The Santa Accident

by Gemma Brocato

  “What if we didn’t really separate the eating area from the prep area?” she wondered aloud as they wandered the room and Cole pointed out where things would go.

  He drew to a halt and faced her. “What are you suggesting?”

  Ivy glanced around and found a broom handle that had been left behind by goodness only knew who. Sylvia and the others vanished through the kitchen doorway, leaving her and Cole alone.

  “Consider this layout.” She quickly etched a configuration into a section of dust not disturbed by their footprints. The U-shaped design took shape in the dirt. “We set up the kitchen so it marches around the edges of the room. There should be a counter between the volunteers and the program members. But this space is large enough that we could nestle a dining area right up into the curved counters.” She discarded the handle and crouched, drawing circles representing tables in the dirt with her pointer finger.

  Cole squatted next to her, his knee bumping hers, and traced in a rectangle at the back of her crude design. “We’d put the sink here, under the window. Fridges and pantry there,” he pointed, “and stove on the adjacent wall.”

  He stood and spun in a slow circle. From her position, Ivy’s gaze was waist level and his backside was to her. Saliva pooled in her mouth. The man’s worn blue jeans were taut across his lean hips and muscular butt. His jacket grazed the waistband of his pants, and when he propped his hands there, it lifted the coat and T-shirt enough to reveal the elastic of his black briefs.

  Oh man! Her fingers itched with the need to touch. Ivy reached out blindly for the broom handle, to give her hands something to do and kill the urge to test the suppleness of his behind. He started to turn toward her again, and rather than risk being eye-level with his junk, she sprang to her feet. She didn’t think this was the appropriate place to be on her knees in front of him. Even doing something as innocent as drawing a layout in the dirt.

  “It’s brilliant!” Cole exclaimed. “That will work, and we’ll end up saving a little on the cost.”

  She braced the handle on the ground and leaned on it, steadying herself. “Yeah? You want to know my other ideas?”

  “Hit me with them.” He nodded, as though approving in advance whatever changes she requested.

  Maybe working with him wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined. It wasn’t like she’d see him every day, like she would Chris. Ivy made a mental note to call her insurance agent and turn the entire accident follow-up over. She led Cole to the front of the space to discuss changes in the modular design Petry Creations had supplied.

  In fact, working on the Alpine project with Cole might make the entire holiday season a little better.

  Four

  Cole hadn’t been able to get Ivy out of his thoughts. For the past week, he’d gone to bed thinking of her, woken with her still on his mind. Hell, he’d even daydreamed about her like a moon-eyed, pre-pubescent boy. Chris had called him out on it when he’d discovered Cole doodling her name on the margin of his notepad, complete with sprigs of the plant she was named for.

  Every time his cellphone buzzed, his hopes climbed that it might be her calling. Even talking strictly business with her would be a treat. However, today he had a reason to see her. He was on his way to deliver updated drawings for the Alpine. After talking to the elderly board members for the better part of yesterday, a meeting Ivy hadn’t been able to make, they’d finalized the plans. With a sly wink, Sylvie Roberts had asked Cole to deliver the blueprints to Ivy himself. Chris had offered, since he’d be there anyway, but Sylvie’s eyes had twinkled as she insisted it was a job for Cole.

  Cole’s heavy work boots scuffed along the terrazzo-tiled floor toward the workroom where he’d been told he’d find Ivy. He pushed through a set of fire-safety doors and the elegant stone gave way to dull gray concrete flooring. The cinderblock walls resembled the prison where he’d visited his mother on his ninth birthday and the light in the hallway was as harsh. His fingers tightened around the tube of rolled up drawings, reminding him of the way he’d clutched Chris’s hand as they’d been escorted through the glaring stone corridors to the prison’s visitation room. Cole forced himself to relax now, shifting the tube he carried to under his arm as he strode down the hall.

  Upbeat music poured forth through one of the open doors on the left. Over the top of the song, he heard an off-key voice singing along to strains of…was that Weird Al Yankovich singing “The Night Santa Went Crazy?”

  “I’d have never pegged her for a Weird Al fan,” he muttered as he stepped through the door and glanced around.

  Ivy stood in a glowing pool of light from the construction-style light stand. Bare bulbs hung overhead, swaying gently in the cold air circulating through the barren space. Floor-to-ceiling exposed metal girders formed the boundaries for individual stores if the mall owners ever leased the space. Behind Ivy, there was a flimsy cage made of chicken wire and two-by-fours. Neat shelves lined the enclosure, stacked with items usable in displays.

  But what really caught his eye was the woman painting at a long table, dancing in place to a song about Santa going insane and shooting his reindeer. He relaxed against the door jamb and observed the enchanting scene. Her voice was charmingly out of tune as she rolled color onto a board lying on the table. Roll up, her pitch went too high. Rolling back down the tune was flat. She’d pulled her curly reddish hair back into a messy ponytail and it bounced on the shoulders of her bright pink down vest as she swung her head in time with the music and the paint roller.

  “Ivy?” Cole approached her, bewitched by the sight of her singing that stupid song. She gave no indication she’d heard him, so he raised his voice. “Yo, Ivy!” Really? Yo, Ivy? He resisted the urge to slap his forehead with an open palm.

  Her head snapped up. Color as bright as the red she was slapping on the boards splashed into her cheeks and she gave a little squeak. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry, I thought you heard me come in.” He glanced at the boom box on the floor behind her.

  Ivy snatched up a rag and rubbed it over her hands briefly before spinning around and squatting to jab a finger on the power button of the antiquated machine behind her. Silence settled around them.

  Slowly climbing back to her feet, she kept scrubbing the rag over her hands, eyeing him like he might bite.

  Hoping to ease her surprise, Cole grinned. “Interesting music choice.”

  “I work in a mall and it’s Christmas. I hate Christmas,” she muttered as she defended her song selection. She gestured to the CD player at her feet. “Plus the Wi-Fi signal is weak back here, so I have to go old school. I don’t own any CDs so I have to make do with the options available. Apparently, the last designer hated the holiday season as much as I do.”

  She hated the holidays? “Would you be listening to Christmas music? I mean, if you had signal and could get Pandora to work?”

  Something flickered in her eyes and she stifled a shudder. “God, no! Alt rock is more my speed. I’d listen to classical before I’d choose seasonal music.” She brushed the back of her hand over her forehead then pointed to the tube he carried. “Those for me?” A bright blue scarf circled her neck, the ends tucked into the hoodie she wore under her down vest. She rested her hands on the tabletop, fingerless gloves with yellow, blue and pink stripes standing out against the stained plywood.

  God, she was a study in color. He found her appearance endearing and powerful.

  He pushed the thought down. “Yeah. Sylvie insisted I bring them to you.” He laid the cardboard tube on the table, away from the wet paint. It was an intriguing shade of red, almost more burgundy. “Do you create most of the scenery for the holiday displays?”

  “We buy a package from a company that specializes in oversized displays. But I embellish. This mall hasn’t had a new set for a few years and it was looking tired. I decided a little variation was in order.”

  There was a jig saw resting on a side table, with several pieces of scrap wood and particle board cut in var
ious shapes littering the floor. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  Ivy’s shoulders slumped. “It’s supposed to be flower boxes to decorate the winter cottage windows. Unfortunately, woodworking isn’t my thing and the maintenance guy is too busy to help. Not that I’d want his assistance anyway. He’s a little too helpful.”

  Looking sharply at her, Cole tried to determine if she was upset. Her body language, arms crossed over her chest, shoulders rigid, suggested she might be. “I could make them for you. I’m pretty good with construction things.” He flashed her a grin, meant to dissolve the discomfort rolling off her like water off a duck.

  Ivy rolled her eyes, but grinned back. “I won’t tell you no. But I don’t have a budget to pay you. Everything is done on a shoestring here, even if it is the biggest selling season. Never enough money.”

  “How about I trade this tiny little job for a cup of coffee,” he offered. Maybe he could keep trading up. Bigger prizes for bigger projects. Kind of like that experiment where some guy started with a paperclip and kept swapping each subsequent item for something larger. That dude had ended up with a house.

  “Coffee could be do-able.” She handed him a hammer. “Make my boxes and I’ll buy you a donut to go with the coffee. We can go over the plans for the Club after the work is done. If you have time.”

  Tipping up his chin, he nodded. “You’ve got a deal.” Cole shoved his sleeves up, the cold air breezing across his expose skin. “Why is it so cold in here?”

  “First generation space. Never brought heat into it. You should feel it in the summer.”

  “Not ideal working conditions.”

  “Yet, I survive.” Ivy picked up her roller and dipped it in the tray of muddy red paint. She gestured to the side table, a droplet splashing onto the board she’d been painting. “Boxes ain’t gonna make themselves.”

  Cole touched his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Aye, aye.”

  Stashing the tube of drawings under the table, he slipped off his heavy fleece and stepped over to the miter saw someone had set in the corner. He bent and lifted a piece of MDF. Something moved in his peripheral vision as he straightened. He gave a little shout and leaped backward as a snake slithered out from under the pile.

  Five

  Ivy jumped when Cole shouted. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing as the harmless green snake slithered across the concrete. She hid a smile behind her hand as Cole backed away, stumbling on his own two feet. Florid color climbed his cheeks, accentuating the embarrassed glance he shot toward Ivy.

  “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  “That was Rudolph.”

  “Seriously? You named a reptile?” Cole’s torso wobbled as shudders claimed him.

  The movement drew Ivy’s gaze toward his impossibly wide shoulders, broad chest, and then continued downward to his lean waist. Cole’s long-sleeve, forest green T-shirt was half tucked into the top of his snug fitting jeans. The color complemented his dark blond hair, activating red-gold highlights in the wavy locks. White half-moons appeared on the fingernails on the hand gripping the sheet of wood. He clutched the board in front of his legs like a shield.

  She clenched her fist, curbing the urge to weave her fingers through the curling ends of his hair and tuck it behind his ear.

  Stuffing her hand in her pocket, she answered his question. “It started as more of a joke, really. Rudy has a red spot on his snout. Daryl, our maintenance engineer, found it. Or rather, Rudy found Daryl.” Ivy chuckled, remembering the girlish scream Daryl shrilled out and the frantic jig he danced when the serpent had slid over his boots.

  Watching Rudolph’s pale green tail disappear under pile of debris, she smiled gently. Snakes didn’t bother her, she was used to sharing her space with them. Mice were a different story, however. “I never try to chase Rudolph down because he helps control the rodent population in here.”

  Cole jerked his T-shirt lower and tucked it back into his waistband. “You can keep both of them.”

  “You won’t have to worry about Rudy for a while. He’ll just stay out of sight until we’re gone,” Ivy offered helpfully. She changed the subject. “The windows on Santa’s cottage are twenty-four inches wide, if that helps you decide what size to make the boxes.”

  Cole cocked an eyebrow at her then cast a cautious glance at Rudy’s new hiding spot. Side-stepping around the pile, he laid the plywood on the saw table. He rooted through a box under the counter and found a pencil, then grabbed a yardstick from behind the saw. As he went to work, a barely visible tremor shook him again.

  His pencil scratched on the wood as he marked out measurements. With confident precision, he drew in lines to follow once he began sawing. “I’ll make them as wide as the windows themselves, for a little depth perception.” Cole flipped the pencil through his fingers. “How deep do you want them? What’s going in them?”

  “Hang on.”

  Ivy stepped into the cage and picked up a box she’d brought in this morning. She’d worked on the berry spray arrangements last night, with a lame reality television show on the boob tube for filler noise. Now, she dropped the box near Cole’s feet and retrieved one of the inserts.

  She straightened a couple crooked stems on the greenery and ribbon concoction, accentuating the dark red berries and vibrant green ornaments making up the bouquet. “I made these. They match the other decorations throughout the center.”

  “You made those? That’s cool. My aunt used to make stuff like that around the holidays.” Cole eyed the arrangement. “How many do you want in each box?”

  “There are four windows on each side, and I made enough for two per box. It might be a little tight, but I like the drama of them against the simplicity of the cottage.”

  Ivy returned to her table and picked up the paint roller. She swiped it through the tray and resumed painting the flat she had been working on when Cole had sauntered through the doors. It would become a picture of Santa’s workshop for the front windows of a vacant storefront.

  They worked in companionable silence for a while. After a few moments Cole began whistling low under his breath. Oh geez, a Christmas song.

  Debating the value of turning the old school CD player back on, Ivy shrugged. Given who the man’s uncle was, it seemed fitting for him to whistle a cheery holiday carol.

  Ivy did her best to tune him out. The loud buzz of the miter saw helped. Focusing on the sheet of plywood instead of on the sexy man standing near her using power tools like a champ, she continued to roll the muddy red color onto the board. It was just easier. The tang of freshly cut wood scented the air.

  Ivy lifted the plywood sheet off the table and leaned it against the cage to dry. She’d paint the scene on the board while it was upright. Grunting, she positioned another piece for painting.

  The room went quiet when Cole turned off the saw. He swept his hand over the board, scattering all traces of sawdust. Lips puckered, his cheeks puffed as he blew across the surface. Heavens, she needed to fan herself. When he bent to look through the box on the shelf, Ivy couldn’t help notice once again how his jeans tightened across his behind. Biting her tongue to keep it from lolling out of her mouth, she shook her head to dispel the image.

  Cole straightened and beamed her a questioning look. “Do you have wood glue?”

  “There was some there yesterday.” Ivy put down her roller and walked over to join Cole.

  She looked around the shelf where she’d left the glue yesterday, but didn’t find it. “Darn maintenance men. Always stealing my stuff.”

  The workbench’s drawer screeched in protest when she yanked the handle. Ivy lifted her shoulders like that would cause it to not be so loud.

  “Someone needs some WD-40.”

  “Ya think?” Ivy slipped her hand in the narrow opening and pulled out the spare tube of wood glue that she had hidden yesterday. She held it up triumphantly. “I’ve started stashing extra supplies. If I didn’t, they’d clean me out of everything.”
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  “That’s clever. Uh, that you stash, not that they steal.” Cole’s fingertips brushed her hand as he took the tube from her. A small shiver of awareness traveled up her arm. Cole’s eyes widened as if he had been affected the same way she had been. He paused, swept his gaze down her torso, then back up, giving her a knowing look.

  Ivy wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or maybe a little mad.

  “I’m going to glue and then nail these boxes together just to make sure they hold up,” Cole said.

  “If you think that’s best,” she replied. She turned and went back to her painting.

  “Can I ask a question?” Cole’s deep voice was soft, broken by the occasional scrape of wood as he applied the adhesive to the edges.

  “Seems like you just did.”

  His snort of laughter filled the space. “Why do you hate the holidays?”

  Ivy paused in the act of rolling on paint, debating the best way to explain her aversion, without revealing the real reason. She sighed. “Everyone is so impatient. Rushing everywhere, not really enjoying the experience as they hustle through their shopping list, barely giving thought as to whether the gift they are buying matches the recipient. Plus there are crowds everywhere.”

  “You don’t like the hustle and bustle?”

  She shuddered. “Not one bit. Large crowds terrify me.” For good reason. She shuddered again. “At the impressionable age of six, my aunt took me shopping on Black Friday. We got separated in the crowds. People jostled me, turned me around, and got me lost. I can’t believe I work in an industry that basically promotes every shopper for themselves.”

  The experience had been terrifying. Hidden speakers in the ceiling blared cheery Christmas music while she wandered. Tears streamed down her face as she searched for her aunt. Not one single adult paid any attention to her as they raced around looking for the best deals.