Love Finds You in the City at Christmas

by Anna Schmidt

  “Okay. That’s in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m talking about the store on Fifth Avenue,” Sarah said as she led the way to the exit. “It’s so cool.”

  “It’s also all the way uptown.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Why waste time when you still have your shopping to do?”

  “Oh, so when it comes to your very favorite niece, just any toy store will do?”

  “Molly is my only niece,” he reminded her as they cleared the revolving door and joined the crowds outside.

  “Trust me. You’re going to enjoy this,” she replied as she took his hand and ran to make a blinking Don’t Walk sign. “You know, I can see that you really have a lot to learn when it comes to this Christmas spirit thing, and since you gave me the assignment of teaching you, we’re going to make a couple of stops along the way, okay?”

  “You’re the boss . . . teacher.”

  “Great.” She checked her watch. “Come on. If we hurry we’ll just make it.” She picked up the pace as they walked east toward Fifth Avenue, but instead of continuing on to the toy store, Sarah stopped at Saks. “Their hours for early bird specials are a little later than Macy’s, so hopefully . . .”

  Inside the store were dozens of shoppers bobbing their heads in time to the music, even as clerks sang along to the city’s namesake song, “New York, New York.” Sarah looked at him and started singing along as well. “If I can make it there . . .” And Max had to admit that he couldn’t get the lyrics out of his head even after they had walked through the store and out a side exit to continue their way uptown.

  “Now that’s better,” she said as he continued to hum softly. “Next stop—Rock Center—have to see that tree, and I’ll bet you haven’t yet.”

  “Well, no, but Sarah, I do live here. Chances are sometime over the next few weeks I’ll have the chance to get to Rockefeller Center and see the tree.”

  “No time like the present.” They crossed at the light and then walked through the courtyard that led to the famous golden statue, the ice rink, and the huge decorated tree. “Now that’s your basic Christmas tree,” Sarah murmured as she gazed at it.

  “Pretty special,” Max agreed but he wasn’t looking at the tree. He was looking at her. When she caught him staring, he cleared his throat and put on his grumpy voice. “Okay, so we’ve seen the tree. Can we go toy shopping now?”

  “You can fight it all you want, Max Wolzak, but the spirit that is Christmastime will not be denied. I defy you not to get truly in the mood once we are inside FAO Schwarz.”

  “You’re on,” he replied, and this time he took the lead as together they walked the last blocks to the renowned toy store.

  * * * * *

  Sarah could not remember laughing more than she did in the next hour spent with Max. The minute they stepped inside he spotted an enormous Christmas stocking, and he gave her a mischievous smile. “Let’s fill it up,” he said as he chose a soft, stuffed, floppy-eared dog and pushed it deep inside the toe of the large stocking. Next came books and games, and finally he topped it off with a large doll that looked a lot like Molly. “What do you think?” he asked, surveying his handiwork, now placed carefully across a countertop. “It needs something, don’t you think?” He began roaming around the department, his eyes laser sharp for anything he might have missed. “Music,” he called out to Sarah, who had remained with the stocking, afraid that some overzealous clerk might decide to dismantle the whole thing.

  “Music?”

  He pointed to a wall filled with musical toys from keyboards to music boxes to harmonicas and drums and flutes. He took down a drum and banged out a rhythm, then looked to her for approval.

  “Your sister will not be amused.”

  He replaced the drum and selected a wooden flute. “Better?”

  “Perfect.” She waited until he had made his way back to the counter. “Now, there is just one other tiny problem that I can see.”

  Max looked mystified. “What?”

  “How in the world are you going to get this home?”

  A clerk was waiting to ring up the sale, and he paused while Max considered his options.

  “Delivery?”

  “We can arrange for that, sir,” the clerk assured him. “May I?” He indicated the need to unload the stocking so he could ring up the individual items. Max nodded.

  “Of course, if they deliver it then there’s always the risk that Molly will be home when it arrives.”

  “Oh, we would package everything in a plain box—a large box or perhaps even several,” the clerk assured them. “You’d simply need to repack the stocking at home.”

  “Great! All taken care of then,” Max said as once again he took out his credit card.

  “We aim to please, sir,” the clerk said as he scanned the bar-code for the doll and then all the other items and finally for the stocking.

  Max stared at the clerk’s name tag. “So, Greg, you’ll personally take charge of this and see that it gets delivered?”

  “You have my word, sir.”

  Max nodded as he put his card and wallet away and then glanced around. “I am seriously starving. It must be lunchtime.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock, sir,” the clerk replied.

  “Late breakfast then, or brunch?” He glanced at Sarah. “You have got to be hungry after all this running around and fighting crowds.”

  Sarah handed him the shopping bag that held his other gifts. “This way,” she said and led the way back to the escalator and out to the street. “I know a great little place.”

  She led the way down a side street toward Madison Avenue. “If you like breakfast at any time of the day or night, as I do, this place makes the best oatmeal in Manhattan,” she promised as she pulled open the door that led into a narrow space just large enough for a counter with eight stools, two small booths, and a round table set for six in the rear.

  “Sarah!” the woman behind the counter shouted, and she hurried around to greet Sarah with a hug. The three other patrons barely glanced up. “How long are you in town for?”

  “I leave the day after Christmas.”

  “So soon?”

  “Amal, this is my friend Max Wolzak. Max, Amal immigrated here from Iraq. She didn’t speak a word of English and neither did her three children. Her husband was fluent because of his job as an interpreter.” She turned back to Amal. “How are Samir and the kids?”

  “They’re fine.” She turned her attention to Max. “Sarah is being far too modest. She was the one who got us out and set us up with connections here. Without her help, this place would not exist.” She waved a hand to incorporate the entire restaurant. “Now come, sit. Let me feed you—it’s what I do best.”

  “Two oatmeals,” Sarah ordered. “With all the trimmings please.”

  “Coming right up,” Amal announced as she headed back toward the kitchen. “Samir?” The rest of her words were spoken in her native tongue.

  “What did she mean about you getting them out?”

  “It was nothing really. On one of our missions, her husband, Samir, was our interpreter. Someone in the Iraqi government accused him of being a spy for the Americans. It became clear that he was a marked man, and as such his family was also in danger. We were able to arrange for them to escape.”

  “You make it sound like you made a phone call and it all came together.”

  “It was a little more difficult than that, but Amal insists on giving me far too much credit.”

  Max glanced around. “They own this place?”

  “Well, not the building of course, but the restaurant has been here for a good five years now. They’ve made a real success of their new life. Can you imagine, Max? Leaving everything and everyone you’ve ever known or loved behind and starting from scratch?”

  “The American dream,” Max murmured.

  Amal returned with their oatmeal and then went to ring up a customer’s bill.

  “What’s your dream, Max
?” Sarah asked.

  He hesitated—spoon filled with oatmeal topped with nuts, dried cherries, and brown sugar poised in midair. Then he shrugged and shoveled the food into his mouth. But Sarah was not about to let the moment pass.

  “You must have a dream—something you looked forward to doing once your service ended? Or maybe that’s the dream—serving your country?”

  “What’s your dream?” he countered.

  “Peace on earth.” She took a bite of her oatmeal as she held his gaze. “And stop turning the tables on me.”

  “Does everyone have to have a dream?”

  “No, but I find that most people do.”

  He focused on eating, and Sarah gave him the time he needed.

  “I had a dream,” he finally admitted. “To be a cop—like my grandfather.”

  “And?”

  He scraped the last cherry from his empty bowl. “And nothing. It was another time. It wasn’t realistic.”

  “Dreams rarely are,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t possible.”

  “Like peace on earth?”

  “Impractical—definitely. Impossible? I refuse to accept that.”

  “Even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary?”

  Sarah smiled and glanced at her friend Amal, who was busy taking orders and refilling coffee cups as the tiny restaurant filled with customers. “Look at her, Max. They came here with little more than the clothes on their backs, but they found a way just like millions of others who have come here over the years. They found a way to make their dream come true against all odds. Why wouldn’t I believe that anything is possible?”

  “You haven’t changed much, have you? I seem to remember this skinny kid who thought she could do pretty much anything she set out to do—even try out for the football team as a kicker.”

  He was changing the subject, and she was inclined to let him. This was not a day for serious conversation. “I almost made it,” she reminded him. “If you and your male chauvinist team-mates hadn’t—”

  “Whoa! Why is this on me?” But he was laughing, and she really liked the way laughter made his entire body finally relax out of the military posture that she had noticed he adopted whenever he didn’t want to discuss something. The man sitting across from her now was more like the charismatic Max she had once had such a crush on.

  * * * * *

  Over the next several days Max realized that spending time with Sarah was working out better than he could have imagined. For one thing it got him out of the house. For another, with Sarah in the picture Grace had let up on her constant attempts to manage his life. And for a third, Sarah was as good as her word—this was two people sharing time together, getting reacquainted, with no expectations that things needed to move to another level. No pressure.

  So when he called Sarah the Wednesday after Thanksgiving anticipating that she would be up for some excursion followed by coffee or even dinner, he was surprised when she turned him down.

  “I can’t tonight.”

  For a moment he felt like a jealous boyfriend. Why not? was the first thing that sprang to mind. “Oh, well, maybe another time,” he said and prepared to hang up.

  “I have choir practice. Hey, here’s an idea, why don’t you come? It’s a special choir for Christmas Eve services at the little church around the corner from my loft. Mary and Ned run the program, and I have a tradition of joining in if I’m in town.”

  “That’s okay,” he replied, already feeling better. “How about tomorrow? Dinner?”

  “No, seriously. I’m remembering that you had the lead in your senior production of South Pacific. Grace invited me to come see it with her and your folks. You have a wonderful voice, and the choir can always use more male voices. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  The idea of spending time in a church was not all that appealing to Max. After everything he’d seen overseas, he was having a hard time justifying his faith in a loving God with a world that seemed to have gone insane. “I’m out of practice,” he said, trying to keep things light.

  She laughed. He really liked the sound of her laughter.

  “Max, it’s a little church choir, not Broadway—although please don’t tell Mary that. Come on. Think how pleased your grandmother will be.”

  “Not fair, playing the Gramma Karen card.”

  “I do whatever it takes. Then you’ll do it?”

  She sounded like she really wanted him to say he would . . . so he did.

  * * * * *

  The church was old and held the familiar scents of candle wax, furniture polish, and fresh evergreens that decorated the deep window ledges and the low balustrade that separated the pulpit from the pews. Max liked the simplicity of the place. The pews were dark wood, lined with blue seat cushions. The floor was wooden and it creaked as he crossed the vestibule on his way to the stairs that led up to the choir loft. He was running late and apparently the others were already there, greeting each other as they settled into their places.

  “Max! Over here.”

  Sarah stood at the far end of the crowded choir loft next to Ned, who was seated at the impressive organ. She looked the way she always looked—happy, fully engaged in the moment, and beautiful. Max edged his way past other choir members to reach her.

  “Hi,” he said, including Ned in the greeting. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Bass, baritone, or tenor?” Ned waited for his answer, his fingers poised above the organ keys. “Sarah says you sang baritone in high school, but that was years ago and voices do change.”

  “Still a baritone,” Max assured him.

  Ned struck a note and waited. Max followed his cue and sang the note, finishing the scale without prompting. Ned grinned. “Baritone it is.” He handed Max a loose-leaf binder filled with song sheets. “We’re still working out the order of things, but this is the playbook.”

  Behind him someone rapped on the conductor’s podium. Max turned to see Mary. “People, settle down and take your seats, please. We have a great deal of work to get through tonight.”

  Sarah pointed to a place between two older men where Max should sit, then took her seat on the other side of the semicircle of chairs. Mary called for one of the hymns, and everyone started turning to the correct page. As Ned played through the melody, there was a general clearing of throats and the rustle of bodies sitting up straight and focusing on Mary’s uplifted baton.

  The time passed quickly and Max realized that he was enjoying himself. It felt good to sing—to harmonize with the others, to follow Mary’s direction, belting out some parts and almost whispering others. And of course looking across and seeing Sarah glance his way and smile from time to time wasn’t bad at all.

  “Okay, that’s a wrap for tonight,” Mary announced. “And remember I want everyone off book by next week.”

  “Off book?” Max asked after Sarah had made her way to the stairway where he was waiting for her.

  “It’s a theater term meaning learn your lines, or in this case the words to the songs.”

  “Thought you said this wasn’t Broadway,” he reminded her with a teasing grin.

  “I also warned you that for Mary, everything is Broadway. She is always theatrical.”

  Downstairs they retrieved their coats, and outside the carved double wooden doors they said their good nights to the others.

  “Where to?” Max asked.

  “There’s a tearoom some of us favor after rehearsal.”

  Put that way, it sounded like she might expect to meet up with others. Max couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. He had been imagining the two of them maybe taking a long walk or sitting at a coffeehouse and talking late into the night. He wasn’t much for group socializing, even though he had to admit the mix of choir members and the way they had immediately accepted him in their midst had been nice. On the other hand, his only other option was a lonely train ride back uptown.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

  The tearoom was only a
couple of blocks away. It was small and cozy with several bistro tables positioned around the room, walls lined with large framed posters featuring advertising for a variety of international teas, and a piano in one corner. Max recognized several members of the choir as Sarah led the way to a table for two tucked away near the piano.

  A young woman in a long skirt, peasant blouse, and sandals took their order. “Green herbal house tea with honey,” Sarah said.

  “Make that two,” Max added.

  “I have something I want to tell you,” Sarah said, her eyes glowing in the candlelight from the small lantern in the center of the table.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “You know I have a mission that leaves the day after Christmas.” The waitress brought their tea, and Sarah began pouring for both of them. “The thing is, one of our team has decided to take a position in Washington and he has to start immediately.”

  “And you need a replacement,” Max guessed. In the time they had spent together and on the phone, they had talked a lot about their work—his on the front lines battling terrorism and hers on the front lines battling the ravages of war on ordinary citizens caught in the middle. “What’s the job?” He assumed she was telling him this hoping he might know of someone who could fill the position on such short notice.

  “Interpreter, guide—somebody who knows the region and knows the differences between the various factions. It’s going to be a delicate assignment because it affects mostly the women and, well, sometimes the men can get . . . prickly about anything that seems to threaten their paternalistic traditions.”

  “Prickly?” Max lifted his eyebrows. “Sarah, in some parts of the Middle East women have been stoned to death for looking at someone the wrong way.”

  “I know, and that’s what makes it so important that we have just the right people on our team for this mission.” She took a long swallow of her tea, refilled her cup from the teapot, and added more honey. “I don’t suppose you might consider taking on the job. . . .” Her voice was low and muffled by the fact that she was staring down at her tea cup as if reading the leaves or something.