“Downstairs in the shop they’re playing The Nutcracker.” I lunged into a hamstring stretch. “This would make a great dance studio.” I gathered spine tall, shoulders down, arms aloft, and pirouetted gracefully.
“Very nice,” he said admiringly.
He watched as I did a few steps, a short sequence. Balanchine’s choreography is difficult, but every dancer knows at least a part of The Nutcracker. For a minute or so I lost myself in the music, transported, moving without thinking about the parts of the dance.
Woody’s silence brought me back to earth. Pausing, I pressed a hand to my chest. “It’s been a long time. Phew! What a relief. I can still do it.”
“Sure you can.”
“You should have seen me on the StairMaster last summer, barely walking. But really, what a great space. Has anyone thought of a studio?”
“Mmm, we can’t zone it for housing because of the lack of windows, but actually I was thinking more of a radio or television studio.”
“That might work. But you know, there isn’t much rehearsal space in Baltimore, and you could really use another dance studio here.”
He scratched his head. “Could I?”
“First of all, there’s no great academy here, no jumping-off point for the talented dancers growing up in this city and its suburbs. I can tell you that because I lived it. My parents spent pots of money sending me off to dance camps in New England each summer. And B, Baltimore needs a dance school for little kids that isn’t just a cheesy showcase for a tap recital once a year.”
“Sounds like every little girl’s dream.”
“My parents didn’t listen when I bugged them to let me pursue dance. And it’s funny, but watching the parents with their kids at Rossman’s? I see that hasn’t changed much. Some parents don’t seem to hear anything their kids say. It’s like they’re deaf.”
“I’ve noticed that, too. I have some friends who have picked out colleges and careers for their infant children. So you’ve enjoyed your Mrs. Claus gig at Rossman’s? I thought that by this point you might be happy to see it end.”
There was that damned knot again. If this kept up, I’d have to get screened for an ulcer. “Rossman’s has been great to me,” I said, turning away, looking for a distraction. I went to one of the high windows and opened the small hatch, letting in a burst of cool air that tossed my bangs back.
Footsteps behind me. “Do you see the lights on the other side of the water? That’s Fort McHenry. On a clear day you can see the flag from here.”
I was always rotten at history. “So much history in our hometown. Yes, I see it. Now, wasn’t that the battle when ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ was written? On a boat in the harbor?”
“Right. 1814. Francis Scott Key.”
“Refresh my memory. Who was the enemy?”
“The British, once again. The cannons of Fort McHenry saved us all from liver pudding and Liverpudlian accents.”
The rooftops tiering down to the water reminded me of the roofs where the chimney sweeps dance in Mary Poppins, their flat tar squares, black steps against the gray sky. Some of the houses were jumbled so close, so on top of each other that I felt sure I could do the dance, leaping from one roof to another as if they were stepping stones to the horizon. A few rooftops were framed by strings of red or white Christmas lights, others cut a swath of black contrasting to the gray sky. White smoke billowed from a few smokestacks, a counterpoint to the bold white cloud that clung to the sky over the dark waterfront punctuated by dots of light. “It’s really quite beautiful.” And beauty was something I rarely noticed or expected in Baltimore, unless of course I was viewing a Latrobe design or a painting in a museum.
“It is.”
I turned around, saw his eyes fixed on the view through the small window. Such sincere eyes. How did this man survive with such sweet, intense eyes?
“I don’t know how you get any work done here. I would just stand at this window and drink in the view all day.”
His hands moved to my shoulders and I wanted to melt against him. “Who says I get any work done here?”
I thought of the sofa over in the corner. The bare floors would be hard, but that sofa might work. Not that it really mattered.
Right now I would make love to him anywhere.
I turned to face him, and the motion made one of his outstretched hands sweep my shoulders and breasts. He held his hands up, surrendering. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I took his right hand and pressed it to one breast, holding it there as he let out a breath.
His eyes held a certain light, a tentativeness I found so appealing as he caressed me through the fabric, then leaned toward me and brushed his lips against mine. It felt good, the tease, and I lifted my hands to his face, capturing the slightly bristled skin along his jawline.
With a breath, I sank my fingers into his hair and we both moaned in pleasure as the kissing went on, a moist, hot connection that made our intentions very clear.
He sucked in a breath, then pulled my body against his, pressing his hips to mine as if seeking a niche. I could feel his erection, my own body’s response, the tingling nerve endings responding to his hands on my lower back, curving over my bottom.
“Livvy…” he whispered, “we fit together so well.”
He was right… Our bodies did seem well matched, a perfect alignment, something dance partners cherish.
I closed my eyes and kissed him, opening my lips to his, opening myself to the rising heat. How I wanted to tear away the clothes that separated us, the coats and jeans. We would tumble onto the floor and enter each other’s worlds in intimate ways, probing and teasing and stroking until we writhed to a climax together.
He pulled his lips away and pulled my body closer against his, kneading my ass. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he whispered. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of this…wanting you…”
His voice was gentle, reminding me of the kid Woody, the one I had spent hours on the phone with in seventh grade, the boy I’d tried to ease away from by sending him the lyrics to Carole King’s “It’s Too Late.” His friends told me I broke his heart, but our phone calls continued, hours of sharing old songs, reading poetic lyrics we’d found. Each night he’d sing me Sly Stone’s “Everybody Is a Star,” and I’d enjoy his company, my friend Woody.
“Oh, no.” I froze in his arms, pulling my hands to my face.
His body went still. “What is it?”
My pulse was still pounding in my ears. “I want you so much, I do, but I can’t do this. We can’t, Woody. I’m out of here at the end of the week and… Don’t you think this would just tear at both of us?”
His arms fell away from me and he stepped back, his face pinched with betrayal. “What? What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry, I just…” Just what? Couldn’t bear to break his heart again? Couldn’t seem to move past the Bobby years?
“Just go.” He turned away.
I stepped back reluctantly. “I’ll call you, okay? We’ll talk this out. Get square with each other.”
“Just go on, Liv.”
My heart was heavy with guilt as I turned and ran down the stairs.
19
After that night with Woody, after I’d looked into his eyes and seen the pain I’d caused, I wanted to take the next train out of Baltimore. I fantasized about arriving in New York a week early, taking a small hotel room, visiting galleries, spending afternoons reading novels in coffee shops, and generally escaping into some other woman’s cosmopolitan life. I came this close to leaving, but in the end, I couldn’t give up on Mrs. Claus that way.
“Are you crazy?” Lanessa told me over the phone. “First of all, you and the Wood Man are both consenting adults, so really, I’m not busting a gut crying over that one. I mean, got a sensitive nose, then don’t go sniffing around. That’s what I say.”
“You have never said that. And I feel really bad about it. I can’t help how I feel.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But that’s one thing. You staying in Baltimore for some two-bit department-store Santa job, that really rattles my cage. I mean, what do you get, minimum wage? To baby-sit snot-nosed droolers while their mommies go off and spend pots of money that all goes to Rossman’s?”
“I’m the only Mrs. Claus they have. The kids need me.”
“The kids need a sitter. You need a life.”
“It’s only one more week,” I said. “After that I’ll have a life again, but for now, I don’t know, it just makes me feel good to do something special for other people every day. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?”
“For me? Christmas is about finding a suit that doesn’t make my ass look too fat beside my skinny-butt sister who won’t come off Atkins. But if the Mommy Claus thing makes you feel good, more power to you, honey.”
Having spent months rehearsing in dance studios to escape my feelings for Bobby, I considered myself a master of sublimation—an acquired skill, which I would need to rely on over the next few days. It helped that I worked in such a busy, cheerful place—a department store at Christmas—and I soaked up that Christmas spirit, admiring the dedication of my coworkers and the service of all the retail clerks in the store. In its own way, Rossman’s was pulling off a Christmas production that rivaled all the bells and whistles of the show I’d danced in last year, and I saw rave reviews every day in the wonder that lit the faces of children who believed they were about to meet their greatest hero of all time. Every time the carolers sang “tidings of comfort and joy” or “deck the halls,” every time the toy train pulled around the gingerbread house full of expectant children, each time I squatted down to meet a child on his or her level, I felt very much a part of Christmas.
I tried not to lose that connection when the dreaded day of The Nutcracker filming arrived. It was unsettling to see the production crew treading on our Santaland displays when I reported in that morning, but we all tried to be patient.
“It’s overlit!” someone yelled so loud that the child I was leading to ZZ’s cozy Santa home winced. “I need gels on this tree over here.”
“Okay, Virgil,” I said to the boy, pointing to three cables snaking across our path. “Do you think you can jump over these the way Santa’s reindeer hop over a house?”
“Sure.” He hopped merrily in his mini–Air Jordans, then glanced up at me for approval.
“Good job,” I assured him, weaving around the new tier of employees who were adding to the noise. So far there’d been no sign of Bobby or Destiny, but one of the carpenters told me that the talent and producers were the last to arrive on set.
“And who is this?” ZZ asked, smiling at the shy boy holding my hand.
“This is Virgil, Santa.” I began to lead him over to the large velvet chair, but Virgil pushed ahead and lifted his hands so that ZZ would pull him into his lap. The boy’s aunt took a seat on the sofa.
“Thank you, Mrs. Claus,” ZZ told me. “And would you be so kind as to ask those young people to quiet down a bit? Virgil and I need to talk.”
I nodded, feeling weary already. “I’ll do my best.”
Out in the gingerbread maze waiting area, no one on the crew wanted to hear my “Quiet, please!” message.
“It’s a bit surreal,” Regis told me as we watched a man on the crew struggle with a scaffold, cursing all the way. “They want us here for background, and yet they really want us to be invisible. Now I understand why those Hollywood types call the people in the background ‘atmosphere.’”
As the day wore on, I began to feel more and more invisible. The cast began arriving, and they imposed more than the crew, asking us for coffee runs and telling two of the elves to leave because their costumes clashed with the show designer’s scene. ZZ seemed determined to keep the peace, though even he drew the line at dismissing our elves, who were sent to the front door of the store to hand out coupons.
At one point, while sitting on a gumdrop chair, trying to console a lost child, I looked up to find the TV Olivia standing over me, her hair swept back with a fat headband, her blouse covered with a white paper bib, most likely to contain the crimson gloss on her lips and the heavy pancake make-up covering her skin.
That chin… That tiny nose! Up close, she looked more like the anti-Olivia.
I squinted at her, wondering why her features didn’t come together as an organic whole in my mind. Most likely because she was not me, not at all. And there was also the possibility that the individual pieces had been doctored beyond natural proportion—but that was a matter between the actress and her plastic surgeon.
She looked up from her script and met my eyes with keen recognition, and I braced myself. Here it comes, the moment of connection when this actress realizes how Bobby exploited me.
When she pointed at me, my heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my nerves were on edge. “I need to sit,” she said simply.
I looked down, realizing that I occupied the only adultsized gumdrop seat in the candy garden. She wanted my seat. The woman was building a career on my ass, and she wanted me to give up my seat.
Stung by adrenaline, I rose, ready to lunge at her, send her pretty fake red hair flying in a catfight…but I was caught by a slight hiccup beside me from the girl who’d lost her mother. And it occurred to me that a mud-wrestling Mrs. Claus was not the best image to impress upon a worried child.
Oh, hell, the obtuse actress could have my gumdrop chair.
“Come on, sweetie,” I said, taking the child’s hand. “Let’s look for your mommy near the Santaland entrance.”
As we made our way through the maze, the set now swarming with taut production people talking into headsets, I tried to take a deep, calming breath. No matter what happened today, I had to remember my role, my image, my elegant red suit. Mrs. Claus would not engage in catfights. Mrs. Claus would not kick her ex-boyfriend in the nuts and curse out his wife…
No matter how tempting the opportunity.
It was another two hours before Bobby and Destiny arrived and started adding their varied opinions as to the setup of the scene to be filmed. By that time my anxiety had begun to fade, but it all came rushing back when I locked eyes with Bobby.
Oh, shit.
I squeezed my eyes shut to break the connection, relieved that I hadn’t cursed out loud. Not that the twin toddlers I was escorting would notice, but their dad was right on my heels. I helped the boys off the train, trying to map out a way around Bobby and Destiny without having to climb the fake mountain of snow. Unless these toddlers learned to master fiberglass-mountain pickaxing really fast, that was not gonna happen.
“Let’s go see if Santa is ready now,” I said, taking their little hands and walking with my head down.
As I passed the crew, Destiny was engrossed in a critique of a sweater she’d seen downstairs on the sales floor, but Bobby caught me.
“Hey, there,” he said, nodding. “What are you doing here?”
“Just doing my job.” I forced a smile, hustling the boys along.
“No, wait,” Bobby said, tapping one of the elves on the arm. “Hey, mac, help us out and take the kids?”
The elf, an out-of-work welder named Alton, eyed Bobby with sleepy eyes, but welcomed the boys. “Follow me, guys.”
“This is Olivia, honey,” Bobby said, sounding forlorn.
I thrust my hand at Destiny, the blond Hollywood daughter of tabloids. “Hello, I’m Olivia Honey.”
No one noticed my joke as Bobby reminded his wife, “Remember I told you she was here in Baltimore?”
“Now, wait! Is this the other Olivia?” Destiny eyed me hungrily, and I had a feeling that any blemish, any perceived flaw would be devoured with relish in a later conversation. “Ow, how cute! Did our casting director hire you to be Mrs. Claus?”
I shook my head. “Actually, I work for Rossman’s.”
“Ow, how funny. Isn’t it funny? And what, you gave up the Rockettes for this?” She gestured around our beautiful Santalan
d as if it were a washroom at Penn Station.
“I like it here,” I said slowly. “And I love Baltimore. Unlike your Olivia.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s all very nice, but Bobby, did you see the way they have Olivia and Frank entering through that maze? It’s a problem.” And with that, Bobby and the crew were pulled over to the other side of Santaland to deal with the many “problems” that disturbed Destiny’s delicate sensibilities. She didn’t like the snow background or the giant gumdrops. “What are they, stalagmites?” she snapped. “And these elves look like escapees from a North Pole prison. I think we need all new casting on the elves.”
I couldn’t hear her response when Bobby explained that the elves were free atmosphere, compliments of Rossman’s. I didn’t care how they decided to shoot around our winter wonderland or if they decided to edit out our gumdrop haven.
At that point, I felt such a strong sense of relief that I wanted to laugh out loud.
“That woman is a holy terror,” Regis confided.
“Isn’t she?” I smiled.
“The whining. The complaints. Every other word out of her mouth is ‘problem.’ How can anyone stand to work with her?”
“Ha!” I slapped my fingers. “It’s so perfect. I totally get it now.” When he shook his head in confusion, I explained, “Since that show premiered I’ve been wondering how Bobby dreamed up the Olivia character, so bugged that he could have seen all those negative qualities in me. But now I get it. I see who really inspired the villainous Olivia.”
He gasped. “Of course! His own wife.”
I nodded so vigorously the tassel on my Santa cap shook. Suddenly one of the worst days of my life was transforming into something else, a day of liberation.
The Nutcracker was not me.
Destiny could take all the credit for inspiring Bobby to create the bitch of Baltimore. And somehow, when awards were being handed out, I was sure Destiny would be there, her iron jaws ready to smash and devour his nuts, the academy’s nuts, the network’s nuts…
The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Page 14
