn't seem to notice.
I held my portfolio to my chest. “What's wrong?”
“It's Nick. He's out on Michigan Avenue, acting like an asshole.”
Just as she said the word, my two uncles spilled out of the conference room, followed by a few of the board members.
“He's got a sleigh and horses and he's pretending to be Santa, telling everyone he's waiting for Mrs. Claus.”
I laughed out loud. “You're not serious, are you?”
Gia's head bobbed wildly as she grabbed my arm and tugged me down the hall. “You've got to come before he does something totally crazy and gets arrested. Or the police shut the street down.” We were already jogging down the hall toward the elevators. “And who are all those creepy old men following us?”
“That's our Rossman's board of directors.” I tapped the elevator button again, looking back to see my uncles winging around the corner, stampeding toward us like a herd of buffalo. Somehow, I didn't want them breathing down my neck when I saw Nick. “These elevators are so slow. Escalators!”
She followed me to the escalators, and we hopped and clunked our way down to the eighth floor, then the seventh.
“Oh my God, you are worse than my personal trainer,” she called after me.
I lunged ahead, eager to see him, to shake him, to smack him for disappearing like that. “I can't believe he came back.”
“Yeah, you called that one,” Gia said. “Let's hope he's not hauled off to jail before we get down there.”
As if skiing a downhill slalom, I looped around customers and cut sharp turns at the bottom of each moving staircase. When we descended to the first floor, I spotted a crowd gathered around the main entrance. It had to be Nick.
Cutting through the crowd was probably not the most ladylike maneuver of my life, but I managed to make my way outside, where an impressive sleigh rested on the snow, its red velvet upholstery and shiny looped steel runners more deserving of a museum than a snowy city street. The lunchtime crowd surrounded the sleigh and horses: moms telling their kids to stay back, businessmen munching hot dogs from wrappers and speculating how anyone could get a sleigh onto Michigan Avenue, old ladies charmed by the timely arrival of Santa's sleigh. All these people and more spilled out onto the traffic lanes of Michigan Avenue, but no Nick in sight.
“Where are you?” I pushed past two men in trench coats and climbed aboard the sleigh. “Nick?”
“That's her!” he shouted from somewhere in the crowd. “That's my Mrs. Claus.”
Suddenly he was climbing up beside me . . . Nick in his red velvet suit trimmed in white fur, that silly Santa cap that only Nick could wear with finesse. I reached around him, hugging him, making sure he was real . . . and the crowd applauded and whistled.
So many emotions rippled through me: joy, relief, anger. I pulled out of his arms. “Don't ever disappear like that again. Where the hell were you?”
“Would you believe the North Pole?” he answered, causing the crowd to roar with delight.
I folded my arms, shivering in the cold. “It's all very funny, until someone disappears from your life.”
The onlookers oohed over that. Clearly, this was not the sort of conversation that lent itself to an audience. I motioned toward the store. “Can we go inside and talk?”
“Wait. We can have a private talk, but let me take you on a sleigh ride.” He reached down to the seat, snapped open a thick fleece-lined blanket, and draped it over my shoulders. “Now, you just need to sit quietly while I figure this out.” He lifted the leather reins, trying to sort them out, his confusion not instilling much confidence.
I leaned against the velvet bench and gazed over the bobbing heads of the horses. “Don't you need a license to drive this thing?”
A cop stepped onto the side runner. “I was gonna ask you that.”
“I can do it!” Gia emerged from the crowd. “I grew up on a farm, and I used to drive a hansom cab in the summer. You two just sit down, leave the driving to me.”
She sat in the front perch, the coolest punk elf in Chicago, gave a shout, and the horses started pawing at the snow, dragging us ahead.
The crowd began to applaud as we pulled out, and a few familiar faces emerged at the edge of the groupâmy uncles and the members of the board. Uncle PJ was shaking his head in staunch disapproval, not a fan of public displays. But Uncle Len smiled and gave me a thumbs-up as we passed. Good old Uncle Len, not a bad guy, just saddled with a useless son.
And just like that we were gliding down Michigan Avenue, skyscrapers looming over us in the snowscape. The wind blew my hair back and ruffled the edges of the blanket, but I was warm enough to enjoy the ride.
“Where to?” Gia asked. When he gave the Astor Street address of my parents' house, I groaned.
“Don't be a spoilsport,” he said, handing Gia a blanket. “There's something there I want to show you . . . my Christmas gift to you.”
“As if this sleigh isn't enough,” I said sarcastically.
“Don't go bratty on me, now. This is beautiful, isn't it? Snow in time for Christmas, and another thing: a horse-drawn sleigh is not an easy thing to find in downtown Chicago this time of year.”
“It is pretty wonderful,” I admitted, waving to a bunch of cross-country skiers headed into the park. “And it will be perfect, once we have that conversation. The details, man.”
He nestled beside me. “You're still mad? I don't blame you, but I really couldn't help it. I got a call just after you left Monday morning. There was a cancellation Tuesday, which gave me a chance to present a paper I've been working on for a hundred years. I'm trying to get tenure at Penn, which is a godlike thing in this day and age, so I had to jump on a plane to Philly pronto and present my research findings all day yesterday.”
“Philly . . .” I said aloud, for Gia's benefit. “That would be Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”
Gia turned around and mouthed, “Sorry!”
“Home of the cheesesteak sub.”
Some of it made senseâthe mound of papers, the laptop, the place near campus. I'd thought he might be a student but somehow never thought he could be a professor.
I squinted at him. “And why was this all such a big secret? The first top-secret sabbatical I ever heard of.”
“The Santa gig was part of my research. Did I mention that I'm a sociologist? No, I don't think I did. But I needed to remain anonymous or else the research would have been compromised. I've been researching the belief of magic in cultures for so long, I couldn't blow it right at the end of my study. I've been working on this baby a hundred years! But I said that, right? I'm telling you more than you want to know.”
“No, I do want to know. I want to know everything. The truth this time.”