Mrs. Scrooge

by Barbara Bretton

  How wonderful it would be if she had Bal à Versailles to perfume the water and French soaps and candles twinkling next to the tub as she sipped a glass of wine. She ruefully watched her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she stripped out of her slacks and sweater. How wonderful it would be if she had black lace underwear to replace her sturdy white cotton briefs. How wonderful it would be if her dark hair shimmered with auburn highlights and curved rather than hung straight to the middle of her back.

  Sighing, she settled into the warm water and rested her head against an inflatable bath pillow. No wonder Murphy O'Rourke thought of her as Sam the Sandwich Maker. Who could blame him? She was tall and skinny and as plain as a loaf of bread on a supermarket shelf. Anything she'd ever known about makeup and hairstyles and perfume had disappeared along with the notion of spare time. Sam was a mother and a home owner; she was a student and an entrepreneur, and a daughter and a best friend. But a woman, a lacy-lingerie-full-eye-makeup-French perfume type of woman? Sam wouldn't know where to begin.

  Interest in that type of thing had disappeared along with her Christmas spirit quite a few years back, and Sam simply didn't have the time or the energy to try to recapture either one.

  If her daughter were to achieve her full potential, Fast Foods for the Fast Lane had to get off to a running start with the New Year. There wasn't room in Sam's master plan for failure—not for her and not for her little girl. When Ronald Donovan walked out on her eleven Christmases ago, he'd left behind a very scared—and definitely pregnant—girl. Well, times had changed. Sam wasn't a girl any longer and she definitely wasn't scared. She had Patty and she had her dream and all she had to do was survive one more Christmas and she'd be on her way to securing her little girl's future and her own in the bargain.

  Everything else would simply have to wait.

  Chapter Seven

  From the first moment Patty's eyes opened the next morning, she knew it was going to be a special day. Her throat didn't hurt and her eyes didn't burn. She wasn't coughing or sneezing or blowing her nose.

  And best of all, it was nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning and she could hear her mom whistling an old Beatles song in the kitchen! Patty sat up and sniffed the air as she donned her glasses. Bacon, French toast, and hot chocolate. She tossed off the blankets and swung her legs out of the bed, searching the cold oak floor for her slippers then slipping her feet inside. Grabbing her robe, she jumped up and hurried into the kitchen.

  It had been a long time since she and her mom had had time together right in the middle of a regular week and Patty didn't want to miss a single second.

  "Just in time," said Sam, as Patty hugged her around the waist. "If the bacon didn't work, I was going to put hot chocolate in your vaporizer."

  "I'm all better." Patty stood still while her mother pressed the back of her hand to Patty's forehead. "See?"

  "You're staying in today, just to be on the safe side."

  Grinning, Patty took her seat at the kitchen table and reached for her glass of orange juice. "I smell garlic and tomatoes."

  "I've trained you well." Sam placed a plate of French toast and crisp Canadian bacon in front of Patty. "That's for your friend Murphy and his pals. I'll be taking their trays of food over at noon."

  Patty's heart bounced from one side of her chest to the other. Just thinking about the possibilities made her dizzy with excitement. She took a sip of juice then looked over at her mother. "Did you have fun with Aunt Caroline last night?"

  "We did." Sam sat down opposite Patty and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  "Did you eat at the Pizza Hut?"

  "Nope. We ended up at the bar."

  Patty thought she'd fall off her chair in surprise. "You ate dinner at the bar? I thought they didn't have a cook."

  Sam gestured toward the pots simmering on her six-burner stove. "They don't. Murphy ordered in pizza with the works for everyone." She overlooked the fact that they had eaten theirs in a more private setting. No sense raising Patty's hopes.

  "Wow!" Patty breathed.

  "Don't go getting excited." Her mom reached over and ruffled Patty's bangs. "We're talking pepperoni pizzas for twelve, not a candlelight dinner for two.

  Patty speared a slice of bacon with her fork "It's a start," she mumbled.

  "Look at me, honey."

  Reluctantly Patty met her mother's eyes and she didn't like what she saw there one bit. Why did her mother have to be so stubborn about these things? Murphy O'Rourke was absolutely perfect. Even Aunt Caroline thought so, and that was before she'd even met him.

  "What?" she asked, knowing she sounded just like a spoiled little kid.

  "It wouldn't matter if I fell head over heels for Murphy."

  "I don't understand."

  "Honey, I'm just not his type."

  "I still don't understand." Her mom might not be glamorous but she was definitely pretty. Okay, maybe she didn't fill out a T-shirt the same way that Aunt Caroline did, but Cosmo said all men didn't like women with chests like overstuffed sofa cushions.

  "Maybe I can explain." Both Patty and her mom swiveled around in their chairs in time to see Caroline stroll into the cozy kitchen.

  "I didn't hear you ring the doorbell," said Sam as Caroline joined them at the table.

  Caroline grabbed an empty cup and reached for the coffeepot. "The door was open."

  Her mom muttered something about changing the locks but Patty and her aunt only laughed.

  "Your mom was right, Patricia," said Caroline, picking up the conversational ball. "She isn't Murphy O'Rourke's type at all."

  Patty felt her mouth drop open in surprise. "But, I—"

  Her aunt's dark blond brows lifted a fraction of an inch. "You should have seen them together last night—they could have been brother and sister."

  For one long and scary moment Patty was afraid she would burst into tears like a big, fat baby, but just as her eyes were filling to the danger point, she caught the briefest smile flash over her aunt's face and her breath stopped.

  Caroline leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Patty. "You understand about chemistry, don't you?"

  "Sure," said Patty, shrugging.

  "Exactly," said Caroline. "When it's there, everyone knows about it and when it's not—" she paused dramatically "—well, when it's not, there's nothing on earth you can do to fake it."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!" Sam scraped her chair back and stood up. "I'm going down to the basement for supplies. I hope you'll be through with this nonsense when I come back upstairs."

  She fairly bristled with annoyance, and Patty had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Reverse child psychology. How clever of her aunt to think of it:

  Caroline turned innocent blue eyes on Patty's mom. "Whatever has gotten into you, Samantha?" she inquired sweetly. "It isn't like you're interested in Mr. O'Rourke, is it?"

  "No," said Sam, a bit too quickly to Patty's practiced ear. "I'm just tired of being the topic of discussion around here. Why don't you two try to find a husband for you, Caroline? That might be fun."

  With that, Patty's mother stormed out of the kitchen, muttering something about eye shadow damaging brain cells.

  "You were right," said Caroline the moment Sam was out of earshot. "They're so wrong for each other that they're perfect."

  "Isn't he wonderful?" asked Patty dreamily.

  Caroline's chuckle was warm and amused. "Well, he's not my particular cup of tea but he is wonderful, I'll grant you that."

  "Do you think they like each other?"

  "They were thick as thieves last night. Even sneaked out together for a while. They seemed like old friends."

  "No," said Caroline, wrinkling her nose. "In fact, I'm not even certain they realize they're the opposite sex. At least not yet."

  Patty slumped back in her seat. "Then I don't understand, Aunt Caroline. You said they were—"

  "Perfect for each other." She gave Patty's earlobes an affectionate tug. "You know
it. I know it. It's just a question of getting them to know it."

  Knowing about sexual chemistry and understanding it were two different things. It was easier to understand quantum physics then to understand why grownups acted the way they did. "Can't friends get married?" It seemed to Patty it would be a whole lot easier to spend fifty years with someone you actually liked being around and not just someone you liked to kiss.

  Patty struggled with the concept, but her view of romance was limited to movie images of beautiful Technicolor people in beautiful Technicolor costumes. How romance would find her sweater-and-jeans mother was a puzzlement. Suddenly she brightened. "Is it like icing on a cake?"

  "Yes!" Caroline's smile was brilliant. "The cake is just fine without the icing but what a difference it makes when you have it."

  "But we still have to get them together, don't we?" Apparently making sandwiches was a good icebreaker, but it wasn't about to thaw a glacier like Sam.

  "Easy!" Caroline snapped her fingers. "The Christmas Masquerade Ball."

  "You know Mom hates parties even more than she hates Christmas. She'll never go."

  "Deep down old Scrooge loves Christmas, Patricia, and she loves parties. She just keeps herself too busy to realize it."

  "I don't know," said Patty, feeling extremely skeptical. "If she didn't have me, I think she'd pretend the whole thing didn't exist."

  "Trust me, sweetie—under all that bluster, your mom is an old yuletide cheerleader from way back. She used to start counting the days before Christmas back around Labor Day."

  Patty had to laugh at the thought of her sobersides mother keeping a Christmas countdown, but then she grew serious. "It's all because of my real dad, isn't it, the reason she doesn't like Christmas?"

  Aunt Caroline was one of those rare adults who believed in being honest with kids, even if it wasn't always exactly what you wanted to hear. "Yes, that's how it started, Patricia, but that isn't all of it. The trouble now is she's been running so hard for such a long time that she's forgotten everything she used to know about fun."

  "She's forgotten about Christmas?"

  "She's forgotten everything that's good about it."

  Imagine needing to remember how to enjoy Christmas. Being grownup didn't seem so wonderful to Patty when she heard things like that.

  "She'll never go to the ball," said Patty firmly. "Never."

  "She'll go," said Caroline.

  "She can't afford it."

  "She won't have to."

  "She'll say she has nothing to wear."

  "When her best friend owns a rent-a-dress shop? She'll never get away with that."

  "What if Murphy O'Rourke doesn't go?" Somehow it was easier to imagine him ringside at an Atlantic City boxing match than fluttering around a dance floor dressed like a penguin in a tuxedo.

  "Believe me, there's nothing to worry about." Patty listened to her aunt's scheme to get Sam to the masquerade ball with growing delight.

  "And if it doesn't work?" she asked Caroline when her aunt was finished speaking. "What then?"

  Caroline turned her graceful hands, palms up, on the tabletop. "If it doesn't work, we sit back and let nature take its course. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

  Sam's footsteps clattered up the basement steps and Patty gasped as Sam entered the room. Her mother's straight dark hair was swirled on top of her head in soft curls. A diamond tiara glittered amidst the silky tendrils. She wore a shimmering gown of sapphire satin that bared her shoulders and fit closely at the waist, then billowed out into a luxuriously full skirt that reached to the floor. Only the toes of her sparkly pumps were visible. Her mom wore makeup and lipstick, mascara and blush, and at her ears the largest pair of diamonds Patty had ever seen twinkled for the world to see.

  It was a miracle!

  Patty blinked once, then twice and her vision vanished.

  There stood her mother in her everyday jeans and sweater, her dark hair long about her narrow shoulders, her arms piled high with cans of whole tomatoes and puree.

  "Patty?" Sam asked, heading for the counter across the room. "Is something wrong?"

  Patty shook her head and looked over at her aunt Caroline whose smile held a few surprises of its own.

  "We can't miss!" mouthed her aunt and Patty prayed she was right because in less than seventy-two hours, the great makeover of Samantha Elizabeth Dean was set to begin.

  * * *

  THE WAITRESS scratched her head with the eraser end of her pencil and sashayed back to the kitchen of the Colonial Diner on Route 1 as Murphy prepared to do battle:

  "Okay, Dan, now that you've blasted hell out of your expense account, cut to the bottom line, you're wasting your time."

  Dan Stein, sixty-two years old and sixty-two pounds over his fighting weight, glared at O'Rourke and lit up a Camel. "It's my time to waste. We want you back, kid, and we're willing to spend big bucks to get you."

  Murphy looked around at the red vinyl and white Formica interior of the diner and guffawed. "Yeah, Dan. You're pulling out all the stops, aren't you?"

  Dan grinned around his cigarette. "What's the matter kid—you got something against a power breakfast?"

  "Somehow I don't think this qualifies."

  "Hey, you take what you can get in this world. If I could get you out of this godforsaken backwater burg, I'd show you something that'd knock your eyes out." Dan took a long drag on his cigarette. "You do remember how to get to Manhattan, don't you?"

  "All too well," muttered Murphy as the waitress deposited their coffee and orange juice. "Gimme another month or two and I might be able to forget it."

  "You and your old man still at each other's throats?"

  "Thirty-six years and counting. We're going for the North American record."

  "How's he doing?" Dan Stein and Bill O'Rourke were the same age and had similar medical histories.

  "Pretty good. He should be back behind the bar by the middle of January, give or take a few weeks."

  Dan narrowed his eyes and gave Murphy his best managing editor's scowl. "You planning on going into business with the guy?"

  Murphy groaned and leaned back in his booth. The red vinyl seat crackled with the movement. "One of us would be up for first degree murder within a week."

  "So you're going on unemployment?"

  "Can it, will you, Stein. You're giving me indigestion."

  "You're gonna get more than indigestion when I tell you the big boss is gettin' tired of waiting for you to come to your senses."

  Murphy bit into his bagel with gusto. "Gianelli should've thought of that when we had the fight."

  "You were out of line."

  "The hell I was." Murphy and the publisher of the New York Telegram had butted heads over newspaper policy and how it applied in the digital age. Frank Gianelli had hired Murphy away from the foreign beat with promises of free license to explore the domestic political scene, only to turn the Telegram into a cross between the National Enquirer and the Morton Downey television show.

  "He's willing to give in on a few issues."

  "He knows my number. Let him call me."

  "He's a proud man."

  "So am I."

  "And he's also a stubborn man."

  "So am I."

  Dan drained his coffee cup and flagged down the waitress for a refill. "You've got yourself a safety net, haven't you?"

  Murphy grinned. "Am I that transparent?"

  "You jumping back on the foreign beat?"

  "I've got some feelers out."

  "I thought you'd had enough of living out of a suitcase."

  "So had I." A few weeks back in New Jersey with his father had shown Murphy that while family unity was possible for some people, it wasn't possible for the O'Rourkes. His brother could make a phone call once a month and be praised to the skies. Murphy could roll up his sleeves and take over the bar and be ignored. "Let's say I've had enough of domestic tranquility to last me awhile."

  When in doubt, hit the roa
d. It seemed as good a way as any to cope with life.

  Dan lit up another cigarette. "I think you can get what you want out of Gianelli if you'll meet him halfway."

  "Not interested."

  "We're talking long-term career move here, O'Rourke, not just a two-year gig in Paris."

  "Don't knock what you haven't tried, Dan. Those two-year gigs in Paris make for some nice memories."

  "Memories don't keep you warm in your old age."

  Murphy arched a brow. "Oh, yeah?"

  "Why shouldn't you settle down and pay off a mortgage like the rest of us?"

  "If I could find a woman like Marion, I just might."

  Dan threw his head back and laughed his husky smoker's laugh. "Find your own woman, O'Rourke. It's taken me forty years to get used to the one I've got."

  Envy, white-hot and unexpected, flared deep in Murphy's gut. Thirty-year mortgages and forty-year marriages. Kids and college tuition. Graduation, weddings, christenings. The whole normal chain of events.

  He didn't know a damn thing about any of it and probably never would.

  Dan looked longingly at a stack of pancakes on the table across the way. "Think we talked enough business to satisfy the IRS?"

  "I think so."

  "You'll consider Gianelli's offer?"

  Murphy nodded.

  "How about some pancakes?"

  Murphy grinned and flagged down the exhausted waitress. "I thought you'd never ask."

  * * *

  OVERNIGHT huge candy canes and strings of lights and plastic manger scenes had sprouted on every lawn and store Sam passed on her way to O'Rourke's Bar and Grill, as if Santa Claus had himself declared Christmas decorations mandatory in New Jersey. A giant elf, sporting a green costume and pointy-toed slippers with bells on the toes, stood in front of Ben's Hardware Store and waved at traffic. He looked suspiciously like the accountant who'd danced attendance on Caroline at her last soiree.