The Spirit of Christmas

by Liz Talley

  “Or too many soft drinks.” Judy smiled and cast her eyes over the young adults twisting, shaking and generally cutting a good, old-fashioned rug on the gym floor of the Catholic ministries center. Mixed in with the handicapable and mentally challenged adults from Holy Trinity were the student-council members from Ursuline Academy, who were teaching some of the group-home members a new dance move. All looked to be having a grand time.

  “Back in my day, we waltzed,” Malcolm said, filling a cup for a sweaty kid whose sweet grin and shy ducking of head was in direct opposition to the polka dots and plaid pants he wore.

  Judy sighed. “Oh, those were the days. I can’t even understand what this music says much less attempt to dance to it.”

  “You probably don’t want to know the lyrics.” Malcolm swiped a damp cloth over the plastic table. “But I love watching them have fun. Blesses me.”

  “Me, too. You’ve gotten quite involved with this group. They really seem to respond well to you considering you’ve been volunteering for only a few months.”

  Malcolm had started volunteering with many organizations, no longer content to merely hand over a check. He’d wanted to contribute more. Many of the charity directors had been surprised by his desire to interact with those on the receiving end of his donations, but he’d learned one important thing when he woke up alone in that hospital room with scarcely a soul to care whether he lived or died—he’d learned his was a life not well-lived. And he’d wanted to correct that…which was why he now poured soft drinks at the Holy Trinity Center’s annual Christmas dance. He refused to spend one more night smoking smelly cigars, reading prospectuses and swilling scotch hundreds of feet above the dirty, teeming masses safe in his moneyed world. Not when he could make a difference. “I truly love being a volunteer, Judy. Thank you for letting me be a part of this.”

  Judy had been the director of the center for over twenty-five years and Malcolm had encountered no better human being than the sweet soul standing next to him. She barely came to his chin, but was a dynamo of energy with soft chestnut hair that brushed her shoulders, a face well-lined with character and elegant arms that matched her trim form. She’d been a member of the Dominican order when she was younger, and he had no clue why she’d left, and didn’t know her well enough to ask. What he did know was that each evening or afternoon he shared with her made him feel like a better man.

  It kept him volunteering at her center each week.

  A slow song started and the room dimmed a few notches. Several other volunteers appeared, shooing both he and Judy aside so they could mingle with the kids.

  Malcolm smiled at several of the boys he often played basketball with. None of them were very good, which made him perfect to teach them the game. He’d always stunk at sports, other than running. He’d been a fine cross-country runner and had been on the Tulane track team back so many years ago it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “You gonna dance, Mr. H.?” one of the boys asked mischievously, eyeing a cluster of girls nearby.

  “You want to dance with me, Carter?”

  “No way. I’m a boy.” Carter laughed, rolling his eyes comically. “You’re supposed to dance with a girl. Like my mother. But she’s not here.”

  One of the girls, Bea, smiled shyly at him, obviously overhearing Carter’s remark about dancing. She laughed because Carter laughed, but didn’t take her eyes off of the boy. In a true show of male obliviousness, Carter ignored her.

  “Shall we?” Malcolm said, holding out his arm to Bea.

  She looked confused. “What?”

  “Shall we dance, Bea?”

  She looked at Carter before nodding like a friendly puppy and taking Malcolm’s arm. He led her onto the floor, complimenting her dress, which had a glittery overlay. Bea wore a floppy red bow pinned against her straight red hair. Malcolm showed her how to hold her arms and then swept her around as best he could. A few Ursuline girls danced with some of the other residents, but most looked to have taken a break.

  Bea danced enthusiastically for several minutes then broke away suddenly, abandoning him in the middle of the song. For a moment, Malcolm stood there stupidly.

  Until Judy saved him.

  “She does that sometimes,” Judy said, placing her hand on his shoulder and swaying to the rhythm of the song. “Too much contact can overwhelm Bea and she just, poof, disappears.”

  “Remind me to thank the girl later,” he said, curling Judy into his embrace and waltzing toward the perimeter.

  “Why?” she asked, peering up at him with warm brown eyes that reminded him of the walnut cabinets that had lined his grand-mère’s kitchen. Judy looked so different in his arms. Better than he’d ever expected.

  “A thank-you for leaving me out here by myself. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been rescued by my lady on a white steed.”

  Judy glanced down at her shoes. “They’re actually black. And they’re pumps.”

  “You are a delightful woman,” Malcolm said, wishing the song would never end. Maybe after the dance, he could ask Judy out for a cup of coffee.

  Suddenly he was as nervous as a boy holding a boutonniere and meeting his date’s father for the first time. He wanted Judy to like him, to see beyond his millions in the bank, to see a man worthy of her attention.

  Even though he knew he couldn’t hold a candle to her.

  “And you are an old fool if you think so.”

  Malcolm smiled. “Never enjoyed being called an old fool more.”

  Judy laughed and looked pleased at his flirting.

  Life felt extraordinarily good at that moment.

  Like anything was possible.

  * * *

  THIS WASN’T GOING to work.

  Mary Paige shoved a pile of folders onto her desk and looked under the credenza for her other shoe. Where had it gone? She’d kicked it off earlier, which meant it had to be in the office somewhere.

  She found it under some papers she’d thrown toward the wire trash basket just as Ivan the Terrible roared into her office.

  “Where’s the Hogue file with all the 1099s? You had it last.”

  Mary Paige slipped the red stiletto onto her foot. “I put it on your desk an hour ago.”

  Growl. Roar. Snuffle. He disappeared.

  She pulled a brush from the drawer and gave her bob the twice-over, making sure it curved against her jaw, then she touched up her makeup—what little she wore—before shrugging into the red swing coat her mother had given her last Christmas.

  “Where are you going?” the beast called through his open office door.

  “I told you this morning. I have to leave early for the tree lighting.”

  “You can’t leave now. We have to have the McKays ready by tomorrow morning. You still have to call Randy and get the disclosures.”

  She closed her eyes and performed her serenity prayer. “Mr. Gosslee, we went over my upcoming schedule this morning. I have to leave right now if I’m going to make it to St. Charles in time. Traffic’s about to kick up on the bridge. I’ll come in early tomorrow and make sure we have everything in order for the McKays.”

  “This is unacceptable.”

  Another silent plea to her Maker. Another sigh. “Shall I tender my resignation?”

  His hoary head appeared in her doorway. “Is that the sort of employee you are? One who wants to quit when the going gets tough?”

  “No.”

  His black eyes narrowed. “Have it ready in the morning.”

  She saluted, ducked under his arm and tucked the tag back into his sweater. The man was forever untucked and wrinkled, but he was a hell of an accountant. “See you tomorrow, Ivan.”

  “That’s Mr. Gosslee to you,” he grumbled.

  “I love you, too, Ivan.”

  She shut the door of the faded shotgun house in Gretna that served as their office as she heard him say, “Cheeky.”

  Ah, free until tomorrow morning. And a date to boot. Okay, not a date really, but something inside her tin
gled at the thought of seeing Brennan again.

  Which was not good.

  The man was so far off her map she’d have to enter another realm to locate him. Brennan Henry was too rich for her blood. Too everything for her, including grumpy, materialistic and sardonic. Not qualities she’d ever look for in a man.

  Still, those tingles wouldn’t go away.

  The drive to the east bank of New Orleans was painfully slow because of an accident in one of the lanes near the Superdome. By the time she hit Carrolton, a crawl would have been fast compared to the current flow of traffic. She pulled into a safe parking lot and tugged off her heels, glad she kept an extra pair of running shoes in the gym bag in the backseat. She didn’t want to arrive in her sneakers, but there was no way she could cross the mile and a half to Audubon Park in her heels.

  She gathered her purse, keys and the contracts then locked her car. By the time she reached the park, it was too late to go back to her car for the red high heels she’d forgotten on the passenger seat. Darn it.

  When her nerves jangled, she forgot stuff. Now she’d look like a moron at the lighting. She felt the prick of tears, tasted the embarrassment that would come.

  Crap. Why had she agreed to this? She was not the kind who could function in front of large crowds. Riding a tractor in a parade and clogging at the Watermelon Festival in her hometown was as close as she’d ever been to the public spotlight.

  Too late now.

  She choked down the panic and scanned the fading sky for the decorated streetcar they would use to carry Old St. Nick into the city. Finally, she saw it sitting jolly and bedecked at the very place Brennan said he would meet her. She headed toward the throng of people clad in business suits and elf costumes, and spied Mr. Henry, Brennan and the man who’d leaped out to take her photograph that night in the alley. These men were not in elf suits. If they had been, it would have been more than surreal…and amusing.

  “She said she’d be here, but I’m having my doubts,” Brennan said to his grandfather as she approached.

  “She’ll come,” Mr. Henry said, straightening his bow tie.

  “Her middle name is probably wishy-washy,” Brennan said.

  “Actually, it’s Paige,” she said, smiling at the gentlemen assembled.

  Brennan didn’t even bother looking embarrassed at being caught talking ill about her behind her back. He raised a smug eyebrow. “And she arrives.”

  “As I knew she would,” Mr. Henry said, holding out a hand to her. “An honorable woman is above even rubies.”

  Brennan snorted. She shot him a withering look. “But only to her husband.”

  “Touché,” Mr. Henry said, taking her hand. “You remember Gator, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, nodding toward the crafty-looking assistant—or whatever he was for Mr. Henry.

  After a few moments of introducing her to the elves and the older gentleman who’d played the role of the Henry Department Store Santa for the past fifteen years, Mr. Henry stepped away to take a phone call. Gator trailed after him, leaving her with Brennan.

  For a moment, they were as silent as the live oaks surrounding them.

  “Any further problems with Simon?” Brennan asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing around at the busyness of the scene. The streetcar driver gave orders to a couple who were festooning the car in Christmas lights. Brennan seemed even more aloof than on Monday, as if he’d had a stern talk with himself about being a proper businessman who did not partake in festivities.

  “Nope. Guess he found a better situation.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, it’s good to have my couch back…and my TV.”

  He nodded. Then silence sat on them. A strange awkward silence, sort of like being in a room where a comedian bombs or a doctor gives bad news. She didn’t know why it felt that way. Maybe Brennan’s dread of the task at hand. Maybe the fact she still felt out of breath and uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was the weather. Or the way the last rays of light fell as the sun sank over the Mississippi River in the distance.

  Mr. Henry approached, interrupting…well, nothing. “Time to roll—it’s nearly six and it will take a good thirty minutes to get downtown. I will be waiting for you on the dais along with the mayor. Mary Paige, you and Brennan will bring the ceremonial torch—the flambeau—to the stand and place it beside the unlit tree.”

  “There will be a stand,” Brennan clarified.

  “Yes, then you will be seated while the St. Bartholomew’s choir sings several Christmas carols. There will be a welcome from the mayor, a reading by the archbishop and then finally I will announce Mary Paige as the face of Christmas for Henry Department Stores. Then both of you will together light the tree at seven-thirty.”

  “Why both of us?” she asked.

  “Well, usually I do it,” Malcolm replied. “But Brennan is the future of MBH. It’s time he assumed some company responsibilities. And you are an important part of our season, aren’t you?”

  Mary Paige looked at Brennan, who wore a semigrimace at the directive. “I spend every day at the office, so I’m certain I’ve already assumed some company responsibilities, ones more important than lighting a Christmas tree.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong. This is a family and a New Orleans tradition. If you want—”

  “I get it. Tradition, frivolity and lots of blinking lights. Ho, ho, ho,” he said, taking a few short steps to where Gator stood eyeing an elf. Something about the way his grandfather dangled his future as the possible CEO seemed to bother Brennan. Or maybe it was the entire holiday.

  Mr. Henry looked at her. “Are you ready, my dear?”

  “I suppose. Oh, and here is the signed contract. There was only one day I must bow out—the Gosslee-and-Associates Christmas mixer is on the same night as the St. Thomas’s Bingo Bash. Otherwise, I should be able to attend all of the events.”

  “Wonderful,” Mr. Henry said, tucking the folded contract into his breast pocket and whistling. Izzy, wearing an elf hat and a doggy smile, leaped out of the streetcar and sat at attention. Mr. Henry tossed the dog a kibble treat then attached a leash to her collar. “Izzy will ride with you. Thought the children might think she was cute.”

  He handed Brennan the leash and, without further word, Mr. Henry walked toward the Lincoln Town Car Gator had idling in a no-parking zone.

  Brennan’s expression at being saddled with the tiny elf was classic horror.

  She almost laughed.

  But she didn’t, mostly because she was afraid her laughter would send Brennan stomping off, leaving her to face the streetcar, Santa and the city business district armed only with a wiener dog.

  Mary Paige took the leash. “I’ll take her.”

  “I can’t believe he shoved his dog off on me. And not only that, but he gave me this atrocious elf hat to wear.” Brennan held up a green felt hat with little jingle bells dripping from the ends.

  One of the other elves heard Brennan’s comment and handed Mary Paige her own jingling elf hat. “For you, too. All of Santa’s elves must be properly attired.”

  Mary Paige plopped the hat on her head, arranging her hair so it didn’t stick out crazily, then stepped onto the trolley, waiting for Izzy to navigate the steps.

  She wasn’t going to wait for the big grumpy elf.

  Why hadn’t she laughed at him and sent him running? What was the attraction of riding a streetcar with a man who hated dogs, hated Christmas and thought she was wishy-washy?

  Nothing.

  Okay, she knew she lied to herself because she was interested in Brennan Henry.

  Too interested.

  She sat on a wooden bench three rows back, making room for Izzy to stand at the window if she desired. Instead, Izzy curled into a little dachshund ball in Mary Paige’s lap. The hat tilted crookedly onto the dog’s neck, but Mary Paige didn’t try to fix it. Izzy closed her eyes and sighed.

  The bench creaked as Brennan sat beside her, and Mary Paige trie
d not to feel pleasure at the brush of his sleeve against her arm, or the warm male scent that emanated from him. She tried to look nonchalant. Like she had no interest in a sexy soon-to-be CEO with an attitude problem.

  “You’re going to let that dog sit in your lap? Won’t it get hair on your coat?” He still hadn’t put on his elf hat.

  “I own a lint brush. Plus, Izzy is tired.”

  “I’m tired, too. Can I curl up in your lap?”

  “Will you be a good boy?”

  His smile was pure wolf…and made those tingles start again.

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that, Mary Paige.” His stormy gray eyes dipped to her neckline…like the wolf he was. It made her heart speed up.

  Damn it.

  “Probably don’t.” Mary Paige waved as the Town Car drove away. Then the streetcar jerked and started forward with a zipping sound. “Better put on your hat. Time to make merry.”

  Brennan looked at the offending object in his hand and sighed. “Fine.”

  He shoved it on his head but it was too small and didn’t fit properly. Brennan looked like a cartoon character—sort of like SpongeBob when he put on his ball cap.

  “Here, let me fix it for you,” she said, tugging the locks of hair into a more appealing look. She felt something inside her stir at the feel of his hair beneath her fingertips, at the raspiness of the stubble on his upper jaw.

  Lord have mercy, the man smelled good.

  And his skin was soft for a guy. Maybe he moisturized. Or maybe she hadn’t been with a guy in a long time and had started making Brennan into some kind of fantasy man.

  She pulled one last piece toward his ear and then examined him critically. “That will do.”

  Then she made the mistake of looking into his eyes.

  What she saw there had her swallowing hard.

  Unabashed desire shone from those depths and something ignited between them. She felt it. He felt it. Hell, Izzy probably felt it.

  The dog had to have because she unfurled and crawled into Brennan’s lap.

  Eye contact was broken when Brennan looked at the dog, who’d settled with another doggy sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going down St. Charles wearing this stupid hat while holding this fleabag. Disgrace, I tell you.”