The Spirit of Christmas

by Liz Talley

  “For what reason?” So he could feel that same pain he’d felt as a child studying the way the funeral home lights fell on the patina of his mother’s coffin? To again know he had no control over anything? He’d promised himself he’d never allow himself to feel that way again.

  Malcolm looked down at the carpet. “Ah, vulnerability is a weakness for you, eh? I seek it now because it reminds me I’m human.”

  “I’m not making light of your apology or your advice. I just fail to see how I’m a bad person because I work hard, because I don’t fly kites or play with dogs in the park or because I don’t put up a Christmas tree or light a menorah.”

  “You’re not Jewish.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is the sound of ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ gives me hives. What’s wrong with cutting through the do-gooder crap and getting down to the meat of life—which is eat or be eaten?”

  The doorbell rang, causing Malcolm to snap to attention and hop to his feet at a speed belying his seventy-two years. “I do believe that’s Judy. Let’s continue this talk another time.”

  So much for his deep philosophies. Brennan couldn’t help but notice how quickly the arrival of his date distracted Malcolm. Or that the woman’s name on his grandfather’s lips was an endearment.

  “You’re not picking her up?” Brennan asked as Gator passed to answer the door.

  “She wouldn’t allow it. Said she lived only four blocks away and her two legs were perfectly capable of walking. I argued, but she’s a stubborn sort.”

  Gator appeared, using a flourish never witnessed before as he waved Judy Poche into the enormous room.

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes taking in the over-the-top grandeur inspired by 19th-century plantation owners and 1970s drugged-out abstract artists. “Wow, this is…breathtaking.”

  “Come in, my dear,” Malcolm crowed with more enthusiasm than a midway carnival hawker, the color in his face high, his blue eyes twinkling with a pleasure Brennan had never before seen. So strange.

  She was small, brown-haired and very underdressed for a formal gala. Her coffee-colored hair lay straight and unadorned against the almost matronly black sweater set with little pebblelike pearl buttons. A long plain black skirt almost touched the tips of the black flats. A schoolmarm would have been pleased with Judy’s outfit. New Orleans’s society, however, would make her chum and feed her to the fashion sharks.

  He saw this realization dawn in Judy’s eyes as she took in the tuxedos and something inside him flickered at the embarrassment he saw in her eyes. Her discomfiture would do neither here, nor at the pavilion in City Park.

  Malcolm took her hand. “You look lovely, my dear.”

  Judy’s fingers fluttered to the simple strand of pearls at her throat. “I guess I didn’t understand how formal the event is. I should have worn something finer, I think. And brought my blinking nose.”

  “You are lovely no matter what you wear,” his grandfather said, bestowing a courtly kiss upon her hand. “And this is my grandson, Brennan.”

  Judy turned eyes the color of root beer on him and smiled with sincerity. Oh, yes, he could see the softness in this woman, the very feathers for which his grandfather had been searching. His mind flashed to another woman with soft brown eyes and an unpretentious nature—a woman he had to stop picturing naked. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Poche. My grandfather has told me how much he admires you.”

  “Well, your grandfather is as charming as you are, no doubt.”

  Brennan turned to his grandfather. “I’m off and shall see you both at City Park.”

  Judy nodded and took a few steps toward the Jackson Pollock hanging above the mantel, giving Brennan the opportunity he needed to whisper in his grandfather’s ear.

  “Take her to Gigi, or Margaret Pride will eat her alive and wash her down with champagne.”

  Malcolm straightened. “Yes, we should be leaving, too. I’ve a special little treat for you, Judy, and I won’t hear of your refusing me.”

  “A treat?”

  “I want to spoil you a bit, my dear. Say you will let me.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need spoiling.”

  “Adieu,” Brennan said as he headed toward the garage, checking his pocket for both his keys and his money clip. Yes, Judy reminded him of Mary Paige and he rather liked that about the woman.

  “This is going to be quite a chore,” his grandfather called back, obviously exasperated with the angelic Judy and not bothering to temper it in front of the woman.

  Brennan shook his head. Do-gooders and angels. He hoped the Christmas season would be over soon.

  He also hoped his grandfather left him well enough alone. He didn’t need lessons on living—particularly those that contradicted all he’d learned from the same man. And he didn’t need to change all that he was just because certain people made him feel like—

  Bah…he wasn’t thinking about it.

  * * *

  MALCOLM WATCHED JUDY as she set her chin at a ridiculously high angle. Where was his sweet, reasonable Judy? “Come now, Judy, I want to treat you to something most women would love.”

  “I’m not most women. What I’m wearing suits me. I’m not flashy and don’t wear jewels. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to ride in a chauffeured car to a party. Feels wrong.”

  Gator drove the sedan through the ornate iron gates enclosing the Henry mansion and onto the street. Malcolm shifted next to Judy, wishing he’d been more specific about what was appropriate dress for the event. Of course, Judy was right. She looked lovely wearing light pink lipstick and tasteful clothing. But no one would be dressed so plainly and the thought of Barracuda Margaret making Judy feel less than what she was angered him. Character counted and a person shouldn’t judge by outer trappings. Wasn’t that what his point was about when he’d dressed as a homeless man? He should let Judy be and admire her for who she was, not what the glittering, phony society would think of her.

  Still, something inside him wanted to lavish this woman with something as beautiful as she was. Silks to slide against the softness of her skin, amber jewels to match her eyes and beautiful heeled shoes to finish off those legs he’d once caught a glimpse of when he helped her hang the new shelves for the academic center at Holy Trinity.

  “Please,” he asked, pouring all the desire he had for her into that one word.

  Judy tilted her head, an endearing habit, and those eyes narrowed. “Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

  “Not even if you wore a burlap sack and scuba flippers.”

  “Now that would be something.”

  “I’m not trying to change you, but when you care about someone, you enjoy doing nice things for them.”

  “Care about me?” Her throat worked as she swallowed hard.

  He nodded, unable to look away. “Did you think I asked you to be my date tonight because—”

  “You care for me?”

  He took the hand lying upon her maidenly skirt and squeezed it. “Honestly, Judy, I want to do things to you that you’ve never even imagined possible.”

  “And you know my intimate thoughts, Malcolm Henry?” Low, intimate and somehow sexy, the words were surprising from a former nun.

  His pulse skipped a beat then galloped off. “Oh, how I’d like to know them.”

  Judy’s smile widened and her fingers traced the crisp hairs on the back of hands that had once looked much like his grandson’s—strong, virile and capable—but had weathered into those of an old man. Yet, there were parts of him that, at that moment, didn’t feel quite so old.

  He crooked his finger so she leaned toward him as if she might hear a secret. His lips brushed the silkiness of her ear as he whispered, “Let me dress you tonight, Judy.”

  Allowing his lips to linger near her ear, he reached around to cup her nape. Her hair felt as soft as down and her breath came in short little puffs. Stretching slightly he pressed the button to raise the glass partition between the front and backsea
ts.

  “Oh,” she breathed. She seemed not to know where to place her hands. They fluttered in her lap, telling Malcolm his sweet Judy didn’t have much experience with a man, so he caught them with his one free hand, stilling them.

  “Ah, my lovely Judy. How I’ve wanted to kiss you.”

  “You have?”

  He softly kissed her ear and drew back so he could look at her. The sun had long set and the dark shadows settled around them, but the full moon hanging low in the sky and the passing streetlights illuminated her, softening the lines on her face, creating a glow in her eyes. “If you only knew, woman.”

  She leaned forward so her lips covered his. Wasn’t the best kiss he’d ever been given, but it was the absolute sweetest. He smiled against her mouth, adjusted his hand to tilt her head so he could kiss her not so properly. No, not properly at all. Indecently.

  Judy was game and opened to him, placing one hand on his neck in much the same manner his held hers.

  Age-old desire swept over him, this time as ripe as cherries or some other similarly plump fruit. It stirred his blood and for a few seconds he wasn’t nearly at the end of his life, but rather stepping into a beginning. He fell back through time, riding the elixir of passion, as if he were once again wearing dungarees and a white T-shirt, with a pack of Lucky Strikes in his pocket.

  Judy trembled against him like a young girl in his ’57 roadster. Then and there in his sedate sedan, Malcolm found something he thought he’d never find again—a welling of hope.

  Gently he broke the kiss and she blinked at him, startled at the abrupt ending.

  “Enough for now, sweet woman. We have shopping to do.”

  “You don’t have to do this.” Her lips glistened from a pretty dang spectacular kiss.

  “I want to.”

  And Malcolm Henry, Jr. gets what he wants.

  Of course, he didn’t say those words out loud, but they were implied just the same.

  “Okay,” was all she said, keeping her hand wrapped in his.

  The Henry flagship store materialized like a great ship against the glittering downtown skyline. Pride welled in him as he gazed upon that storefront that had changed over the years, but had never lost the moniker Henry Department Store scrawled in the deep turquoise his father had chosen from the discount sign shop in Metairie in 1937. The red color his father had wanted was too expensive and, thus, the almost Tiffany-blue logo was born.

  “Doesn’t it close at eight o’clock?” Judy asked, eyeing the doors where people bustled by heading home from jobs in the adjacent buildings.

  “Not during the holiday crush,” Malcolm said, watching the front of the store as Gator pulled into an empty parking spot at the curb. “Besides I have a key.”

  For the first time, a glimmer of anticipation flitted through her eyes. “So have you ever dressed a woman?”

  Malcolm gave his sharkiest of grins. “Not quite. Usually the opposite.”

  “Promises, promises,” Judy said as she opened the car door, not bothering to wait for Gator.

  “Whatever you desire,” Malcolm said to the place she’d vacated, unable to stop smiling like a blooming idiot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARY PAIGE WAS late. Not wholly unexpected since Ivan had insisted she finish a huge account or find a new place of employment. His threat was, of course, empty because she didn’t have to work for him any longer and he would never fire an employee who made him money and kept fresh coffee ready throughout the day. Besides, she wanted to work for Ivan, even if he was caustic and overly hairy. Ivan was a damn fine accountant and had taught her more than she’d ever learn working for some huge tax-return corporation.

  As she was busy getting dressed, the phone rang, flashing her mother’s number on the caller ID. Even though it would compound her lateness, Mary Paige knew she couldn’t keep avoiding talking to Freda. They’d played phone tag long enough.

  “Hello,” she huffed into the phone, pulling off her shoes and wiggling her toes in the rug.

  “About time you answered,” her mother said in a voice that took Mary Paige back to Crosshatch, back to being the obedient daughter. “I thought I was going to have to send Lars down to find you.”

  “Sorry, Mama. I’ve been so busy—”

  “Too busy to call your mama and tell her about two million dollars?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Yeah, that,” her mother said, irritation as thick as the strawberry-blond hair she still wore past her shoulders. “When were you going to tell me about this whole deal? I had to read about it in the paper. My own daughter, and I get the news from the Alexandria Journal.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know how to tell you. What I mean is—”

  “You’re in over your head?”

  Mary Paige rolled her eyes. “Well, if you’ll stop finishing my sentences, I’ll explain.”

  The silence on the line gave her permission.

  “I guess you saw the whole story about how I came to be chosen as this Spirit of Christmas person, but that’s not the problem so much. I like doing charity work.”

  “Of course. It’s what we do as a family, so I couldn’t see you having an issue with doing what is right.” Her mother’s voice had softened and Mary Paige knew the anger ebbed. Her mother always understood her, so she didn’t know why she’d waited so long to call the one person who always had her back. Maybe because saying it to her mother meant everything, including that check still in her jewelry box, would be real.

  “But I haven’t cashed the check because it feels…I don’t know…scary.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, and if I put it in the bank, then it becomes mine with all the complications and problems. I’m not prepared to be a millionaire. I’m not prepared to change who I am.”

  “Why would it change you?”

  “Money always changes people. Suddenly, that person’s very popular, expected to pick up the check, wear clothes that don’t come from discount stores and invest in an art show.”

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah, he’s left me three messages.” Mary Paige pulled out the sparkly bobby pins holding her hair back. “But I’m not loaning him a dime. He took enough from me.”

  “Good girl. I’m glad you’re finished with him once and for all. I didn’t agree with you loaning him your couch—I’ve known slime like him and they keep taking until there’s nothing left. So good riddance.” Her mom paused then and Mary Paige suspected she was in for an interrogation. “But this kiss? Who is this Henry guy?”

  “That was nothing,” Mary Paige lied.

  “Your voice says otherwise,” her mother said, using the decoding device all mothers seemed to possess. “You’re a sweet girl, Mary Paige, and I’ve had qualms about your moving down to that city alone. You—”

  “I’m sweet, but I’m your daughter.”

  And that was something. Freda Gentry was as strong as those redwood trees she’d once protested against being cut down. Resilient as the weeds she yanked out every day on her organic farm. And as stubborn as the waters of the Mississippi River flowing not far from that same farm. Sweet was one thing. Being her mother’s daughter quite another.

  “You are,” her mother conceded. “Just be careful, my baby girl, playing with a man like that.”

  Mary Paige wasn’t playing anything with Brennan. No way would she admit that her dreams had been filled with being with him. Naked, clothed and everything in between “with” him.

  Which was nuts.

  “I’m not playing with him. It was promo and we got a little carried away. No harm in that.”

  “But he’s the kind of guy who’ll eviscerate you with a smile. Like playing with a lion—he looks regal and you wanna touch him, but you’ll draw back a bloody stump.”

  “Mama, it’s basically a job. The papers can say what they want, people can speculate, but I know I don’t belong with him and I won’t squeeze into a dress that doesn’t fit.”
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br />   Her mother didn’t say anything for a moment, and Mary Paige wasn’t sure whether she believed her or not. But really, it didn’t matter. Mary Paige loved her mother, but she’d never quite agreed with the way Freda treated men—keeping her distance, dating, but never making a commitment. So Mary Paige doubted her mother gave the best relationship advice.

  “So, how’s my brother?”

  Freda took the bait and launched into a tirade about the local school system cutting the special education budget so severely, she was afraid Caleb would have to share a teaching aide with another student. While her mother berated the superintendent, the school board and the entire parish, Mary Paige grabbed the dress she would have to squeeze into from the closet.

  She was a round peg and Brennan was a square hole. She knew that and knew better than to borrow trouble in an Armani suit. But that didn’t mean she had to stand on the sidewalk and watch the parade.

  The next several weeks were an opportunity to experience things she’d never have the chance to experience again—galas, benefits, charity work—all while being on the arm of New Orleans’s most eligible bachelor. Was there anything wrong with getting the teeniest bit of pleasure from wearing fancy dresses and sipping champagne?

  As long as she didn’t let her head fly into the clouds and stay there.

  But first she had to squeeze into her remade prom dress. She only hoped Mama Cascio had been able to let it out enough and cover up the ruffles ripped from the hem with the beaded trim Mary Paige had scored at Hobby Lobby. Last thing she wanted was to have to wear those damn Spanx.

  Maybe she should have put the check in the bank and bought herself something nice to wear to these shindigs. She was certain no other woman would be wearing her old prom dress.

  But as ridiculous as it seemed, Mary Paige didn’t know how to handle two million dollars when it was her own money. It was too daunting, too intimidating. So until she could wrap her mind around what that money would do to her life and how she should manage it, the check would stay where it was.