Fred scratched his chin, confused. “Santa Claus?”
“No! Mr. Buchman.”
As Fred and I went before Buchman’s ornate Santa chair to deliver our news, I felt as if we were subjects granted an audience with the king.
“The snowflake lights?” Buchman tugged down his white beard. “I take it those are the lights strung throughout the store?”
“Yes. I was able to purchase new lights for the window displays, but we were stuck with these old snowflakes throughout the store.”
“Sounds like a possible fire hazard. We must replace the lights that are out on the second floor immediately. As for the others, that decision can wait until tomorrow.”
“We close in fifteen minutes.” I looked at Fred. “Did you have plans for the evening?”
He sighed. “Not anymore. I’ll go get the ladders.”
As the shoppers began to dwindle, Fred and I quietly set up ladders in the back of the bedding department and began to remove lights. The snowflake lights had to be untangled from the garlands thick with Christmas balls and bells, then replaced with new strings of white lights from our Christmas shop before the garlands could be reinstalled in display areas.
Half an hour into the job, Fred and I were stringing garland piled on a sales counter when Mr. Buchman appeared, no longer in a Santa suit but wearing a shirt and loose tie, his arms folded as he watched the process.
“This is going to take a while,” Fred said.
“Indeed.” Buchman tapped his chin. “Tedious work. Do we not have garland with prestrung lights?”
“Rossman’s doesn’t carry it.”
He nodded. “Well, we may be forced to dispatch an emissary to one of our competitors in order to obtain the decorations we need throughout the store. For tonight, though, let me lend a hand.”
We showed him what to do, and Buchman began stripping the old lights out on a third set. As we worked, he questioned me about the cost of new lights and about the best places to purchase them. He asked Fred if he could snoop around in the morning and drum up operating costs for running the snowflake lights during the past few Christmas seasons.
“I would love to replace all the lights in the store,” he explained, “however, we must present a brief cost analysis before we embark on the project.”
“And you can sell the old snowflake lights on eBay,” Fred said. “At least, you can sell the ones that still work.”
“A shrewd plan,” Buchman agreed. “Sure to offset costs. Another thing to investigate.”
By the time the lights were replaced and rehung, the store was empty except for the night guards. Fred lowered the overhead lights for maximum effect, and the three of us gazed up into the warm halo glow that set off the sparkling purple, red, green, and blue of the ornaments. The merry elfin figures that surfed the garland and rode the jingle bells were silhouetted in the darkness, as if resting for the night.
“Lovely,” Buchman sighed, and for a moment the air in the shoe department seemed magical, like the fluttering excitement and expectation of a Christmas morning.
Then, suddenly the mood fizzled as Fred went to the wall and brought up the lights. “See you tomorrow.”
Inside the ladies’ locker room I nearly fell on the bench, so tired. I tugged off my boots, undid the coat of my Mrs. Claus suit, and let my fingers smooth the white fur trim as I hung my head.
Bone tired. Mr. Buchman pushed hard. I felt my eyes closing when the air stirred.
“Ms. Derringer…”
I lifted my head.
“Based on our conversation I’ve worked up some costs on the matter of replacing the old snowflake lights, and it appears that your instincts were correct.”
He stood before me, his hands clasped together, his eyes intent on me. I was slumped down so that the jacket fell open, exposing my black teddy and significant cleavage.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Reflexively, I straightened, which probably revealed even more.
Mr. Buchman didn’t seem to notice. “Energy efficiency is a primary, long-term concern, and cost analysis indicates that…” His voice trailed off as his eyes trailed down my body, following the gentle rise and fall of my chest. “That we should buy a new set of bulbs. Smaller bulbs. Nothing too… too flashy.”
He was losing his train of thought because of me, and I liked that feeling. I stood up and stepped toward him, taking his hands and slipping them inside my open coat. His eyes went wide, but he didn’t stop me as I placed his hands over my breasts. “I was thinking small and very compact.” I directed his fingertips around the nipple of one breast, which pressed tautly against the fabric. “Just about that size?”
“Yes, that would do quite nicely.” His voice was barely a whisper now, his eyes simmering with heat.
His fingers worked skillfully, and I suspected that Mr. Buchman knew his way around a woman’s body. I wanted him and I knew he wanted me. A bad idea, with this whole employee-boss thing going on, but there was no denying the dampness between my legs. As I reached out for his crotch, he turned away suddenly.
“Mr. Buchman?” Desire burned through me. I wanted to have sex with him now, worry about the fallout later.
“Ms. Derringer.” He took a composing breath, then turned back to me. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, God, do you think he’s gay?” Jaimie gasped when I told her the story of my rejection that night as I was picking up Tyler. I’d had to twist the details a little to keep the identity of the rejecter anonymous. “Maybe you freaked him out.”
“I’m sure he likes women,” I said confidently. “This guy is straight. I think the freak-out was more over the boss-employee thing. Worried about fishing off the company pier.”
“This is someone who works at Rossman’s?” she probed. “Who?”
“I can’t say. Really. You don’t want to know.”
“Did you tell him how discreet you can be? That you don’t want to date him, you just want sex? That no one at work needs to know about it? Except me, of course.”
“We didn’t talk about it. I was undressing, he sampled the goods, then took off.” I didn’t mention the incredible let-down I’d felt when he turned away.
“So what are you going to do?” Jaime asked. “Will you be embarrassed to see him tomorrow?”
“I don’t blush over sex,” I said, fastening the Mrs. Claus coat.
“You… Oh, Cassie, you wouldn’t! Not in the store… during the daytime.”
“Calm down, Ms. Rossman. The store isn’t open yet, and it’s not a holy place.”
“I can’t believe this is happening on my day off!” she said. “Call me as soon as you… just call me.”
Mr. Buchman’s refusal had ruined my night’s sleep, his face appearing as a giant visage washing through my dreams. I was determined to end that now, this morning, in his office as scheduled. It was still early, too early for the secretaries to be manning their desks in the corridor of the third-floor offices. I knocked on Buchman’s door, then stepped inside the shadowed office and closed the door behind me.
He looked up from the light of the monitor, dropping his hands from the keyboard. “Ms. Derringer…”
“Mr. Buchman.” My pulse beat faster than normal, and I pressed my back to the door, drawing composure from the coolness of the metal. “About last night…”
“Yes, we should talk. I…I want to say I’m sorry if I compromised—”
“Don’t. You don’t have to go there. I’m just sorry you left.” I moved over to his side of the desk, hitched up my skirt, and sat up on the desk with my bare knees inches from his chest. “Here’s what I’m interested in. A discreet relationship. No emotional attachment.”
“Do you think we can really do that?” he asked, swinging his chair toward me.
“I know I can. You know I have a son, other demands on my time. I’m in no position to get involved.”
He drew in a breath and ran his fingertips along the inside of my thighs, reaching in under my skirt. I sucked in
my breath as he set my nerve endings on fire.
“But you’re sure this is what you want?” he asked as his fingers explored, teasing.
I let my head fall back as I succumbed to the warm sensations between my legs. “That, Mr. Buchman, is exactly what I want.”
10
“Have I got news for you.” I squeezed into the vinylseat, back to back with a stranger, which was the way everyone got seated in the House of Nan King, the best Chinese restaurant in San Francisco with the unfortunate ambiance of a crowded camp mess tent. I scooted my chair in, chest to the table. It had been a long time since I’d had big news to announce at lunch. The last time was probably when I was pregnant with Tyler, and that had met with mixed reactions (probably since my friends weren’t crazy about the father and—oops!—we weren’t married).
“It’s about this new guy, isn’t it?” Jaimie tucked her hair behind her ears. “Please, tell me something juicy. I’ve got a three-month-old and the only juicy I’m getting these days is wet diapers.”
Bree put up her hands. “Stop right there. Exciting news is not guy stuff. I just read an article that said too many women seek validity through men. So let’s talk about more noteworthy things, like this year’s candidates for the Pulitzer. Or euthanasia in Sweden.”
“Actually, part one is not about a man. I called Agate. Broke the silence.”
Jaimie’s eyes went wide. “You spoke to her?”
“I left a message, but I think it’s her machine. She’s got this new age music playing in the background, sort of like wind chimes.”
“That sounds like Agate. If it’s her, I’m sure she’ll call you back.”
I thought of the halting message I’d left her. “Agate? If this is you, it’s me… Cassie…your daughter. If this is you, can you give me a call? I’m fine, and I have some news. I… should really tell you in person. So call me.” I left my cell phone number. I was about to hang up, but didn’t want to sound too impersonal. “Oh, and I’m not on TJ’s show anymore, so don’t call there,” I rambled on. “But I have another job. I’m a designer. I did the windows at Rossman’s Union Square. Have you seen them?” Suddenly I remembered the way Agate had shunned material possessions. “Maybe she’ll call me.”
“Good for you,” Bree said. “You identified your fear and you called her on the phone.”
“I guess.” Bree needed to get a job so that she wouldn’t spend so much time reading those self-help magazines.
“So what’s part two?” Jaimie prodded.
I shot a look at Bree. “Close your ears if you’re looking for edification. Part two is about a boy. Mr. Buchman, actually. We are now officially lovahs.”
“Mr. Buchman?” Jaimie shook her head so furiously her hair bobbed.
“Tell me, why would you want to sleep with a man you call mister?” Bree asked.
“Well, for starters, he does have a sense of humor. And Tyler relates to him. Actually, he seems okay with all kids. I’ve seen him in Santaland, surprisingly patient, and he just talks to them like they’re smaller people.”
“Brits are so weird.” Jaimie shuddered. “Their cuisine is crap and they don’t wear enough deodorant.”
“Jaimie, that’s incredibly politically incorrect of you. Besides, you’ve met Buchman. Does he have BO?”
But Jaimie was off on her rant. “All that ‘check under the boot’ and ‘bloke’ and ‘did you fancy him?’ Oh, I fancied him. Fancy this! Well, fancy that. Trust me, I spent a semester abroad, stuck in some godforsaken industrial town. I know.”
“And their teeth are so bad.” Bree thrust her lower jaw out in an underbite. “Did you check his teeth?”
“His teeth are fine.”
“Seriously, did you look in the back? Check the molars? All black and sometimes the front teeth are worn away into spikes. I don’t think socialized medicine covers dentistry.”
“He’s top-level management of a Fortune 500 company. The man’s got good dental.”
“Really, did you take a look?” Jaimie pressed. “You have to check the back teeth.”
“I didn’t give him an oral exam,” I said.
Bree wiggled her eyebrows. “Not on the first date.”
“We didn’t really have a date, we just… had sex.”
“Now you’re cooking with gas.” Jaimie patted my hand. “I’m so proud of you. If you can just keep it up—”
“Or keep him up—” Bree cut in, brandishing a mock Groucho cigar.
“—you, too, can join the fuck-buddy club. Ah, those were the days. You meet once a week—”
“—More. I can meet two, three times a week, just as long as it doesn’t cut into my social life.”
“And there’s no membership fee and no dues,” Jaimie said proudly.
“And God knows,” Bree added, “we’ve all paid our dues.”
I folded my arms. “You two should take that act on the road. And I don’t care what you say. There’s something oddly attractive about Mr. Buchman. I like him.”
“No, no!” Bree pounded the table. “Not the like word! Pop a zit and loan me a tampon and we’ll be back in junior high.”
The two men sitting behind Bree swung their heads around to glare at us. I suppose all our talk of tampons and zits didn’t go too well with the kung pao chicken.
“You’re right,” I said, raising my brows at the offended diners. I lowered my voice. “Thanks for the reality check. It’s a silly attraction, and I’m in no position to do much more than look under the boot, anyway. I’ve got a kid to raise, a job to do and…I would never do that to Tyler. He needs a solid mother and father in his life; my crap, and who I fancy, will always take a back burner.”
“Not that I’m keeping score,” Jaimie smoothed the dark hair over her left ear. “But are you saying that you’re interested in pursuing a relationship with Mr. Samuel Buchman?”
“No, I am not. I’m tied up raising a son and pursuing his father. There’ll be no relationships for me until Tyler is off to college. I figure thirteen, maybe fourteen years.”
“I’ll never understand that bizarro vow you’ve made to yourself,” Jaimie said. “How does it go? Sex is okay, but no involvement?”
Bree shook her head. “That’s just like a man…You’re having sex like a man. Better watch it or soon you’ll be eating dinner like a bachelor, leaning over the kitchen sink. You’ll have no knives left in your kitchen because each one will go out in the garbage in a box of Entenmann’s cake.”
Jaimie gestured toward Bree with a theatrical flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen, the comedy stylings of Bree Noble.”
The two gentlemen behind Bree turned back, eyeing us curiously just as Bree’s phone started to jangle. I pressed my napkin to my face to hide a laugh while Bree bowed her head and reached for her cell. “Ba-dump-bump.” She held her cell phone away from her face to squint at the text message. “Well, would you look at that. AM San Francisco wants to see me back tomorrow.”
Jaimie lifted her chopsticks. “You got the job?”
“It’s looking that way, and let me tell you, the best part of that gig is not the salary or the benefits but the adorable line producer, Franco Verti. Don’t you love the way his name just rolls off the tongue? So good-looking, such an eye for wardrobe you’d bet he was gay, but my friend Zhanna swears that he likes the ladies. So…” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Let me call them back and set up my final interview with Franco Verti.” She punched in Redial, then shot me a look. “Oh, and I’ve got to get over to TJ’s studios to get someone to sign off on my references.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said. “I am totally focused on getting through to TJ. Right now, my life is all about Christmas—making it wonderful for Tyler and giving him the best gift a boy could have.”
“TJ?” Bree winced. “You see TJ as a gift? That’s scary.”
“You know, you defend TJ too much,” Jaimie said. “Tyler’s a smart kid; he’ll see right through your pretensions that this is Father Knows Best lan
d.”
“I want him to love his father.”
“You’ve got to let that happen with the real TJ, not some cuddly stuffed bear of an absentee parent. You can’t make TJ something he’s not.”
“I’m not trying to,” I insisted. “Look, a mother knows, right? You have certain instincts about what your child needs, and I know this is right for Tyler.”
Jaimie used that moment to shove a shrimp roll into her mouth.
“If you say so, honey,” Bree told me. “I’ll set something up with the producer at TJ’s, get us onto the set later this week.”
“Perfect.” I dug into the mandarin chicken with new resolve. If Bree could get us in this week, I just might get Tyler reunited with his father by Christmas.
11
That night I found myself working late, until the store closed, and Tyler was safely tucked at Jaimie’s for the evening. I was straightening one of the decorative displays in Santaland as overhead lights began to go out.
“Is it that late?” I asked aloud as I twined the drooping branch of a snow white evergreen to its trunk.
“Very late, indeed.” Mr. Buchman passed by with two sales associates who continued on toward the escalators. “Only Christmas mice are out and about. And speaking of Christmas, that’s a very sad tree you have there. Are you putting it out of its misery? Death by icicle decoration?”
“A new Santaland was not in the budget,” I said, a little nervous to have him watching me so intently. At last I managed to secure the branch. I fluffed up some of the needles, picked up a few fake flakes from the ground, and tossed them over the sad little tree. “There. Good as new.”
“I suspect not.” He drew in a breath. “However, nothing we can do about that until next year.”
“Really? Do you think there will be more money in the decorating budget next year?”
“I’ll recommend it. Of course, it would be based on whether the store turns around and starts making a profit again.”
“Well, it helps that you found the money to replace those snowflake lights,” I said, picking up a candy wrapper from the snow path. “A lot of the old decorations needed to be retired. But I hope that whoever takes the job next year holds on to some of Rossman’s Christmas classics. Like this sleigh.” We paused in front of the giant sleigh, which was truly the centerpiece of Santaland.
The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Page 22
