Charming Christmas (23 page)

10

“H
ave I got news for you.” I squeezed into the vinyl seat, back to back with a stranger, which was the way everyone got seated in the House of Nan King, the best Chinese restaurant in San Francisco with the unfortunate ambiance of a crowded camp mess tent. I scooted my chair in, chest to the table. It had been a long time since I'd had big news to announce at lunch. The last time was probably when I was pregnant with Tyler, and that had met with mixed reactions (probably since my friends weren't crazy about the father and—oops!—we weren't married).

“It's about this new guy, isn't it?” Jaimie tucked her hair behind her ears. “Please, tell me something juicy. I've got a three-month-old and the only juicy I'm getting these days is wet diapers.”

Bree put up her hands. “Stop right there. Exciting news is not guy stuff. I just read an article that said too many women seek validity through men. So let's talk about more noteworthy things, like this year's candidates for the Pulitzer. Or euthanasia in Sweden.”

“Actually, part one is not about a man. I called Agate. Broke the silence.”

Jaimie's eyes went wide. “You spoke to her?”

“I left a message, but I think it's her machine. She's got this new age music playing in the background, sort of like wind chimes.”

“That sounds like Agate. If it's her, I'm sure she'll call you back.”

I thought of the halting message I'd left her. “Agate? If this is you, it's me . . . Cassie . . . your daughter. If this is you, can you give me a call? I'm fine, and I have some news. I . . . should really tell you in person. So call me.” I left my cell phone number. I was about to hang up, but didn't want to sound too impersonal. “Oh, and I'm not on TJ's show anymore, so don't call there,” I rambled on. “But I have another job. I'm a designer. I did the windows at Rossman's Union Square. Have you seen them?” Suddenly I remembered the way Agate had shunned material possessions. “Maybe she'll call me.”

“Good for you,” Bree said. “You identified your fear and you called her on the phone.”

“I guess.” Bree needed to get a job so that she wouldn't spend so much time reading those self-help magazines.

“So what's part two?” Jaimie prodded.

I shot a look at Bree. “Close your ears if you're looking for edification. Part two is about a boy. Mr. Buchman, actually. We are now officially
lovahs.”

“Mr. Buchman?” Jaimie shook her head so furiously her hair bobbed.

“Tell me, why would you want to sleep with a man you call mister?” Bree asked.

“Well, for starters, he does have a sense of humor. And Tyler relates to him. Actually, he seems okay with all kids. I've seen him in Santaland, surprisingly patient, and he just talks to them like they're smaller people.”

“Brits are so weird.” Jaimie shuddered. “Their cuisine is crap and they don't wear enough deodorant.”

“Jaimie, that's incredibly politically incorrect of you. Besides, you've met Buchman. Does he have BO?”

But Jaimie was off on her rant. “All that ‘check under the boot' and ‘bloke' and ‘did you fancy him?' Oh, I fancied him. Fancy this! Well, fancy that. Trust me, I spent a semester abroad, stuck in some godforsaken industrial town. I know.”

“And their teeth are so bad.” Bree thrust her lower jaw out in an underbite. “Did you check his teeth?”

“His teeth are fine.”

“Seriously, did you look in the back? Check the molars? All black and sometimes the front teeth are worn away into spikes. I don't think socialized medicine covers dentistry.”

“He's top-level management of a Fortune 500 company. The man's got good dental.”

“Really, did you take a look?” Jaimie pressed. “You have to check the back teeth.”

“I didn't give him an oral exam,” I said.

Bree wiggled her eyebrows. “Not on the first date.”

“We didn't really have a date, we just . . . had sex.”

“Now you're cooking with gas.” Jaimie patted my hand. “I'm so proud of you. If you can just keep it up—”

“Or keep him up—” Bree cut in, brandishing a mock Groucho cigar.

“—you, too, can join the fuck-buddy club. Ah, those were the days. You meet once a week—”

“—More. I can meet two, three times a week, just as long as it doesn't cut into my social life.”

“And there's no membership fee and no dues,” Jaimie said proudly.

“And God knows,” Bree added, “we've all paid our dues.”

I folded my arms. “You two should take that act on the road. And I don't care what you say. There's something oddly attractive about Mr. Buchman. I like him.”

“No, no!” Bree pounded the table. “Not the
like
word! Pop a zit and loan me a tampon and we'll be back in junior high.”

The two men sitting behind Bree swung their heads around to glare at us. I suppose all our talk of tampons and zits didn't go too well with the kung pao chicken.

“You're right,” I said, raising my brows at the offended diners. I lowered my voice. “Thanks for the reality check. It's a silly attraction, and I'm in no position to do much more than look under the boot, anyway. I've got a kid to raise, a job to do and . . . I would never do that to Tyler. He needs a solid mother and father in his life; my crap, and who I fancy, will always take a back burner.”

“Not that I'm keeping score,” Jaimie smoothed the dark hair over her left ear. “But are you saying that you're interested in pursuing a relationship with Mr. Samuel Buchman?”

“No, I am not. I'm tied up raising a son and pursuing his father. There'll be no relationships for me until Tyler is off to college. I figure thirteen, maybe fourteen years.”

“I'll never understand that bizarro vow you've made to yourself,” Jaimie said. “How does it go? Sex is okay, but no involvement?”

Bree shook her head. “That's just like a man . . . You're having sex like a man. Better watch it or soon you'll be eating dinner like a bachelor, leaning over the kitchen sink. You'll have no knives left in your kitchen because each one will go out in the garbage in a box of Entenmann's cake.”

Jaimie gestured toward Bree with a theatrical flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen, the comedy stylings of Bree Noble.”

The two gentlemen behind Bree turned back, eyeing us curiously just as Bree's phone started to jangle. I pressed my napkin to my face to hide a laugh while Bree bowed her head and reached for her cell. “Ba-dump-bump.” She held her cell phone away from her face to squint at the text message. “Well, would you look at that.
AM San Francisco
wants to see me back tomorrow.”

Jaimie lifted her chopsticks. “You got the job?”

“It's looking that way, and let me tell you, the best part of that gig is not the salary or the benefits but the adorable line producer, Franco Verti. Don't you love the way his name just rolls off the tongue? So good-looking, such an eye for wardrobe you'd bet he was gay, but my friend Zhanna swears that he likes the ladies. So . . .” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Let me call them back and set up my final interview with Franco Verti.” She punched in Redial, then shot me a look. “Oh, and I've got to get over to TJ's studios to get someone to sign off on my references.”

“I'll go with you,” I said. “I am totally focused on getting through to TJ. Right now, my life is all about Christmas—making it wonderful for Tyler and giving him the best gift a boy could have.”

“TJ?” Bree winced. “You see TJ as a gift? That's scary.”

“You know, you defend TJ too much,” Jaimie said. “Tyler's a smart kid; he'll see right through your pretensions that this is
Father Knows Best
land.”

“I want him to love his father.”

“You've got to let that happen with the real TJ, not some cuddly stuffed bear of an absentee parent. You can't make TJ something he's not.”

“I'm not trying to,” I insisted. “Look, a mother knows, right? You have certain instincts about what your child needs, and I know this is right for Tyler.”

Jaimie used that moment to shove a shrimp roll into her mouth.

“If you say so, honey,” Bree told me. “I'll set something up with the producer at TJ's, get us onto the set later this week.”

“Perfect.” I dug into the mandarin chicken with new resolve. If Bree could get us in this week, I just might get Tyler reunited with his father by Christmas.

11

T
hat night I found myself working late, until the store closed, and Tyler was safely tucked at Jaimie's for the evening. I was straightening one of the decorative displays in Santaland as overhead lights began to go out.

“Is it that late?” I asked aloud as I twined the drooping branch of a snow white evergreen to its trunk.

“Very late, indeed.” Mr. Buchman passed by with two sales associates who continued on toward the escalators. “Only Christmas mice are out and about. And speaking of Christmas, that's a very sad tree you have there. Are you putting it out of its misery? Death by icicle decoration?”

“A new Santaland was not in the budget,” I said, a little nervous to have him watching me so intently. At last I managed to secure the branch. I fluffed up some of the needles, picked up a few fake flakes from the ground, and tossed them over the sad little tree. “There. Good as new.”

“I suspect not.” He drew in a breath. “However, nothing we can do about that until next year.”

“Really? Do you think there will be more money in the decorating budget next year?”

“I'll recommend it. Of course, it would be based on whether the store turns around and starts making a profit again.”

“Well, it helps that you found the money to replace those snowflake lights,” I said, picking up a candy wrapper from the snow path. “A lot of the old decorations needed to be retired. But I hope that whoever takes the job next year holds on to some of Rossman's Christmas classics. Like this sleigh.” We paused in front of the giant sleigh, which was truly the centerpiece of Santaland.

“Tell me you're joking? That sled . . .” He shook his head in dismay. “A giant replica of Santa's sled in a bed of snow. Doesn't it strike you as odd that we have to create an elaborate snow scene in San Francisco? I mean, it's not as if the natives can relate. When was the last time you saw a snow-covered Telegraph Hill?”

I hitched up my Mrs. Claus skirt and hoisted myself onto the sled display. “I have always liked this sled,” I defended, moving a package so that I could sit on the emerald and purple striped velveteen seat. “When I was a little kid, my mother brought me here, and the first thing I'd look for was the sleigh. It worried me that it might not be here one year, that it might get lost or damaged and that would surely foil Santa's journey, because I knew in my heart of hearts that this was the sled that did it all.” That was back in the years when Agate's second husband had us celebrating Christmas.

“It's a creaky white elephant, destined for the junkyard come January.” He leaned in beside me. “I'm surprised it can even handle your weight without buckling.”

“Are you kidding? This thing is solid.” I smacked the seat beside me and found it surprisingly sturdy. “It can take you. Climb on up. We can take you on.”

To my surprise he planted one foot on the floor and in one move swung himself into the seat beside me.

“See? What do you think of that?”

He took a deep breath, staring forward. “I think, Mrs. Claus, that your knickers are showing.”

“They are?” I glanced down and sure enough, my hitched-up skirt was way up over my fitted cotton boxers. “Oh. Sorry.” I pushed the skirt over my knees and started to slide out, but his hands were on my waist, helping me down. Warm, solid hands. When I touched ground, he touched my skirt, gathering it in his fingers.

“Please don't be shy.” The velvet whispered up over my knee, tickling my skin as he pulled it up my thigh. “This may make me sound like a fetishist, but how many blokes have the opportunity to examine what Mrs. Claus wears under her skirts?”

I held my breath, watching his face as he lifted my skirt and explored. “Ah, tonight she wears her Calvins, of course. White cotton boxers. How practical.”

“They match the trim on my costume,” I said weakly, feeling the dampness of the cotton between my legs. I had wanted the other morning not to be an anomaly, and now here, with his fingers stroking my thigh, my body was responding with frightening speed.

“I want you,” I whispered. “But somehow, I don't think Santaland is an appropriate place.”

He lowered his face to mine. “Where else should Mrs. Claus be defrocked?”

I stepped away from him. “I have a few ideas. Follow me.” I tugged his hand, pulling toward the women's sportswear section.

“You know, we could go down to my office,” he called after me. “Or perhaps you just want to go down.”

“Come!” I motioned him ahead, and suddenly we were looping around circular racks, headed toward the dressing rooms in the corner.

I burst into a large corner booth, and he kicked the door closed behind us. We quickly tugged off our clothes and moved toward each other.

“Let's see, where were we?” he asked, reaching down to my inner thighs. “Right about
there.
Yes, that was it.”

“Perfect,” I whispered, loving the way he always eased into seduction, working slowly to the core of sensation. In this, he could have me. I might argue design and business and principle, but when it came to his plying fingers and breathtaking kisses, my body and his were in total agreement.

He glanced down at our half-stripped bodies. “These are rather restrictive, though, don't you think?” He pushed his fingers under the bottom cuffs of my boxers without much progress, then pressed his hand over the cotton crotch and nudged into the warm folds there. I closed my eyes and groaned over the stirring motion of his fingers. He was pushing me toward orgasm, but I wanted more of him, real flesh on flesh.

“That's fabulous,” I breathed. “But I want more.”

“Don't worry, we shall get there.”