After about ten minutes of shifting her weight from one foot to the other while they inched forward, Catherine said, “I’m not going to make it through this whole thing.”
“Go. Sit. There are benches over there,” Fynn said, ones that filled up just as he pointed them out. “We’ll be here a while, just go find somewhere to rest. No worries.”
“Yeah, Cat, I’ll keep an eye on him,” Cara said with a giggle.
“You do that,” she smiled back. Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in Fynn’s ear, “You sure you’ve got this?”
“No problem.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, if you need me, I have my phone. And you,” she added for Cara, “have fun. And be good. Santa’s watching.”
Cara rolled her eyes. “I know. I know.”
Catherine wove her way out through the crowd, her nose picking up the scent of a thousand colognes, all competing for attention. And two different kids tugged on her coat sleeve only to stare up at her in shock that she was not Mommy but a complete stranger.
It took a while, but she finally found a free bench and sat down under a flurry of paper-thin snowflakes that hung from the atrium ceiling on almost invisible fishing line—a snowstorm that could be seen out over the railings of each level above.
“Yo, bitch.”
She startled, her gaze sweeping down along the people hurrying by. “Tara,” she blurted as her friend slid down onto the bench next to her, seemingly from out of nowhere.
“In the flesh.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“I’m tracking your phone now,” she said plainly.
“You’re what?”
“Just kidding. I called your house and your mom said you took Cara to the mall, so I figured, why not? I have some shopping to do myself. Where is Cara anyway?”
“She’s waiting to see Santa. With Fynn.”
“Then you have some time,” Tara noted.
“I don’t really—” —have any excuses right now. Tara couldn’t have timed it any better.
“I wanted to clear the air. I don’t like where we are.”
I don’t like where you are… as in here… in my personal space.
“You’re my best friend, Cat. Even though I might not be yours, that’s what you are to me.”
Way to make a girl feel small. Petty. Shitty.
Catherine’s phone buzzed: Code Blue. Not that she knew what that was, but she could see that it was from Fynn. Maybe Cara had slipped away and gotten lost. Or fell off Santa’s lap and got hurt. Or maybe he could see her right now, cornered by Tara, and this was his way to extricate her. She glanced around but couldn’t make him out in the constant movement of people.
She texted back: What happened?
Fynn: Done here. She wouldn’t talk.
Catherine: Coming your way.
“Listen, Tara, that’s Fynn. They’re done with Santa and I have to meet up with them.”
“Is something wrong? You look a little sick.”
“I’m fine. I just have some stuff I have to deal with. Family stuff.”
“I can help. You want me to take Cara around the mall? Give you some space?”
“No. Fynn and I can handle it.”
“Why do you keep pushing me away?” Tara challenged, reaching for her arm as she tried to get up.
Catherine sighed. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have time for your craziness when I have enough problems of my own.” There. She’d said it.
“So let me help you.”
Leave it to Tara not to get offended by the accusation that she was crazy. “I think that I’m beyond help at this point. Cara is expecting Santa to come through and honestly, Santa is clueless. She mailed a letter to him asking for godknowswhat and she says that she won’t tell anyone else because that way she can prove he’s real.”
“Oh…. Wait, why did you let her mail it? My parents always ‘mailed’ my letter to Santa for me.”
“Because Fynn and I are idiots who have procreated to make what will probably be an idiot child, and Cara will end up having to take care of all of us.” That about explained it.
“So, we figure it out,” Tara said, simple as that.
“That’s what we were trying to do. Cara’s lips are sealed. Fynn was taking her to see Santa so he could stand by and listen to what she said to him, but it seems she didn’t say anything.” Catherine showed her his text as proof.
“It’s not the end of the world. We can figure this out.” She pulled Catherine up and guided her along toward Santa’s Village.
-35-
“She didn’t say a word to him about Christmas,” Fynn said in disbelief, running his hand through his hair, the golden waves tumbling back into his face again. “She was perfectly polite, talked about the weather and his day. Then I saw her hand him an envelope and tell him not to open it, just send it on to the North Pole. The real one.”
“But I thought you said she already mailed her list.” Catherine was bewildered, looking over at Cara who was staring intently in a nearby store window.
“She did. I know she did. I was right there.”
“Then what the heck was it?”
“A spare. She said she’s been keeping a copy in her jacket pocket just in case she happened to run into Santa sometime before Christmas.”
“Where? At the supermarket? Or school?” Catherine blurted.
“That kid of yours is a riot,” Tara guffawed. “She’s got it all figured out. Too bad you guys are in the dark.”
“Not helping,” Catherine growled.
“Listen, why doesn’t Fynn take Cara, and you and I can see about getting our hands on the letter.”
“You want to try and mug Santa?”
“If we have to.” All seriousness. “Maybe you can distract him, ask to try on his big red coat since you have the same shape.”
“Funny.” So not.
“Lighten up,” Tara urged.
“Is that another fat joke?” Too bristly to back down.
Tara ignored her. “My guess is Cara’s not the only kid who gave Santa a letter. Kids probably do it all the time. They probably have a whole pile of them behind his throne.”
“Don’t tell me you’re proposing we steal little kids’ letters to Santa,” Catherine said warily.
“At worst it’s a gray area,” Tara huffed. “And even if you want to call it ‘stealing’, it isn’t the post office so we aren’t talking a felony. And no stamps are involved so it isn’t valid mail anyway.”
“Sssh,” Catherine hissed, pointing at Cara just a few feet away.
“You know they probably just trash the letters and lists at the end of the day anyway. So we’re doing a service. Making the load a little lighter.”
“That’s what you’re going to call it?”
“Why not? I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl.”
Catherine turned to Fynn who had been all too quiet during Tara’s dalliance through the gray space of robbing Santa’s Village. “And you have nothing to say about this?”
He shrugged in a way that said he had nothing better to offer. Which meant they really were at the end of their rope.
“So we’re in agreement then,” Tara prodded, satisfied. Then, to Fynn: “You keep Cara occupied.” To Catherine: “We’ll sneak back and find the letter.”
Another shrug from Fynn.
Catherine stared at her husband in disbelief that he was buying this, and even worse, he was selling her up the river. Not stepping in to say he would take care of it, offering to do a Bonnie and Clyde with Tara and leave his pregnant wife out of it so their baby’s mother didn’t end up with a rap sheet.
“I can’t sneak anywhere,” Catherine reminded them both. “I’m like a bull in a china shop.”
“Well, I promised myself I’d never hire another pregnant lookout after Georgia mucked up that job at his place.” Tara thumbed toward Fynn in reference to the break-in they
’d plotted to steal Caramellie from him. “But since you’ll only slow me down, lookout it is. On a good note, a woman in your condition won’t look like she’s up to no good.”
***
“I’m ready,” Tara said, coming up behind Catherine where she stood behind the Santa’s Village exhibit, just outside the cordoned off area. She’d been left there to surveil operations and determine the weak points for penetration, but all she’d succeeded in doing was thinking of all the ways this could go wrong.
“What’s that?” She pointed at Tara’s head.
“A disguise.” With a duh tone, adjusting the elf hat she’d either bought or stolen or borrowed in the interim.
“It doesn’t disguise anything.”
“But I’ll blend in.”
“It doesn’t match the other elves though.”
“It’ll fool any passersby,” Tara reasoned. “Then all we have to worry about is the real elves.” She stepped over the fencing barricade and starting out across the cotton-batting snow.
“Great, the real elves,” Catherine muttered, realizing Tara spent a lot of time in la-la land.
Tara reached the platform that held Santa’s chair and pointed to a large wrapped present standing nearby, mouthing trashcan to Catherine and reaching inside it to pull out a fistful of envelopes and construction paper letters, shrugging her shoulders like they were robbers playing charades. Catherine shrugged back. Fynn was the one who had seen Cara’s letter; the only one other than Cara herself who could likely identify it in a lineup or pile. She mimed opening and reading them the best she could.
Her eyes skipped to the front of Santa’s Village, where the elves were still occupied with elfin tasks. As she scanned beyond them, she noticed a sign posting that the village was closed from twelve to twelve thirty. Catherine’s eyes bugged out and she tapped her wrist at her friend, pointing toward the sign. Suddenly Tara dropped everything and unbuttoned her coat, and Catherine wondered if she was about to streak through the North Pole as a horribly inappropriate diversion. But instead she tucked her shirt in and started shoving fistfuls of letters down inside it, causing it to balloon out with each new load.
“Excuse me, ma’am, what exactly are you doing?”
Shit.
Tara froze in place while a not-so-jolly elf headed right for her, because her lookout sucked at being lookout.
“I was just… uhhh… checking the display,” Tara explained, glancing over the elf’s shoulder at her accomplice, like she expected Catherine to back her up, come dashing through the fluffy snow, claiming to be Tara’s portly supervisor, there to conduct a training session on just how to handle an exhibit “situation” quietly and fly under the radar—unlike what just happened right here. She could give Tara a failing grade for covert exhibit ops, while at the same time commending the elf himself for having his eyes open and keeping his nose clean. They needed more elves like him on the elf force, watching all their Ps and Qs and keeping an eye out for suspicious characters even if they didn’t fit the mold of knife or bomb wielding types and instead looked like suburban soccer moms—who could be just as dangerous when radicalized.
“Checking the display?” the elf asked, disbelief loud and clear.
“Yes, I heard there was a… problem with it, and I… was sent to make sure it was sound.”
“Sound?”
“Yes, I’m from corporate.”
“Corporate what, exactly?”
Catherine could see the elf reaching toward his waistband and a black thing that was just detectable under the jagged, jester-style edge of his striped elfin shirt. Mace? A stun gun? She didn’t think elves would use real bullets. In fact, she would have figured them for using some kind of candy weaponry—bazooka gum, gumdrop grenades—but she wasn’t going to stick around to find out, edging away and out of his periphery, leaving Tara to her own lying devices as her friend was led into Santa’s house, where they probably sat around drinking and smoking and playing poker between shifts. Not a cozy and comfy and inviting space like Santa’s house should be. Maybe this was an evil elf, hell-bent on wrapping her into a chair and shoving sharpened candy canes under her fingernails to get what he wanted out of her.
-36-
She bit her lip, waiting for Fynn’s reaction.
“Tara got picked up?” he finally said, scratching his head.
Catherine nodded. She’d waited until they were back home to say anything, acting like the fact that she’d come back to find them without Tara was nothing unusual.
“You just left her there?”
“They didn’t catch me! And I have our family to think about!” Righteous.
“It’s mall security, Catherine. Not real cops.”
“I didn’t want Cara to get mixed up in it, and she would have if we tried to bail Tara out.”
“They don’t have a jail at the mall.”
“Why not? They had a jail at The Vet in Philly and that was just a stadium,” she challenged. “And what if Cara found out what we were doing? It would have ruined Christmas.”
A pause. “Maybe we are going too far with this Santa thing. Is it really the end of the world if she finds out it’s all just a story?”
“Gosh, Fynn, I’m glad you’re not my dad.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Illusions are good for kids. Some at least. And Cara has already lost out on the one where parents are infallible. Where mothers and fathers will always be there for you. Forever and ever. She’s had enough reality,” Catherine reasoned.
“What do you propose we do then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Her phone buzzed from across the room and Fynn glanced at the screen. “It’s Tara.”
Catherine gulped. She had kind of hoped to avoid facing her, even through the phone. She would never have made a good marine, that was for sure. And even worse, she thought of all those movies where criminals didn’t take kindly when they got caught and their accessories got away scot-free, and they spent their time rotting in prison, plotting revenge. What if Tara did something like that? It was just mall security, she reminded herself. What’s the worst that could come of it? Banned from the mall? I could do her shopping for her. My penance.
He handed her the phone. There was a picture of an envelope with “To Santa” on the front. Then a message: Come alone. Bring 2 extension cords, 1 pair Manolos (the blue ones), 37 Fire-Roasted sauce packets from Taco Bell, 1 BIG FAT SORRY.
A friggin’ ransom note.
“Is that Cara’s letter?” Fynn asked, looking over her shoulder.
“I don’t know. Could be. Could be a forgery.”
“I guess we have to hope for the best,” he shrugged. “And you better get your ass over to Taco Bell and start ordering.”
“What the hell is wrong with her?” Catherine growled.
“I think it’s the least you can do.”
“Really, Fynn? Do you know how much those Manolos cost? And I only wore them once.”
He stared at her blankly.
“They’re shoes, Fynn. Shoes.”
“So? Give them to her. Isn’t Cara’s Christmas worth more than some fancy shoes?”
“Yes,” she said lowly. “I should have known she would try to gouge me. Why did I ever let her get involved?”
“Because you wouldn’t have gotten the letter at all if you didn’t.”
“Maybe.” Unwilling to commit to anything definitive.
“Face it, the woman’s got guts. Without her we’d be S.O.L. right now.”
Catherine humphed.
“What does she need extension cords for anyway?” he asked, an afterthought.
“Probably her vibrator.”
“Are you serious?” he blushed.
She waved it off. “My guess is she wants them for the lighting contest. Probably needs cords that are long enough to reach her neighbors’ outlets so she can ‘borrow’ extra power.”
He looked nonplused, but beggars could
n’t be choosers. “You can bring her a couple of mine. And as for the shoes, hand them over. I’ll run out to Taco Bell myself and get the sauce. What’s that for anyway? And don’t tell me she uses it on her nipples or something crazy like that.”
Catherine smiled in spite of herself. “I think she just really likes it and you can’t just buy it anywhere.”
Relieved. “Okay, well, I’ll get those and you start working on a sorry worthy of getting us that letter.”
She made a do I have to? face, but he stared her down.
“I’ll do it, but I’m not going to like it.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
“Oh, don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The same one my mom gives me whenever she thinks I’m making the wrong decision or a bad decision or otherwise acting crappy. It’s like I-told-you-so but even worse, because it’s floated out there before I even do anything.”
“I’m just saying that she’s your friend. She has been your friend since before we met. I think you need to—”
“You don’t even like her! You think she’s nuttier than a fruitcake. And I’m pretty sure you have said exactly that.”
“What does it matter what I think?”
“Of course it matters. You’re my husband. We are one, remember?”
“I can name a thousand things you don’t consult me on—that you don’t even want my opinion on—every day, but on this you’re deferring to me?”
“Like what?” Catherine challenged.
“What kind of tissues to buy, for one.”
“Lotion should not be in tissues, Fynn. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“But I happen to like tissues with lotion, and you still won’t buy them. Never. No way.”
“Because if I bought them I would need to have two different kinds of tissues everywhere. Lotiony ones for you and the timeless standard kind for me. I can’t use tissues with lotion for my makeup or for—”
“I know your whole platform on tissues, dear, I’m just making a point that you don’t listen to me on so many things, so why would you give a flying flip what I think about Tara, who I am actually fine with so long as she isn’t getting you in trouble.”
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 21