Charming Christmas (19 page)

4

“I
'm telling you, that suit seems magical,” I told my friends as we broke into the bread basket at Kuleto's, an Italian restaurant near Union Square where we usually shared a bottle of wine and a bunch of appetizers. “Wait till you see it . . . maroon velvet that's exquisitely tailored. The skirt drapes so softly. It's like it was made for me, with two fleur-de-lis patterns sewn on the bodice in dark red bead. Beadwork! Like a vintage gown. Rumor has it that the original Mrs. Rossman sewed it herself. Can you imagine?”

“Whoa, there, chattermuffin.” Bree broke a small jalapeno corn muffin in half and popped a piece in her mouth. She's probably a full head taller than Jaimie and me, even sitting down, but with her crisp-cut blond hair, high cheekbones, and sky blue eyes, Bree could be a model. Whenever the three of us walk into a party together, Bree is the guy magnet. “Have you thought about how this might hamper your Christmas holiday? I mean, working up until Christmas Eve.”

“But it's a great way to demonstrate Christmas spirit for Tyler, don't you think? With his mom playing Mrs. Claus?”

Jaimie shrugged. “I think Freud would have a few choice words to say about that.”

“But I didn't tell you the best part. When Sherry wasn't looking, I found a note in the pocket. It said that the suit is lucky, and it was signed by Mrs. Claus! Doesn't that make you melt inside?”

“Sweet.” Bree nodded. “Do you think the personnel lady baited you?”

“No! She wouldn't do that, and I like the idea of involving Tyler in Rossman's Christmas campaign. The thing is, I love Christmas so much and I want Tyler to have that, too.”

“But you weren't raised with holiday traditions, and you turned out okay,” Jaimie pointed out. “You've got the spirit. You don't suffer bouts of depression at holiday time. You drink your share of eggnog lattes and partake in the obligatory kiss under the mistletoe. Somehow, you learned all that stuff, which makes Christmas a learned behavior.”

“You didn't celebrate Christmas?” Bree's eyes narrowed. “How did Agate pull that one off?”

“She was boycotting America's most commercial holiday.”

“You didn't have Christmas at all? No toys or cookies? No fruitcake?”

“Oh, we strung cranberries and moon pies on a tree in the yard for winter solstice. The birds liked that. But Agate refused to savagely end the life of a living thing just to have a Christmas tree. And she didn't believe in wasting natural resources to burn Christmas lights. And while other kids were baking chocolate mint brownies and gluing candies to gingerbread houses with vanilla frosting, Agate reminded me how destructive processed sugars could be and handed me a scoop of carob chips, raisins, and walnuts.”

“Oh, God, I remember those carob chips.” Jaimie tucked her thick dark hair behind both ears. “It's a wonder those things didn't kill us.”

Bree's gaze switched back and forth, following along. “Okay, help me keep score. Are you saying that you're going to take this Mrs. Claus gig?”

“The outfit is gorgeous, and I could use the extra money, and it's double time, and they'll let me bring Tyler at night. So, yes, I'm going to do it.”

“You're crazy,” she said, turning to Jaimie. “She's nuts. How about you?”

“I'm not that crazy.” She took a sip of chardonnay. “They were pushing me into a second job, but then Stephanie whipped out our contract, the one her lawyer pushed when we decided to do the job sharing. It's right there in black and white: we can't be forced to do overtime. Sherry Hayden says that Mr. Buchman will honor it.”

“He has no choice. It's a freakin' contract.”

“The law doesn't seem to mean much to Mr. Buchman,” I said. “He's probably got a string of lawsuits following him around from store to store. But at least he's got some balls.”

Bree lifted her wineglass in a toast. “Here's to men with balls.”

We toasted, then I told them about how Buchman had fended off Daniel Rossman's attack on my windows.

“Daniel Rossman? The rich guy?” Bree pressed a hand to her cheek, playing coy. “So, is he cute? Would you do him?”

Thoughtfully swallowing a piece of rye roll, I lifted my wineglass. “Daniel Rossman is a jerk.”

“But heir to the Rossman fortune?” Bree blinked merrily. “The man must have some redeeming qualities.”

“No,” Jaimie said, snitching an olive from the antipasto. “I've watched him operate on the fringes the past few years, and I can say with confidence that Cassie is right. He's a jerk.”

“And not just because he criticized my windows,” I defended. “Sherry calls him a financial liability.”

Bree put a hand on my wrist. “By the way, I passed by the store on my way here, and your window displays really look great. Love the little pixie figurines. Reminds me of Claymation.”

“I'm so glad they've passed. With the budget Rossman's gave me, I wasn't sure what to do, and I've still got a slew of decorations to mount inside the store.” I told them how I'd been working on a garland with the pixie figures riding on jingle bells.

“Well, here's to you, honey.” Bree toasted me again. “May you jingle all the way.”

“Aren't you light and loose with the toasts today,” Jaimie told her.

“Reason to drink,” I said.

“Ladies, I have news, too.” Bree put her glass down in a dignified gesture. “I just came from an interview with KTSF. Do you know their morning show? They're looking for a writer.”

“A job? Bree, that's fabulous.”

“And in time for Christmas.” Jaimie rubbed her hands together. “Guess I'd better pull my list together. Remember that Fendi bag we saw? And the scarf in the window of the Pendleton store . . .”

“Oh, you bad girl.” Bree took another muffin. “If I get you anything, it'll be for that cutesy-wutesy Scout.”

“He's got tons of stuff,” Jaimie objected, pointing to herself. “Diaper Genies out the ying-yang. When is Santa Claus coming to Mama?”

“I think you'd better talk to Matt about that,” I teased.

We laughed as the waiter brought more appetizers, then Bree told us the details of her interview for
AM San Francisco
, a morning show with floundering ratings, where the producers hoped to spice things up by hiring a former comedy writer from TJ's show.

“The job is a breeze, some brainstorming and a few one-liners here and there. The staff seems to have a lot of fun together, a real family atmosphere, the way TJ's show used to be. The only downside is getting up at four-thirty in the morning.” Bree held her hands up like scales. “Get up early, or eat beans from a can. Which would you choose?”

“I hope you get it, Bree. Let me know if we can do anything to help.” I pulled a grape from the fruit plate. “I'd ask TJ to make a call for you, but that might backfire.” Although TJ's talent for mockery played well on television, in business people found him annoying at times.

She nodded. “I already thought of that. I'm using network people and one of the executive producers as references.”

We discussed plans for Thanksgiving next week, and I shared my plan to nail TJ down to a regular visitation schedule when I saw him at the studio today.

“Good luck on that,” Bree said. We had worked together on TJ's show and she was well aware of the quirks of his personality. “I hear that they've now fired the second set designer. TJ's people have been lost since you left the show. Did you see the replica of the Coit Tower they stuck in the background behind the interview chairs? Gives new meaning to the word ‘dickhead.'”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Ooh, there are some things I really miss about working on
TJ's Night
. I may despise him but I love the other people on the show.” The gaffers and assistant directors and producers and PAs and interns and writers all became my work-world family, my colleagues through thick and thin, laugh tracks, and sweeps week.

“You were miserable there at the end,” Jaimie pointed out.

“But TJ and I had some good times together. That's what I want for Tyler . . . a healthy relationship with his father.”

“Hello?” Bree pretended to knock on my head. “You're talking about a man who puts the ‘fun' in dysfunctional. Try anything regular, normal, or healthy and he's not going to get it.”

“But he's Tyler's father, and Tyler needs him.” I'd been over this territory a thousand times before. “It's so frustrating. When is TJ going to figure out that he has a son, ready and willing to love him? I've heard the excuses before, but how could any man in his right mind refuse a five-year-old boy something he needs?”

“We're not defending him, Cassie,” Jaimie said softly, “but just be prepared for rejection. Think back on TJ's response to Tyler, his lack of responsibility. I mean, the last time he took Tyler was when? Months ago? And they went to Cliff House, right? It's like taking a preschooler for drinks.”

“They watched the seals on the rocks,” I said. “TJ would never hurt Tyler.”

“Of course not,” Bree said, “but we all know he's not father material. And really, honey, you're doing so well, just you and Tyler. Why do you want to screw things up with TJ back in the mix?”

“He's Tyler's father, and a boy needs his father,” I said firmly.

“I agree that every kid needs a father figure,” Jaimie said. “But it doesn't always work out that way. You know that, Cassie. More than most.”

I knew it all right, having spent a lifetime without even knowing my father's name. My mother, who goes by her Wiccan name Agate, prides herself on being a free and independent spirit. So independent that she didn't need my father in her life. Apparently she never acknowledged him, never even informed him that I'd been born. And she would not tell me his name. “At least I've figured out a way to vent that issue,” I said through a strained smile. “I just blame Agate.”

“What she did was wrong, I know,” Bree said. “But didn't she ever give you a hint who he was? Maybe some letters left in a drawer, or old photos?”

I shook my head no. “And knowing Agate, my father could have been anyone. The president at the time . . . or the man who sold us yogurt-covered raisins at the organic grains store.”

“Oh my God, who was president in 1969?” Jaimie pushed her thick hair behind both ears. “Reagan? No, Nixon!”

“Now that you mention it,” Bree said, assessing me carefully, “I think you have his nose.”

“That's right,” I said quietly, “laugh at the orphan.”

Bree kept smiling, but Jaimie's face grew serious. “Oh, come on, Cassie, you've joked about that yourself. Besides, you're not really an orphan. Agate is still just over in Marin County, right?”

“As far as I know.” The last time I saw her was six years ago, and I remembered the scene at her house, a mud stucco cottage in Marin County, vividly. Dressed in a loose white gown, Agate was distracted, trying to collect the right herbs and gems for her ritual in the woods with her Wiccan friends. I had just learned that I was pregnant, although I didn't tell Agate that, but I had come for information about my father, medical information to help the genetic counselor guide me regarding my baby's health.

“I need his name, Agate,” I'd told her, waving the medical form in front of her to help plead my case. “My father's name and some medical history.”

“I can't talk now, my darling. We've got a healing ritual to perform for Marakesh's daughter.” Bent over a low cupboard, she slid an old paper egg carton out of a cubby and waggled her fingers over the compartments. “A pinch of marjoram, holly for balance. Lilac and rose petals.” As she muttered, she shoved dried leaves into a small velvet pouch. “And amaranth, of course. Most important, amaranth restores a broken heart.”

“Don't put me off,
Mother
. You've done it all my life and now I really need to know. Who was my father?”

“That's where you're wrong, Cassandra. You do not need to know. You've prospered and thrived without that information.”

“I need to know!” I slammed my hand on the counter, making her egg carton shiver with the impact. “I deserve to know.”

Her gray eyes flashed with intelligence beyond the black eyeliner, eyes so clear I could see tiny lines of red at the edges. “You're going to need some anger management, my dear.”

“Give me his name or I swear, I will never speak to you again. I will not visit or take your calls. I will wipe you from my life.”

She clasped the small velvet pouch to her breast, letting out a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Cassie, but I cannot speak his name.”

I glared at her, wishing I could tear it from her mind, thinking how incredibly unfair life was to plunk me into Agate's life while other children had two stable parents, reliable cars that drove them to soccer games, dinner on store-bought china instead of in rough kiln bowls.

Other kids had parents who guided them on the standard path...

While I had a witch mother who cast a wisdom spell on the teacher who was picking on me in class.

In a fit of rage and disappointment, I tore out of Agate's mud hut, slamming the door behind me.

I never spoke to her again, had never answered her calls in all this time, though she stopped calling after the first two years. A month or so after that last encounter, I received a blue velvet pouch in the mail with a note that said,
For love and healing—Agate
.

Late that night while TJ was working on the next day's show with the writers, I pushed open the window of TJ's Pacific Heights house and turned the pouch upside down, watching with dark satisfaction as Agate's herbs floated off in the wind.