The Secret Santa

by Trish Harnetiaux

  No one cared if he showed up to important meetings without a pen. In seconds, five people would be tripping over each other, volunteering to take notes, offering up their own pens. She had been one of them. Claudine cherry picked which of his strategies were of use to her. “Strategies.” His word, reflecting his obsession with motivational and self-help books. More like scams. Even more accurate: lies.

  Steve was a master of reading a situation and conveniently reciting exactly the right anecdote to seal the deal. Truth played no part in the matter. If you listen very closely, he’d say, you’ll start seeing how through simple conversation people reveal so much personal data. Those details were as valuable as currency—what eventually translated into currency. The equation was simple. A small piece of personal information plus a dash of something magical equals exactly what they want to hear. Think aspirational. Tailor the story to who they want to be rather than who they are.

  When a Houston-based oilman with a bemused look on his face showed up wanting to buy a “shack” to do some fly-fishing in the spring, Steve told him it was his lucky day. Jack Nicholson’s old place was on the market. It was right near a sweet spot on the Roaring Fork River. He and Jack pulled nine trout out of the hole one afternoon last June, all over eighteen inches. Cooked them up right there on the riverbank. Jack liked to carry a little satchel of salt in his pocket, which made all the difference. It was the best meal he’d ever had in his life.

  That night at J Bar, after Steve finished telling Claudine that story, he had a good laugh over his tall tale. It had worked. The oilman couldn’t sign the papers fast enough. A specific place like the Roaring Fork River. A particular number like nine. A distinct item like the little satchel of salt. The details were what mattered. People wanted to believe. The details were what allowed them to.

  But Steve wanted to believe too. He wanted to believe he was attractive. That Claudine desired him. He wasn’t immune to deception. Or maybe he was. Maybe he knew what Claudine was doing but thought it was a fair trade-off. Whether he was unwitting or not, Claudine didn’t much care. By the time they walked out of the bar and he started to kiss her, she had convinced herself that going down this path would eventually be good for both her and Henry. If enduring a few clumsy encounters lasting less than ten minutes was going to leapfrog years of navigating proper channels and complaining about the daily grind, it was worth it. She was a quick study. Which was why she knew not to let it go further than a kiss that night. She knew the value of what she had. It was a seller’s market.

  Henry

  It was almost one in the morning.

  Lying on the couch, Henry repositioned, tucking the blanket tighter around his legs, finding a better spot on the pillow for his head. The TV was on but he was only occasionally watching. Then sleeping. Sleeping. Then drinking. The fabric wet with drool. He flipped it over.

  Where the hell was she?

  Three hours late.

  The champagne long gone, the inverted bottle bobbed in the silver bucket. He killed it quickly after the first hour. He didn’t even like champagne, but it went down fast and smooth and at first made waiting a little easier. At this point he still thought she was only late but coming. After all, the celebration was for her. Who missed their own party? Even if it was just the two of them. She worked too much to have any real friends, something he was sure would change at some point. Around the second hour, he pulled down the bottle of Scotch from the back of the liquor cabinet. It was from the smallest distillery in Scotland. He opened it. She didn’t really care for Scotch anyway. Complained it tasted like fire and dirt. Exactly what he felt like: dirt.

  He called the office. No answer. Of course not, it was so late … Why hadn’t she called?

  Another hour of Scotch and watching the old ski flick Downhill Racer. The local station played it all the time. It was a favorite of his. He’d stopped skiing after high school, could no longer stomach the scene it had become. But watching Robert Redford conquer the slopes was exactly what he needed to forget he was waiting for her until finally he heard the key turn in the door. Then the clicking of her heels as she walked from the door to the little bench. She was taking off her shoes, probably rubbing the arches on her feet. His drunk confusion turned to slow-motion panic. Where had she been?

  The keys must have fallen out of her pocket, because they clattered on the floor. The thought of her anger, that way she could get, made him bury deeper into the couch. Had he done something to make her mad? Want to avoid him? Somehow she could switch around an entire situation with a sigh and make Henry feel like he was the one who’d failed her. It was one of her best tricks, the one he most feared. It was probably all a misunderstanding. Maybe he’d heard her wrong on the phone. That must be it. He had been wrong. Their celebration was going to be tomorrow night. Sometimes he was not great with details. Henry let his arm fall to his side and his fingers grazed the coolness of the hardwood floor. He patted about. There it was. Expertly, he lifted the Scotch glass to his lips without moving his head and tossed back the last of the Edradour.

  There she was. Smiling and shrugging out of her coat, leaving it in a pool on the floor.

  “They surprised me at work with a party.”

  “Why didn’t you call?” She was staring at the empty bottle next to the couch.

  “Thought we were saving that Scotch.”

  “Thought we were celebrating your real estate license,” he snapped, immediately regretting it. He hadn’t meant to.

  She let it hang, then softened.

  “Let’s celebrate this weekend?” she said. “Steve and I have client meetings the next few nights. But let’s go to Mezzaluna on Saturday. You and me.”

  Then she was gone and he heard the water in the shower turn on.

  He struggled to sit up. Then to stand. Standing, he found he was drunker than he thought. It took a moment to steady himself. Making his way down the long hall to the bedroom, his arms pulled him along the corridor like the ropetow on the bunny hill. She’d left the bedroom door open and there was a trail of clothes leading to the master bathroom. A belt … her skirt … the white blouse with ruffled cuffs … lacy rose-colored bra … The bathroom door was cracked slightly, steam drifting out. Quietly, he shuffled to the door and wedged himself in the frame. Sliding down to the floor so his back was straight, knees bent, feet up against the other side. He closed his eyes; the escaping steam felt good on his face. A faint smell of eucalyptus. He wanted it to go on forever. He would be very, very quiet and she wouldn’t even know he was there.

  There had been a work celebration.

  Everything was fine. Nothing was wrong. Not now, not nestled in his comfortable hiding place with steam on his face and his love right on the other side. Everything was perfect. That was where he woke up the next morning, curled in front of the bathroom door, alone, a blanket on him. Claudine off to work. She must have had to step over him when she was getting ready.

  From that night on, she was gone most nights. Client dinners. Late showings.

  He went smaller. Drank more. Talked less. Only whiskey made things better. His new nightly routine after work was sketching with a glass of wine, then watching television with a bottle of whiskey, just sinking back into the worry, letting it consume him. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he knew.

  She was having an affair, and it was exhausting.

  Claudine

  Claudine didn’t exactly consider it an affair. Or a dalliance, a fling, a tryst, a booty call, a hookup. All of those suggest romance, passion, or just plain lust, and she didn’t feel any of that for Steve. This was purely work. A transaction—that’s how she saw it.

  By her initial estimate, she thought it would take three months to scrub him for what she needed, but after two she felt done. The mentor-mentee-lover relationship cemented, she’d made it to the inner circle quicker than she thought. Now she couldn’t wait for it to end. It had gone well. Methodically she’d made sure to meet every contractor he knew, photocopie
d his lists of past clients and cold-call leads. She had boxes of documents and critical correspondence, and listened in on every call she could. The last part was about learning how to get a listing and she succeeded.

  But it was time to be home. Henry needed her, especially with his drinking getting so out of control.

  It would be a relief to have it over. Henry didn’t know how close they were to starting their own business. She couldn’t wait to tell him. Of course, she couldn’t tell him everything. Even if she had convinced herself it was all for the greater good, she didn’t have real feelings for Steve. Henry wasn’t the type to understand a situation as complicated as this. His drinking had become a problem. She wasn’t sure how to handle it, which didn’t happen very often. He used to talk about working toward a promotion at the firm; now he wasn’t even sketching very much. Going in late a few mornings each week wasn’t exactly the path to becoming a partner. It was obvious at some point she was going to have to step in; he wouldn’t be able to do it alone.

  That morning, when she walked into Steve’s office, in her mind it was already done. She’d been growing bolder with each sale. Getting better. The week before, after selling a two-bedroom condo for 10 percent above market, she talked the property manager into introducing her to different owners in another complex he managed who were looking to sell. By the end of the day she picked up three more properties to represent.

  Steve was drinking coffee and reading one of his pathetic paperbacks, Help Yourself to a Better You, which made him look insignificant.

  “Why do you read that?”

  “Claude,” he said with exasperation, “books like these are read by most of America and all of our industry. Research. Desperate types, searching for an answer. I’m reverse-psychology reading. We must understand the way they think. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course that makes sense,” she said. “You’re speaking English.”

  He laughed like he always did, chalking up her attitude to youth and ignorance. Mistake. Steve was also a master in underestimating.

  “Listen to these chapter titles,” he went on. “‘Chapter One: Dressing Mutton Up as Lamb. Chapter Two: Be Your Best Self by Being Someone Else. Chapter Three: Eye Contact Is the Key to the Wallet—’”

  “Steven, it’s all so pedestrian.”

  “Steven?” he laughed. “My mother calls me Steven.”

  “I just wanted to stop in and say thank you,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “I would not be able to do this if it hadn’t been for all you taught me.”

  “What are you talking about?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t want you to worry. I won’t be suing you—”

  “Sue me—”

  “I just said I won’t be. Let me explain what’s going to happen. First, it’s not only over, it never happened. We never happened. Second, I’m taking the Tigglemans with me.”

  “Claudine, what are you doing—”

  “I believe chapter four is called ‘This Is the Price of Doing Business.’” She lingered, savoring the moment, then politely and pointedly said, “Goodbye.”

  She needed to find Henry. It was finally time.

  Henry

  When he got home from work, he could sense a shift immediately. There were candles lit. Fresh flowers in a vase. He smelled garlic, something baking in the oven. The table was elaborately set for two. A record was on.

  Was this the right house?

  Yes, there was his couch, lately his bed, but the blankets were folded nicely, draped over the back. The pillow gone. Not as he had left it.

  “Henry?” Her voice so sweet, it was jarring.

  He went to the bar cart and poured a whiskey, his growing collection impressive.

  “Henry?” she called again from the kitchen.

  He could hear her banging around, the sound of a spoon stirring a pot. A cork coming out of a wine bottle. Then she was in front of him. Dressed up, wearing the emerald drop earrings she bought after making her first sale a few weeks ago, a present to herself. Handing him a glass of wine, she asked him to sit. He had a drink in each hand. She was excited, he could tell. Why was she acting like this was how each day normally ended? He finished his drink and took a sip of wine.

  “I have an announcement,” she said.

  She looked like a memory of someone he used to know. But it was her. It had been so long since they’d even been home at the same time. He didn’t expect the swell of emotion that came with her attention.

  She did most of the talking. There was big news: she had quit her job. No more late nights. But there was no need to panic. She had a plan. He hadn’t noticed the folder on the table. Then she was laying out letterhead, envelopes, notepads, business cards. She handed him one. There were simple hooked C’s in the upper corner as a logo.

  Henry Calhoun

  Architect, Partner

  Calhoun + Calhoun

  She explained that this was what she’d been working on so late every night. So hard. Wanting to surprise him. Wasn’t it perfect? As she made the excuses and said the words, it didn’t seem to matter that he knew it wasn’t true. Or at least wasn’t the whole story. He chose her side of things. To live this version of his life, the one in which he believed everything she said as the truth. Calhoun + Calhoun.

  She spoke like he was supposed to already have known the plan was in the works, to make him feel as if he’d been included in the idea from the start. That this, the business card he held, was the manifestation of everything they’ve been dreaming of. She had her eye on a perfect little office smack in the middle of downtown. Lots of windows. Everything white. They’d take out a loan. Modest, for sure, but just what they’d need to launch the business.

  “You’ll finally work on your own houses. I’ve been selling more and more. And that can support us until we can start developing. Then, when the timing is right—when we find the perfect plot of land—we’ll build. And sell. Repeat.”

  “Repeat,” he repeated.

  “Can’t you see it?”

  She was reminding him of before, not so long ago, when they’d get excited about having adventures, starting careers.

  Slowly it was setting in.

  She’d come back.

  This was their second chance.

  Claudine

  There’s no instant glory when starting a business. Only hard work. The big dream, the vision of helming an immediate well-oiled machine, quickly gives way to realities. To needs. An office. Clients. New clothing. Claudine did a complete wardrobe wipeout. She couldn’t fathom, even for a moment, the thought of wearing a skirt she’d been a receptionist in. Building around a few key designer staples would be important. A Chanel tweed dress. An Yves Saint Laurent wool suit jacket. A string of pearls. Gradually she’d add to it. For now, the rest she could pick up at Pitkin County Dry Goods. She started taking yoga and got a new haircut, her long curls chopped into a severe bob. It was edgy, intimidating, powerful. Henry didn’t even recognize her at first.

  She’d never built something from the ground up, but, through extensive reading and research, knew enough not to be disillusioned when things didn’t go exactly the way she’d envisioned. The first thing to go was the idea of a brick-and-mortar office. After looking at two spaces (one on Hyman that had no windows, the other on Hopkins—cute but outrageously overpriced); she decided they didn’t need one for the first year. It would be a waste. There was plenty of room in the living room at the condo. Keeping a low overhead made sense. Stay the course. Hardly any agencies in town offered what they did—the complete package. The goal was development. An architect with bold, innovative ideas and a rising real estate star with impeccable taste. A husband-and-wife team. It was a good story. Calhoun + Calhoun would be a tough birth, but worth it.

  The immediate need was to find the land. This was boom time, and most people sitting on worthy plots and looking to sell had cashed out. A house bought for under ten thousand dollars in the 1950s was worth millions now. And
there were no signs of it slowing down. When land became available, it was getting purchased within a day of being listed, if it got listed at all. And the prices kept going up. Soon they wouldn’t be able to afford even a half acre. It only made her work harder. She knew they’d find it; it was only a matter of when.

  Ideally it would be a few miles out of town. Something truly spectacular. They had one shot to establish a reputation. The first house would set the tone. Claudine decided that she would keep selling condos and houses—whatever listings she could get—until they found the perfect plot. She’d spend hours driving around Snowmass and Buttermilk. All around Red Mountain and Woody Creek. Not that she expected to find a fire sale, but she thought she’d discover something. The only thing she was learning was that big companies already owned so much. They needed another way in. A connection. She refused to be discouraged. Worked on her patience, which wasn’t easy. It would come. She’d find it. And until then she and Henry would gather the troops. Establish a stable of excellent hardworking local vendors. Meet the master masons. Befriend the top wood restorers. Find the best metalworkers.