Gia giggled. “What, did you miss the memo, Nick? We’re pumping up toy sales.”
“Actually, I’ve been trying to ignore the crass, commercial sales pitch.”
“Really?” I put my hands on my hips. “Well, you can look the other way, but the sales promo is producing results. Toy sales are up 35 percent from last year at this time, with most of that increase happening right here at the checkout behind Santaland.” And that didn’t count today’s sales. I was edging close to my 50 percent goal, my deal with Uncle Len, and I was ready to taste success.
“Whoa, Mrs. Claus.” Nick’s arms unfolded and he studied my face, as if seeing me for the first time. He pointed two fingertips to my eyes, then his, as if waving in a new line of vision. “We need to talk, you and I.”
Gia touched my arm and leaned close to whisper, “Santa Claus is coming to town . . .” Raising her voice, she announced, “I think they need me at the gumdrop checkout.”
Nick watched her walk away, then stepped in, as if trying to establish closer contact. I didn’t mind. Goofy me, something came over me when he was around, just a nice feeling, though I knew it couldn’t go anywhere. Not to be a snob, but really, any guy playing “Christmas-hire Santa” was really not going to be up to Rossman standards. Any kind of relationship beyond a business friendship was out of the question.
“When you work in the Christmas industry, you can’t let yourself lose sight of what it’s really about.”
“The Christmas industry?” I shook my head. “We work in a retail establishment. Material goods sold in exchange for money.”
“But at this time of year everyone’s focus changes a little, don’t you think?” His hands gestured, as if he were drawing a gentle landscape in the air. “People want to take a moment out of their lives to think back—whether they’re thinking of that star that appeared over the manger or something from their own childhood, a Christmas morning or a long-awaited homecoming to the family table. This is a time for reflection and sharing.”
“No,” I protested, not wanting to go there at all. Nick was cute and persuasive, but I wasn’t going to buy what he was selling. “This is our busiest time of year. In a bad year the Christmas profits can compensate for three-quarter-year losses.”
His eyes were locked on mine as his shoulders went slack. “I see that we’re speaking different languages. I guess what I’m trying to say is, what the hell is this toy program? The air guns and dolls and handheld computer games? I don’t know, I’m just disappointed with Rossman’s. That’s all.”
“Disappointed?” I scowled. “Hello? We’re just trying to sell toys. We work for a department store.”
He looked down at his black boots. “True. That part is true.”
“Santa?” one of the elves called. “You have a visitor.”
He pointed a thumb toward his gingerbread cottage. “I gotta get back. But let’s talk about this again, okay?”
“Sure,” I answered, hormones talking. There was something very appealing about Nick, the cloud of warm sincerity that surrounded him, those dark eyes that alluded to secrets. I liked being around him even as I realized that he and I had diametrically opposed life philosophies.
To think, he was “disappointed” about selling toys . . .
Maybe Gia was right. Maybe he had escaped from another life, a hippie commune . . . or a distant planet.
5
December fifth, and toy sales were up 47 percent since last year. The rising trend in sales figures indicated that we were on a roll, but I was working on other ways to bring the profits above 50 percent before the end of the week. The next board meeting was scheduled for December 21, and I wanted to make sure Uncle Len would have something to boast about when he nominated me.
At the moment I was perched behind a life-size gingerbread man, my stopwatch resting on his shoulder as I watched the line for Santaland go by, timing it, watching for snags in the flow. We couldn’t have these kids getting hung up at any stage of our operation. Queuing was an important aspect in any service operation, and since an efficient queue produced customer satisfaction, I was on top of this line. I didn’t pound away on an MBA at University of Chicago for nothing.
“Santa Lady?” Some little girl stepped out of line and stood before me, hands on hips, as if she were ready to rumble.
I stared past her and counted louder, figuring she’d go away. At the moment I focused on Gia and another elf named Kevin as they peddled toys at just about the right speed, taking a minute or so to assess each kid’s age, skill, and interest level before matching them up with the toy of their desires.
“Santa Lady! I am talking to you, Mrs. Santa. Why are you egg-noring me?”
Without losing count, I shot a look at the smiley-faced girl who had squirted out of the line. Two front teeth missing, pale white skin, and cheeks so chubby she could have been smuggling walnuts.
“Listen, chipmunk, you’d better get back in line,” I told her. “You’ll lose your spot.”
“I don’t care about my spot. I got questions before I go in there. Last week I saw a Santa at Nordstrom and I know there’s Santas all over, ringing bells and getting money.”
“Santa’s helpers,” I said, repeating the Santaland corporate philosophy. “They all work for the big guy who lives at the North Pole.”
Her eyes were slivers of doubt. “Then how come their suits aren’t the same?”
I didn’t have time for this. “I don’t know . . . Santa encourages diversity, I guess. Why are you asking me all this?”
“Because you’re Mrs. Claus. Aren’t you married to the real Santa?”
At that moment I was struck by the fragility of our belief system—that parents would pass this elaborate Santa mythology on to their children while evidence to the contrary is all around them. Any alert kid, like this toothless little girl before me, would figure things out.
“Or that’s why you egg-nored me . . .” She tucked her chin under a fist, eyeing me skeptically. “Maybe you’re not the real Mrs. Claus.”
“I am,” I lied, “I am married to the real Santa.” Not so much a lie; I was married to Rossman’s, the nationwide Santa of the Christmas season, the biggest source for
America’s Christmas gifts and . . . Oh, hell it was a lie, but a harmless one.
Not quite sold, she stared at my shoes, my belt, my face. “Can you tell Santa something for me?”
“You can tell him yourself, if you get back in line.”
“Not the fake Santa. You’re supposed to tell the real one.” Her lips twisted, as if she were tasting pickled beets. “You don’t really know him.”
Looking down at her sour little face, I tried to think of the best way to present the mythology of department-store Santas.
“Never mind.” Quickly, she turned away and darted down the path, toward the exit.
“Wait,” I called lamely. I wanted to chase her and make sure her Rossman’s experience wasn’t diminished by all this North Pole confusion, but Uncle Len had warned me to be nice and I didn’t think it would look too good for Mrs. Claus to be lunging after a kid and tackling her on the fake snow-hills of Santaland.
Especially with toy sales up 47 percent and climbing.
Instead, I retired behind the gingerbread man. Squeezing myself into his shadow, I went over the data I’d collected on my clipboard, wondering if I should write this up for the next board meeting. I was checking my calculations when two elves passed by and paused.
“I have go to sit or my toes are going to be permanently curled in these elf booties,” one of them said.
She plotzed by the gingerbread girl a few feet away and pulled her feet up under her. From the back, I recognized Portia and Kevin, who sat beside her, his back so erect that the stripes of his elf shirt seemed to unfurl for miles.
I was about to suggest that they move on, that this was my gingerbread territory, but I didn’t want to sound like a total bitch. Again, me trying to appease Uncle Len with the “niceness” req
uest.
“That feels so good, just getting off my feet,” Portia said.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it. The Rossman princess is on patrol, ready to bust our asses.”
Apparently Kevin had missed the memo about being nice.
“Ugh . . .” She moaned. “And if you think she’s bad, wait till they make it official about her cousin getting onto the board. Everyone knows they’re the two biggest rivals in Chicago.”
What? What?! Did she say ‘cousin’? I wanted to jump out and shake her for more information.
Not necessary, as Kevin seemed to have all the details, too.
“Old PJ Rossman is retiring. Again. He just came back to get the store over the bumps when Evelyn and Karl died. But now, sounds like PJ is out, Daniel is in. Our new chairman of the board.”
What?!
Bad enough that he was calling everyone in my family by their first names; he had all this inside information. How could that have happened?
I looked to the movement at the front of the line, and there he was, cousin Daniel, shaking hands with all the elves as if he were running for North Pole mayor.
Oh, no. That was it. First time in Santaland, Daniel had come out of his office for only one reason: to spread the rumors about his promotion.
I sprang from my position, startling the elves beside me.
“Consider your asses busted,” I said, “in the nicest way. And Portia, find yourself a pair of elf shoes that fit. Didn’t anyone warn you that you’re on your feet all day in retail?”
Before they had a chance to pull together a response, I was marching toward the exit. I pulled my body along, trying to ignore the slow-motion feeling of being sucked back into Daniel’s vortex. I refused to give him the satisfaction of smirking in my face. No, if his story was true, he could do all his smirking at the meeting.
Right now I had another cage to rattle.
The ride down to the fifth floor was blurred by a giant red pulse of anger. I do remember pushing past the secretary, finding Uncle Len in his usual position, reading glasses on, fingers zigzagging over printouts.
“Tell me there is no truth to the rumors about Daniel.”
“You know, I told your uncle PJ this would be a problem.”
“A problem? It’s a catastrophe! So it’s true?”
“All his doing, Mer-Mer. PJ put things in motion without consulting me, and you know it’s all got to be approved by the board, but once PJ sets his mind to something there’s no talking him out of it.”
I grasped at the air in frustration. “How did this happen?”
He took off his glasses and leaned back with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Meredith.”
I couldn’t let him weasel out of this. “Sorry will get you nowhere right now, Uncle Len. What about our deal? I’m going to bring in 50 percent more profits in the toy department.”
“A deal is a deal, but really, I’m just one recommendation, and I don’t have to tell you that your uncle PJ doesn’t believe in women at the helm. Remember how he and your mother used to go at it time and again?”
“But Daniel is not a leader. He won’t take Rossman’s forward. You know that, Uncle Len. I know he’s your son and you love him, but you know he’s all wrong for this.”
He sighed. “Yes, yes, I know. At least, my head knows. My heart . . . My heart says he’s my son and I must support him.” He shrugged. “What can I do?”
“Support his interest in ice fishing or origami. Support him in something that’s not going to come toppling down on him—just as the Rossman empire will if he tries to manage it.”
“I do believe you’re right. Daniel was PJ’s pick.”
“PJ is leaving. His reign is ending, thank God, and I am the person most qualified to fill his position. I need to know that I have your support when the final vote is counted.”
“Meredith . . . Mer-Mer . . .” He rubbed the bald nub at the crown of his head. “You make this quite difficult, but yes, I am confident that you are right for Rossman’s. If life were fair and just, you would be the next CEO.”
“I am going to make that happen.” I went to the door, then called back, “Even if I have to kill your son in the process.”
“Not funny! I’m not laughing,” he called after me.
“I’m not joking,” I answered just before I closed the door to his office.
6
Although I marched out of Uncle Len’s office pretending to have a sense of direction, I floundered once I reached the elevator. Despite my plot to cut off Daniel and land chief executive officer for myself, I wasn’t sure where this setback left me. I punched Nine and returned to Santaland.
As I wandered up the gingerbread path, which at this late hour was nearly empty, all the pent-up emotion of the last few weeks began to rise inside me, a churning wave of disappointment. This whole situation with Daniel was incredibly unfair, and although I’d been competing with him all my life, I used to have my parents on my side, someone in my court.
But not anymore. I was in this alone.
The flood of Christmas memories, the degradation of being forced to play Mrs. Claus, the disappointment of losing the coveted position to my jerk cousin—all these things washed over me like an overwhelming wave of negative emotions.
I found my clipboard in the fake snow behind the gingerbread man. When I leaned down to pick it up, a tear slid from my eye and landed on the skirt of the Mrs. Claus suit. As my vision blurred with tears, I rubbed at the spot and thought of my grandmother creating this costume, choosing the fabric, neatly running the edges through her old Singer.
My childhood memories of Nana were vague, but her reputation as a pioneer and businesswoman was huge. What would she think of the recent events in the store she’d worked so long and hard to set on solid ground? How would she react to a man getting the top spot because he was a man with the Rossman genes?
She wouldn’t stand for it; I knew she wouldn’t. And neither would my parents.
I’d failed them. I pressed the clipboard to my face and sobbed.
“Meredith?”
I didn’t want to lift the clipboard and acknowledge anyone. “Go away.”
“Come here,” the voice said as large hands clamped firmly over my shoulders.
I felt myself ushered along the path and through the doorway into one of the cozy gingerbread houses. “Come here. You’ll be okay,” he said as he pulled me onto his lap in the big Santa chair. Lowering the clipboard, I was face-to-face with Nick.
“I’m sorry . . .” I sobbed, sure that my face was stretched like a rubbery frog.
“You just cry it out there, honey. It’s okay to cry, and you’re in a safe space. No one will bother you.”
It was a relief to hear him say that, a comfort to be held in his arms, against his warm chest, the crook of his neck smelling of lemony soap. My clipboard dropped to the floor but I let it go. Like it mattered. Nick closed his arms around my shoulders and rocked me gently. How long had it been since someone had held me, touched me so gently, as if I were a kid? Squeezing my eyes shut, I allowed myself one more moment of blubbering. Time to let the bad stuff drain out while this glow of energy and comfort surrounded me like a yoga aura.
When I finally took a deep, quivering breath and opened my eyes, I realized I didn’t want to move yet. This spot felt solid, as if I’d hit bedrock and needed to hold this exact location for future rebuilding.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“Actually, I do.” I would probably regret the tears later, but at the moment the anguish had drained, giving way to relief. I lifted my head, but he pulled me back against his chest.
“Don’t have to rush off anywhere. Sometimes you just need to take a moment for yourself, a minute to regroup.”
I sighed, surprised at the soft texture of his velvet Santa suit against my cheek. “Okay, then. You’ll have to tell me when my minute is up.”
“Ah, that’s what I like to hear. Good for you. A lot of other peo
ple wouldn’t be able to cut themselves the slack to take a moment. Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
“Not really.”
“That’s okay, too. I spend all day listening, I don’t mind talking for a while. Want me to tell you what I want for Christmas?”
“Sure.”
“Well, world peace used to be at the top of my list, but then this kid came in with an incredibly cool remote-control robot that you can train to vacuum floors and pick up your laundry.”
“Robo-Housebot?”
“That’s the one. I’m totally sold on that.”
I drew in a smooth, deep breath, realizing it was time to go. Shifting away from his chest, I perched on his knees a second and let our eyes meet again. “Thanks,” I said, surprised at how hard it was to extract myself from him.
“Hey, your time isn’t up yet. Don’t you want to hear the rest of my list?”
“I’d better go.”
“And give up a chance to tell Santa all your problems?”
I smiled. “I’m Mrs. Claus. I have no problems.”
“Wrong! We’ve all got something simmering under the surface . . . a few skeletons in the closet. How do you think I got this silver hair?”
“How did such a young man get gray hair?” I asked to change the subject.
“Silver. It’s silver, and that is a story I can only tell over drinks in the noisy privacy of a tavern. A bunch of us are heading out tonight after closing, hitting the Berghoff. Want to join us?”
I smoothed my skirt down, thinking of Rossman’s management policy. No fraternization with employees after hours. “I’m not allowed to.”
“Not allowed?” He scowled. “That’s a dumb rule.”
“You’re right,” I said, thinking of Uncle Len and Uncle PJ and Daniel up in the boardroom, their heads huddled together as they rubbed their hands and laughed maniacally. “It is dumb. What time?”
“We’ll walk over together after work. Meet me outside the employee locker rooms.”
I thought about Uncle Lenny running into me with the group of Santas and elves, actually witnessing me, Meredith Rossman, displaying un-Rossman-like behavior.
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