“Never mind. We’ll go rob the candy store.” She grabbed the door handle only to find it locked.
The Grinch got in behind the wheel.
“Open the door,” she commanded.
“No can do,” came his muffled voice from inside the car. “You’re a loser and I don’t hang out with losers.” Then he gunned the car and drove away, dousing her with a rooster tail of snow.
She tried to chase him down the street but she slipped and fell, landing face-first. Now here came the police in red cars decorated with colored lights and jingle bells. The cops turned out to be Santa and his elves.
They jumped out of their patrol cars and surrounded her, pointing candy canes at her even bigger than the one Mrs. Whittier had wielded. A crowd was gathering.
She knelt there in the snow in front of everyone, covering her panty hose–contorted face with her hands and crying, “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” said someone in the crowd. “You’re ruining Christmas for us.”
“Get her,” yelled someone else.
Then, suddenly, something cold and hard whacked her in the shoulder. It was followed by another something cold and hard. And wet. Splat. Right on her head. Snowballs. The crowd was pelting her with snowballs.
“Somebody help me,” she cried.
And there came the chartreuse Mustang, pulling up next to her. The Grinch leaned over and opened the door. “Get in!”
She dived in and they fishtailed off down the street, then bolted for the mountains, racing up the highway deep into the Cascades.
“You redeemed yourself back there,” the Grinch told her. He turned on the car radio and his “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” theme song began to play.
“Everyone hates me.”
“Yeah, ain’t it great?”
Next thing she knew they were in front of a giant, dowdy-looking gray castle. The sky had turned dark.
“You’ll be safe here,” the Grinch said, and got out of the car.
Still wearing the panty hose on her head, she slouched behind him up the dark, snowy walk and into the castle. Its giant hallway was lit by one single candle standing on a small table. Several portraits hung on the wall: Ebenezer Scrooge, Lord Voldemort, the Grinch himself and...her?
Her host turned to her and smiled his green, Grinchy smile. “You let down a lot of people.”
“I know,” she said, and hung her head.
“You made a lot of people mad.”
She sniffled and wiped away a tear.
“You’re my kind of girl.”
“What?” She looked up to see him reaching a green hairy hand toward her cheek. She swatted it away. “Stop that! And what are you so happy about?”
“What do you mean what am I so happy about? You wrecked Christmas for a lot of people. You’ve got potential.”
“Wait a minute. What’s going on here? This is all wrong. You’re supposed to be a changed...whatever you are. You didn’t steal Christmas after all.”
“Urban legend, baby,” he said with a smirk. “Come on, now, don’t be coy. You and I are soul mates. I’m the man you’ve been waiting for all your life.”
“You so are not!” she said, taking a step back.
“Sure I am. We failures have to stick together.”
“I’m not a failure!” she cried. “I’m not!”
Livi was still crying, “I’m not a failure!” when she woke up. She pushed her hair out of her face and took several deep breaths. What a horrible dream. So this was what her subconscious thought of her.
It was no worse than her conscious thought.
She remembered one of the times her mother had brought her along when she was calling on Christmas from the Heart supporters. Livi had been eleven at the time, still young enough not to be embarrassed by the fact that her mother was wearing her Mrs. Santa outfit, honored to be included in such an important errand.
They’d stopped by the bank to collect a check from Mr. Hunter, the bank manager, and Mrs. Whittier had called a greeting when they walked in. Mom had stepped over to her teller window to say hello, Livi trailing along.
“I see you have a Mrs. Santa’s helper with you today,” Mrs. Whittier had said, smiling at Livi.
“Oh yes. She’s my right-hand girl,” Mom had replied, placing a hand on Livi’s shoulder. Livi could still catch a whiff of her mother’s hand lotion—Chantilly, her favorite scent. Her mother had painted her fingernails red to match her outfit. She’d painted Livi’s nails red, too, and given her a Santa hat to wear. Livi considered it a badge of honor.
Livi may have only been eleven but she already knew how important it was to help others. Her mother didn’t dress in a sexy superheroine star-spangled outfit or use bullet deflecting armbands, but in Livi’s eyes she was just as heroic in her frilly blouse, red skirt and red-striped apron.
They’d moved on to where Mr. Hunter’s desk sat and collected a check from him. “Someday I’ll probably be presenting a check to you, won’t I?” Mr. Hunter had said to Livi.
“You sure will,” she’d said, feeling both proud and important.
She sure didn’t feel that way lately. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m trying my best. I really am.”
Don’t give up, came a quiet whisper at the back of her mind. Do your best and let God take care of the rest.
Was she doing her best? It was still early in the morning, with the sun poking at the darkness with orange fingers. She got out of bed and padded over to her closet. There hung Mom’s old Mrs. Santa costume, like a superhero cape, waiting to be activated.
Livi had kept it because she couldn’t bear to part with it, but she’d never worn it. It somehow hadn’t felt right for her to put it on. Suddenly, it felt like the thing to do, felt like if she just donned that frilly blouse and settled the white wig on her head, tied on the ruffled red-striped apron, something magical would happen. She took it out and laid it on the bed. If she’d gone to see Guy Hightower wearing this, would she have been able to melt his heart?
If she wore it now, whose heart could she melt? Surely someone’s. A visual reminder of Christmas was sure to inspire people to be generous.
After her father had left for work, she showered and put on the Mrs. Santa superheroine outfit. She studied herself in the mirror hanging on her closet door. She had the same green eyes and curly hair as her mother had and was about the same size. A strong resemblance.
“You look so much like your mother,” people often said.
Except she wasn’t her mother.
Still, it was worth a try.
She dug out the little red wool jacket her mother had loved to wear and slipped it on. Then pulled on her boots and winter gloves and went out the door. Mr. Hunter had already donated to the cause. Maybe she could get him to pull some strings and help a little more.
The only thing about the bank that had changed since she was a little girl was the number of employees. And their age. Now, instead of two tellers and one bank manager, Pine River First National boasted three tellers, a manager and a loan officer. The only teller still there from years ago was Mrs. Whittier.
“Oh my goodness, would you look at this,” she greeted Livi. “I thought for a moment it was your mother walking in here.”
There were no other customers in the bank, so Livi felt free to stroll over to the teller’s window. “How are you, Mrs. Whittier?”
“Ready to retire. I have nine months and two days left, but who’s counting?”
Hard to imagine coming into the bank and not seeing that familiar face. With the exception of a few more wrinkles and a little more sagging skin at the neck, Mrs. Whittier looked pretty much the same, still a little chunky, still sporting brown hair. If she had gray hairs anywhere on her head she was keeping them well hidden.
“Are you here to collect a check f
or Christmas from the Heart?” asked Mrs. Whittier.
“I’d sure like to. Of course, the bank has already been very generous, but we’re in a bit of a bind this year and I’m hoping Mr. Hunter can find a little more to donate.”
She looked to where Mr. Hunter sat at his desk in the far corner. He was a tall man starting into his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and a clean-shaven chin. If you looked up bank manager in the dictionary you’d see Mr. Hunter. Right then you’d see Mr. Hunter spotting her and picking up his phone, getting suddenly busy on a call. That could be a coincidence.
“It can’t hurt to try,” Mrs. Whittier said, but she sounded dubious about Livi’s success in getting a second helping of money. “I’ll tell him you’re here to see him,” she added in case Mr. Hunter couldn’t see that for himself.
She watched as Mrs. Whittier approached his desk. She saw the subtle shake of his head. No, no, tell her I’m busy.
Then she saw Mrs. Whittier nod and give him the kind of look her mother used to give her and David when they misbehaved. You will too see this young woman.
With a resigned expression, he ended his imaginary call, got up from his desk and walked across the bank lobby to greet Livi, hand extended. “Olivia, it’s nice to see you. And what brings you out on this cold day?” As if her outfit didn’t tell him exactly what had brought her out. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn it. It took away the advantage of a surprise attack.
“I’m doing Santa’s business, Mr. Hunter.”
“And we all appreciate how much you do,” he said.
It was the perfect opening. “Thank you, and the bank was very generous this year, very supportive.”
“We believe in helping our community.” He glanced at his watch. Livi knew what would come next. Now, if you’ll excuse me.
“And you have been a tremendous help, which is why I stopped by today. We lost a major donor this year and we’ve been trying desperately to make up the difference for months. I’m afraid it’s been tough sledding for Santa,” she added lightly.
He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I can imagine. Here at Pine River First National we certainly understand about budgets.” Then, before she could say anything, he said, “And I’m sure you understand that, as a financial institution, we must stick to ours.”
“Of course,” she said. “I thought perhaps you might have a little something left over that you need to spend before the end of the year.”
“I’m afraid we don’t, Olivia. I’d love to help you, but we’ve already disbursed all the money earmarked for charitable donations.”
“I was hoping maybe there was a little bit left somewhere. You know, like when you pull up the sofa cushions and find some loose change.”
He shook his head slowly. “Banks don’t have loose change. And we have a board of directors we’re accountable to.”
“Of course,” she murmured. Don’t cry. Don’t. Cry. She dropped her gaze to her magical Mrs. Santa apron. It looked like its superpowers only worked for her mother.
“But here.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Fished out a hundred-dollar bill. “Let me personally give a little something to the cause.”
She managed a teary smile and a nod and then a choked thank-you.
“You’re doing a fine job, Olivia. Your mother would be proud.”
Again, she nodded and thanked him, then started for the door.
“Livi, wait,” called Mrs. Whittier, and motioned her over.
She made her way to where the older woman stood and was conscious of the two other tellers watching her, looking sympathetic. Embarrassment heated her cheeks.
Mrs. Whittier held out a wad of bills. “We all chipped in. It’s not much but maybe it will help.”
That warmth spread to her heart. People really want to help. “Every contribution is important,” Livi said. She’d write poor, embarrassed Mr. Hunter a special thank-you note as soon as she got to her office. And Mrs. Whittier and the other tellers, as well. “Do you want a donation receipt?”
“No. We’re good,” said one of the tellers, and Mrs. Whittier and the third teller nodded their agreement.
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you for all you’re doing. Don’t get discouraged, Olivia. You may not be able to do everything this year that you did last year, but you’ll still be making a difference.”
“Thanks to people like you,” Livi said gratefully.
Once she was out of the bank she unfolded the wad of bills Mrs. Whittier had given her. Two twenties and a ten. Plus what Mr. Hunter had contributed. It was more than she’d had when she went in and she could be grateful for that.
“Livi,” said a surprised—no, make that shocked voice.
She turned to see her father, stopped on the snowy sidewalk, staring at her, his face pale. Her, dressed in Mom’s Mrs. Santa outfit. It had to feel like seeing the Ghost of Christmas from the Heart Past.
She hurried over and gave him a kiss.
“Isn’t that...” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m out trying to get some last-minute donations,” she explained. “I thought Mom’s old Mrs. Santa costume would bring me luck.”
“You look so much like your mother in it,” he said, his voice wistful. He looked like he was going to cry.
“I didn’t think how you might feel seeing me in it,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, Snowflake,” he said, and gave her a smile and a hug. “If your mother was here right now she’d be so proud.”
If her mother was there she’d be able to advise Livi. Better yet, she’d have managed to find another big donor to replace Hightower.
“Whatever you got, I’ll match it,” he said.
Her father already gave a lot to Christmas from the Heart. Unlike some people who ran big corporations, he didn’t have a lot of money. “No, Daddy. You give enough already.”
“No such thing as giving enough,” he said. “You let me know tonight and I’ll write you a check.”
Shades of when she was a Camp Fire Girl. When it came time to sell those Camp Fire mints her father had always been her biggest customer.
“You’re the best dad in the whole world,” she said, and hugged him.
“And I’ve got the best daughter in the world.”
A woman started to pass them and smiled, said to Livi, “Your outfit is adorable.”
“Thanks,” Livi said. “Mrs. Santa’s out today collecting money for Christmas from the Heart.”
“We’re new to town,” the woman said. “Someone was just telling me about that organization.”
“My daughter runs it,” said Livi’s dad. “Christmas from the Heart helps a lot of people this time of year.”
The woman opened her purse. “I’d like to donate something.” She handed Livi a twenty. “Keep up the good work.”
“I will,” Olivia said. And darn it, she would. And every ten-and twenty-and hundred-dollar bill helped.
But she sure could still use a Christmas miracle.
* * *
Guy was feeling good when he squealed out of the Hightower Building in his Maserati at six-thirty in the evening. His brothers were finally listening to him and he had hopes that come the new year the company’s future would be looking more positive.
“You’re right, bro,” Mike had said when the three of them had met that morning. “We’ve been dragging our feet too long.”
No kidding. They’d been trying to outrun a tornado with fifty-pound weights tied to their ankles.
“Good ideas and I think we need to implement them. What do you say, Bry?”
“I say let’s go for it,” said Bryan the yes-man. Bryan was a typical middle child, a peacemaker and this moment of peaceful accord erased the lines between his eyebrows almost instantly.
As for Guy
, Mike’s words were music to his ears—the steady beat of progress and above it, like bells, the tinkling of fresh money into the Hightower coffers in the new year once they’d unloaded some of their deadweight. Ca-ching!
This called for a celebration. A one-man celebration, but oh well. He alone understood what an accomplishment it was to start steering their ship out of the shallows toward deeper, safer waters. So he and himself would toast to that tonight with his favorite microbrew and a nice, thick steak. Medium rare, with enough pink to be tender but not so rare that the cow would jump off the plate and kick him.
He turned on the car radio and cranked up Panic! at the Disco’s song “High Hopes.” That was what Guy had, and he was nodding his head along with the music and smiling as he pulled into the Safeway parking lot to pick up that steak and some salad in a bag.
Until he saw the man in the parka with the bell standing next to the red kettle. Right in front of the door. It seemed like every time he saw a Salvation Army worker his conscience felt an uncomfortable poke. This time was no exception. Here it came again. Poke. Poke, poke, poke!
He told his conscience to cut it out. He had nothing to feel guilty about, no matter what a certain someone at a certain penny-ante nonprofit thought.
To prove it, he took a ten from his wallet. Then he got out of his car and strode to the grocery store entrance. He stopped in front of the red kettle and folded it to fit in the slot, making sure the dude saw the ten first. See? I’m no hard-hearted bastard.
Only a ten? With what you make that’s supposed to be a big deal?
His conscience was getting way too chatty lately, and it sounded a lot like Olivia Berg. It’s a big enough deal, he informed it, especially since he’d been dropping tens into red kettles all month long.
Penance, came the uninvited observation.
He didn’t need to make an act of penance for anything. He’d been right to turn down Christmas from the Heart, and that was that. And if he ever again heard from Olivia Berg the leech, he’d tell her.
6
By December 20 Livi was nearly ready for Christmas. The presents for her family and friends weren’t much but they were from the heart. And that was what counted, right? She’d found some fancy soaps for her girlfriends and gotten Morris a calendar featuring cars. She’d found some pretty yarn at The Thrifty Owl, a secondhand shop, she’d discovered in a nearby—and slightly more prosperous—town, and she’d had enough to knit a scarf for Terryl. She’d gotten her brother some silly socks and his favorite old-fashioned Christmas candy, and everything was wrapped and under the tree.
Christmas from the Heart Page 6
