The Bark Before Christmas (6 page)

She handed over a narrow sheaf of papers bound inside a clear plastic cover.
How Does Mold Grow?
I read on the front.

Hmm. I hadn't the slightest idea. Science had never been my forte. I flipped through the pages. The report had pictures, and diagrams, and very wide margins. Still, it wasn't up to me to evaluate the project, only to make it appear. Mission accomplished.

“Quinn?” When I gazed toward the corner, the other sixth grader popped to her feet. She crossed the room to join us. “How's your report coming?”

“Just fine,” she said with a sunny smile. “Almost finished.”

“So you'll have something for me to look at tomorrow?”

“You don't work on Tuesdays,” Quinn pointed out. She was an expert at evasive maneuvers.

“Usually I don't,” I said. “But this week I'll be in and out every day.”

“How come?”

“Mr. Hanover put me in charge of managing the Christmas bazaar.”

“Oh right.” Charlotte looked up and nodded. “I heard about that. Puggy was really bummed.”

I didn't know Puggy. He wasn't one of my students. “He's bummed about the bazaar?” I asked, surprised.

“No, about his mother running off to Mexico with her lawyer.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. There wasn't much I could say to that.

“Hey, it's not so bad,” Quinn said brightly. “New stepfathers can be fun. “It's in their best interest to get you on their side, so they give you stuff. Ask me how I know.”

Oh my
. On that note, a change of subject was definitely called for.

“Are you girls coming to the bazaar?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Charlotte. “It's a school function.”

“I wouldn't miss it.” Quinn stifled a giggle. “I'm bringing my pony.”

I'd misheard, I thought. I must have.

I tipped my head in Quinn's direction. “You're doing . . .
what?
”

“Scooter,” she replied. “My pony. I'm bringing him to the bazaar. My mom said she'd hook up the trailer. Scooter's thirty years old. He used to be bay but now he's mostly gray all over. He never gets to go anywhere anymore so this will be, like, a big day for him.”

“I must be missing something,” I said. “Why is Scooter coming to the bazaar?”

“There's going to be a booth where you can get your pet's picture taken with Santa Claus.” Quinn's tone implied that the answer should have been obvious. “I thought that sounded like a cool idea. Scooter's old for a horse. He might not have that many more Christmases left. So I figured I'd better get his picture while I can, you know?”

So much for thinking that I'd had things marginally under control. “Does Mr. Hanover know about this?” I asked.

Quinn shook her head. “No. Why would he? But I'm sure he'll love Scooter. Everyone does. He's very friendly, for a pony. And he even likes candy canes.”

“I'm sure that's a plus,” I said faintly. I made a mental note to be sure to have a pitchfork and muck bucket near the picture booth.

“I have a dog,” said Charlotte. “She's a Cockapoo. Her name is Coco Lily.”

“A Cockapoo?” Quinn echoed with interest. “She must be one of those new designer dogs.”

For Charlotte's sake, I tried not to grimace.

Designer dogs
. I hated both the term and the currently trendy product it described. Hype and false promises aside, how could it possibly be a good thing to take two nice purebreds and breed them together to create a purposely mixed result?

“I don't think Coco Lily is a real breed,” said Charlotte. “I'm pretty sure she's just a mutt. But my mother thought calling her a Cockapoo made her sound special.”

“I'm sure she's very cute,” I said.

“She is.” When Charlotte smiled, her whole face lit up. I was tempted to reach over and brush back the young girl's shaggy bangs. “And she's going to have her picture taken, too. Poppy's mom . . . Mrs. McEvoy . . . you know her, right?”

“Sure.” I nodded. Poppy and Charlotte were best friends. “We both show dogs and we see each other at the shows.”

“My mom is busy that morning so Mrs. McEvoy is going to pick me up. Poppy's bringing Kiltie, too. We might even get their picture taken together. Wouldn't that be fun?”

“It sounds like an excellent idea,” I agreed.

“Mrs. McEvoy is going to bring a crate for Kiltie so he has some place to stay while she sells raffle tickets and Poppy shops at the bazaar. When she heard that I'd have Coco Lily, Mrs. McEvoy said she'd bring an extra crate for her, too.”

Quinn thrust out her lower lip, redirecting our attention back to her. “It doesn't sound like nearly as much fun as a pony,” she said.

“Neither does doing a science report.” It was time for me to get the two girls back on track. “But it still has to be done.”

“But it's
Christmas,
Ms. Travis.” Quinn's voice was edged with a whine.

“Not for two and a half weeks,” I said briskly.

“
Nobody
works in December.”

Charlotte was laughing now. As well she could. Her report was done.

“That's where you're wrong.” I slipped Quinn a wink, then opened up her science text and pushed it across the table. “Everybody works in December. Even us. Welcome to the real world, kid.”

I
spent all morning running around getting stuff done and by lunchtime I was ready for a break. Like many things at Howard Academy the midday meal is a decorous affair. The setting alone is enough to remind us to watch our manners.

Students and faculty gather together in the large, high-ceilinged dining room. We sit at heavy, dark wood, refectory tables that are set with linen, and china, and crystal water goblets. The kitchen staff serves a hot meal family-style. The food is invariably delicious.

Each long table is joined by a teacher; we all take turns eating with the students. It's a job that can vary from exhausting to exhilarating, depending on the day. The remainder of the teaching staff usually dines at the two end tables under the leaded glass windows on the far side of the room.

I gathered my committee heads around me at one table and pointedly ignored Ed Weinstein when he brushed past us and sat down at the other. Coming in at the last minute, I hadn't had the opportunity to choose any of the teachers I'd be working with. Now, looking around the table, I knew I couldn't have asked for a better group of collaborators.

Rita Kinney, with her fashionable flair and eye for detail, was in charge of decorations. Barbara Blume, an ample woman in her midfifties who had been at the school for nearly two decades, headed up vendor relations. Tony Dahl, who coached our teams and taught physical education, would be overseeing setup and maintenance of the booths and facilities.

Listening to the detailed reports delivered in turn by each of my committee chairs, I found that they were way ahead of me when it came to the planning and execution of the upcoming bazaar. Never had I been more grateful and relieved to be part of such a great team.

“If you have any questions,” said Barbara, “just ask away.” One of the most popular teachers at Howard Academy, she was the perfect person to be in charge of a job that would require tact and diplomacy. “I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that I know this was a lot to dump on you at the last minute. So think of us as your support team. We're here to help you any way we can.”

“You guys are doing a terrific job,” I said honestly. “You're already on top of everything. You have no idea how delighted I am to find out that my position is apparently superfluous.”

“I wouldn't quite go that far,” said Tony. His face creased in a smile. “But I think we're all happy to have someone competent back at the helm. Virginia meant well when she volunteered to help out. But as you might imagine, she's been a little distracted lately.”

“Distracted?” Rita muttered under her breath. “The Christmas bazaar was the last thing on that woman's mind.”

“My ex-husband was a lawyer,” Barbara said with a chuckle. “Five dollars says she lives to regret that trip to Cabo.”

A waitress approached the table with a platter of chicken cordon bleu. Quickly we all schooled our expressions into something more appropriately somber, but I doubt that she was fooled as to the nature of our conversation. There weren't many secrets within the school community.

“So you guys tell me,” I said, as we dug into our lunch. “How can I help you? What do you need me to do?”

“Best thing you can do,” Tony said, looking up from his meal, “is run interference for us with Mr. Hanover. Distract him, report to him, tell him everything's running smoothly, so that he's not always looking over our shoulders and getting in the way.”

Barbara and Rita both nodded.

“Our headmaster is a wonderful man,” said Barbara. “But he's a perfectionist. Sometimes it slows down the process, you know?”

I did indeed.

“I'll do my best to keep him in check,” I said. “Anything else?”

Nobody could think of a thing. Amazing. Between my trio of teachers and the parent volunteers, it sounded as though everything was mostly under control. That's a rare occurrence in my life, and I wasn't about to push my luck by demanding more details or asking more questions.

We had cherry cobbler for dessert. It was the perfect ending to a highly satisfying meal.

 

That feeling of well-being remained with me for the next two days. It wasn't all smooth sailing as the date of the bazaar drew inexorably closer. But fortunately the problems that popped up were small, and for the most part easily dispatched. It was beginning to look like the Christmas bazaar might even go off without a hitch.

Wednesday afternoon, I arrived home from school to find a bright red Civic hybrid sitting in my driveway. I knew that car. It belonged to Claire Walden, a woman with whom I'd become friends the previous summer. Claire was now engaged to marry my ex-husband, Bob.

Claire had been busy in recent weeks, planning her upcoming wedding. I'd been busy at school. Now I couldn't even remember the last time we'd seen each other. I parked behind the Civic, and Faith and I entered the house through the front door.

Normally we would have been swarmed by Standard Poodles but that day the front hall was empty. Faith looked as surprised as I was. She gave a short, sharp bark. It sounded like a reprimand to her peers—as well it should have been. My watchdogs were falling down on the job.

That single bark was all it took to turn things around. I heard the sound of scrambling feet and a moment later the pack of Poodles came flying out of the kitchen and racing down the hallway. As all five jostled for position and eddied around us, Claire appeared in the doorway at the back of the hall.

“It's great to see you,” she said, coming forward to give me a hug. Claire was tall and willowy with long, dark, hair that swung in a shiny curtain around her shoulders. “It's been way too long. While I waited for you to get home, your dogs and I have been playing a game of catch in the kitchen.”

“Good place for that,” I said faintly. Fewer breakables than the rest of the house, though outside in the backyard might have been better. I pulled off my coat and scarf and tossed them on a side table. “Where are Sam and Kevin?”

Wednesdays, Davey had basketball practice after school. I wouldn't expect him home for another hour. But Sam, who worked at home and who'd also been doing double duty watching over Kev while I was at school, should have been around. Especially since we had a guest.

Claire shrugged. “You were due back any minute and they had an errand to run. It was all very hush-hush. Maybe a little secret Christmas shopping? I certainly didn't want to get in the way of that! And besides, your Poodles have been keeping me entertained.”

They were good at that, I thought. Especially when someone was willing to let them play ball in the house.

We walked together into the living room. Claire sat down in the middle of the couch and was promptly flanked by Tar and Raven. Casey, who had just missed getting a seat next to our guest, had to content herself with draping her body over Claire's feet. If Eve hadn't come and climbed into my lap, I might have felt seriously left out.

“I'm delighted to see you, Claire,” I said. “But what are you doing here?”

“What do you
mean
what am I doing here? I can't believe you didn't call me! Bertie told me about your Christmas bazaar. As soon as I heard, I came right over. You know what I do for a living. Why didn't you ask me to help?”

Claire had been a corporate event planner before finding her niche organizing children's parties. Managing a private school Christmas bazaar was the kind of thing she'd be great at.

“Because I know how busy you are,” I said.

“Everybody's busy.” Claire sniffed. “I could have made time for you.”

“But that's just it. I didn't want you to have to do that. You're putting together your
wedding
.”

Bob and Claire's wedding was scheduled for New Year's Eve. “Out with the old and in with the new,” Claire had said in reference to their chosen date. I'd wondered whether I should take offense at that, considering that “the old” was me. Then it had occurred to me that there'd been yet another wife between me and Claire, and I decided to let it go.

“Oh that,” said Claire.

“Yes,
that
. It's a big deal. Hopefully you'll only do it once in your life.”

“That's the plan,” she agreed. Then her brow furrowed. “Though Bob doesn't exactly have the best track record in that regard.”

“Only because he didn't meet you first,” I said firmly.

Claire started to reply. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her lower lip quivered slightly. “If you make me cry,” she said after a moment, “I will rescind my offer of assistance. And then where will you be?”

“I'll be very sorry,” I told her. “But not about the bazaar. Just that I made you cry.”

“I'm not crying.” Claire sniffled. “I hate to cry.”

“So you always say. Your actions speak differently.” I reached over and patted her arm. “I've seen documentaries set you off.”

“It was about
whales,
” Claire blubbered. “And it was very sad.”

I gave her a minute to regain control, then said, “Seriously, you and Bob make a great couple.”

“Thank you for that.” Claire drew in a deep breath and managed a smile. “And for . . . you know . . . not making things awkward.”

“Bob loves you,” I said. “And you're wonderful with Davey. I think we're all very lucky to be adding you to our family.”

“What a lovely thing to say.” Claire bit her lip.

I hoped she wasn't about to start sniffling again.

“You
see,
” she said earnestly. “That's exactly why I want to help with the bazaar. You and Bob and Davey and Sam, you're all my family now. And families should pull together when things get tough.”

In my experience, families tended to fracture and fight when problems arose. And I was well aware that Claire's family had once done the same. But I loved the fact that she was trying to build better relationships than the ones she'd known in the past.

“I'm happy to be able to say that the bazaar seems to be in pretty good shape,” I told her.

“Bertie mentioned that you might need help with a photo booth . . . ?”

“She's coming to assist with crowd control. We've invited kids to bring their pets . . . I'm pretty sure that a little pandemonium is a given. Unfortunately Bertie drew the line at wearing an elf costume.”

“I could do that,” Claire volunteered.

“Really?”

“Sure. I've worn worse at children's parties. I'd rather dress up like an elf than the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the back half of a Chinese dragon.”

“I don't think I even want to know,” I said with a laugh.

“Dragons are hard, elves are easy.” Claire smiled happily.

And so it was settled.

 

Friday morning when I arrived at school, there was a note in my box asking me to present myself at Russell Hanover's office at my earliest convenience. Not surprisingly, communication among the staff at Howard Academy still relied on a system that had served the institution well since the early twentieth century. Mr. Hanover's secretary, Harriet, had both my e-mail address and my cell phone number. And yet I'd still received a handwritten message in my in-box. You had to love it.

The note hadn't sounded urgent, so I waited until I had a break midmorning before walking over to the main building where the headmaster's office was located. It's always a pleasure to stroll through Joshua Howard's former home. With its soaring ceilings, antique crown molding, and polished hardwood floors, the mansion still retains a great deal of old world charm despite its change in circumstance. The original front hall serves now as a reception area. Mr. Hanover's office, once a formal parlor, is just inside the front door.

Harriet was at her desk when I arrived. The headmaster is a busy man and I expected I'd have to wait. Instead, I was shown right in.

Mr. Hanover was seated behind his imposingly large desk when I entered the room. Like everything else in the room, it was a statement piece, chosen to convey a sense of tasteful prosperity and enduring dependability. Other rooms at the school might buzz with activity or hum to the insistent pulse of technology, but not the headmaster's office. His realm was an oasis of calm.

Russell Hanover II is well aware of the impression he conveys. His brown hair, now thinning on the top, is impeccably styled. His suits are custom tailored in England. The wire-frame glasses are a new addition; they lend his bland features a bit of distinction. Their look is slightly non-traditional. I think his wife, Bitsy, must have picked them out.

Immediately Mr. Hanover rose to his feet and came out from behind his desk to greet me. We met in the middle of the Aubusson carpet.

“Ms. Travis, welcome. I know you've been busy. Thank you for making time to see me.” He swept his hand to one side, indicating a leather chair that sat beside his desk. “Please, have a seat. Everything is going well?”

“Very well,” I said.

Considering the various scrapes I've gotten myself into at Howard Academy in the past, I'm not above shading the facts if I have to. This time I was happy I could answer the question truthfully. I sat down and folded my hands primly in my lap.

“We've had a bit of a wrinkle with regard to the bazaar,” Mr. Hanover said. “And I thought it my duty to keep you informed.”

“Oh?” I leaned forward in my seat. “What happened?”

“I think we can both agree that the presence of Santa Claus at a Christmas bazaar is a necessity. An intrinsic requirement, you might say.”