by Donna Ball
“Just like her massage therapists,” Derrick muttered.
Purline gave Paul a skeptical look. “You think them fancy-pants lawyers and doctors and their nose-in-the-air women are gonna get in a car at night with somebody that looks like him? Good luck with that.”
Paul glanced out the window again, looking mildly concerned. “You know,” he told Derrick, “she may have a point.”
“Perhaps a makeover,” Derrick suggested. “I think I have an old tuxedo that would fit him. What do you suppose he is, a thirty-six waist?”
Paul looked at him indulgently. “My dear, you are many wonderful things, but a size thirty-six you have never been.”
Before Derrick could register a retort, Purline interrupted with, “Well, you two figure it out. I gotta get going.”
“Purline,” Derrick said, “if you’re going by the post office on your way home, I wonder if you’d be good enough to mail some letters for me.” He gestured hopefully toward the office.
She said, “Well, all right, but hurry up. I’ve got a list as long as my arm to get done this afternoon.” She turned to her daughter as Derrick led the way to the office. “Help your brothers get their coats on, honey, and wait for Mama on the porch.”
She followed Derrick to the office and Paul, slipping from behind the reception desk, joined them. “Actually,” he said, a little anxiously, “there was something we wanted to discuss with you, this being the children’s last day here.”
“I told you, I’m not working Christmas morning.” She took the stack of envelopes Derrick passed to her from behind the desk and glanced through them curiously. “What is all this? Christmas cards?”
“Our annual donations,” explained Derrick, “and the last of the gift cards for our friends.”
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Gift cards? You mean, like money?”
“Well, yes,” said Paul. “So much easier all the way around.”
Her frown was clearly disapproving. “That’s like paying a bill. What’s that got to do with Christmas?”
“We have a lot of friends,” Paul told her, in a tone that was only a little condescending. “We couldn’t possibly shop for every single one.”
She sniffed her disapproval, thumbing through the envelopes. “In my house, it’s not about how much you spend, but how much you care. The real presents are the ones money can’t buy, that’s what I always tell my kids.”
Paul and Derrick exchanged another uneasy look, then Derrick opened a drawer of the desk and quickly pulled out a box wrapped in red paper. “Speaking of which,” he said. “We, um, got this for the children.” He offered the box to her. “We thought you might like to put it under the tree for them since we won’t be seeing them again before Christmas.”
Purline took the gift hesitantly, her face softening with wonder. For a moment she just looked at the package in her hand, and then she said softly. “Well, if you two ain’t just the sweetest things.”
Paul and Derrick smiled their satisfaction. “Christmas is about the children,” Derrick said.
Paul told her, “It’s a video game console. Our friend Bridget said they might like it.”
“I hope they don’t already have one,” Derrick added.
Purline looked up at them, a small frown knotting her brow. “Those things cost a couple of hundred bucks.”
Derrick waved a dismissing hand. “Our pleasure.”
She began to shake her head. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” she said firmly, thrusting the package back at Derrick, “and all the trouble you went to, but you need to take this right back to the store and get your money back. My kids’ve got no use for such as this.”
“Oh, but Purline,” Paul assured her, “we have it on the best authority that the games are suitable for all ages.”
“We made certain of it,” Derrick added confidently.
“In the first place,” she continued, still holding the package at arm’s length, “we don’t even allow our babies to watch the TV. In the second place, it’s too much money. Now you take it back and get the boys a couple of picture books, and little Mimi a nice puzzle. Puppies or kittens or something. Here.”
She pushed the package into Derrick’s chest and he took it reluctantly. Seeing his disappointment, she smiled and patted his arm. “You really are the sweetest things,” she said. “And don’t you worry about not seeing the kids again before Christmas. Looks like they’ll be coming to work with me the rest of the week. Mama’s not flying back until Friday.” Ignoring the unilateral dismay that crossed her bosses’ faces, she held up the handful of envelopes and added, “I’ll get these in the mail for you.”
She turned and almost tripped over little Mimi, who was standing at the door to the office, watching solemnly. “Didn’t I tell you to wait on the porch?” she scolded.
“I did,” replied the little girl reasonably. “Now I’m waiting here.”
Purline took the child’s hand and hustled her toward the door, pausing to glance back over her shoulder with a rueful shake of her head. “Do you know how many goats that thing would buy?” she said, indicating the package still clutched in Derrick’s hands. “I swear, you two beat everything.”
When they heard the front door close behind her, Paul said, “Well. That was rude.”
“She clearly has no understanding whatsoever of the spirit of Christmas,” agreed Derrick. He set the package on one of the bookshelves behind him and opened the desk drawer, taking out the colorfully decorated gift card they had intended to present to Purline for Christmas. “What should we do about this?”
“Cash it in, I suppose. I told you we should have just written her a bonus check.”
“This seemed more personal.”
“Not to her. Apparently the poor thing hasn’t a clue as to how the rest of America celebrates the holidays.”
Derrick gazed at the gift card thoughtfully. “Well, we have to get her something.”
“Do we?” Paul was still annoyed. “She lost my crepe pans.”
Derrick gave him a stern look and Paul shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose we could trade the gift card for merchandise.”
“Jewelry,” suggested Derrick.
Paul grew thoughtful. “I was browsing online the other day and saw a darling little tennis bracelet.”
“Who doesn’t like a nice tennis bracelet?” agreed Derrick.
“This one had stones in it. Semi-precious, of course.”
Derrick clasped his hands together in delight. “We could put the birthstones of her children in it!”
Paul considered this. “Do you know when the little darlings were born?”
“Easy enough to find out, “Derrick said, “since they’ll be here every day this week.”
They both considered this unhappy possibility for a moment, and then Derrick said, “We’ll have to put a rush on the order.”
“The company ships overnight,” Paul assured him, “and UPS is very good about deliveries this time of year.”
Derrick looked thoughtfully at the gift card in his hand for a moment, and then, with a flourish, produced an envelope from his desk drawer. He tucked the gift card inside, scrawled the name of the UPS driver on the outside, and declared, “There! Our Christmas shopping is officially complete.”
“Except,” Paul reminded him, “for one puppy puzzle and two picture books.”
“And, of course, a tennis bracelet,” said Derrick.
Paul frowned. “Life is a great deal simpler when you handle it with gift cards.”
“So true,” Derrick agreed. “But maybe Purline is right. In the spirit of the season, we could try to be a bit more creative.”
“Oh, please. Next you’ll be telling me it’s not the gift but the thought that counts.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Derrick looked insulted. “It’s always the gift.” Then he shrugged. “At any rate, there’s no point fretting about it.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “I’m calling Harmony again.”<
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“I told you, she can’t …”
He broke off at a sound coming from outside the window, the rumbling and sputtering of an unmuffled engine accompanied by a sound like cow bells clanging up the driveway. The mutual puzzlement in their eyes quickly turned to alarm as they hurried to the window. They pushed back the drapery just in time to see the most peculiar-looking vehicle either of them had ever beheld lumber toward the parking lot of the Hummingbird House.
“What in the world …?” murmured Paul.
It was, in fact, two vehicles. The first one was a tan Blazer, circa 1980, with rust-colored fenders and no hubcaps. Behind it, bouncing like a puppy on a leash, was a cylindrical object that almost resembled an Air Stream camping trailer, except that it was painted from top to bottom in an exquisitely rendered mural of what was unmistakably the Taj Mahal, complete with reflecting pool and gardens. The two men stared, open-mouthed, until, with a screech of worn brakes and a creaking protest from shock absorbers long past their replacement date, the strange contraption came to a halt.
“No,” managed Derrick when he regained his breath. “Oh, no. We have a houseful of extremely well-paying guests due to arrive at any moment and we cannot have—I mean, simply cannot have—a gypsy caravan blocking our entire parking lot. Not possible. No. Not going to happen.”
As he spoke he was rushing toward the door, with Paul close behind. “Spirit of the season,” Paul reminded him in a singsong voice, and Derrick glared at him as he jerked open the door.
“Excuse me!” Derrick called out, starting down the steps toward the vehicle. “Hello!”
An Asian man in khakis, a Hawaiian shirt and straw hat climbed out of the Blazer, followed by a woman, also of Asian origin, with a sleek dark bob and slender figure, wearing purple harem pants and a peacock-printed kimono. Both smiled broadly when they saw Derrick.
“Excuse me,” Derrick said again, rubbing his arms against the cold. “But this is a private parking lot. Are you lost?”
The man bobbed his head in an affable way, still smiling. “Park Sung,” he said. He looked at the woman next to him. “Kim Gi.”
The woman bobbed her head as well, her smile steady and brilliant.
It took Derrick a moment to understand the introduction. “Oh. Well, Mr. Sung …”
“Park,” said Paul beside him. “Mr. Park.”
Derrick stared at him.
“It’s a Korean name,” Paul explained, regarding the newcomers curiously. “Korean surnames are always first.” He proved it by stepping forward and offering his hand. “Mr. Park,” he said, “I’m Paul Slater.”
“Paul Slater,” repeated Park Sung happily. His accent was so thick it sounded more like “Pawsladder.”
“This is Derrick Anderson.”
Again the stranger repeated the words, and even Derrick didn’t recognize it.
Paul pressed on. “Can we help you with something? You see, we’re expecting guests and we really need our parking lot.”
“Really,” emphasized Derrick. “You see, this is the most important week of our entire business year. We’ve planned for months, people have paid us a good deal of money, they’re coming in from all over the country, we have carolers on the way, and sleighs, and we still have to find a massage therapist, and …” He stopped, staring at the two Asian faces which were nodding and smiling happily at him. “You don’t speak English, do you?” He turned to Paul in despair. “They don’t speak English.”
“It would appear not,” agreed Paul.
“But they have to leave!” cried Derrick. “Tell them they have to leave!”
Paul gave him a single dry look, then turned back to Park Sung. “You have to leave,” he said.
Derrick blew out an exasperated breath. “Mr. Park,” he began.
“Park Sung.” The other man thumped his chest. “Hoppy fee.”
Neither Paul nor Derrick could find a reply for that.
Park Sung tried again, more slowly. “Hah. Mo. Nee. Hoppy fee.”
A breeze shook flakes of snow from an overhead branch, and Derrick shivered in his Mark Jacobs wool suit. The two newcomers, in their light summer clothing, did not acknowledge the cold.
Derrick said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Park Sung repeated patiently, “Ha. Mo.”
“Nee!” exclaimed Paul suddenly. “Harmony!”
“Hahmonee!” cried Park Sung excitedly. He lifted one foot and pointed to it proudly. “Make hoppy fee.”
“Happy feet!” Paul turned to Derrick, looking enormously pleased with himself. “Harmony sent them,” he said, and waited for comprehension to dawn on Derrick’s face. When it did not, he explained, “Our massage therapists!”
Park Sung nodded enthusiastically. “Hahmonee!”
“He makes happy feet,” Paul went on, clearly pleased with himself. “Didn’t Harmony say he was a certified reflexologist?”
Derrick looked at him blankly for a moment, and then back to the two strangers. “Harmony sent you? To do massages?”
Park Sung beamed at him.
Paul clapped Derrick on the shoulder. “There, you see? You were worried for nothing. Merry Christmas.”
Derrick nodded slowly, still looking a little stunned. “Right. Merry Christmas.”
Park Sung smiled at them both beneficently. “We Buddhist person,” he said.
TEN
Welcome to the Hummingbird House
Four hours later Paul and Derrick flanked the foyer, nervously straightening their cuffs and checking their ties. Behind them, on either side of the gold-lettered door that read “Spa” stood Park Sung and Kim Gi. They had changed into what were apparently their working uniforms: white cotton pants and white wrap jackets, which might have been appropriated from either a chef’s locker or a karate school. Their feet were bare. Derrick, worried about the cold floors, and Paul, worried about sanitation, had tried to offer them a variety of slippers and socks, but they had refused all. “It must be a religious thing,” whispered Derrick at last.
“Hoppy feet,” agreed Paul, sanguine.
Kim Gi held a tray filled with hand-painted ceramic cups of wassail. No one had asked her to do it, and in fact Derrick, not wishing to impose on her good will, had tried to take the tray away from her, but she, with her unwavering cheek-to-cheek smile, was resolute. “It must be a religious thing,” Paul had decided, and Derrick uneasily agreed. “I just don’t want to be a stereotype,” he added. “After all, they’re massage professionals.”
To which Paul agreed unenthusiastically, “Presumably.”
The first airport limousine arrived at 3:45 with passengers Amanda Hildebrand and Geoffery Allen Windsor, whose flights from different parts of the country had arrived within fifteen minutes of each other. Mick, in motorcycle leathers, tattoos, and big friendly grin, called “Welcome to the Hummingbird House!” as he trotted around to get the luggage from the trunk. Paul and Derrick, who always greeted their guests personally upon first arrival, came down the steps with hands extended.
Amanda Hildebrand emerged first, a jewel-topped mahogany cane preceding her. She was a straight-backed, elegant woman with a lush chignon of thick silver hair, high cheekbones, and makeup so expertly applied that it seemed to glorify, rather than attempt to disguise, the fine network of lines that mapped her face. She wore oversized amber-tinted glasses, an emerald coat trimmed with red fox at the cuffs and collar, and sleek black suede boots.
Derrick reached her first. “Welcome to the Hummingbird House, Mrs. Hildebrand,” he exclaimed. “I trust your trip was pleasant?”
“Dreadful, just dreadful.” She grasped Derrick’s arm firmly to lever herself out of the car and onto solid ground. “Thank heavens someone’s here to rescue me from that awful writer in the backseat. The trouble with writers is they just can’t stop talking about themselves, don’t you agree?” She shifted her weight to rest one hand on the cane and looked at Derrick assessingly from behind the tinted glasses. “Now who are you, young man
,” she demanded, “and why should I like you?”
Geoffery Allen Windsor followed her out of the car with a dry smile. “Don’t let her fool you,” he said. “She doesn’t like anyone. Fortunately, her bark is worse than her bite. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hildebrand?”
“Nonsense,” she retorted. “I have neither a bark nor a bite, but if I did I can assure you my bite would be nothing to scoff at. I do still have my own teeth, you know, which is something to remark upon in a woman my age.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes as Geoffery passed her envelope purse to her with a small, rather courtly bow. “Don’t forget you promised to let me escort you to dinner this evening. You didn’t finish the story about the reporter and the bullfighter in Madrid.”
She gave a small dismissive sniff. “Well, I rather hope to do a good deal better than you by dinnertime.”
She frowned abruptly as Mick came abreast of them, suitcases beneath each arm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded sharply.
Derrick, alarmed, drew a quick breath to say something soothing, but Mick paused and smiled. “I’m just here to carry your luggage, ma’am.”
She looked him up and down. “You’re sure about that?”
His eyes twinkled. “I am.”
“Well,” she returned, regarding him with narrowed eyes, “you just see that you do, then.” She turned away from him and to Derrick she said, “Who did you say you were, my dear? You’re not a writer, are you? And how long are you going to keep me standing in the damp and the cold? I’m an old woman, you know.”
Derrick bustled her off, and Paul, recovering himself, rushed forward to shake Geoffery’s hand. “Mr. Windsor, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Paul Slater, we spoke on the phone. Thank you so much for coming. I hope the drive out from the airport wasn’t too unpleasant.”
He said, “Oh, she’s a charmer. You just have to get used to her sense of humor.” He smiled, but his eyes looked tired.