“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.”
12
“And it was at that moment that the Christmas bear knew it was time. This was the year that Santa would choose him from the toy shelf, place him in the giant bundle of toys, and gently carry him down a chimney to wait under the tree until Christmas morning . . .”
From the corner of my eye I saw an elf signal that the line was moving, so I started wrapping up the story for the children sitting on cushions at my feet. I had started telling stories to pass the time while the children were waiting in line, and the device worked so well that we’d worked it into the daily routine, bringing groups of eight or ten kids over to sit beside the giant sleigh that had been part of this Rossman’s decorations since it opened. The stories were not elaborate, just tales I’d made up as Christmas bedtime stories for Tyler, adapted and edited with his input.
I finished the story, then ushered the children from our cozy snow enclave beside the sleigh back to the path to Santa’s house.
“Bye, Mrs. Claus.” One boy waved, nearly sliding away as his mother yanked his hand.
“Mommy, can I have a Kwissmiss bayoh?” a three-year-old asked her mother.
“You have loads of stuffed animals,” the mother said, her mouth a stern line. “I don’t know why you would need one more.”
“Bye! When you see Santa, be sure to tell him that his Christmas stew is almost ready!” I waved as the children and their parents disappeared through a trellis covered with glittering white branches. The storytelling was one of the highlights of my job as Mrs. Claus, and the low point had to be dealing with the moms, the ladies dressed in ivory whose cool composure on the cosmetics floor had little appeal when used to put a four-year-old into a deep freeze.
My first week as Mrs. Claus had been an eye-opener in the area of child care. Why did these women even bother having kids? They wanted the nanny to tote them through Santaland. They wanted to drop off their kids and pick them up at the end of the day. They wanted little Jeffrey to stop throwing a terrible-twos tantrum, little Suzie to stop crying and tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas.
Don’t judge them, I told myself one night, when the first week of overtime was beginning to take its toll. You’ve been there. You’ve lost your temper a time or two.
“How’s it going up there?” I called.
Tyler’s head popped up from the floor of the sleigh. “I need more wheels. Did we bring more wheels?” he asked.
I told him I wasn’t keeping track, and he explained the elaborate wheel system he planned for his Lego truck. Although Tyler’s trap had not yet caged a mouse, Mr. Buchman had suggested that Tyler design a vehicle for the creature to ride in, like Ralph the Mouse or Stuart Little. The suggestion made me wince, but it was right up Tyler’s alley, the only thing he’d been able to talk about for the past few days. School had closed for the holidays yesterday, which made today Tyler’s first long day at Rossman’s. Although Jaimie was going to take him for her days and evenings off, I was already feeling a little off pace, having missed my morning with Mr. Buchman.
Since our first fling I’d become a regular visitor to Buchman’s office. Mornings with Buchman were my Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my time to regenerate and let loose and pretend that great things were possible in my life. Actually, great things were possible astride Buchman, just not with the kid around.
Although I’d secretly started to enjoy his wry and self-deprecating comments, I kept reminding myself not to get attached. This was all temporary—my stint as Mrs. Claus, Buchman’s presence here in San Francisco. These were aberrations to be enjoyed until they ended, just as the Christmas season would surely run its course and dwindle headlong into January gloom.
Fortunately, my involvement with Mr. Buchman helped solidify my other life goals: raising Tyler, building a family, and enlisting his father. So far Bree hadn’t been able to get us into the studio yet, and TJ still wasn’t answering my calls. With Christmas only two weeks away, it was time to let TJ know I was serious. Last night I had spent thirty minutes in phone consultation with a lawyer.
First, Nina Cho tried to talk me out of employing her. “You don’t want to pay me to do something you can do yourself,” she said in a slightly nasal voice that suggested she was no fun pulling all-nighters in law school. “It’s always best for the couple to work things out among themselves.”
I told her that we weren’t really speaking. Then I told her that Tyler’s father was TJ Blizzard, the Snowman, the Blitzer, the talk show host.
Suddenly, she was warming to me. “Maybe I can help you . . .”
That day while I was working in Santaland, Jaimie stopped by and I brought her up to speed on the legal services of Ms. Nina Cho. We talked quietly as I went through the line of kids, handing out lollipops. “She’s going to contact TJ, who’ll probably refer her to a lawyer, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” she said. “Are you prepared for your worst-case scenario? If TJ says he wants no part of raising Tyler?”
“Nina Cho can be very persuasive,” I said, hoping she would prove worth the retainer I’d paid. “But she did spell out the law, that TJ is not obliged to see Tyler at all, as long as he pays child support.”
Jaimie shrugged. “I wouldn’t expect
too much from the Blitzer.”
“This is such an important life issue. In the end, when TJ really understands what I’m asking for, I’m confident he’ll reach out to Tyler.”
“Mom!” Tyler ran up the side of the line holding something out toward me. He had been down in the storage room, checking his mousetrap with Buchman. “Look what the mouse likes . . .”
The other children turned to stare at us as Tyler placed three empty Tootsie Roll wrappers in my open palms. “He went for the bait. Mr. Buchman thought he’d like Tootsie Rolls. Only problem is, he got away again.”
“The little stinker,” Buchman said, putting his hands on Tyler’s shoulders. “Next we’re going to try peanut butter.”
“Peanut-butter pretzels.” Tyler’s eyes grew wide. “Mouses can’t resist peanut butter.”
“Mice,” I corrected him, handing back the icky wrappers.
“Who can resist peanut butter?” Jaimie said.
As the guys discussed new strategies for capture, I was once again relieved that they hadn’t been successful. Mouse hunting was not among my favorite tasks, but I was glad Buchman was willing to indulge Tyler and encourage his ideas.
Jaimie and I had turned away from the boys to chat. We were discussing Scout’s new sleep patterns when a woman in faded jeans, a short fake fur, and long, striking silver hair strolled up to us.
Not your typical Rossman’s shopper, I thought, watching her from the corner of my eyes. I braced myself for some sort of Santaland complaint when she stepped into our space.
“Cassie?”
That square chin and demure nose were hauntingly familiar. “Oh,” I gasped, surprised by her sparkle, by the easy way she sauntered up to me. The years had been kind to my mother. “Agate . . .” I leaned forward and she embraced me. After all these years, it was the oddest sight to see my mother walk into a department store and find me working the line in a Mrs. Claus suit. “I’m in shock.”
“I got your message, honey. Philip and I were out of town, visiting his brother in Arizona, and you know me with answering machines. Well, I just about raised the roof when I heard your voice last night.” She lifted a piece of hair from my shoulder and gently pushed it back. “How are you, Cassie?”
“Fine, I’m fine.” I blinked, realizing my friend was standing beside me in awe. “Agate, do you remember Jaimie?”
“Merry Christmas, Agate,” Jaimie said, pouring on the charm with that demure smile that got us out of trouble when we’d vandalized a neighbor’s garden in fourth grade.
“Jaimie?” Agate looked from my best friend to me, her head ponging back and forth. “I didn’t know you were still in the picture. Are you two . . . partners?”
Jaimie’s eyebrows shot up and I let out a breath. “Actually, we’re just good friends, Agate, but you score major points for open-mindedness. Jaimie is married, with a little baby boy at home.”
“Congratulations!” Agate squeezed Jaimie’s shoulder with a warm smile.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said, thinking that the silver-haired woman before me was more Mrs. Claus than I would ever be. “Do you have a few minutes? I’ll take my break in the café, and we can—”
“Mom,” Tyler interrupted, “is it okay if I use my Legos as part of the mousetrap?”
Agate clapped her hands together, her mouth popping open in glee. “Is this little one yours? Oh, Cassie! He’s a living doll.”
Tyler’s nose wrinkled as he forced a smile. “No, I’m not.”
I kneeled beside Tyler. “Honey, I know you’ve heard me talk about my mother. This is Agate. Your grandmother.”
Ever the diplomat, he opened his arms for a hug. Agate embraced him with passion, then leaned back to cup one smooth cheek. “Such a doll. Do you like frogs, Tyler? I’ve got lots of them near my cottage.”
He nodded. “Sure. Am I supposed to call you Grandma?”
“Definitely not.” She winced. “We’ll need to come up with something else. Mimi or Nana or something more palatable.”
I smiled. Still the image-conscious Agate.
As we headed off to the café I passed by Buchman, who lightly patted my back, a small, simple gesture. He’d always struck me as a man who bulldozed over things and insisted on taking control, but in truth, he seemed to know instinctively when to take a step back. A surprising trait for the imperious hatchet man from Chicago. I filed that one away for exploration at another time.
Once we were settled at a table with food, the tales and details couldn’t pour forth quickly enough. Agate was living in the same cottage, still practicing Wicca, searching for the goddess within every spirit. Last year she’d hooked up with Stu, a social worker who specialized in counseling teens.
I brought her up to date on the past few years, the slow fizzle of my relationship with TJ and the continuing struggle to create a relationship between TJ and Tyler.
“Mom,” Tyler interrupted when we started to discuss his father. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
“I’m just filling in Agate, honey.”
“Not that. Can you stop trying to get me a father? I don’t need one. Really. Timber doesn’t have a father and that’s okay.” Timber was one of his classmates.
Agate’s astute eyes looked to me to resolve this one.
“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” I said.
He slid out of his seat and backed onto my lap. “All I need is you, Mom. I’m okay with that.”
Such adult language from such a little one. I tightened my arms around him and rocked him back and forth. “You’re tired, I know.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Tyler, have you made a list for Santa?” Agate asked, adeptly changing the subject. “What do you want for Christmas?”
“Game Boy stuff and alien racers.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Bionicles. And I want my mom to stop making me see my dad.”
I swallowed hard, stung by his wish. He’d never stated it so baldly before.
“You know, Tyler . . .” Agate leaned closer to the table to confide. “That is the absolute opposite of what your mother used to wish.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “I would have given anything for a chance to meet my father.” I studied my mother, wondering if she remembered that her refusal to reveal his identity was the reason for our long split.
Agate sighed, her shoulders dropping dramatically. “Your poor mother,” she told Tyler, who was totally tuned in to her. “I couldn’t let her meet her father, because I was afraid he would try to take her from me, and I couldn’t bear to lose her.”
And yet she did lose me . . . years later, over my father.
She clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at the table as if looking into a crystal ball. “He was far too mercurial, a Beat Generation poet, an existential giant who couldn’t make a cup of coffee. Never had money for food or rent.”
I was riveted to her words. “A poet. What was his name?”
“Quentin.” Her fingers spread, then formed a loop against the table. “Quentin McAllistair was his name. I’m not sure if he’s still alive, though I heard he had a heart attack a few years ago. He never knew about you, Cassie. So dramatic and swashbuckling, he would have stormed in and claimed you as his daughter without following through on responsibility. A thrilling man, yes. Exciting and reckless. But not father material. He would have destroyed you, honey, and I couldn’t let that happen. It was my job to protect you.”
Not father material.
How many times had I heard that about TJ?
Was I so inept, so ill raised that I didn’t understand how that could harm Tyler, or were my instincts correct, that TJ could find his fathering abilities if he just tried hard enough?
I was quiet through the rest of the dinner, lost in myself.
Agate and Tyler didn’t seem to mind, having found common ground in old tales of my misbehavior.
As I gathered Tyler to head back to Santaland, he went around the table to
give Agate a hug, this time a genuine, soulful squeeze.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said. “Now we can be a family.”
A family. I didn’t want to push it, but I did see the possibilities.
I could just imagine the days ahead. Cozy storytelling around the stone hearth in Agate’s stone cottage. Tyler skipping through a field of wildflowers behind a white-gowned Agate who turns to take his hand and tells him she’s so proud he’ll be participating in his first skyclad ritual . . .
Hold on. Rewind to the part where I tell Agate that, much as I trust her love for Tyler, I don’t want him coerced into practicing Wicca or veganism or anti-faux grois or whatever the cause, at least, not until he is of a more discerning age and ready to make his own informed decisions.
I took her hands in mine and her dark eyes snapped onto mine, as if trying to receive a telepathic message. “Thanks for coming, Agate.”
“I’m glad you called. Tyler is a dream.”
“Thanks. I’m not really sure how we do this,” I said, feeling awkward.
“We meet again. Maybe a few times. You come to the cottage and I’ll visit your place. Before you know it, you’ll know my number by heart again.”
I hadn’t forgotten it over those six years, but I didn’t want to admit that just yet.
“Don’t worry, honey.” She nodded at Tyler and pressed a palm to my cheek. “We’ll take it slow.”
13
I have always prided myself on being a mother who listens to her child, a mom who is in touch with his needs and worries.
Which would explain why I lay in bed that night after my reunion with Agate and needled myself over Tyler’s wish to be saved from his father. I kept reminding myself that he was five, still a child who didn’t understand the ramifications and consequences of a life without a father. I was the adult here; I knew better.
I flipped onto my other side, my ear folded uncomfortably against my pillow as I picked at the metaphysical wound. How did all of this look from Tyler’s perspective? He was well-adjusted, got along well with friends at school. He was secure in his mom’s love, saw other kids getting along fine without a dad, and he didn’t know his father well.
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