As soon as the meeting ended, Jaimie and I moved quickly to her office.
“I don’t even want to talk about it now,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as we passed down the dark hallway to her office. “If I lose my job sharing . . .” She shook her head.
We both knew that a full-time position was out of the question for her right now, not with Matt working on an expansion in Tokyo, Scout crying for hours at night, and Jaimie trying to strike that delicate balance between having a life of her own and devoting her life to this precious new bundle of needs.
“Tomorrow,” I said, quietly rubbing her back between the shoulder blades. “We’ll straighten it out with Sherry.”
Jaimie’s office was quiet, a soft pool of light sweeping under her desk lamp. “I’m not even going to check my e-mails,” she said, clicking the mouse. “I haven’t worked this late since before Scout was born. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
A momentary panic hit me as I wondered where Tyler had gone. Then I saw him facedown in his sleeping bag, his little body curled up like a worm in the rain. I touched his forehead lightly, raking back the damp hair there. “He’s out.”
Jaime peeked over her monitor, her lower lip jutting out. “Oh, look at the lovey . . . I am definitely driving you home.”
Normally I would have insisted that we could make it on our own, not wanting to take Jaimie out of her way, but I couldn’t do that to Tyler, couldn’t bear to disrupt the downy rhythm of his sleep. “Okay.” I shrugged on my coat, scooped him up into my arms, and pressed my lips to his forehead. “But just this once.”
3
Have you ever noticed how so much of our life is framed in rectangular vision with three-to-five ratio? The three-by-five photograph, the computer monitor. Postcards. Business cards. The rent check. Placemats. Windshields, windows, the ATM screen. And the box, the boob tube, the television screen that had paid my way in the world for more years than I’d like to remember.
Recently I realized that whenever I thought of my ex, I pictured him on the television monitor, usually at the top of the show delivering his monologue in front of that cheesy replica of the Golden Gate Bridge, one hand in his pocket, the other jabbing at air, fingers splayed as if trying to grasp a ball of sanity in an insane world. That was part of the charm of TJ Blizzard, the Snowman, the Blitzer, the frat boy who never got past the food fights and farting contests. Although TJ often seemed capable of reaching out of the box and grabbing the most laconic viewer in Peoria or Kalamazoo, in reality he was stuck behind that screen, and I liked picturing him that way, static and flat, ineffectual. My way of pantsing the powerhouse quarterback.
Gripping my coffee mug as the sun began to sneak through the slats of the wooden blinds of the turret windows around Tyler’s bed, I realized my ex had appeared in a vague dream last night: TJ on the three-by-five monitor, his lips curling in that goofy smirk.
The meaning of the dream was clear: time to circle back to him for the one thing that mattered right now, a father for my son. Although TJ sent money occasionally, the one thing I wanted and needed from him was to be a dad to Tyler. I rubbed my eyes, trying to think through the day, the morning at Rossman’s, lunch with Jaimie and Bree, and the afternoon off. I had hoped to take Tyler out of day care early, but instead I would have to squeeze in a visit to the studio.
When we moved here from TJ’s Pacific Heights house, the turret was Tyler’s space. We had painted the walls cloud blue and cut a thick foam pad to fit the floor, his place to laze and roll, invent and sleep at night. I kneeled down next to him, pulling the comforter back and pushing aside Lemon Bear to kiss his smooth cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”
“I’m still tired.” He stretched, gazing at me through eyes closed to a sliver. “Come back later. Good night, moon.”
That morning I arrived before the Rossman’s big shots and went right to the front facade, checking the windows for balance of composition and making sure none of the figures had fallen out of place. Would my displays come close to competing with our Union Square rivals, Nordstrom, Gump’s, Neiman Marcus, and Macy’s? As I walked along the facade, jazz piano played in my head—the song Schroeder plays in A Charlie Brown Christmas while the kids are supposed to be rehearsing but instead just dance merrily. Sometimes I wake up with those Vince Guaraldi riffs in my head. The windows did bring a smile to my face, each scene silly and bright, like an animated feature, and I felt sorely tempted to spring into a Snoopy dance right in Union Square.
Warm sunshine broke through the clouds overhead, and I turned toward the square, the wide expanse across Geary Street dotted with palm trees and framed with trim green landscaping. The Christmas tree was surrounded by scaffolding, where workers were hanging electric lights. This time next week the square would be thick with shoppers, even before the tree lighting on the day after Thanksgiving.
Someone nudged me, a woman passing too closely, and she turned toward me with a sweep of her ivory cashmere coat and blinked. Just blinked. No apology. No begging pardon.
I drew back into my coat and watched her walking off, this woman from a club I’d grown familiar with—the Rossman’s shopper. On my first day at Rossman’s when I’d climbed into the dusty window display in my jeans and sweatshirt, I had noticed these creatures moving through the store in their shopping trances, gazing at merchandise through highlighted, feathered bangs, the women in winter white, so coiffed and calm.
I never felt like an ugly duckling until I started working at Rossman’s Department Store. Which doesn’t really make sense when you consider that I’d just come from six years of working as a scenic designer on a late-night show where celebrities arrived in their limos every afternoon and breezed past me down the hall in their designer garb, carrying garment bags packed with more designer wear. And yet, in that jocular, hurry-up-and-wait milieu, I never worried about the fact that Elle had a set of legs I’d never compete with or that Renee Zellweger had knocked off her Bridget Jones weight in record time while I was still fighting off the mommy pounds.
But something about the ladies in white was different. I have to admit, I was jealous the first time one of the ladies glided past me, her eyes fixed on some luminescent bottles or squat jars of miracle make-up in a distant display case.
There goes a beautiful woman with a perfect life, I thought, impressed by her confidence and easy grace. Shopping in those shoes? How did she manage to keep her balance, not to mention negotiate the hazardous hills of San Francisco? But silly me, the winter-white women did not chase after streetcars. How I envied them their perfect lives.
My life was like a relief map of mountains and valleys, bumpy foothills and yawning craters. I’d made my fair share of mistakes. Blame it on too many late nights playing quarters in college. Or the days when trays of cocaine were passed around like Cheez Whiz at parties. Jaimie and I joke that the late eighties, when we hit our twenties, are still a blur. Or maybe it’s wrong to blame the era; maybe the problem is my compulsive nature. Running away from home at sixteen and returning with a gorgeous golf pro, whom my mother promptly stole from me. Bumming my way across Europe in the summer after my freshman year of college. I’d been irresponsible and reckless, and it was a wonder I’d survived my own bad behavior.
But now that I was a parent, a mom, priorities had fallen into place for me. Right now, I needed to live right for Tyler. My life had been patched up and pulled together in the last few years.
A life on the mend, but still worlds apart from the ladies in white.
“I’m not sure that these windows have the sparkle we need to compete with Macy’s, Neiman Marcus, Gump’s,” Daniel Rossman told the management group that gathered in front of the store a few minutes later. The department-store heir apparent had flown in from Chicago with Mr. Buchman last night but skipped the meeting and went straight to the hotel. “It’s a shame they couldn’t be mechanized.”
“Mechanized?” Sherry Hayden squinted. “I’m not following you, sir.”
&
nbsp; “Like the windows at Lord & Taylor in New York,” Daniel Rossman said impatiently. He was an attractive man until he opened his mouth to criticize my work. “Like the little dancing dolls in Small World at Disney World. Moving around and dancing. Real entertainment.”
“Wouldn’t that be expensive?” Sherry asked. “We’ve been given a slim budget for new decorations this Christmas, not just the windows, but everything inside the store.”
“Ah, yes, how amusing that would be,” Mr. Buchman cut in. “However, as we are retailers and not in the entertainment industry, I think we can dispense with dancing Barbies and stick with the charming scenes Ms. Derringer has created here.” He glanced down at his Palm Pilot. “Did you stay on budget, Ms. Derringer?”
“I did.” I stepped forward, surprised and relieved the wicked Mr. Buchman seemed to be saving me from Daniel. “The forms for the elves and Santas were actually old Styrofoam Christmas trees and I—”
“On budget, that’s all we need to know,” Mr. Buchman cut me off. “That’s it for our window displays. Let’s move inside and examine one of our register terminals. I have noted that the software was last updated three years ago, and customers have complained ever since . . .” He disappeared inside the door, followed by the others.
Sherry Hayden fell out of line to touch my arm. “Nice job, Cassie. Don’t let Rossman’s comment derail you. I understand he’s the financial liability of the family.”
“A major liability. When is he going back?”
“Tonight, I think. But we’re stuck with Mr. Buchman till the new year at least.” Frowning, she glanced inside. “I’d better get in there before the men do something we’ll all regret. Stop by my office in an hour or so. I came up with a cute second job for you.”
“But I don’t want one.”
“Just stop by.”
“Mrs. Claus?”
Poor Sherry fished through papers on her desk, clearly rattled by this extra work. “Cassie, I know it’s an inconvenience at this time; however, Mr. Buchman is inflexible on this.”
“Sherry, I’m a single parent with a five-year-old son. I can’t take on another job.”
She looked up at me over her reading glasses. “Not when it pays time and a half?”
Quick calculations in my head floated by like visions of sugarplums. Insurance money. A down payment on a car. Christmas presents. “The money would be great, but I’ve got Tyler.”
“Bring him to the store.”
I thought of his interest in the elves’ hammers. “What if he dressed up as an elf? I think he’d like that, and he could stick close by me.”
“Horrors.” She rolled her eyes. “Child labor laws.”
“You won’t be paying him. He’ll just be playing dress-up with me.”
She winced. “I should probably say no, but if you want to try and sneak that one past Mr. Buchman, I have an elf costume that’s too small for anyone on staff.”
“Okay, then, I guess we have a deal. But does Mrs. Claus matter? I thought Buchman was trying to pare things down to essential personnel.”
“The Mrs. Claus costume has sentimental value for the Rossmans. Evelyn used to play Mrs. Claus when she was alive, and, well, the family has been known to fly out and check on the costume, make sure it’s being used.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Sherry, but Mrs. Claus?”
“I know, I know.” She put her hand over mine. “How’d you like to be a security guard hearing that you’ve got to start fetching designer shoes for women and making sure they wear their footies?”
I took a deep breath. “I see your point.”
“And you know what? Before you say one more thing, let me just show you this Mrs. Claus suit . . .”
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.”
Charming Christmas Page 18
