Unforgettable Christmas - Gifts of Love (The Unforgettables Book 3)

by Mimi Barbour

  “I want my daddy to leave Heaven and come back home.”

  Santa shot Cindy another glance from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “Well, you see, I don’t exactly bring daddies back. That’s out of my jurisdiction. I make toys. That’s my business. So you tell me what kind of toy you want, and I’ll make sure you get it. Deal?”

  “No deal.” Tyler’s body stiffened. “I have ‘nuf toys. All I want is a real live pony, or my daddy.”

  Cindy stepped in, hoping to avoid a melt-down. “Tyler. What about that sled we talked about?”

  “A sled is a great present. Or how about an electric car? Very cool.” Santa shook his head. “No ponies or daddies, I’m afraid.”

  Tyler reached out and pulled hard on Santa’s beard. It came off in his hand, surprising Cindy, Santa and Tyler. Her son’s cheeks turned red. “You’re not Santa. You’re a fake. I hate you!”

  Santa grabbed his beard and stuck it back on. “And you’re a little ... a little...”

  “Boy,” Cindy finished for him. Had he just about cussed at her son? This Santa needed to grow some real whiskers and get some training. Temples pounding, she took Tyler by the arm. “Let’s go, honey.”

  Tyler started to sob, liquid drops of sadness running down his flushed cheeks. “I want a daddy. And you won’t give me one,’” he shouted at Santa. “I hate you, I hate you. You’re a big meanie.”

  “Listen kid,” Santa said, leaning forward. “You just can’t pull on Santa’s beard and expect presents. Especially ones they can’t deliver. Doesn’t happen.”

  Tyler’s tears broke Cindy’s heart, and his temper the last of her patience. It was easier to blame Santa than the sugar high, or the cruel fate that had robbed them of their family.

  Cindy shot Santa a withering look. “He’s right. You are a big meanie. The boy wants his father, and he should have him.” With that, she grabbed Tyler’s hand and stomped off.

  Chapter Two

  Brad Williams watched the pretty mother with the unhappy kid storm away, and gave a long weary sigh. He hadn’t handled the situation very well, and had come close to cursing the small boy.

  The female photographer caught his eye and shrugged. He had no excuse, except that he was tired, grumpy, up-to-his-ears with this Santa gig, and furious with his brother for putting him here.

  Everything these days was Regan’s fault. If his brother hadn’t enlisted in the Army and gone off to join the Freedom fight in Iraq, he’d be working somewhere, maybe in law enforcement or at a nice white-collar job, and have a home of his own. Maybe a wife and kids too. Instead Regan was holed up with him in his modest two-bedroom apartment, taking jobs here and there that only lasted a few weeks at most.

  Regan wouldn’t even be a store Santa for a three-week gig, if Brad hadn’t gotten him this job. But had his brother shown some appreciation by keeping himself under control? Hell no. He’d gone and got wasted again last night and refused to wake up this morning. Brad, in an effort to save Regan’s ass, called his client’s and cancelled the real estate appointments set up for the day.

  Hell’s bells. Now he was wearing a Santa suit, and a scraggly old beard that scratched his freshly shaved jaw, and his joints were killing him from sitting too long. He didn’t have war wounds like his brother, but he’d been a marathon runner for years and his knees were now telling him what a mistake that had been. Heck, he was only thirty-five, yet today felt ninety.

  The fifty or sixty kids jumping up in his lap all day hadn’t done them any favors either, but that didn’t excuse the fact he’d lost it with the kid. And now he was sorry, but what’s a sorry Santa to do?

  As another young boy came forward, he quickly glanced at his watch. He’d shown up to the mall before ten this morning and it was now four-forty-five. He’d taken a short break for lunch but it had been difficult chowing down a hamburger wearing the Santa beard. With all the kids staring at him, he didn’t dare remove it. Finally, he’d hidden out in a stall in the men’s room to finish the greasy burger.

  When he’d put the suit on this morning and taken his brother’s ID card, Regan had been snoring so loudly that Brad hadn’t been able to ask him anything. If there was a lounge area, he wasn’t made aware of it.

  He whispered something to the photographer about needing a break.

  The young woman nodded. “You worked through half your lunch and both your allotted fifteen-minute breaks.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  She looked puzzled. “This isn’t your first day. You’ve been here all week.” She peered into his eyes. “Or have you?”

  Brad remained mute. If he said too much, he might get his brother fired, and Regan needed this job. Hell, Brad needed his brother out of the house once in awhile. The guy bummed around all day, smoking cigarettes, drinking booze. His once clean apartment now reeked like a cheap bar.

  The photographer squinted and stepped closer. “You look like Regan, but you’re not, are you?”

  Damn it. Busted. “I’m his older brother. He didn’t feel well this morning.”

  “So you came instead?” She smiled. “That was big of you.”

  “Yeah, well, it won’t happen again.” He glanced at the line of children still waiting to see him. “How do I stop the flow?”

  She grinned. “I’ll take care of it.”

  A minute later, she put out a sign saying that Santa had to go feed the reindeer and would be back in one hour.

  “I’ve given you ten more children to see, and then told the others in line that you’d be back at six if they care to wait.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

  “Kelly Carson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kelly Carson. I’m sorry I’ve been so unfriendly all day." She giggled. “I figured I’d ticked you off good. Yesterday, you were a real flirt and I finally had to tell you that I had a boyfriend and to stop pawing me.”

  He winced. “Now that sounds like my brother.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Santa got up, feeling his bones creak like an old man. He dashed outside to get his street clothes from his car, and the cold Jersey wind brought tears to his eyes. Luckily he’d found a good parking spot this morning, and didn’t have too far to go.

  He grabbed his gym bag and returned indoors to find a restroom. There he changed into a pair of jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket. He rolled up his Santa suit and stuffed the suit in the bag and headed for the food court. He had less than forty minutes to eat and get back into his Santa suit for another round of kids.

  He jumped into the line for Chinese food, since it seemed to have the least people. Besides, his stomach was grumbling and some fried rice and Mongolian beef sounded pretty damn good.

  “Mommy, can I have some egg rolls and noodles?”

  “Of course you can.” The mother in front of him spoke to her son. “I’m going to have some garlic shrimp and broccoli. You might like a taste of that.”

  “No. I’m not very hungry, and I don’t like brocly.”

  Brad stiffened. He recognized that voice. It was the little kid who’d ripped away the beard and denounced him as a fraud. He stepped back, not wanting to tangle with him again. In his haste he bumped into the person next in line. “I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, only to be met with a grunt and a disapproving glare.

  This day was going from bad to worse.

  He would have stepped out of line, but his hunger and lack of time gave him little choice. He moved his tray along, and told the lady behind the counter what he wanted. “I’ll take two spring rolls too,” he added, as his stomach rumbled.

  “You like spring rolls?” the kid asked, and beamed up at him.

  “I do.” He looked away, hoping like hell that neither mother nor son would recognize him without the beard. What was the chance? Santa was Santa, right? Mr. Claus didn’t eat Chinese food or wear a leather jacket and jeans.

  The mother glanced at him. She pointed to her cheeks. “You have some white fluff on your face. Here
and here,” she said. “Nose too.”

  He swiped at his nose, and came away with a little fluff in his hands. “Well, so I do,” he said, and rubbed his face. “Must be the chicken I plucked earlier.”

  The woman snorted and put a hand over her mouth. He noticed she wasn’t only pretty—she was a knock-out. Her eyes were cobalt blue, and she had reddish-brown hair that framed her perfect oval face, and looked silky to the touch. Her mouth was full and sensual, lips that were just made for kissing.

  Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away. He didn’t mess with widowed or divorced women, and mothers were strictly off limits. He liked to keep things clean and simple, and the less baggage the better. Single women for the most part fitted that bill. Except when they were shopping for their future husband. Then things could get dicey.

  The lady behind the counter handed him his over-laden plate, and he stepped forward, forgetting his unzipped bag at his feet. The Santa hat spilled out. He grabbed it and shoved it back into the duffel bag. But not fast enough.

  The boy spotted the bright red suit and turned to him. “Are you Santa?” Eyes as round as yo-yos, he sucked in his bottom lip. “The one I called a fake?” he mumbled and bowed his head with shame.

  “Don’t worry, kid. You were right,” Brad admitted. “Santa came down with the flu and I had to step in. I’m his helper.” He patted the boy’s head. “Sorry, if I upset you earlier. The real Santa would never have done that.”

  “Would he bring me a daddy?”

  The woman flushed and her eyes met his. She put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Go grab that table over there,” she pointed. “I’ll be with you in one moment.”

  She grabbed her wallet out of her bag to pay the woman at the till.

  In spite of himself, Brad felt compelled to say something. “I really do apologize for earlier. I’m just filling in. Guess I’m not so good with kids.”

  “No. You’re not.” She impatiently waited for her change, obviously not comfortable. She turned back to him. “You were going to call him “a little shit.” What kind of Santa does that?”

  “A bad one, I’m afraid. I suck as a Santa helper.” He gave her his most appealing smile, but it didn’t soften her expression. He wondered what had happened to her husband. Social graces out the window, he leaned his head close to hers. “So, is your son going to get a daddy this Christmas?”

  “Excuse me?” Her brow furrowed. “Not that it is any of your business, but no. His father was a wonderful man who won’t be easy to replace.”

  Chapter Three

  Cindy didn’t wait for her change. She grabbed her tray and stumbled away as tears filled her eyes. Dammit—she couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

  “Hey, Mom. I’m right here.”

  She’d almost walked right past her son, her vision being blurred. She grabbed a napkin off the tray, and dabbed her eyes. “So you are. I got something in my eye, and they’ve teared up.” She put the tray on the table and sat down opposite him. “Here’s your water, and your plate, sweetheart.”

  “Why’s it tearing up?” He sucked water from the straw in his cup. “Mine do that if I’m near cats. Right?”

  “That’s right. You’re allergic to cats. I might be allergic to Santa suits.” How dare he ask her if she had someone in the wings? What right did he have to get personal?

  “Really? What if Santa came down the chimney? Would your eyes tear up?”

  “Probably. But I’ll be asleep and so will you, so we won’t know.”

  “I hope he finds me again this Christmas.”

  “Of course he will. Santa will find you no matter where you are.” They had vaguely talked about moving to a new home in the new year, but Tyler hadn’t taken too much interest at the time. Reality would set in, once the house was sold and the job of packing began.

  “Look, Mom. There’s the pretend Santa. He’s gonna sit next to us.”

  Cindy raised her head, and true enough, he seemed to be waiting for the two-seater table just being vacated to their left. “Just ignore him, sweetie. He’s a little cranky.” She glanced around, realizing the café area was packed, and he had little choice but to grab the table near them.

  “Do you think he’ll tell Santa on me? Say I was bad?”

  The guy overheard the remark, and gave Tyler a wink. “Nope. You don’t have to worry.” He put his tray down on the now empty table. “My name’s Brad, and I’m pretty low on the totem pole when it comes to Santa’s helpers. You see, he has thousands all over the world. That’s how he gets so much done at Christmas time.”

  Tyler’s eyes grew big. “That’s cool. Maybe when I grow up, I can be a Santa helper one day.” He picked up his spring roll and had it half way to his mouth, then put it down again. “I’m Tyler,” he said bravely, “and this is Mom.”

  “Hi, Tyler. Hi Mom.” Brad leaned over to offer his hand.

  Tyler shook it proudly, leaving her no choice but to do the same.

  Brad’s clasp was surprisingly warm, but that could be because her hands were like ice. In the past year her blood had turned cold.

  “Is Mom your real name?” His tone gentled as he noticed the sheen of tears in her eyes.

  She blinked them away, tired of crying. “No.” Cindy pulled her hand free from his. “It’s Cindy. Cindy Harris.”

  “Nice to meet you Cindy Harris, and you too, Tyler. Sorry to interrupt your dinner.” He waved at their food. “Eat. I have to get back to work in twenty minutes.”

  She forked a shrimp and toyed with it for a second. “More Santa duties?”

  He nodded, his mouth full. “Until nine,” he answered when he could.

  Cindy inwardly shuddered as she recalled the chaos of the mall. Loud noises, bright lights, whiny kids. It wouldn’t be easy keeping your cool. At least in a classroom, she had control. “What time did you start this morning?”

  “Ten.”

  “Oh.” She scooped up some rice along with the shrimp. “Makes for a long day.”

  He swallowed, and stabbed another piece of beef with his fork. “I can see why Santa needed a day off.”

  She smiled, feeling a spurt of sympathy. He was a very pleasant looking man, she decided, even with the white fluff on his face. And he’d stepped in for someone at short notice, so he must have a good heart too.

  “Tyler, eat your dinner,” she said to her son, who stared with interest at the self acclaimed Santa’s helper.

  Realizing he was under scrutiny, Brad took a last bite and shoved his tray back, then unwrapped two extra straws.

  To her surprise, he stuck them partially up his nose.

  “What do I look like, Tyler?” he asked.

  Her son giggled. “Silly,” he answered.

  Brad held out his hands. “Nope. A walrus. Want to try?”

  Tyler glanced at his mom, uncertain, but eager to play. “I don’t have any straws.”

  “One sec.” Brad jumped up and grabbed two from a dispensary, than hustled back, not seeming to mind having plastic dangling from his nostrils. “See the way I have these hanging? Not too far, or you could do some damage. You got to get it just right.”

  Cindy tried not to laugh, but they looked so ridiculous that she couldn’t help herself. “You both are silly,” she said, feeling almost light-hearted. Something she never expected to feel fully again. “Tyler, what have I taught you about not sticking things up your nose?”

  Tyler’s giggle turned into a laugh, happy that she hadn’t prevented him from playing. Unfortunately, she had to be the disciplinarian, since she was the only one around to do the job.

  “You are very serious,” Brad observed, with a hint of a smile. “Maybe you need to be a walrus, too.”

  Cindy shook her head. “I have my dignity. Unlike others around here.”

  “Yeah, Mom. You need straws. Be a walrus like us.” Tyler’s face shone with delight. “What do walruses do?”

  “They make sounds like this,” Brad said solemnly, then made a series of snorting noises.


  When Tyler tried copying them, alternating between sucking the straws in and out of his little nose, Cindy tossed her napkin on the table in a cease-fire. “That’s enough, boys. Don’t you have to be somewhere, Mr. Santa?”

  Brad stopped laughing and glanced at his watch. “You’re right. I’ve got five minutes, and I still need to change. But hey, what are they going to do? Sue Santa’s overworked and underpaid helper? No way. That wouldn’t happen.”

  Still he got up as he said it, and looked longingly at his half-full plate. “Tyler, have some of my Mongolian beef. Walrus’s love that.”

  Tyler clutched the straws in one hand, his eyes bright with something close to hero-worship. “I like you,” he said quickly. “Sorry I pulled off your beard.”

  “I’m sorry for losing my temper, too. Well, if you’re still in the mall, drop by and see me. We’ll work on your Santa list. And get your picture taken, no charge.”

  “Can we, Mom? Can we?”

  “We’ll see, Ty. I do still have a few things to buy.” With their tummies full, they might be in a better mood to finish up the last of her shopping.

  “Good. Later then.” He grabbed his duffle bag, and took off in a hurry.

  Cindy watched him for a moment, then turned to Tyler, who seemed to deflate the farther away Brad went. In a desperate move to keep her son happy, she unwrapped two straws and attempted to stick them up her nose. They slid right back out.

  “How did he get them to stay there?” she asked Tyler, tossing the straws onto the tray.

  “Dunno,” Tyler said, tilting his head as he considered the problem. “Maybe Brad’s a walrus trainer in the summer, when he’s not helping Santa.”

  “Oh, you are so clever. I never thought of that.” She laughed and tousled her son’s reddish-brown hair. So like her own. His father’s hair had been dark blonde that lightened up in the summer months when he’d be on the golf course all day, seven days a week. It had been wavy, never sitting quite the way it should, but she’d loved the way it curled around his ears.