Tony, hearing his cue, set his crew in motion. Before Madeline even had a chance to reply, her boxes had already been picked up and whisked past us on their way to the other side of the room.
“Instead of standing here arguing,” I said, “I’m sure you’d rather get your jellies and jams set up and your booth ready for business. We’ll be starting the bazaar in less than a hour.”
“You’re lucky I’m in an accommodating mood,” Madeline sniffed. “And I certainly hope you don’t plan to charge me a rental fee for being stuck in that inferior location.”
I wasn’t about to make any promises on that score. “I’ll send Barbara over later to talk to you,” I told her.
“I pay tuition, you know. I have two daughters here. Do you know how much it costs to go to this school?”
Actually I did, pretty much to the penny. Which was why, even though I worked at Howard Academy, my child went to public school.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said with a sigh.
“Of course you will. I’d expect nothing less.” Madeline turned her back and walked away, heels tapping across the floor.
What a way to start the day, I thought. But things could only get better from there, right?
Chapter 8
Claire and Bertie arrived soon after that. They walked into the building together, talking and laughing, and looking remarkably cheerful considering that I’d not only gotten them up early on a Saturday morning, but also planned to put them to work for the remainder of the day. Claire, dressed in jeans, was carrying a garment bag slung over her shoulder.
“I didn’t know if you’d have a costume that would fit me,” she said, when I hurried over to greet them. “So I brought my own.”
“You have your own elf costume?”
“I borrowed it for the day.” Claire grinned. “Trust me, I’m a woman of many resources.”
“I never doubted that for a minute. And thank you for thinking of it because it suddenly occurs to me that I forgot all about costumes.”
“No problem,” said Claire. “I’ve got you covered.”
I gave her a quick hug. “I think you just saved my butt.”
“Hey,” said Bertie. “Claire’s not the only butt-saver around here. What’s a girl have to do to get a little attention?”
“With your looks, just stand there,” Claire said. “That should do it.”
Bertie growled something inaudible under her breath as I turned her way.
I didn’t even ask. Instead I said, “You’re going to be my chief animal wrangler. Between the kids, the pets, and the parents, you’re going to have plenty to do.”
“Easy peasy,” Bertie replied. “I’m on it.”
“Let me introduce you to our photographer, Eli Wolichek.” I led the pair over to the candy-cane-bordered path. “He’s at the booth getting set up.”
“You also need to direct me toward a place where I can get changed,” said Claire.
“Sure, the ladies’ room is right through those doors—”
“Ms. Travis! Hey, Ms. Travis, wait!” I turned and saw one of my favorite students, Poppy McEvoy, skipping in my direction.
Skinny, freckled, and with a head of bright red hair that tended to go its own way, Poppy was small for her age and often shy in social situations. A voracious reader, she preferred to spend time with books rather than with kids her own age. The eleven-year-old had entered my room with obvious reluctance for our first tutoring session three months earlier, but once she’d seen Faith we’d quickly established a rapport.
“You guys go on ahead,” I said to Claire and Bertie. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Poppy wasn’t alone. Her hand was clasped firmly in that of a man dressed in creased blue jeans, designer sneakers, and a dark corduroy shirt with the cuffs rolled back. I’d seen him around the auditorium earlier, unloading boxes and helping to re-hang a decorative curtain that had begun to sag. He’d appeared to be part of Tony’s volunteer crew. But now, seeing him with Poppy and noticing that they shared the same small, wiry build and copper-colored hair, I realized that he must be her father.
Jim McEvoy quickly confirmed that impression with an introduction. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Travis,” he said, “I can see that you’re busy. Poppy wanted me to come over and say hello. You’re her favorite teacher. She talks about you all the time.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McEvoy. Poppy’s a wonderful girl. I really enjoy working with her.”
“Please, call me Jim. Unless that’s too informal for a school like this? I know how Howard Academy likes to keep up appearances. That’s one of the things Sondra likes about this place.”
“Dad-deee!” Poppy wailed. She rolled her eyes and the subtext was clear: Don’t embarrass me in front of the teacher.
I just smiled and said, “I see Tony has conscripted you to be part of his crew. Thank you for coming by to help out.”
“That was Poppy’s doing.” Jim glanced down at his daughter. “She wanted me to spend the day with her at the bazaar, but unfortunately I have other plans. I told her I could fit in a couple of hours early this morning though, so she signed me up.”
“We appreciate your efforts,” I said. “Every little bit helps.”
“Kiltie’s coming later with Mom,” Poppy told me. She was clearly excited about the prospect. “I’m going to have his picture taken with Santa Claus.”
“I’m sure that will be fun,” Jim said with a tight smile.
Suddenly I remembered Sondra mentioning at the dog show that she and her husband had separated. I wondered if Jim’s “other plans” were merely his way of ensuring that he and his wife wouldn’t both be at the bazaar at the same time.
“Speaking of which,” I said, “I need to go check on the photo booth. It was nice to meet you, Jim. And once again, thanks for your help. Poppy, I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Sure, Ms. Travis,” Poppy said happily. “I’ll be here all day.”
All was running smoothly at the photo concession. The photographer, Eli, and his assistant, Cooper, obviously knew what they were doing. Everything was already set up and ready for business. Bertie and Claire had introduced themselves, then Claire had gone to change her clothes. She returned to the booth dressed in a short green tunic, yellow and red striped tights, and a pointed cap sporting a jaunty feather.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” Claire said, correctly reading the expression on my face as the cap’s long feather swooped from side to side, then dipped down over her eyes. She pursed her lips in annoyance and blew upward to chase it away. “Seriously, do not.”
“You look great,” I said, biting back a smile. “You fit right in with the décor.”
“Better you than me,” Bertie said happily.
“Every Santa has to have at least one elf.” Eli peered out from behind his tripod. He had a round face framed by a pair of Clark Kent glasses, and the kind of cheerful demeanor that children would naturally gravitate to. “And speaking of which, where is your Santa Claus?”
Good question.
I glanced down at my watch. “It’s only a little past nine. He’s not late yet. I’m sure he’s on his way.”
At least I hoped he was. The prospect of a Christmas bazaar without a Santa Claus didn’t even bear thinking about.
“Ms. Travis, do you have a minute?”
It was Danny, the school janitor, with a question about an electrical hook-up and a blown fuse. That was followed by a complaint from one of the vendors about a neighboring booth that was burning incense. Then a food concession worker tipped over a tub of ice, turning the other end of the auditorium into a skating rink.
As soon as one problem was solved, another quickly popped up to take its place. I spent the next forty-five minutes putting out fires—only metaphorically, thank goodness—and running from one crisis to the next. I also kept my eye on the door. Surely our Santa Claus would be putting in an appearance soon.
As the minutes ticked by and the bazaa
r’s start time drew ever closer, my chest grew tighter and tighter as though a vise was pressing around my ribs. It was never a good idea to question Mr. Hanover’s judgment but maybe I should have pressed a little harder for details anyway. Or I should have gotten Chris Tindall’s phone number from Harriet and called him myself to confirm his appearance....
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
People stopped what they were doing. Heads swiveled around. All eyes in the room were drawn to the doorway by that magic greeting.
A six-foot-tall Santa Claus wearing the requisite red suit, shiny black boots, and fluffy white beard, stood just inside the open entrance. His feet were braced wide apart. His hands were fisted on his ample hips. He smiled like a pirate as he looked around the auditorium.
“Santa Claus is here,” he announced in a booming voice. “Is everybody ready to get jolly?”
Indeed, I thought. More than ready.
I blew out a relieved breath and hastened across the room.
“You must be Mr. Tindall,” I said as I drew near.
“No.” He stared at me reproachfully. “I’m Santa Claus.”
Great. We had a method actor.
The man’s beard was so big and bushy that I could barely see his face. And although he filled out the big red suit admirably, this Santa Claus carried himself with the ease of a younger man. No matter. I was sure the children would be pleased by his appearance and I was just happy that he’d shown up.
“Santa Claus, of course,” I apologized. “Are you ready to get to work?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” he replied. “Just point me in the right direction.”
I did better than that. I walked the big man down Candy Cane Lane and introduced him around. Santa barely gave Eli and Cooper a passing glance. But he stopped to smile at Claire and then leered at Bertie, who was setting out the trays of candy canes and dog biscuits that would be handed out to visitors.
“What a chump,” Eli muttered under his breath.
“Last-minute replacement,” I replied in a low tone. “Kind of like me.”
“You seem to be handling things pretty well.”
“So far, so good. Keep your fingers crossed for me that it stays that way. And don’t worry about Bertie. She’ll put him in his place if she has to.”
Ten minutes later, the double doors connecting the auditorium to the school’s main entrance were thrown open. The Howard Academy Christmas Bazaar was officially in business. I’d worried that things might be slow to get started, but my fears were unfounded. As soon as access was granted, the first wave of customers came streaming into the big room.
“Brace yourself,” said Rita. I’d taken up a position next to the stage, it was a great vantage point from which to observe the proceedings. She came over and stood beside me. “Here they come.”
Ed Weinstein, striding past with a box of fruitcakes in his hands, paused in front of us to have a look. “Last year’s opening crowd was bigger,” he announced.
“It’s barely ten o’clock,” I said. “We’ve got plenty of time before we have to start worrying about the numbers.”
“You’d better hope so.” Ed smirked. “It would be a real shame if your big event fell flat.”
“Shut up, Ed,” said Rita. “Isn’t somebody waiting for those fruitcakes?”
“I’m on my way. You know me—always happy to do my bit.” Ed spun around and walked away.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Rita told me. “He hates to see anybody else succeed.”
“Let me guess,” said Louisa, coming over to join us. “Are we talking about Ed?”
“Who else?” I sighed. “Was last year’s opening crowd really bigger?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Louisa shrugged. “I wasn’t here first thing in the morning.”
“Me, either,” said Rita.
I looked at them both in surprise. “How come?”
“Because last year’s chairman didn’t ask us to show up early,” Louisa replied. “So we didn’t.”
“I thought all the faculty got involved on the day of the bazaar,” I said.
“Would you?” Rita asked with a laugh. “If you’d had a choice?”
“Well . . . no.”
“See? That’s how we all feel. The bazaar is a lot of extra work for everybody. I do the decorating so I get my part done ahead of time. Then I usually take the day of the bazaar off.”
Louise winked. “Once the date for the bazaar has been announced, I’ve been known to arrange to be out of town.”
“But . . .” I sputtered looking at the two of them. “You’re both here now.”
“Sure.” Louisa nodded. “Because ever since you got put in charge, you’ve been running around the school bursting with enthusiasm and rallying the troops. How could we resist?”
“Oh no,” I said with a low moan. “Are you saying that you both changed your plans to be here? You must hate me now.”
To my surprise, Rita smiled. “You don’t get it. If we hated you, we wouldn’t have come to help out. It’s because we like you that we’re here.”
“We all want to see you succeed,” said Louisa. “So we turned out to help make sure that it happens.”
“Oh.” In the moment it took me to process that, I realized it was pretty great. Rita and Louisa had shown up to lend a supportive hand. Bertie and Claire had done the same. I had the best friends in the whole world.
“Wow,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Rita braced her fingers against my shoulder and nudged me toward the ever-growing crowd. “Just make it worth our while. Go back out there and get to work.”
I spent the next two hours walking slowly around the auditorium, browsing from booth to booth, and checking in with the vendors to make sure that they had everything they needed. Every single one had shoppers checking out their wares. Some vendors were too busy to even stop and talk to me.
Business was brisk everywhere I looked. The Christmas-related items—wreaths, stockings, personalized ornaments—were flying off the shelves. By eleven o’clock, a line had already formed at the food concession. As lunchtime approached, the gift wrapping booth was so crowded I couldn’t get within ten feet of it. Ryan Duncan was taking a turn there. He simply lifted his hand to motion a quick thumbs-up and waved me on my way.
Early afternoon, I stood off to one side and observed the photo booth for a few minutes. As I’d expected, Bertie and Claire had everything under control. Though the concession drew plenty of interest, the line for pictures never had a chance to get too long.
Claire was wonderful with the children. Bertie was equally adept at managing their pets. Our Santa Claus, seated on his gilt-covered throne, seemed to enjoy interacting with his audience. He was both affable and accommodating as the kids and their pets were perched upon his ample lap.
I’d meant to stop only briefly but the photo booth was so much fun to watch that I found myself lingering. I watched Santa Claus handle Kiltie, and Coco Lily, and a young boy’s Gila monster, all with equal aplomb. Eli framed and shot his pictures with swift precision and Cooper was a wizard at producing the finished Christmas cards quickly and efficiently.
I sensed Mr. Hanover’s presence behind me a moment before he spoke. “I’d say our Santa Claus is working out rather well, wouldn’t you?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “He’s doing a great job.”
The headmaster paused to let his gaze slip with satisfaction around the room. “I might offer the same congratulations to you.”
“Not yet.” I held up both hands, fingers tightly crossed. “We still have several more hours to go.”
“I have every faith in your abilities, Ms. Travis. I trust that you’ll manage to stay on top of things.”
“Thank you, I—”
A medium-sized, blue-and-white, canine missile came hurtling past my legs, nearly knocking me over. Mr. Hanover started to reach out his hands to steady me but my reflexes—honed by years of dog ownership—had alread
y kicked in. I swooped down and snatched up the end of the long leather leash that was whipping across the floor in the blue merle Aussie’s wake.
“Memphis, darn it! You’re a bad dog! Come back here.”
The Australian Shepherd didn’t seem at all inclined to heed his owner’s frantic calls. But he had no choice but to respond to my hand at the end of his lead. Captured, he spun around and circled back, then sat down with his long pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Dark eyes twinkling, the playful Aussie looked like he was grinning at me.
“I’ll leave you to manage this, shall I?” said Mr. Hanover.
He melted away into the crowd, just as the dog’s owners appeared. A small boy, looking shamefaced by his error, ran past me and threw his arms around the Aussie’s neck.
“Sorry about that,” said the boy’s mother. She took the leash from my hand and wrapped it around her fingers. “Eric was supposed to be holding on tight but Memphis likes to play and he got away. We were on our way to see Santa.”
“Memphis led you right to him,” I said.
“I bet he smelled the biscuits,” Eric guessed.
The Aussie now had his nose tipped up in the air. He’d risen to his feet and he was looking longingly in the direction of Bertie’s trays of treats.
“He’ll get one after he has his picture taken,” I told them as I walked the trio to the back of the line.
“No, he won’t,” Memphis’s owner said firmly. She gave the leash a sharp snap. “He’s a bad dog.”
I reached down and gave the Aussie’s head a pat. The dog gazed up at me happily. “If you don’t mind my saying so he won’t make the connection. You’re mad at him now because he embarrassed you—”
“No, I’m angry because he didn’t come when I called.”
I’m always amazed by how many people—who’ve never taken the time to teach their dogs a good, solid, recall—nevertheless expect those dogs to come when summoned, even under the most trying circumstances. If Aunt Peg were there, she’d have given the woman a stern lecture on dog training.
Short on time, I merely said instead, “Memphis will be much more likely to come when you want him to, if you don’t yell at him and call him a bad dog.”
The Bark Before Christmas Page 8