The Christmas Secret (Christmas Hope)

by VanLiere, Donna

  “I hear a boiled egg with dry wheat toast is good.”

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “What else do you recommend?”

  He was smug and reminded me of Brad. “What are you doing here?”

  He took his arm off the top of the bench. “I came here to eat.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I said.

  He looked around and cast his eyes up at me. “Well, I was hoping you’d be working.”

  He was making fun of me. “Why’d you come in here?”

  His back straightened and any charm he had been feeling fell cold to the table. “I was told to come here.”

  I snatched up the menu and walked away. Karen and Tasha were both too busy to help with his table but even if they weren’t I knew I couldn’t ask them again without appearing like an emotionally unstable divorced woman dragging her baggage to work every day. I was humiliated and felt so silly. Gloria’s and Miriam’s orders were up and I snatched them off the grill line, positioning parsley and orange slices on each plate. They were still reading their mail when I set their food in front of them. Gloria noticed my tag. “I thought you said your name was Christine.”

  “It is,” I said, pretending to be having a normal conversation.

  “Then why have you assumed the identity of a fifty-five-year-old pastry maker with arthritic knees?”

  I smiled and refilled her coffee. “Because of my ex-husband. He sent in TS to see if I worked here.”

  I realized Craig or any one of the cooks would be calling my name any second for my other orders and I rushed to the back before they did. Craig placed the boiled egg and toast on a plate and I reached for it before he could call me. I ignored the orange slices and parsley and walked the plate to table three, putting it in front of TS. “Next time, just tell him to come in himself.” He stared at me but didn’t say a word. I didn’t think he would.

  As TS was leaving he stepped to the display case and leaned toward the cash register. “Excuse me,” he said. Tasha turned to look at him. “Does Christy work here?” The name shot through my head at the waitress station and I pushed a tray of drinks to the floor. Karen jumped and threw her hand to her chest; Tasha stepped away from the counter to reach for the broom and dustpan. TS smiled apologetically and left.

  “What happened?” Betty said, stepping out of the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, Betty,” I said. “I’ll pay for these.”

  She watched me sweep up the glass and guide it into the dustpan. “Why are you wearing Rosemary’s name tag?”

  I dumped the shards of glass into the garbage and used the mop to soak up the water. Two days on the job and I was performing under par and looked like an idiot. “My ex-husband knew I lost my job at Patterson’s and sent social services after me so he could threaten to take my kids again.”

  “Ah,” Betty said, taking the mop from me. “I broke more than just a few glasses over my ex-husband,” she said. “Just go to anger management before setting his motorcycle on fire.”

  “Did you do that?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to point fingers,” she said. She reached for a cloth under the waitress station and wiped crumbs off the countertop. “Listen, I learned more than I wanted through my divorce.” She used her thumbnail to pick at a crumb lodged in the seam of the counter. “And I realized that all the sniping, whining, and guerilla tactics took a lot of nine-to-five energy.” She stopped and looked at me. “All of my defensive maneuvers didn’t change the fact that I had two children to take care of and the more I fought and argued the more I hurt them because they weren’t getting me; they were getting this pumped up, caustic, aggressive version of me. Does that make sense?”

  I wanted to say, “Yes! Yes! That’s me,” but settled for nodding my head.

  She crouched down and cleaned the baseboards under the display case. “Of course by the time I figured that out I had an angry teenager on my hands. He didn’t like me or his father and I couldn’t blame him. He took a detour that lasted many years but that’s a whole other story.” She stood up and smiled at me. “I don’t know your ex, Christine. I have no idea what he’s like but . . . all I’m saying is don’t let it consume you.”

  “I don’t think it is,” I said.

  She smiled. “It is, doll. You think some kid has been sent in here to spy on you.”

  I realized how ludicrous it sounded. “I know it sounds far-fetched but Brad would do that.”

  She crossed her arms and her eyes scrunched up when she smiled. “Why? To prove that you’re here working during the middle of the day while your kids are at school? How could he use that against you?” I didn’t have an answer. She put her hands on my shoulders and patted them hard. “You remind me so much of my granddaughter so I’m going to say this. Take it from an old gal who traveled this same road a long time ago. If you don’t stop looking over your shoulder and really notice what’s happening to you and around you and inside of you then you’re going to run the risk of losing what’s most important to you.”

  Jason finished the disappointing call with his headhunter. “Keep your head up,” Louis said. “Christmas is never a good time to be looking for work. But there are plenty of firms out there that will be hiring in the New Year.”

  “Give me a call if something turns up,” Jason said before hanging up the phone.

  Marshall waited until Jason was off the phone before handing him another quiz.

  Jason sighed, looking at him. “You know I always get the first nine questions right, so to save both of us time why don’t you just ask me number ten?”

  “Fair enough,” Marshall said. “What’s the lady’s name who’s in charge of the janitorial staff?”

  Jason laughed. “How about, who are the ladies in cosmetics and jewelry or the guy in shoes who walks with a limp?” Marshall shook his head. “You know I have rent to pay, right?”

  “I do. And if—” Jason got up in a huff and walked to the office door. “Where are you going?”

  “Looking for the cleaning lady,” Jason said.

  “Hey, wait!” Marshall said. “Where’re my cookies?”

  “I didn’t get any.”

  Marshall hung his jacket on the coatrack. “Why not?”

  “Because Rosemary said to come in yourself.”

  Marshall folded his arms and stared at him. “What?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what you did but you really ticked her off,” Jason said.

  “And she said I couldn’t have my white chocolate chip macadamias?”

  “She said next time you need to go in yourself. And I have a feeling when you do she’s going to rip into you like a monkey on a cookie.”

  Marshall stepped toward his office. “Of all the crazy things.”

  “Is she single?” Jason said, holding the office door open.

  “She’s a widow, actually.”

  “A widow?” He let the door rest on his backside. “When did her husband die?”

  “Long before I knew her,” Marshall said.

  “How long have you known her?”

  Marshall thought for a moment. “At least five years.” Jason nodded and Marshall watched him. “Why are you asking so many questions about Rosemary?”

  Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s something about her.”

  “About Rosemary?”

  Karen, are you interested in working a double?” Betty asked. “Maddie is sick and can’t work today.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, realizing I was stepping out of bounds. I looked at Karen. “I’m sorry. I meant if you don’t want to work it that I could.”

  Karen filled her tray with glasses of ice water and looked at Betty. “If Christine wants it she can have it.”

  “The shift starts at four thirty,” Betty said.

  My mind kicked into gear. I needed to find a sitter. I left messages for both Allie and Mira and racked my brain for the name of the place the social worker had mentioned when she came to the house. It finally came to me and I dialed i
nformation for the number to Glory’s Place. “Please be open,” I said, dialing the number.

  “Glory’s Place. This is Heddy,” a woman said.

  “Hi. My name’s Christine and I got your name from”—I didn’t want to tell her a social worker who had made a visit—“a friend. I have a seven-year-old and a five-year-old who need supervision after school. Is there any way I could drop them off today?”

  “I’m sorry. We are maxed out right now after school. I can take down your name and number and let you know when we have some openings.”

  I gave her my information but hung up with little hope that they’d ever be able to help. I opened the directory in my cell phone and scrolled down it. A name popped out at me and I dialed the number, listening as it rang in my ear.

  “Hello.” I was so relieved to hear that voice.

  “Renee!”

  “Christine! How are you, kid? How’s the new job?”

  “It’s great but I’m in a jam,” I said. I hated that I didn’t have time to catch up with her and realized I was sounding short and uninterested in her life. “I have the chance to work a double tonight and I need to work it to buy the kids’ presents and pay rent and—”

  She cut me off. “I’ll watch your kids. What time?”

  “Are you sure, Renee? What about Sherman?”

  “A night away will make that man appreciate me for all the ways I keep him fed and organized and walking straight.”

  What a relief. I watched a table of four sit down in my section. “I miss working with you, Renee.”

  “I’ll let you know how I feel about you after I take care of your kids.” I laughed and dropped the phone into my apron pocket.

  The lunch crowd fell off by two o’clock. I cashed in my tips and Betty handed me sixty-two dollars and seventy cents. Hopefully, I could make more than that at dinner. The strange “day-old pastry lady” slid into a booth by the window and I put a cup of black coffee on my tray. “Hi,” I said, setting it in front of her.

  “Hi.” Her eyes were sunken and black with lack of rest. She had a red nose and blue fingers from walking here and held the cup between her hands to get warm.

  “Have you found a job?” She shook her head. “Can I get you anything to eat?”

  “No. Just the coffee and a day-old pastry.”

  I wondered if she didn’t eat because she wasn’t hungry or if she felt that she shouldn’t eat. She not only didn’t look well but seemed to have long lost touch with what being well meant. “All the day-olds are gone,” I said. “There weren’t many today.” She nodded and looked out the window. She always seemed somewhere that was unreachable and distant, someplace far beyond the restaurant window. “Do you live around here?” I asked, resting the tray on my hip. She nodded. “Where?”

  She set her cup down and looked out the window. “I’m not looking for friends, okay? Just coffee and pastry.”

  Renee and I spent too little time catching up when I got home but I was zapped. After she left I crept into Zach’s room and sat on the edge of his bed, touching his leg. What would I do without him and Haley? What would I be without them? I watched him breathe and knew in that half-lit bedroom what I lacked and what I failed to give my children. I sensed it was what the coffee-and-pastry-lady desired more than anything else and what she would give to taste it. It was a whisper in the soul, a lump in the throat, and an echo in the deep and hidden places of the heart. It was the hope that we are loved, truly loved, and that we are known. It was what I wanted more than anything.

  Marshall swung open the door to Betty’s and shivered as the heat touched his skin. He pulled off his gloves and walked to the display case. “Is Rosemary working today?” he asked, peering into the case of baked goods.

  “Yep,” Tasha said. “Rosemary!” Rosemary glanced up from her work in the kitchen and saw Marshall through the window that divided the kitchen and dining hall. She set aside a lump of dough and stepped around the corner to the counter.

  “Hi, Marshall,” she said, smiling. “How are you today?”

  “Well, I’m great. I was wondering how you were.”

  She brushed the flour from her hands onto the apron. “I’m doing fine,” she said, looking at him.

  He fumbled for words. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Did you hear otherwise? Have you been talking to my doctor?” she said, laughing.

  “No, no. I just thought . . . you know . . . that maybe you needed to see me.”

  She leaned onto the counter. “About what?” she said, whispering.

  “About the cookies,” he said.

  Her face bordered on confusion and laughter. “Did you get a bad batch?” she said, leaning closer. “Too much salt? Too hard?”

  He shook his head. “No, every cookie I’ve ever eaten here has been great. I’d actually love a sack if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I don’t normally work the cash register but Tasha could help you. Do you need anything else, Marshall?”

  “No, do you?”

  Rosemary looked at him, puzzled. “No. I’m fine.”

  “Well, great! Good to see you.” He waved as she walked back to the kitchen. Tasha handed him a sack of white chocolate chip macadamia cookies and Marshall stuck his nose inside the bag and picked out a cookie, sighing as he smelled it.

  Patricia Addison moved a half-empty cup of cold coffee to Roy Braedon’s desk and smiled. She’d been putting partially eaten donuts, cups with coffee dregs on the bottom, and candy wrappers on his desk for years and it drove him crazy. Her phone rang and she reached for it. “This is Patricia.”

  “This is Brad Eisley.” Patricia couldn’t place the name right away. “You went to my ex-wife’s house but you never called me back.”

  Patricia picked up a pen and her notepad, remembering. “I filed my report, Mr. Eisley.”

  “But I didn’t see it.”

  “Your attorney has access to those files.”

  “But they’re my kids. They come home from school and aren’t supervised. They’re being neglected. Your report shows that, right?”

  Patricia cringed. “My report is an accurate documentation of what I witnessed in the home and after spending time with the children.”

  He paused. “So what does that mean?”

  “Your attorney can share the information with you, Mr. Eisley. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and turned to see Roy, standing at his desk. “Do you ever get the feeling that some people have a need to be a jerk? They just can’t get through the day without being a jerk to someone. It doesn’t matter who: the bus driver maybe, or the cashier at the grocery store, the guy they work with, or the ex-wife, for whatever reason. He just wakes up and says, ‘It’s a new day. I must be a jerk.’ ”

  Roy took a bite of a bagel and wiped cream cheese from his chin. “What’d I do now?” Patricia laughed and leaned forward, picking up the phone. “Who are you calling?” he asked. “Are you getting ready to stir the pot?”

  “No,” she said, listening as the phone rang in her ear. “I’m taking the pot off the stove. Gloria! It’s Patricia.” Gloria had been a foster mother for many of Patricia’s cases and the women had developed a close relationship over the years.

  “Give me the mother’s information,” Gloria said. “Someone will get in touch with her in the next couple of days.”

  Clayton came in but without Julie or the kids. He sat at a booth with another man and I approached them with coffee. “No Ava and Adam today?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, putting the cup to his lips. I took their orders and walked to the computer.

  “How’s Clayton’s wife?” Karen asked.

  “I didn’t know anything was wrong with her,” I said.

  “She has cancer.”

  Julie was young. Her children were young. Her husband had just ordered an omelet with bacon, onion, and cheese. How could she have cancer? I made my way around my tables and refilled every one’s coffee, stopping at Clayton’s
booth. “How’s Julie?” I asked.

  “She’s doing better,” he said. “Last week was hard. The chemo made her so sick and now her hair’s falling out but this week she feels stronger. Her sister came into town and took her for her treatment today.” His voice was full and warm and in love with her. Craig called my name and I ran to get their orders hoping I’d never see Clayton without Julie again.

  Jason piled armloads of shirts and dress slacks onto rolling carts and wheeled them into the men’s department. He noticed a small boy hiding in the middle of one of the circular racks and leaned over the top of it to peer down at him. “Hey, there,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “This is my command post,” the boy said.

  “Like for a mission?” Jason asked, guessing the boy to be around five.

  The boy nodded. “Space mission. I’m the commander. You be the bad guy.”

  “No can do,” Jason said. “I’m working and the boss man gets real mad if I don’t do my job.”

  “What’s your name?” the boy asked.

  “Jason. What’s yours?”

  “Marcus,” the boy said, peering his face out between the slacks. “I’m four.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” a young black man asked, yanking the boy from out of the middle of the rack.

  “Playing space mission,” Marcus said.

  “Damn it, Marcus. I told you to stay by me,” the man said. He looked no older than Jason.

  “He was okay,” Jason said. “He wasn’t bothering anything.”

  “He’s always bothering things,” the man said, jerking the boy’s arm. “Get out of there.” He turned to look at Jason. “I need khaki pants for a job. You got any?”

  Jason pointed to a table. “They’re all stacked right there. More sizes in the back.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” the man said to Marcus.

  Marcus looked up and Jason shrugged his shoulders. “Your dad’s kind of mad,” Jason said.

  “He’s not my dad,” Marcus said. “He’s my mom’s boyfriend. The other one left.”