Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  “Where are you?” I pushed past two men in trench coats and climbed aboard the sleigh. “Nick?”

  “That’s her!” he shouted from somewhere in the crowd. “That’s my Mrs. Claus.”

  Suddenly he was climbing up beside me . . . Nick in his red velvet suit trimmed in white fur, that silly Santa cap that only Nick could wear with finesse. I reached around him, hugging him, making sure he was real . . . and the crowd applauded and whistled.

  So many emotions rippled through me: joy, relief, anger. I pulled out of his arms. “Don’t ever disappear like that again. Where the hell were you?”

  “Would you believe the North Pole?” he answered, causing the crowd to roar with delight.

  I folded my arms, shivering in the cold. “It’s all very funny, until someone disappears from your life.”

  The onlookers oohed over that. Clearly, this was not the sort of conversation that lent itself to an audience. I motioned toward the store. “Can we go inside and talk?”

  “Wait. We can have a private talk, but let me take you on a sleigh ride.” He reached down to the seat, snapped open a thick fleece-lined blanket, and draped it over my shoulders. “Now, you just need to sit quietly while I figure this out.” He lifted the leather reins, trying to sort them out, his confusion not instilling much confidence.

  I leaned against the velvet bench and gazed over the bobbing heads of the horses. “Don’t you need a license to drive this thing?”

  A cop stepped onto the side runner. “I was gonna ask you that.”

  “I can do it!” Gia emerged from the crowd. “I grew up on a farm, and I used to drive a hansom cab in the summer. You two just sit down, leave the driving to me.”

  She sat in the front perch, the coolest punk elf in Chicago, gave a shout, and the horses started pawing at the snow, dragging us ahead.

  The crowd began to applaud as we pulled out, and a few familiar faces emerged at the edge of the group—my uncles and the members of the board. Uncle PJ was shaking his head in staunch disapproval, not a fan of public displays. But Uncle Len smiled and gave me a thumbs-up as we passed. Good old Uncle Len, not a bad guy, just saddled with a useless son.

  And just like that we were gliding down Michigan Avenue, skyscrapers looming over us in the snowscape. The wind blew my hair back and ruffled the edges of the blanket, but I was warm enough to enjoy the ride.

  “Where to?” Gia asked. When he gave the Astor Street address of my parents’ house, I groaned.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport,” he said, handing Gia a blanket. “There’s something there I want to show you . . . my Christmas gift to you.”

  “As if this sleigh isn’t enough,” I said sarcastically.

  “Don’t go bratty on me, now. This is beautiful, isn’t it? Snow in time for Christmas, and another thing: a horse-drawn sleigh is not an easy thing to find in downtown Chicago this time of year.”

  “It is pretty wonderful,” I admitted, waving to a bunch of cross-country skiers headed into the park. “And it will be perfect, once we have that conversation. The details, man.”

  He nestled beside me. “You’re still mad? I don’t blame you, but I really couldn’t help it. I got a call just after you left Monday morning. There was a cancellation Tuesday, which gave me a chance to present a paper I’ve been working on for a hundred years. I’m trying to get tenure at Penn, which is a godlike thing in this day and age, so I had to jump on a plane to Philly pronto and present my research findings all day yesterday.”

  “Philly . . .” I said aloud, for Gia’s benefit. “That would be Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

  Gia turned around and mouthed, “Sorry!”

  “Home of the cheesesteak sub.”

  Some of it made sense—the mound of papers, the laptop, the place near campus. I’d thought he might be a student but somehow never thought he could be a professor.

  I squinted at him. “And why was this all such a big secret? The first top-secret sabbatical I ever heard of.”

  “The Santa gig was part of my research. Did I mention that I’m a sociologist? No, I don’t think I did. But I needed to remain anonymous or else the research would have been compromised. I’ve been researching the belief of magic in cultures for so long, I couldn’t blow it right at the end of my study. I’ve been working on this baby a hundred years! But I said that, right? I’m telling you more than you want to know.”

  “No, I do want to know. I want to know everything. The truth this time.”

  “It’s not as if I’m a pathological liar,” he said, and Gia turned back to cock an eyebrow. “What? I’m not! I tried to stick to the truth. Mostly I committed lies of omission. Which is almost not a real lie.”

  I smiled, watching him try to talk his way out of the situation. I was relieved that he was back and that he was not an ax murderer and that he hadn’t run away from me. In the two days he was gone, I’d gone over all the wonderful things that Nick had brought to my life: the way he’d jump-started my life with feeling and emotion, the way he’d helped me and so many others embrace the true meaning of Christmas, and his joy for small things, small moments.

  He’d helped set my life back on track. While he was gone I’d forced myself to take a deep look inside and ask some tough questions. The answer had been that I would go on. Even if Nick didn’t return, I would continue to live with feeling. I would celebrate Christmas and find joy in small moments, because Nick had led me to find the real Meredith, and for that I would be eternally grateful.

  But right now the real Meredith was thrilled that Nick had returned, and hopeful that we could see our way to spending next Christmas together . . . and the next . . . and the next . . .

  “Here we are,” Gia announced, pulling up in front of my house.

  Nick was the first to hop down, helping the two of us to the ground.

  “Come in with us,” I said, slinging an arm around Gia’s shoulder. “Will the horses be okay?”

  She slung her blanket over her shoulders like a serape. “Who would steal horses from the North Side?”

  As we approached the front door, Nick put his hands on my shoulders. “You have to close your eyes.” From there, it was dark until he guided me five steps up, eight steps through the vestibule . . . and then I lost track.

  “Okay,” he said, “now you can look.”

  I opened my eyes to a tall evergreen tree in the same spot we’d always placed it beside the stairs. It was lit with gold lights and dotted with sparkling crystal ornaments, so like the ornaments we’d had in our family.

  “Wow,” Gia gushed. “Cool tree.”

  “Oh my gosh . . .” I stepped closer. A train. A doll. A spinning top. “Those look like the ornaments we used to have . . . the ones my mother loved . . .”

  “They are,” he said.

  I squinted into the gold light. “But they can’t be. I got rid of them two years ago. The cleaning staff couldn’t even track them down.”

  “Take a close look; those are the Rossman’s ornaments.”

  My throat was suddenly tight with emotion. “How did you do this?”

  “I told you, my studies focus on the belief in magic. You gotta believe, Meredith. That’s how miracles happen.”

  He put an arm around me and I linked arms with Gia so that we three stood together at the base of the tree, a line of energy gazing up at many lifetimes of glimmering ornaments, many generations of Christmases past that hovered in the gold light, protecting, cheering.

  I saw my mother on a ladder, rearranging ornaments near the top.

  My father dusted an ornament shaped like a ballerina with a fine sable brush.

  My nana dipped an ornate crystal sailing ship into a cup of pungent ammonia for cleaning and lifted it out with a satisfied smile.

  And there I was dancing under the tree, my Lanz flannel nightgown hiked up to my knees, dancing to the Christmas carols playing on the old stereo system, dancing and dreaming of the kindness of Santa in his charmed northern home where elves loving
ly crafted toys under a blanket of snow and Mrs. Claus waited patiently for her husband’s return each year. I danced for Santa and the elves and Mrs. Claus and the reindeer.

  One day, my daughter would dance barefoot under these ornaments, too. I held fast to my friends, wishing her sweet dreams and loving spirits.

  EPILOGUE

  New York City, December 2006

  “This will only take a second,” Olivia Todd told her husband as the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor of Rossman’s Department Store at Astor Place.

  “I don’t mind.” He linked his fingers through hers and looked ahead. “You’ve dragged me all over town, checking out sites and buildings with me. I think I can manage a few minutes in Santaland.”

  “I read somewhere that they’ve got a Mrs. Claus here this year.” She leaned her head toward him, her red curls swaying. “I don’t know, it sort of made me feel all sentimental. I just wanted to check it out, since we’re here.”

  It was Olivia’s first trip back to New York since she’d left the Rockettes, and she enjoyed showing Woody the familiar sights while playing tourist in other ways. When she lived uptown she didn’t have a chance to visit this Rossman’s or explore the Soho area. Now they were staying at the Soho Grand, walking to the Village, dining in Tribeca. She and Woody had gone skating under the multicolored lights of the Rockefeller Center tree. They had bought roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, had sipped vodkas at the majestic, always Christmasy bar in the Firebird, and yesterday, for the first time ever, she had sat in the audience of the Christmas show at Radio City and experienced genuine joy, amusement, and holiday spirit—without a trace of envy toward the dancers on stage.

  No jealousy. She actually didn’t want to be on that stage, absorbed in the daily grind of three shows a day, then off on tour, living out of a suitcase, five cities in seven days for weeks at a time.

  Not that she’d given up dancing. Olivia had opened a dance studio in Canton, in the building Woody had renovated. She gave lessons to little girls and more advanced dancers with career aspirations. And she danced. Through Woody’s contacts, she had collaborated with the mayor’s office to establish a program called Baltimore in the Wings that brought dancers, actors, and musicians to perform in public schools and conduct workshops with the students. She was working with other dancers to form an independent troupe to showcase local talent and original choreography. And to show that she could rise above it all, she had even played the Sugar Plum Fairy in a small production of The Nutcracker last year.

  A group of teenaged tourists blocked the entrance, but Olivia excused herself and moved past them, and suddenly there was the sign with the painted red “Santaland” decked with a garland lined with fat bells. “Oh my gosh!” A hand flew to her mouth as she and Woody passed under the candy-cane arches, heading toward a gingerbread house tiled with swirled mints and gumdrops. Off to the side, children were being led to a motorized train—the North Pole Express—its green and red seats just big enough to fit most children under twelve.

  Olivia misted over at the nostalgic sight.

  The Christmas she spent as Mrs. Claus was a turning point in her life, the first time she’d ever seized control of her life, steered it in a new direction, and held on tight.

  And what a ride.

  “Seeing all this . . .” She turned to Woody. “I sort of miss being Mrs. Claus.” Not that she could go back; Olivia knew there was no re-creating past lives, no reliving specific eras in a life, at least not with the same passion and energy.

  “Yeah?” Woody smiled. “You want a Mrs. Claus do-over?”

  She laughed. “I’m saving my do-overs for the things that matter. Like softball.” She leaned over the rail to search for Mrs. Claus. “And dance steps. And seventh-grade sweeties who fall away because you’re such a dummy-head.”

  “Oh, hon, that’s so sweet.” Woody squeezed her hand.

  She squeezed back, eyeing a group of elves helping children off the train. “I don’t see her. Where is Mrs. Claus?”

  Woody shook his head. “I don’t think she’s here. You know how so many department stores are scaling down.”

  “But that would be awful.” Olivia gripped the rail, trying to peer through the one-way window into Santa’s house. “What a shame. Did they bump off Mrs. Claus?”

  “Do you have your list?” Cassie called after Tyler, who was moving through the gumdrop kingdom toward Santa.

  Tyler held up the booklet, a list of inventions he’d sketched in pencil: ingenious Christmas toys like hover disks that would help him to fly over traffic on Madison Avenue to make it to school on time or shoes with scrub brushes on the bottom to help shampoo the streets of New York as people walked along. He’d made the list for Santa, confident that the elves could handle the construction of these mechanical devices.

  “I hope he’s not disappointed on Christmas morning when he doesn’t see his inventions under the tree,” Cassie had told Buchman one night.

  “Hmm . . . Could be a problem,” he agreed. “Perhaps we should find Tyler an inventor’s kit? A chemistry set? Something to stoke the imagination?”

  Cassie had pursued the idea, considering it a far better investment than another video game. It was uncanny how Buchman seemed to understand Tyler’s needs, how he sensed when the boy needed to get out and run or simply needed quiet time to sketch or model clay.

  He understands both of us, Cassie thought as she watched Buchman and Tyler move into the Santaland crowd.

  Hands on the boy’s shoulders, Buchman guided him along the path, chattering on about something that seemed to amuse Tyler. It was not a scene Cassie had imagined all the times she’d envisioned her son’s future; she had always pictured Tyler with his biological father. She’d been so stuck on that, imagining TJ on the beach helping to launch a kite, or in the park picking Tyler up from a tumble on his inline skates. Now those scenarios seemed so unlikely, so unlike TJ, at least, and over the past year her vision had expanded, allowing Tyler to gravitate toward Buchman and the inventions and model constructions that fascinated them.

  Turning back toward the entrance, Cassie checked her watch. Where was Mrs. Claus?

  When Buchman had taken this assignment at the New York Rossman’s, Cassie had been pleased that Tyler would have a chance to live in New York for a while, experience another city. She’d been surprised that Agate had wanted to make a move, too, especially one so far, but Agate’s relationship with Philip had been fizzling and she wanted to make a clean break and, most of all, no one could bear to disconnect after they’d finally arrived at a sense of family.

  In the blink of an eye, it had come together like one of Tyler’s precise sketches.

  With Rossman’s paying the rent, Cassie had a blast searching for an apartment, finally settling on a two-bedroom in the east sixties, walking distance to the Central Park Zoo. Agate had found a Chelsea sublet through her network of Wiccan friends, and so she was just a subway ride away. The chief designer of the New York store was impressed by Cassie’s work, and so Rossman’s was all in the family with Buchman working in the management offices and Cassie contributing to the window designs.

  When they were casting Mrs. Claus, Cassie had been skeptical about Agate’s involvement with the store. “You haven’t held a full-time job for years. You don’t respond well to pressure. And you tend to buck authority.” She had begged her mother to let the job go, but Agate, persistent as a bulldog, had clamped on to it and pushed ahead.

  “Merry Christmas!” a familiar voice gushed warmth. “Oh, don’t you look swell, all dressed up to see Santa! And merry Christmas to you!”

  Turning toward the arched candy canes at the entrance, Cassie saw her mother moving along the line of children, exchanging greetings as if she were the mayor of the North Pole. In a way, she was.

  “I was getting worried about you,” Cassie said quietly.

  “You made a picture for Santa? Wonderful!” Agate told a child. “Don’t forget to give it to him.�
�� She straightened, her face relaxed in a smile that seemed out of place in the frenzied pace of Manhattan. “Sorry, Cassie, but the bus took forever. That crosstown traffic. Am I late?”

  “Just by five minutes or so.” Cassie lowered her voice so that the children around them wouldn’t hear. “But you do realize you’ve got an eight-hour shift ahead? You’ll be on your feet quite a while.”

  Agate’s dark eyes gleamed with a warm light as she nodded. “I’ve been looking forward to it. You said this job changed your life, and I’ve been in a rut for at least the last hundred years. Well, I’m ready to shake things up a little.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Claus.” Cassie gestured toward the line of children and Agate hustled toward them, greeting them with laughter and cheer.

  That’s the difference between us, Cassie thought. Agate met change head-on, while it was Cassie’s nature to fight it all the way. Until Buchman. Now she was learning to choose her battles.

  “Merry Christmas, little ones!” Agate welcomed a new group of children with open arms. “May all your Christmases be bright!”

  And to think that before this job came along, her mother didn’t even believe in Christmas . . .

  Incognito.

  It was one of the things that made Meredith Rossman so comfortable in New York City. You might walk past Ben Stiller on the street or hear Jessica Simpson talking at the table beside yours at lunch, but no one made a big deal. No one cared that the woman who’d just bought vitamins and a pregnancy testing kit was heiress to the Rossman’s department store dynasty, the “poor little rich girl” who’d found love at last with an eccentric sociologist.