Making Spirits Bright

by Fern Michaels

  But then she remembered. She had picked up the bag off the sidewalk! She recalled that very clearly. In her hurry to follow the ambulance, she’d grabbed both her leather messenger bag and the shopping bag. She’d had her hand around the two handles when she’d run to Court Street to get the cab.

  But then what had she done with it?

  Lost it. And because she hadn’t made it to the bank yesterday before it closed, that meant she’d lost ... she calculated rapidly, roughly ... over eleven hundred dollars.

  She stumbled backward and sank down in a chair with a thump.

  All eyes were on her now, including Wilson’s, peering down at her from high atop Sal’s shoulders. Two round, worried orbs among all the others.

  “I don’t have the cash box,” she said. “It’s gone. All that money’s gone.”

  Chapter 6

  She probably could have flown to China by now. Instead, she was still stuck in Chicago.

  Lots of people seemed to be stuck here. O’Hare Airport swarmed with travelers, some frantic, many just plain cranky, but a lot, like Erica, wearied numb. If the loudspeaker at the gate had announced that they were routing passengers to New York through Australia, most people probably would have lumbered onto the plane without a question.

  It was a struggle to stay awake. She’d already drunk so much Coca-Cola that she felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to corn syrup. Walking through the airport to keep from conking out, she had discovered this really cool long hallway that was all flashing neon. She’d spent thirty minutes going from one end to the other on the moving sidewalk until finally all the sugar in her system and the blinking light made her twitchy. She’d bought another Coke and sat down.

  And then, with forty-five minutes to go until they promised—absolutely promised—that her plane to New York was finally going to board, she remembered something vital. So vital she actually groaned aloud. She didn’t have a present for Heidi! She couldn’t show up empty-handed on Christmas. Her mother had always said it was rude to stay at anybody’s house without bringing some kind of gift. And here she was, about to show up on Heidi’s doorstep without warning on Christmas Eve. And no gift.

  She shot out of her chair, wondering what she could buy with her rapidly diminishing funds. Food and drink and bubble gum had eaten up almost twenty-five dollars already.

  She’d mulled over spending some of that money to call Heidi and warn her that she was coming. Or maybe calling Laura. It could be that everyone in Texas had figured out she was missing by now. They might be really worried—might think that a serial killer had gotten her or something. In Phoenix, she’d stopped at phone booths several times, her hand poised over the receiver.

  But Heidi might tell her to go back home to Sweetgum, and that was something that Erica absolutely didn’t want to do. Or maybe Heidi would feel duty-bound to call Laura on Erica’s behalf, or—even worse—her dad. The thought of that happening made her skin flash cold and hot, and Erica suddenly felt overwhelmed by the crowds around her, and the stupidity of what she’d done.

  Those calls were going to have to be made eventually. She knew that. The farther she got from Texas, the more she dreaded the inevitable moment of truth. In the movies, runaway or lost children were always welcomed back home with tears of happiness and sometimes guilt on the part of the parents, who now understood that they hadn’t really appreciated the missing kid. Maybe that was the image she’d had in her mind when she’d boarded the bus to DFW Airport nearly twenty-four hours ago. A lifetime ago.

  But who was she kidding? All anyone was going to feel toward her was pissed off. Her father was going to be spitting mad—even before he found out that she’d used Leanne’s credit card information to buy her tickets. Best case, her father would ground her for a few years. Worst case, he would forbid her from going to the farm ever again and send her off to live at a boarding school for juvenile delinquents.

  Either way, Erica was in no hurry to find out exactly how mad they all would be. And they would be just as angry whether she actually made it to Heidi’s or not, so she might as well have her Christmas in New York before being condemned.

  She hurried through the airport, hunting for something that might make an okay gift. Options were limited. For a moment, she considered decorative coffee mugs and coffee—but then she remembered that Heidi owned a coffee shop. Definitely not a good idea.

  One store offered stuff like weird alarm clocks, back massagers, and motorized wine-bottle openers. But it was all real expensive and sort of weird. She wanted to get Heidi something she’d actually like. She looked in a place that sold sunglasses and tried on fifty pairs before deciding that was a stupid idea, too. How could she know if they’d even fit Heidi’s head?

  Twenty-five minutes to go—they might have already started boarding her plane. She reached an area set by for selling stuff like liquor and perfume. Evidently the airport believed all its patrons either stank or needed a drink.

  There were other items, too—chocolate, for instance. Lots of chocolate. You couldn’t go wrong with that, could you? She bought a gigantic triangle-shaped chocolate bar. But once she’d spent the money, the chocolate bar seemed lame. It was a kid’s gift, something she’d like. Heidi was more of a girly girl kind of person.

  Erica was heading out of the duty-free area when her eye snagged on a perfume counter. Chanel. She remembered that her mom had bought Laura some Chanel powder once. “Known me all my life and you’re still confusing me with Zsa Zsa Gabor,” Laura had said.

  But Heidi was Laura’s opposite. So she’d probably like it.

  Trouble was, the prices made Erica’s stomach knot up. She wouldn’t be springing for many meals while she was in New York, that was for sure. A measly little bottle of eau de toilette set her back sixty-five dollars. It hurt to fork over that much money for something called toilet water.

  But it came in a foily prewrapped box, and she was able to sprint back to the plane in time to board carrying two gifts that she was sure were bound to please. Which was good, because she had a hunch that Heidi might be the only person to defend her when the poop hit the fan.

  Heidi retraced her steps of the night before. Though she was in a panic, she had to go slowly because she had Wilson in tow. The sleet pelting against her hood caused a steady drumbeat in her ears as she picked her way down the sidewalk. The stroller wheels had frozen, so she pulled the thing behind her like a dray. She probably should have left the kid at the café—he’d already bonded with Sal—but now that she had taken responsibility for him, she didn’t feel she could dump him on someone else. Although dumping him might have been preferable to dragging him around in an ice storm.

  Finally Wilson pitched such a fit that she decided to let him try to walk along with her, but for every three steps he took, he fell once. She expected him to explode in tears; instead, he couldn’t have been more thrilled. “Snow” and “oops” became his favorite words. She tried to explain that this was ice, and that if he wasn’t careful, there would be lots more oops ahead, but slipping was a game. It was all snow, all fun.

  After a block of chasing after him and pulling him upright, she decided she needed to keep a closer eye on the sidewalk instead of the kid, and so she forced him back in the stroller. Tears ensued, including her own as she reached her apartment block without finding the shopping bag with the cash box in it.

  What had she expected? That a strongbox containing over eleven hundred dollars would sit untouched on a New York sidewalk overnight, waiting for her?

  How could she have been so careless? Granted, it had been a traumatic night. But—eleven hundred dollars! The reality of her near-empty bank account tempted her to hurl herself onto the ice and let the sleet bury her alive. But now she had Wilson to be responsible for ... not to mention Marcello ... and she probably wouldn’t die anyway. With her luck, she would only lose an ear or a nose or something. And then she’d have to spend the rest of her life not only poor, but noseless.

  It
had been idiotic for her to be running around with all that money in the first place—and all because she’d been paranoid about Sal. Sal, who had never been anything but honest with her. Who was unfailingly helpful, in fact. Who this very morning had settled Wilson down like the second coming of Mary Poppins.

  Smart, Heidi. That great instinct for people strikes again.

  As she approached Mrs. DiBenedetto’s house, she noted the buried Christmas tree, its decorations now dull points of color beneath the ice. If she had simply left the tree in front of the café last night, her landlady wouldn’t have accused her of stealing it, Marcello wouldn’t have gotten his leash tangled, and Mrs. DiBenedetto wouldn’t be in the hospital. And she wouldn’t be chasing after her lost money.

  She turned in to her brownstone at the same moment Patrick was emerging from the steps leading down to her door. She flushed with awareness that she probably looked a wreck in her Costco coat and her muffler and hat caked with sleet. Not to mention her dribbly nose and eyes rabbit red from worry, exhaustion, and stinging cold.

  “Do you ever sleep?” she asked him.

  “Do you?” His voice conveyed a smile even as his expression remained dead serious. Then he looked down at the stroller. “You weren’t joking about kidnapping a kid for Christmas, were you?”

  Damn. She had forgotten saying that—and here she showed up with a stray toddler. “No, I swear,” she said, “he’s the neighbor’s son. I never would have—”

  “I know,” he said, smiling. “Marcus and I were just at the café.”

  “Oh.” She felt foolish now. Of course he wouldn’t think she’d actually kidnapped anybody.

  She hoped he wouldn’t, at least.

  “We heard about what had happened with the money, too.” His smile faded into a sympathetic frown. “I don’t suppose you found the cash box?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “I shouldn’t have expected to, I guess.”

  “How much money was in it?”

  “Over eleven hundred dollars. I should have taken it to the bank, I know, but ...” She stopped, knowing Patrick didn’t want to hear about her bank’s hours, no matter how patiently he heard her out. No doubt he listened to dozens of hard-luck stories every week using that same sympathetic stare. “Well, I screwed up. I suppose the next step is to call the cab company—but it was cash. Do people turn in found cash?”

  “Sometimes. You’d be surprised.” This, from the man who had been shot during a Christmas robbery. “What about the hospital?” he asked. “Did you have it then?”

  She pinched her brow in concentration. “I don’t remember. I know I was carrying my leather bag ...”

  “I’ll check the hospital for you,” Patrick said.

  “Aren’t you working?”

  “Hey—this might have been a theft, right?” He assumed a Jack Webb deadpan. “That’s where I come in. I carry a badge.”

  She couldn’t help laughing, although she wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a boa constrictor squeeze of thanks. Her hero! Or at least he was trying to be. “Thank you, Patrick.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  “Just knowing there’s someone else who cares makes me feel better.”

  “I do care.” He hesitated a second, then began to blurt out, “In fact, I—”

  Wilson started screaming and managed to scoot out of his seat. He took one step and fell smack on his butt.

  “Oops!”

  Distracted, Patrick laughed and scooped him up. “Hey—watch it, buddy.”

  “It’s a good thing he has that snowsuit, or he’d be black and blue by now,” Heidi said.

  Patrick walked with them to her apartment, but he didn’t finish whatever it was he’d been about to confess to her. He deposited Wilson on the rectangle of mostly snow-free pavement at her doorway. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon,” he said. “Right now I’ve got to swing by the café again and pick up Marcus—he’s on lunch break.”

  “And probably being abused by Dinah.”

  “Do you want a ride?” he asked.

  It was tempting, but she shook her head. “No, I think I need to ransack my apartment thoroughly, to make sure the cash box isn’t there. But thanks. Again.”

  Patrick hurried to the patrol car that was parked up the street. She couldn’t remember feeling such a rush of love for anyone in a long time. Of course he was only being nice, but she felt so grateful, so aware of what an incredibly generous man he was, that she had the mad desire to run after him and promise to devote her whole life to making him happy, whether he wanted a hausfrau or just a lifetime supply of free coffee. His wish would be her command.

  Fortunately, she restrained herself.

  Or unfortunately, as it turned out.

  Chapter 7

  She and Wilson returned to the café, where a smattering of customers had gravitated to the tables nearest the television. Someone had turned it to The Weather Channel. In front of the register counter, Dinah leaned on the bottom of Heidi’s rickety, paint-splattered aluminum stepladder. On the top of the ladder perched Clay.

  “What is going on?” Heidi asked.

  “Clay’s hanging mistletoe.”

  “What for?”

  “I think it’s his last-ditch effort to get lucky,” Sal muttered to her as he deposited fresh-from-the-oven gingerbread on the counter.

  “As if we didn’t have enough problems with the icy stoop,” she grumbled, hoping there was some rock salt in the supply room. “Nothing says lawsuit like a customer on a ladder.”

  “It was my idea,” Clay said, tacking the sprig in place by a silver ribbon tied around its stem. It stood out in the empty overhang—Heidi had been meaning to do something there, but couldn’t decide what.

  Clay looked hopefully at Dinah. “What do you think?”

  “Isn’t that stuff poisonous?” she asked.

  Sal laughed. “It depends on who sees you standing under it.”

  Clay climbed down and waggled his brows at Dinah. “You’re right under the mistletoe, Dinah.”

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  Like a fool, he complied. Dinah reached behind her and pulled a piece of gingerbread off a tray. She smashed it into Clay’s mouth and then arched a brow at Heidi. “You can take it out of my pay.”

  After catching the avalanche of gingerbread that crumbled down his sweater, Clay blinked in surprise. “That’s really good,” he said. “Did you make that, Di?”

  “No, Sal did—and please don’t call me Di,” she said. “I’m not a princess, or something that gets rolled down a craps table. At least, not usually.”

  Heidi reached for the television remote. She was as transfixed by the weather as anyone, but having it on made her feel as if she were in an airport lounge. She flipped it to TCM, which was showing a Robert Mitchum movie. The black-and-white images worked on her nerves like a tonic.

  “Maybe you should go home now,” she suggested to Dinah.

  “Why?” Dinah tossed a glance at her watch. “Does it take five hours to get to Penn Station these days? My train doesn’t leave till six thirty.”

  “There might be trouble with the trains.”

  “The sleet’s let up.”

  “The weather guy was saying it’s going to start up again in the evening,” Heidi warned her. “You might need to change your reservation to another train.”

  Dinah laughed. “Do you think there are dozens of alternatives to the Ethan Allen Express? On Christmas Eve?”

  “Maybe you won’t get out at all,” Clay said. “If you need someplace to go on Christmas ...”

  “I don’t,” Dinah said. “I’ll leave work this evening, catch my train, and be in Chippenhook by midnight.” She smiled and repeated, “Chippenhook by midnight—sounds like poetry, doesn’t it?”

  “Not to me, it doesn’t,” Clay grumbled.

  Dinah ignored him and studied Heidi. Worry must have shown in her face.

  “I didn’t find the money,” Heidi told h
er in a low voice.

  The younger woman put a hand on Heidi’s shoulder. “We know. Patrick told us awhile ago when he came by to pick up Marcus. I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t in my apartment, either. It could still show up, though,” Heidi added. “I’m going to start calling cab companies.”

  “I can do that,” Sal said, taking out his cell phone. “I have an uncle who’s a dispatcher.”

  Heidi’s heart picked up, then sank again. “It was a gypsy cab.”

  “No worries,” Sal assured her. “Uncle Nick knows all these outfits. We’ll find it.”

  Patrick, now Sal. Heidi felt so grateful to these people trying to keep her hope alive. Especially since there was only a chance in a million that the money was still out there.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon serving up the usual lunch fare and baking way too much. She tried not to think about what the loss of that money would mean to her in concrete terms. Good-bye, new mixer and new sink in the café’s bathroom, which was rust-stained and pulling away from the wall. Come the new year, she would really be flying by the seat of her pants—one payroll away from disaster, really. It wasn’t as if there was a lot of fat that could be trimmed from her operation. She had Sal and Dinah, and she couldn’t imagine the Sweetgum without either of them. Short of putting all her belongings in storage and sleeping in the supply closet, she couldn’t think of many ways to cut corners.

  Not baking more than she needed would probably be a good start. But if she wasn’t baking, she would be worrying. Sal was parked on a stool by the sink, still trying to find the car service that had picked her up—and having no luck, if his mutterings and occasional outbursts in Italian were any indication.

  Dinah stayed all afternoon, even though there were never more customers than Heidi could have handled alone. She had the feeling that the waitress was hanging around to see if the money ever turned up.

  At one point, Sal hung up the phone, clapped Heidi on the shoulder, and ran out. She and Dinah grinned at each other. Maybe she was finally about to run into some luck. The mood in the café lifted higher still when Clay got Wilson to say mistletoe. It came out as “mizzletoed,” but he said it—often—with gusto.