I pulled a piece of warm crust from the end of the roll and popped it in my mouth, stalling for time as I chewed. “I don’t really know. I’m very good at what I do, but I guess I’d make a lousy undercover operative. I wanted to confirm that you live here, somehow confirm your identity. You know, your employee file is rather thin, Nick. According to those records, your past job experience adds up to four months of work. I’ve got to protect Rossman’s, and honestly, I want to know the truth about you.”
“That burning curiosity.” He took a deep bite, then shook his head as he chewed. “I noticed that with the elf kids, too. As soon as people find out there’s something you don’t want to talk about, that’s all they want to hear.”
“It’s human nature. Understandable.” The red wine warmed me right down to my toes. I took a second sip for courage.
“Sure, but why am I fair game? I don’t see people asking you to expose the skeletons in your closets, Mrs. Claus.”
I dropped the sandwich back onto the plate. “No. Probably because my problems are so public.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t taking a shot at you; I’m just annoyed that people won’t leave me alone. Really, I’m an hourly employee, a Christmas hire. In less than three weeks Rossman’s will be telling me bye-bye.”
“So we should leave you alone?”
“Please.”
“I agree with you in principle,” I said. “But I…I can’t leave you alone.”
He put his plate down on the coffee table and turned to me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I don’t mean…I mean…”
“You’ve taken a personal interest in me,” he said.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mrs. C.” He took the plate from my hands and moved closer.
“I meant for business purposes,” I stammered.
“No, you didn’t.”
I sighed, unable to look up at him. “You’re right, I didn’t. It is personal, Nick, but this is not something I do. Certainly not well…”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” He lifted my right hand to his face, kissed the palm, then pressed it to his cheek.
“Just barely,” I said hoarsely. I let my fingers sink into his hair, round the back of his head, thrilled and alarmed that he was able to read my mind.
“You’re doing fine,” he said, leaning close to nibble my earlobe. He pressed against me and suddenly I was leaning back on the couch and our bodies were touching in very important places as I fell into Nick’s kiss.
The next morning I awoke to rumbling walls. Not an earthquake, but a bass guitar. I rolled over in bed, realizing I was naked under the comforter of Nick’s bed, his warm, furred legs beside me. I scooched against him and wrapped one leg over his, content in the moment.
“That’s Oscar,” he mumbled, putting a hand on my butt and squeezing tenderly. “Downstairs tenant. Bass guitarist. Not bad when he performs at the appropriate time. Which is not now.”
“Mmm.” I let my hand run along the bare skin of his back, massaging between his shoulder blades. I didn’t care that the bass guitarist had woken us up. It felt so good to touch another human being, so soulfully beautiful to connect, that I dreaded having to leave Nick’s bed. “For the first time in a long time, I wish I could take the day off from work.”
“You probably could,” he said. “You’re the boss. But I can’t. No excuses for the Santas for hire. Miss a day and big bad management will fire our asses.”
I smiled. “I’d put in a good word for you, but I really have to go in.”
“Oh, come on. What’s so important that you have to go in?”
“Let’s see… The board meeting is December twenty-first, and God knows what else my jerk cousin Daniel might have up his sleeve. I’m sure you heard about how he’d trying to usurp the CEO position from me. And I’ve got to stay on the toy sales. I made a deal with my uncle. If I get toy sales up 50 percent over last year, he’s going to support my appointment to CEO.”
Nick opened his eyes at me. “That’s a mouthful.” He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. “I read about some of Rossman’s corporate maneuvers this week in the Tribune. Your cousin sounds like a real piece of work. Is he any good?”
“My unbiased opinion? He’ll run the chain into the ground if they let him.”
“So why is he wasting everyone’s time?”
“Ego, I guess. And quest for power and money.”
“And what motivates you?” He opened his eyes again. “What makes Meredith tick?”
“There’s some ego involved, along with family pride and a sense that I think I’m really good at what I do.”
“I believe that. But I don’t understand this toy campaign. It flies in the face of what Rossman’s used to represent in Christmases past. The tradition of charity at Christmas. Raising the store’s profile with parents through giving, not pilfering profits.”
“Okay, now you’re sounding less like Santa, more like Robin Hood.”
He moved his hand to the base of my spine and rubbed gently. “I’m just thinking big picture. Rossman’s at Christmas, the way it used to be when the store was lit up like a Christmas tree and each kid used to receive a little plastic whistle or a toy balloon for free. It was a true celebration of the Christmas season.”
I sighed. “And what does that mean? What does Christmas mean to you?”
“A time of charity. The magic of Christmas comes from people stretching beyond their daily lives, doing good deeds for others, even when that requires some personal sacrifice.”
“Well, retail and magic don’t mix,” I responded quickly, though I hated sounding that way. “Bah humbug. I sound grouchy, I know.”
“Really. Lose the Scrooge, and I’ll give you one of my famous back rubs.”
Lose the Scrooge…It was easier said than done, but definitely worth a back rub.
9
Before I left Nick’s place that morning, he made us coffee and threw in a comment about me coming back another night. Although he seemed casual about it, in my mind that comment was suspended in the air with puffy hearts and flowers circling it, with a choir singing Handel’s “Hallelujah!” in the background.
Nick wanted to see me again.
He liked me.
And I felt as if I’d stepped into the sunlight for the first time in years.
Great sex is a very good thing, but when you couple that with emotional connection, the results are a giddy satisfaction that lifts the soul. I felt like a better person after being with Nick, as if his goodness had rubbed off on me a little. Silly, I know, but I sang in the shower that morning and nearly caused a wreck on the way to work because I stopped to let another car go in front of me.
Of course, there was still an inaccessible part of Nick, the secret part that he withheld, but I was confident that eventually he would trust me enough to share that, too.
That morning when I got to Rossman’s, I went directly to my office, which seemed to be gathering dust while I spent my time down in Santaland hawking toys. I sat at the computer and ran some numbers to get a sense of how toy sales impacted our total monthly sales figures.
The numbers didn’t surprise me. I formatted the results into color graphs and started copies printing as I fished into the pocket of the Mrs. Claus suit and found Grace’s card. Her voice mail picked up, so I left a message asking her to call me.
As I sat back in my leather chair, it occurred to me that I generally didn’t make such sweeping decisions without consulting Uncle Len. I put my hand on the desk phone, then paused.
Not this time.
Instead, I clicked on the Internet connection and went surfing for local children’s charities. Maybe I wasn’t CEO of Rossman’s, but I was still manager of this store, still a Rossman, and it was about time I flexed a little corporate muscle and pulled this store back in line with my nana’s dreams.
That day Grace returned to the store and we toured the toy departmen
t, trying to estimate the inventory and type of toys that would best serve the kids in Chicago’s foster-care program. The cost of funding the entire program was significant, but I knew that Rossman’s maintained a fund for charitable donations. I told Brian, the manager of toys, to go ahead and help Grace get everything she needed.
Over the next two days, Gia and I sorted through various charitable programs that served children. We decided to coordinate efforts with Joy of Toys, a program that sent volunteers into schools in the city’s low-income neighborhoods. In less than twenty-four hours we were able to begin sending out batches of toys from wish lists, delivered by a Santa and three elves from our Santaland.
Nick and I brainstormed over a program that would help employees direct Rossman’s money to charities of their choice. “I read somewhere that it’s not enough to just give the money,” I told him one night as we drank wine from juice glasses under the fluffy comforter of his bed. “It’s in the doing. The act of doing something positive for someone else provides positive feelings, even health benefits for the person performing the good deed.”
“Yes, I’ve seen those studies.” He sat up and rested his chin on my knees. “So you want to guide each employee to perform a good deed?”
“But I can’t force them, and I don’t want them to feel like Rossman’s is reaching into their pockets.”
“Good point. Maybe we can bring a social agency into the store. Through a church or nursing home. You want some kind of wish list. Have the person in need write down something they could use, like pots and pans, or a set of sheets, or a warm sweater.”
“An organized list. But each employee has a chance to go through it and choose something to shop for at Rossman’s. We could give each employee a twenty-dollar credit. Maybe they can even help deliver it to the person if they have the time?”
“Now you’re talking. I’ve seen that done with Christmas trees. Each ornament on the tree is a card that gives the recipient’s first name, age, and wish.”
“That would work.” I put my wine on the crate that served as a nightstand and turned toward him. “We can use the tree in the atrium. We’ll call it a wish tree this year, and the ornaments on the first floor will contain wishes.” I scraped my hair back, then flung it in the air. “Oh, Nick, I love this idea!”
“Merry Meredith, your hair is flying!” He tossed the comforter back, separated my knees and made a dive for me, growling. “I love it when you get all benevolent!”
I laughed, then quickly squeezed my eyes shut as our bodies came together.
We worked so well together, Nick and I. Whether under the covers or planning charitable programs or just cajoling children in Santaland, we were a great match. Granted, my experience with relationships was limited, but Nick was the first guy I could speak to with a feeling of balance and equality, the first guy who ever talked to me through sex and listened to my breathless answers. So many firsts. After a week of sneaking into his bed nearly every night, I realized that this was probably the first man I had ever loved. I desperately wanted him to be the first and last, but those mysteries remained, like a bubble rising between us. Nick still eluded my questions about his past, his former occupations and family, though sometimes small glimpses of his childhood crept in, especially when he was around the kids. Stories of sledding in the winter and swimming in lakes on hot summer days. One story reminded me of my own summers on the lake, about how he and his friends had swum out to a floating dock and found a snake lingering in the deep water under it. Everyone was afraid to swim back to shore, and the group of boys lingered on the raft for an hour until Nick decided that the snake had to be a stick if it hadn’t moved during that time. He dove down after it and popped up to the surface a hero, stick in hand. The boys had returned to shore, sunburned but charged up with a great story.
“Was that a true story?” I asked him later, as we drove from the school back to Rossman’s. “The one about the snake in the lake? Or is it part of the grand Nicholas mythology?”
“There’s no mythology,” he said. “I don’t lie about my life.”
“Really? Isn’t that the whole pretext of the Witness Protection Program—to live a lie?”
He scoffed. “I’m not living under an assumed identity. You know that. I’m Nicholas Smith, and I’ll fill in the blank spots soon after Christmas. I’ll answer all your questions some time in the new year. How about that?”
“Why don’t you tell me now, and I swear I won’t tell a soul. Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not about trust,” he said. “It’s complicated. I promise you, I’ll tell all in January, if you’ll just give me till then.”
“I am not a patient person,” I admitted. Though January was just weeks away now. Considering the depth of my feelings for this man, what was wrong with giving him some space? Give the guy a few weeks. I could do that. “It’s torture, but I can wait,” I told him. After all, I’d been in a waiting pattern all my life.
The new programs brought a noticeable lift to spirits in Santaland. The wish tree was so enticing that customers wanted to participate, and we were able to open the program to many of Chicago’s social-service agencies. The elves returned from school deliveries with stories of children who had touched their hearts, and Jesus asked me if there was a way to schedule more class visits before Christmas Eve. “The kids appreciate us so much,” he said. “I wish my grandchildren could be there to see this interaction. I feel honored to be a part of it.”
Chicago newspapers wrote us up as “the store that makes Christmas wishes come true” and touted, “Roll out the Holly—Rossman’s Claus Is Coming to Town!” AM Chicago sent a reporter to one of our Joy of Toys visits in an elementary-school classroom, and one of the networks sent a local news team to our Santaland to get the inside story the following morning.
As luck would have it, just as we were closing up that night, two strings of lights burned out in the Santaland entrance.
“It’s a wonder they lasted this long,” the designer told me as I reached up to the top of the ladder to feed her the new lights. “These babies burn constantly, and they’re three years old.”
I thought of my hasty budget cuts at the beginning of the season. Next year, I would allot money for new lights.
The string Felicia now hung on the trellis held tiny icicle clear lights shaped in figures. They were difficult to see until Felicia plugged them in, and at once dozens of tiny toys were illuminated in the silvery branches of the trellis.
“Hey, what’s happening?” Nick poked his head out of the gingerbread house and joined us. “That’s nice.”
“They’re beautiful, Felicia.” I moved along the trellis to take in the many shapes—spinning tops, balls and bats, dolls, trains, trucks, and cars.
“Cute, aren’t they?” Felicia squinted up. “I think they work for Santaland.”
“They remind me of the ornaments on our Christmas tree at home,” I said quietly. “They were in the family for years. Austrian crystal. Clear glass shaped into boats and trucks and dolls.”
Felicia folded the ladder up and hoisted it in one arm. “I’m glad you like them. Let me know if any other decorations go astray when the TV crew gets here.”
As she headed off, Nick came up behind me and put his arms around me. “Mrs. Claus, I do believe you’ve had a secret life, too.”
“I don’t think so,” I said quietly as I stared up at the magnificent lights. No, for me the only secret was that I really had no life at all. The secret was, my life had just begun.
Nick was delighted with the way Rossman’s had turned into a store with true Christmas spirit. “Do you feel the magic?” he asked everyone around him as he strolled through Santaland. “Can you feel it?” he said, looking right at me.
“Always,” I said, reminding myself that he was talking about Christmas magic. And actually, I had to admit that I was feeling something. Scary after these last years to have a Christmas connection once again, but I realized that if my actions m
ade a happy memory for one boy or girl, that was all I needed.
The only downside of the Christmas of giving was Uncle Leonard’s dark disapproval. “Newspapers and TV shows…Bah…” He waved a hand. “Who needs them? We’re not publicity hounds, here.”
“Weren’t my parents in the press all the time?” I reminded him. “They were America’s favorite couple.”
“The media are fickle. They’ll love you today, lynch you tomorrow.”
“I’m okay with it, as long as they’re sharing the love,” I teased him, but he refused to be cajoled. He didn’t like the giveaways, didn’t want our employees to visit schools in highcrime neighborhoods, didn’t think it wise to ally our high-end reputation with certain parts of town, and most of all, he didn’t like the idea of “tossing away” Rossman’s money.
“Giving away toys at Christmas?” He raked his hands through his hair. “Meredith, it’s crazy nutty. Doesn’t make sense at all. This is the one time of year when customers want to buy toys, and you give them away?”
“Uncle Len, what we’re doing is very important,” I told him. “We’re reaching out to people, helping the community. And what’s good for Chicago is good for Rossman’s.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t get it, and I hate to say it, but I know this will bring you down, Meredith. You realize I can no longer support your election to the board?”
Although I wasn’t surprised, it still hurt to hear him say it. “Of course,” I told him. “I understand.”
Once again, it would be the poor little heiress battling the big bad board. But this time, I was ready to take them on. This time, I had Santa on my side.
10
“Here’s a question for you, Mrs. Claus,” Nick said one cold December night as we scraped the last creamed macaronis from a pot in his kitchen. “Here I live in a rented, barely furnished dump, but we spend every night at my place.” He wiped a smudge of cheese from his mouth and straightened his sweatshirt. “What’s the deal? Aren’t you going to invite me over someday? I clean up nicely.”
The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Page 30