One Imperfect Christmas (14 page)

He saw the hope in her eyes, and he knew he was about to crush it once again. He circled his desk and plopped into the squeaky and definitely
not
ergonomically designed stenographer's chair, the best Putnam could afford for a middle-school assistant coach's office.

Don't go there, Pearce. You asked for a sign and you got one.
If Arnell's offer came through, Putnam's coaching budget would be a nonissue—and so would his marriage.

He picked up a pencil and twirled it, unable to meet his daughter's probing gaze. “It was just a gesture, Liss … to make up for skipping her birthday dinner. Don't read anything into it that isn't there.”

Lissa sidled over and perched on the corner of the desk. “There could be, if you'd just admit it.” She swiveled to face him. “So … did she like them or not?”

“Yeah, she liked them. And she called to thank me. That's all.” He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a folder brimming with the dog-eared, seventh-grade history questions he never finished grading.

“That's it? Like, you two aren't going to get together to talk about it or anything?”

“Talk about what?” As if he didn't know.

“You and Mom, of course.” Her tone implied his complete stupidity. Then her voice became pleading. “Come on, Dad, it's nearly Christmas. Isn't there something—”

A strident blare echoed throughout the building—the tardy bell. Daniel gave his daughter an “I told you so” look and shooed her off his desk. “How many times do we need to have this conversation, Lissa? When—
if
—your mother ever changes her mind about us getting back together, well … we'll take it one step at a time.”

Rising, he set a firm hand on her shoulder and propelled her toward the door. “Now, will you please get to your class?”

She turned, another question on her lips and an accusing look in her eyes. “Dad—”

“Not now, sweetie. Go.” With a final shove, he ejected her into the corridor and closed the door.

Returning to his chair, he rested his forehead in his hands. How much longer could he hold out hope that Natalie would return to him? And how much more disappointment could Lissa stand if it never happened?

Again, his thoughts returned to last night's phone conversation with Coach Arnell. Langston wasn't that far from Putnam and Fawn Ridge, but it wasn't exactly next door, either. He began to regret his decision to drive up to Langston for an interview on Saturday. If he were to take a coaching job there, Lissa would have to choose once and for all which parent she wanted to live with.

And, of course, the “D” word had to be dealt with. The specter of divorce hung over his head like the blade of a guillotine, ready to sever him from everything he held dear.

Natalie stared bleary-eyed at her computer screen. She'd been working on the layout for Fawn Ridge Fellowship Church's weekly newsletter, trying in vain to manipulate a 400-word Advent devotion into a space large enough to handle only 250 words, unless she resorted to six-point type. She reached for the phone, planning to call the pastor and ask him whether he wanted to edit it himself or entrust her with the task.

“Natalie, you have a phone call.”

She almost jumped out of her skin. Catching her breath, she jerked her head up to see her assistant standing beside the desk. The girl had an uncanny way of sneaking up on cat's feet and startling the life out of her.

“Deannie Garner, how many times do I have to tell you? Knock before you come into my office. We do have an intercom system, you know.” It was a lot less intrusive than the girl's untimely personal appearances.

Deannie's lips curled into an innocent smile. “I keep forgetting. Sorry.” She gave her flame-red curls a toss. “Anyway, it's Mr. Craunauer from The Apple Cart, and he's ranting like a maniac.”

“Now what's wrong?” Mr. Craunauer was a stickler for details, and considering what he paid for their professional services, Natalie agreed he had every right to be. A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.

Deannie shrugged. “I couldn't get anything out of him. He'll only talk to you.”

Natalie saved and closed the newsletter file and then jotted herself a quick note to phone Pastor Mayer. She steeled herself as she picked up the phone. “Mr. Craunauer, good morning.”

“Christmas is less than two weeks away, Ms. Pearce. I expected those flyers to be in my customers' mailboxes long before now. Sales are dying on the vine. Time is money. The early bird catches the worm!”

She cringed at the clichés and adopted her most placating tone. “This is an extremely busy time for us, as you can imagine. The entire staff is working overtime to keep up with all our clients. If you'll wait just a moment, I'll find out exactly where things stand.”

She pressed the hold button and turned to Deannie. “What's the status of his order? Please don't tell me it hasn't gone out yet.”

“I think Uncle Jeff finally got it printed and folded late yesterday,” the girl answered with a naïve smile.

The hard lump in Natalie's stomach swelled to boulder-size. Mr. Craunauer had given the ad copy his final approval early last week, and Natalie had immediately turned it over to Jeff for printing and mailing. She pressed two fingers of each hand to her throbbing forehead. “The flyers should have been at the post office days ago. What happened?”

Deannie rolled her eyes. “Like my uncle tells me anything?”

“Then go find out,
please.
”

With a steadying breath she picked up the phone, assuring Mr. Craunauer she'd have an answer for him momentarily. Just then Deannie rushed in, breathing hard. As she started to speak, Natalie made a shushing sound.

Deannie continued in a whisper. “Everything's cool. Alan and Bill are loading the van for a run to the post office. The Apple Cart flyers are in that batch.”

Natalie crumpled in her chair. Not good enough! The flyers were stamped for bulk rate, as Mr. Craunauer had originally requested. If they had gone out on schedule, there wouldn't be a problem. But today was cutting it far too close for the Apple Cart Christmas promotion. Bulk mail delivery was notoriously unpredictable.

As Mr. Craunauer's litany of complaints continued in her left ear, Natalie covered the mouthpiece. “Stop the van! Have them leave Mr. Craunauer's order here.”

Deannie gave a confused shrug and spun on her heel.

“Yes, Mr. Craunauer, I understand,” she said, returning to the conversation. “Your flyers will be mailed today, I promise, and we'll foot the bill for first-class postage. Your customers will receive them before the weekend.”

So much for making a profit. Suppressing a tremor of annoyance, she apologized once again for the mix-up and told the partially mollified shop owner good-bye.

She'd barely steadied her nerves after the unsettling conversation when she looked up to see Deannie standing in the doorway, a stack of Apple Cart flyers in her arms.

“You won't believe this,” Deannie said, “not in a million years.”

“What?” Natalie rose slowly, everything in her rebelling against whatever new disaster she read in her assistant's face.

“I was kind of thumbing through them and … ” Deannie spread the flyers on Natalie's desk and then folded her arms across her waist.

Natalie lifted an eyebrow and edged closer. With a professional eye she scanned the copy on the top flyer:

THE APPLE CART
The place to shop
when only the very best will do.
Order your gift baskets …
Select fresh Florida oranges … delicious apples …
assortment of candies and baked goods made right here
in our spotless Appaloosa kitchens.

Her mouth dropped open. “
Appaloosa!
It's supposed to say 'Apple Cart.' I
know
I typed 'Apple Cart.' “ She stabbed at her computer keyboard, entering the password to bring up the Apple Cart file.

There it was,
Appaloosa
, staring at her from the screen in bold Clarendon typeface. But Mr. Craunauer himself had approved the copy.
What went wrong?

Natalie sank into her chair, numb with shock. No time for self-recrimination. She had to make the correction, order another printing, and get the flyers in the mail before she permanently lost Mr. Craunauer's business to the bigger, flashier franchise printing company in Putnam.

Long after midnight, Natalie sank into bed, too exhausted to sleep. It had taken the entire day and everyone's help, but the mistake had been corrected and new pre-addressed flyers were printed, this time with first-class postage imprints. At exactly 4:49 P.M. Natalie slammed her trunk closed on two boxes of flyers and began a mad dash to the post office before it closed.

Jeff would fume for weeks about how much her mistake had cost the company, and of course, it would come out of her salary. As much as she wanted to, she somehow doubted she could fall back on her agreement to hire Deannie as a means of deflecting Jeff's wrath.

On the other hand, if Natalie even suspected the girl had anything to do with the delay—or even worse, the proofreading error—it would be a different story. But Natalie and everyone else in the office remained especially cautious about giving the boss's bungling, underachieving niece any task involving more than miniscule responsibility.

No, she thought, tossing and turning through another sleepless night, she couldn't come up with a single shred of evidence to pin the Apple Cart fiasco on Deannie. Still, for the life of her, she could not comprehend how she had made such a glaring typographical error—much less how it had slipped past not only her proofreaders, but also Mr. Craunauer himself. She couldn't even imagine Mr. Craunauer's reaction had the flyers gone out last week on schedule without anyone catching the mistake. She could only chalk it up to everyone's general state of distraction caused by the Christmas rush.

“Appaloosa, indeed.” She stumbled to the bathroom for some ibuprofen to stem a fatigue-induced headache before crawling back under the covers.

Too soon, the blare of the clock radio stirred her from a fitful dream. She thrust out her hand to silence the music and lay perfectly still, willing herself to return to that state of dreamy half-sleep. Slowly, the images floated upward through her mind: Windy in the pasture, her mother's hair morphing into a sable paintbrush. Then something about Daniel pushing Lissa in an apple cart. Only Lissa was still a cuddly, smiling baby, not the impulsive teenager she'd become. And starlight. She remembered bright stars in the dream, and a full, shimmering moon, the iridescent light illuminating …
what?