Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  “Let me go,” Buchman said, backing away quickly. “You don’t want to corner him at a time like this.”

  But I did want to go, I did want to run after Tyler and corner him and pull him into my arms and tell him that I would never give him up. Never.

  15

  When Buchman returned with a sheepish expression ten minutes later, I braced myself for the worst.

  “I’m sorry, but he must have slipped ahead of me. I went directly to the storeroom where he keeps the mousetraps, but he’s not there.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I admitted. “His favorite bear, Lemon, is gone, and so are his Legos and his art kit. He’s hiding. Or else he’s trying to run away.”

  “He can’t have gone far,” Buchman said.

  “What if he left the store?” I pressed a fist to my mouth and fought back the rising panic. Tyler was gone. Oh, God . . .

  “Hold it together,” Buchman said sternly. “We’ll have security start a sweep through the store immediately. And perhaps we should alert the police. I will make those calls. You focus on Tyler. What he was wearing? We’ll need a description.”

  My beautiful five-year-old with bright eyes and freckled nose. Green elf pants with a green and white striped jacket that he hates. Underneath he was wearing his HAIGHT STREET KIDS T-shirt. And curly-toed green elf shoes over his sneakers.

  While Buchman made the calls I paced Santaland, wanting to be in a dozen places at once: at the top of every escalator, in front of every door, at the sleigh where he’d been playing, inside every dressing room, and under every rack of clothes.

  Tyler, where are you? Let us find you! I prayed as I crawled in the hatch that led to the dusty area under the Santa platform. When I lifted the white skirt of fake snow, enough light shot into the darkness for me to see that the scratched linoleum floor was empty.

  Hope flooded through me when the security people appeared one by one, Tadashi and the other familiar faces.

  “We’ve gone through this dozens of times,” Tadashi told me. “We always find them. Always.” Something was reassuring about the way they listened, their earpieces in place. A clerk would be stationed at all doors and the team would search the store, one quadrant at a time.

  I wanted to be part of their search but the police were on their way. “We’ll maintain radio contact,” Tadashi said. “We’ll let you know as soon as we find him.”

  They would find him. Of course, they would. It wasn’t as if I’d lost him in an airport or foreign country. Rossman’s was our second home.

  And yet, it was in Union Square, a busy shopping district in a busy city.

  Oh, please, God, whoever and whatever you are, please, bring him back to me.

  I called Jaimie at home, and Bree, who was participating in the Sing-It-Yourself Messiah. They both promised to come if I needed them. Then I called Agate, whose calm voice made my throat grow thick with emotion. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

  “He thinks I don’t want him,” I choked out. “He thinks I’m giving him to TJ.” I paused to swallow back a sob. “I’m a terrible mother.”

  “Honey, we’ve all been there,” she said. “Harried and overworked and barely grown up ourselves. No one person can do it all; as the saying goes, it takes a village. Let’s brainstorm after the holidays and we’ll figure out what I can do for Tyler. Use your friend Jaimie. And let Tyler lead you sometimes. He’s old enough to know whose company he enjoys.”

  I thanked her, wiping my eyes as a police officer stepped off the escalator. It seemed like hours had passed already, but checking my watch, I saw that Tyler had been missing for less than half an hour. I told Agate good-bye, faced the young patrolman, and answered his questions quickly.

  “Ma’am, do you think the boy’s father might have picked him up? Taken him somewhere?”

  “I . . . don’t.” I pressed my lips together, thinking that TJ wouldn’t stoop so low, would he? To send his lawyer and follow right behind to scoop up Tyler? Besides, in Tyler’s state of mind, I doubted he would go with TJ.

  “Are you sure, ma’am? The fact is, when children are missing, most of the time they are with another family member. An ex. A relative.”

  I was nodding. “I don’t think so, but we should check, right? I’ll call his father.”

  Of course, TJ refused to take my call, even when I got through to the studio and explained the situation to Concepcion. Finally, I asked the police officer to handle the call, and within minutes he was speaking with TJ, ascertaining that TJ had no knowledge of his son’s current whereabouts.

  I was surprised when the cop handed me the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Taking the phone, I felt my teeth clenching. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “What the hell is going on there? Did you tell the cops I kidnapped him?”

  I scoffed. “That’s sweet. Always about you, isn’t it?”

  “Listen to me, Cassie. I haven’t seen the kid, and I don’t intend to see him. Ever. I don’t care what you and Cartwright agreed on. I don’t have the . . .” He sighed. “Why can’t you accept that I don’t have the right temperament to raise a kid?”

  “Because you’re a big boy and you can control your temperament. You have control over your own behavior, TJ. You alone.” As I talked I moved quickly, stopping to circle clothing racks and dig inside to make sure he wasn’t hiding at the center. Impatient and anxious about Tyler, I was only half listening to TJ.

  “You know I was never good with self-control. Listen, the show is leaving San Francisco. Not final yet, but talks are on to move us to Los Angeles. Bigger market, more affiliates.”

  “Los Angeles?” I was in the women’s dressing room on the third floor, peeking under doors and clothing racks. “What are you talking about?” I said as I swung out of the dressing area and spotted Tadashi in the aisle.

  “Anything?” I called, ignoring TJ’s ramblings.

  “Yes, yes! I was looking for you. Come!”

  I don’t remember hanging up or stowing the phone, but I will never forget Tadashi’s warm smile as he told me, “We have found him. Everything’s fine.” I think Tadashi will also remember that moment, as I threw my arms around him and burst into tears.

  “Oh, Mrs. Claus,” he said, patting my back. “Please don’t cry. Your elf will be home for Christmas.”

  16

  Tyler had been discovered with Lemon Bear and a bucket of Legos in the bedding department. He was curled under one of the fake bed displays and admitted that he planned to hide until the lights went out, then crawl into the bed, which was just his size.

  Buchman was already there, the two of them sitting side by side on the floor, leaning against the elf bed that featured cushy flannel sheets with square panels of cheerful reindeer faces. Tyler’s face was red from crying, probably a good match for my own blotchy complexion. When he spotted me his face puckered, bringing on a new round of tears.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  I dropped beside him and pulled him into my arms to breathe in the smell of his skin and kiss his salty cheeks. “No, I’m sorry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “I’m so sorry you thought for a moment that I would ever, ever let you go. ’Cause that’s never going to happen.”

  “I know,” he said glumly. “Except to my dad.”

  “No, not to him, either.” I leaned back and looked in his eyes. “I realized tonight that I’ve been wrong about you and TJ. Yes, he’s your father but . . . Honestly, he lives a life that isn’t the best place for a five-year-old boy right now. The best place for you, T, is right here with me.”

  He sucked in a breath of delight. “I love you, Mom.” He flung himself into my arms and hugged me with such genuine drama that tears stung my eyes.

  “I love you, too.”

  As we talked about what Tyler had heard and thought, what he had worried about so much that he felt it better to disappear, Buchman sat by quietly, reassuring us both with his presence. I wanted to kick myself when
Tyler pointed out that he ran away because I kept giving him the impression that I was trying to foist him on someone else. He thought I wanted to be free of him. All along I had been trying to create a balanced, healthy life for my son, and what had happened? I’d screwed up big-time.

  “One of these days I’ll get this mother thing right,” I told Jaimie later on the phone.

  “Oh, yeah, sure you will. We’ll be like, ninety and wearing diapers ourselves. But we’ll figure it out eventually.”

  That night as I tucked the fleece blanket under Tyler’s chin, I flopped down beside him and stared out over the café blinds, out at the jagged lines of rooftops and trees dotted by streetlights, and I thanked God that he was safe. I’d come so close to losing him, maybe not physically, but on the emotional plane, where that connection between mother and child needs to stretch and twist and bend in time. I sensed that it had been pulled to a fine thread when I’d pushed him toward TJ.

  In a burst of emotion I squeezed him tight and kissed the side of his head. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” I whispered, not sure if he was still awake.

  “You won’t,” he murmured. “Good night, moon.”

  By the time the doorbell rang on Christmas Eve, Tyler and I had worked together to create a new family blueprint that included Agate and did not include TJ in any way. I had worked through custody details with Nina Cho, asking for sole custody of Tyler, along with a reasonable financial arrangement to ensure his financial security and his education. We planned a quiet Christmas Eve watching our favorite boy learn the meaning of Christmas with his young friends’ help—an enjoyable Charlie Brown for me once again, now that I’d pushed TJ out of that equation. Tomorrow, we would all gather at Bree’s, where she was hosting a dinner for our new extended family, which this year would include Agate, Franco Verti, and Tadashi, finder of lost children.

  Most everything had fallen into place.

  And then there was Buchman.

  Tyler buzzed Buchman in, then scampered around excitedly as our guest arrived with gifts. Tyler didn’t know about Buchman’s assignment, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him and ruin his Christmas. “Can I open mine?” Tyler crowed.

  “One present on Christmas Eve,” I called from the kitchen area, where a veggie lasagna sat steaming on the counter. I didn’t want to come out of the kitchen, didn’t want to emerge and start the clock ticking on our first and only Christmas with Buchman. Although the heat rising from the oven had to be wilting my make-up.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s give your mum her gift first, shall we?”

  Summoning all my composure, I turned to face Buchman, who stared down at his open, empty palms. “I do hope you like it. It was a bear to wrap.”

  Tyler laughed. “There’s nothing there! No bears.”

  “I know this one,” I said. “You’re giving me the world’s smallest flea circus.”

  “Actually, I’m more of a spendthrift than that. Ms. Derringer, I’m giving you the gift of myself. For three more months, at least. I convinced Rossman’s that I could do wonders on this store in that time, liar that I am. We’ll reevaluate April first. Which gives us time to see how . . . certain relationships might develop. Or not. Whatever you think.”

  Hope surged through me and I leaped into his arms. “I think it’s fabulous.”

  “You just caused me to drop your gift,” he teased, pushing my hair off my face with his long fingers. He lowered his voice, adding, “However, I refuse to be used exclusively as a sex object this time.”

  I reached down to pinch his butt.

  “None of that, now. You must let me in this time.”

  I sucked in a breath. “You were already in.”

  “I don’t understand that gift. Is it invisible?” Tyler asked us. “Is my gift going to be invisible, too?”

  “Your gift is quite tangible.” Buchman turned back to Tyler and squatted down to his eye level. “Your mum is going to have my head, but I believe every boy must have a pet.” He reached into the shopping bag and lifted out a small cage. Inside, a small white and gray creature crouched in a ball under some wood chips.

  “A mouse.” Tyler’s face brightened. “Wow, cool!”

  “I believe we’ve found our Christmas mouse,” Buchman said, handing the cage to TJ.

  “He finally turned up!” Tyler pressed his face against the cage. “Did you come into my trap?”

  “More or less.” Buchman straightened to my level. “Or there may have been a pet store involved,” he muttered.

  “What?” Tyler asked, but he was quickly distracted by the movement of the critter. “Look at him tumblesault. Maybe he’s a stunt mouse.”

  “Nothing like the stunts I shall be doing when your mother lets me have it for bringing you a pet for Christmas.” He winced at me, mouthing, “Sorry!”

  Backing away from the cage, I sat on the couch and watched the two of them examine the mouse. The image of Buchman and Tyler leaning over the cage together struck a chord deep inside me. Theirs was a special relationship, a bond forged not out of obligation but out of mutual interest. It reminded me of something Agate said, about letting Tyler choose his own leaders.

  “What are you going to name him?” Buchman asked.

  “How about Snoopy?” I suggested.

  “Squeak.” Buchman chirped at the mouse. “Scamp. Scamper. Squirt.”

  “Mistletoe,” Tyler said, nodding. “It’s a good name for a Christmas mouse.”

  I folded my arms. “Maybe the gift will teach you some responsibility, T. If not . . .” I pointed at Buchman. “I’ll expect you to be over here cleaning out its cage.”

  “An activity at the top of my list, to be sure.” He sat beside me on the couch. “Can’t think of much that would amuse me more than flicking away at mouse doodles in your lovely turret.”

  His face was close to mine, close enough for me to feel the light stubble along his jaw and to see the dark flecks in his blue eyes. We were leaning toward a woozy kiss when I felt something wiggling against the back of my head.

  “Eee!” I bounced away from the couch cushions and twisted toward Tyler. “Was that a mouse in my hair?”

  He dangled the mouse gently. “A little Mistletoe.”

  “Yuck!” I shrieked. Buchman stifled a laugh at the sight of me swiping my hands over the back of my head. “Do not ever, ever, put that thing close to my head. Do you understand?”

  “But Mom, I have to put Mistletoe over your head if—”

  “It’s quite all right, Tyler.” Buchman cupped the mouse against Tyler’s chest. “You hold on to Mistletoe. Don’t want to let the Christmas mouse loose again, do we? Hold on tight, and I shall hold on to your mum.” Buchman put his hands squarely on my shoulders and pulled me toward him.

  Tyler cleared his throat. “Can I tell you something? It’s a Christmas tradition to kiss under the—”

  “Please, I think we can manage just fine,” Buchman said, his blue eyes hinting at amusement as his lips met mine.

  We would manage, all right. I could see myself arguing through the spring window design with Buchman and talking him into increasing the design budget so we could replace those horrible fake summer flowers gathering mold in the storeroom. I could see Agate teaching Tyler how to tend a garden, all of us gathering in her cottage for vegetable stew. I could see Tyler growing more and more secure in his family’s love for him . . . and building a better mousetrap. Jaimie and Matt and Scout, Bree and Franco or whomever she decided to spend her time with—they would all be a part of our new, redefined family. And Mistletoe? Well, maybe Tyler’s kindergarten class could adopt him during the school year. On second thought, did I want to be known as the mom who gave all those five-year-olds a reason to kiss?

  Absolutely.

  Miracle on the Magnificent Mile

  Meredith

  Chicago, December 2005

  1

  “With all due respect, Uncle Leonard, there is no way in hell you’ll catch me wearing
that red Santa suit.” When the words slipped out during a budget and planning meeting with the Rossman’s board of directors, everyone in the room laughed, guffawed even, at the notion of Meredith Rossman, their future CEO, masquerading as Santa’s sidekick. A joke. An amusing diversion. At least, that was what I’d thought when he’d brought up the topic of the vintage dress turning up in the flagship store’s collection of holiday costumes.

  That !@#$ red suit. I remembered my mother opening it two years ago right here in the Michigan Avenue store, running her hands over the velvet fabric, nearly embracing the jacket as if it were an old friend. At the time, she expected me to wear it, despite the fact that I was getting my MBA, on a total corporate track. Back then I’d fended Mom off. Now, wearing the suit was out of the question, as was celebrating Christmas.

  Call me Scrooge, but it’s very difficult to have a holly jolly merry little Christmas when you’re fighting off a seasonal depression that cuts right to your soul. Believe me, I know. I lost my parents two years ago on Christmas Day, which is ironic in that it was probably their favorite day of the year.

  Somehow, it now seems disrespectful to their distant spirits, as if the holiday they had loved most had betrayed them and every Bavarian hand-cut glass ornament, every caroling quartet, every fa-la-la mocked the two people who had built this empire, created my world and held it suspended in emotional and material riches that I considered unending.

  But even in tragedy the Rossmans forged on. Dad’s two brothers worked double time to pick up the slack, and I plowed on, trying to prepare and educate myself to lead the company. That’s the downside about being part of the Rossman dynasty; you’re supposed to carry on, assume the mantle of diplomacy and goodwill for Rossman’s. If it’s good for the store, it’s good for you.

  “If you want to use the suit, I’m sure we can hire an actress to play Mrs. Claus,” I added. I was beginning to wonder over the fact that Western civilization’s archetypical devil was always depicted in red. The color of blood and stop signs and Satan and eyes that have cried all night. Really, when Santa had the wife whip up a superhero costume, what was he thinking?