Читать книгу A Mum for Christmas - Doreen Roberts - Страница 8

Christmas, Matthew Blanchard kept reminding himself, was traditionally the season to be jolly. He was doing his level best to live up to that optimistic theory. He might have done a better job of it had he not been staring at a total disaster smack-dab in the middle of his Christmas display.

Every year, on the Monday after Thanksgiving, the fifth floor of Blanchard’s Department Store was transformed into a children’s fantasyland. And Matt had gone all out on this year’s Santa Claus display.

Life-size animated reindeer stood on either side of the dais, their curly eyelashes blinking and their majestic antlers solemnly swaying back and forth as each child came forward to greet Santa.

A spectacular Christmas tree stood at the back of the platform, its thick branches loaded down with red and white ornaments, twinkling lights and packages wrapped with bright ribbon bows. Close by, cardboard elves peeked from the windows of a six-foot-high gingerbread house, which was smothered in candy canes and jelly beans, while a lifelike Mrs. Claus smiled from the peppermint-studded doorway.

In the middle of all this glittering splendor sat a huge red velvet chair, and it was there that Matt’s gaze was focused in sheer disbelief. The plump, jolly old gentleman—mankind’s fond image of Santa Claus—was noticeably absent. In his place sat a ridiculous miniature of that esteemed character.

It seemed to Matt as if the damn chair swallowed up the red-suited figure. The fur-lined cap rested precariously on Santa’s lopsided eyebrows, and his feet swung an inch or two off the floor. As an added highlight, instead of boots, the delicate feet sported a pair of elegant, black high-heeled shoes.

Matt waited with barely controlled patience until the tousle-haired boy with freckles had scrambled down from Santa’s ridiculously small lap. Then, drawing in a deep, slow breath, he marched up to the dais, mounted it and held up an imperious hand.

“I’m sorry, children,” he announced, baring his teeth in the best semblance of a smile he could muster, “but I’m afraid it’s time for Santa’s break. He’ll be back soon, I promise you.”

His voice had cracked on the he, which did not improve his temper. Neither did the shouts of dismay from the waiting children and their weary mothers. With a curt beckoning motion for Santa to follow, Matt stormed across the crowded floor, heading for his office.

Matthew Blanchard did not tolerate mistakes easily. He particularly did not like someone else messing up his carefully executed preparations. Someone had made a big mistake this time, and heads were going to roll.

If it had been any other time but Christmas, he might have held on to his temper. But then, if it had been any other time but Christmas, there wouldn’t have been a miniature Santa in high heels to bother him. And he wouldn’t have had to worry about disappointing Lucy.

Normally Matt could handle the ups and downs of being a single father. There were even times when he managed to convince himself that things were better that way, and that he had a more satisfying relationship with his five-year-old daughter without a mother to divide Lucy’s attention. Until Christmas.

Christmas, somehow, was different. Christmas was the time for families, whole families, kids with both parents, and especially a mother to bake cookies and wrap gifts and write Christmas cards and go shopping with…especially the shopping.

Yes, Christmas was definitely a bad time of year for a single father. Matt looked forward to the entire season with a kind of gnawing anxiety that grew worse as Christmas Day drew closer. He was therefore in no mood to deal with the kind of debacle he’d just witnessed.

He reached the door of his office, doing his best to cool his temper. He had to wait quite some time for Santa to catch up with him, which wasn’t terribly surprising. The pants of the bright red costume were crumpled above the dainty shoes like elephant skin. They dragged on the floor behind, severely hampering the figure inside.

Finally Santa stood silently in front of his desk. And what a sorry picture he made, Matt thought in disgust. The white fur hem of the red coat reached almost to the ankles, and the sleeves dangled dismally, completely obliterating any sign of hands.

Matt glared at the sea green eyes peeking out at him from behind the cloud of white cotton-ball hair and fuzzy beard. The wary expression in those eyes satisfied Matt. Santa had every reason to be wary. Matt could feel his temper gathering momentum like storm clouds across an angry sea.

He raked his gaze up and down the short, bulging figure, which, judging by the lumps and bumps, had been created by a lousy job of padding. “I seem to remember,” he said carefully, “that when I hired you, you were around five feet ten, weighing somewhere around two hundred pounds, with a voice that sounded like a marine sergeant.”

The voice that answered him was nothing like a marine sergeant’s. It reminded him more of a mermaid, for some reason, though he couldn’t imagine for the life of him what a mermaid would actually sound like.

“That was my brother, Tom Latimer, Mr. Blancbard. I’m Sherrie Latimer.”

“Really.” He struggled with his temper for a moment before continuing in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm. “Then perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me where your brother might be? In the hospital, I presume? I will accept no other excuse for this ridiculous charade.”

“Er…Tom is in Mexico, Mr. Blanchard. He told me he’d informed you of the new arrangements.”

“Mexico,” Matt echoed, through gritted teeth. “How nice for him. And no, he did not inform me of his plans. Had he done so, I would have ordered him in here on the double, threatening to sue the pants off him for breach of contract if he didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard, but—”

“Sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry, Miss Latimer. As no doubt you are aware, I happen to own the biggest department store in Westmill, Oregon. Hundreds of children look forward every year to visiting Santa, bringing their parents with them to shop in my store. I spend a great deal of money making sure they are not disappointed.”

He knew his voice was rising, but he couldn’t seem to control it. Before Santa had time to say anything he continued at a near roar. “My Christmas display gets more ambitious and more damn expensive every year. But it’s something the children, and their parents, have come to expect from a prestigious store like Blanchard’s.”

Warming up now, he paused for breath. Sherrie Latimer opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. “Therefore, I am entitled to feel a tad put out if the centerpiece of this ambitious and, I might add, outrageously expensive display, the focal point of this spectacular display…the jolly old gentleman of Christmas himself…turns out to be a sawed-off substitute in high heels!”

“Excuse me?” The substitute Santa’s voice had garnered considerable strength.

Matt watched, fascinated in spite of himself, as a small, delicate hand wriggled out from the bottom of a sleeve and swept up to Santa’s head. Grabbing the hat, the hand tugged it off, taking with it most of the white hair.

A mass of amber curls spilled onto the padded shoulders of the suit. The hand let go of the hat, and tugged at the mustache and beard. A sharp “Ouch!” accompanied the gesture. Then the voice spoke again, as clear and as cool as a Christmas bell.

“You have absolutely no excuse for speaking to me in that disgraceful tone of voice. I am not some disobedient child you can intimidate with your insults. I am a grown woman, and as such, I demand a certain amount of respect.”

Matt peered at the flushed face in front of him. Wisps of white cotton clung to the curls at the forehead and over one ear. The mustache had left a thin wisp of white above the most attractive mouth he’d ever seen, and still more clung to the determined, slightly pointed chin. In spite of his temper, Matt felt an insane urge to smile.

He might have smiled, if he hadn’t been shocked to realize that this was no inept teenager, as he’d first imagined, standing in front of him with that rebellious scowl on her face. “How old are you?” he demanded, without thinking.

“That, Mr. Blanchard, is an impertinent and totally irrelevant question. It’s enough for you to know that I am old enough to be spoken to in a civil manner.”

Aware that she was right, he resorted to his gruffest tone. “My apologies, Miss Latimer. And since you are, as you say, a responsible adult, perhaps you will enlighten me as to why your brother felt it perfectly all right to run off to Mexico for a last-minute vacation and leave a…woman…to play the part of Santa Claus.”

Behind the wisps of cotton he saw two delicate eyebrows arch. “You have something against women, Mr. Blanchard? I do believe that comes under the category of discrimination.”

Matt buried his face in his hands, raking his hair with his fingers. “Oh, give me a break.” He slowly let out his breath, then added heavily, “No, I do not have anything against women. What I do have a thing against is a Santa Claus who…” He paused once more, searching for a more diplomatic way to say what was on the tip of his tongue.

The toe of one shoe lifted up and down on the thick carpet. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and gritted his teeth. “Miss Latimer. I ask you to be honest when you answer this question. Describe to me your idea of Santa Claus as if you were a child who still believed in him.”

She was silent for so long he wondered if she was refusing to answer. Then, in a slightly less belligerent voice, she said, “I admit, I’m not as tall as most Santas, but I am sitting down almost all of the time. With the padding and the beard, the children can’t really tell the difference.”

“Until you open your mouth,” Matt said darkly.

“I lower my voice.”

She had spoken the words an octave deeper, which merely made her sound as if she had a bad cold. There was no way in hell that voice could be mistaken for a man’s.

“The point, Miss Latimer,” Matt said, as patiently as he could manage considering he was still steaming, “is that I hired your brother for the job. I go to a great deal of trouble to pick the right person to play the part of Santa. Not only does he have to look the part and sound the part, he has to act the part as well. If I might say so, Miss Latimer, you don’t look much bigger than a child yourself.”

“I happen to be five feet five in my heels.”

“Which is another thing.” Matt pressed his point home. “In my entire life, which amounts to a little less than forty years, I have never, ever, seen a Santa wearing high-heeled shoes.”

“They make me look taller.”

“They make Santa Claus look ridiculous, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

He could almost see the frost on her breath. And the hot sparkle in those remarkable green eyes was really something to watch. With a start he pulled himself together. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said abruptly.

“Which question was that, Mr. Blanchard?”

Her constant use of his last name was beginning to get on his nerves, for some reason. She made it sound as if he had one foot in the grave. She couldn’t be that much younger than he, for pity’s sake.

He cleared his throat, loudly, as if to silence the inner voice. “I would like to know why your brother made these last-minute arrangements and why I wasn’t informed in time to hire someone else.”

“My brother,” Miss Latimer said coldly, “is with a mercy mission team traveling to Mexico to bring some small vision of Christmas cheer to underprivileged, underfed children who have little conception of what Christmas is all about. They have never owned expensive toys, let alone played with them. And they have never seen expensive, commercialized displays in overpriced toy departments. Neither have they ever spoken to a fake Santa Claus and judged whether he looked real or not.”

Taken aback, Matt allowed several seconds to go by while he recovered his voice. “Your brother’s mission is very commendable, I’m sure. That does not, however, excuse him from deliberately ignoring his contract with me. Or explain why he entered into it in the first place if he intended to spend Christmas in Mexico.”

“He didn’t know he was going to Mexico until yesterday afternoon. Somebody had to drop out at the last minute and the organization people were desperately hunting for a substitute. If you knew my brother, Mr. Blanchard, you would understand. This is a project very close to his heart. He couldn’t turn them down.”

“Certainly not as easily as he could turn me down, apparently,” Matt said, struggling to hold on to his resentment. There was something about this young woman that threatened to make him forget why he was angry with her.

“He tried everywhere to get someone else to take the Santa job. He’s been playing Santa for years at different stores in Portland. When you’re in construction you have plenty of time off in the winter, and he loves the job.”

“Yes, he told me. That’s why I hired him.” Matt leaned back in his chair and let his gaze travel over her suit’s bulging padding again. “And because he looked the part.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard,” Sherrie Latimer said, sounding not a bit apologetic at all, “but I was the only one available. I agreed to do it for him.”

“Under protest, by all accounts,” Matt said dryly, remembering the caustic comments about commercialized, overpriced displays. “You must love your brother a great deal.”

“I do. He’s the only one I’ve got.”

Matt felt a moment of envy for Tom Latimer, then quickly squashed the thought. “The fact remains, you do not bear the slightest resemblance to your brother in any shape or form, and no matter how high the heels of your shoes, or how deep you pitch your voice, there is not one child within a hundred miles of here who is going to believe for an instant that you are Santa Claus. In fact, if I allow you to continue this farce, Blanchard’s will be the laughingstock of the town.”

“We can’t let the children down, Mr. Blanchard. Most of them know that Santa can’t be everywhere, anyway. They look upon us more as Santa’s helpers.”

“I know, I know. Even so, you just don’t look the part. Not by any stretch of the imagination.” He reached for a pencil and tapped it irritably on the table. “Well, I guess there isn’t much I can do about it today. You can finish the day out, while I try to find a replacement. Though heaven knows where I’m going to find one at this late date.”

“I do have a suggestion,” Sherrie Latimer said, a little hesitantly.

He’d heard just about enough explanations from her. Nevertheless, he was near desperation himself. How Lucy was going to take this he had no idea. That thought irritated him more than anything. He might not be able to provide a proper family Christmas without a mother, but he could at least make his daughter’s visit with Santa Claus a very special treat. At least, he could have managed until today.

“Go ahead,” he said, resting his fingers against his eyes. “It can’t be any worse than what we’ve got.”

“I could be Mrs. Santa Claus. The clothes the mannequin is wearing in the gingerbread house should fit me much better, and we could dress up a mannequin as Santa and have him in the doorway of the house. I’ll just tell the children that the real Santa is busy with the elves at the North Pole and he sent his wife instead.”

Very slowly, Matt lowered his hand. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. He would be the only store to have a Mrs. Claus, which would surely gain points with the mothers. The whole concept could bring even more curious people into his store, just to get a look. He might even swing a spot on local television and get some free publicity.

He looked steadily at Sherrie Latimer for a long moment, noticing with a small sense of satisfaction that she seemed to fidget under his gaze. “That might work,” he said, letting just the right amount of doubt creep into his voice.

It wouldn’t do to let her know how pleased he was with the idea. In his experience, if he offered someone as young as Miss Latimer an apple she was likely to turn it into an entire orchard. No, let her think he was grudgingly allowing her to try to make up for her brother’s mistake. She would be far more likely to work her butt off proving she was right.

He just hoped she had the stamina for the job. Playing Santa was a grueling experience, judging from the comments of his past employees. “Are you sure you can handle it?” he asked, letting his gaze flick over her padded figure. “It’s a tough job for a woman.”

As he’d hoped, her chin came up a fraction. “If my brother can handle it, then so can I. Tom would feel very badly if the children were deprived of a Santa. I really do think Mrs. Claus would be a hundred times better than no Santa at all.”

“Yes, well, that remains to be seen. I guess it couldn’t hurt for now, anyway.” He reached for the phone and dialed the warehouse. “Yes, take a male mannequin to toys as quickly as possible. I need the clothes on the mannequin in the Santa display in my office. Do it as discreetly as possible, and have someone let the customers know that Santa will be there soon.”

He replaced the receiver and looked back at Sherrie Latimer who was staring at the picture of Lucy on his desk. He waited for a comment, but she hastily directed her gaze back to his face.

After a moment of awkward silence, he asked heavily, “When you aren’t bailing your brother out of trouble, Miss Latimer, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a research assistant for Conway Pharmaceuticals.” She touched her lips with her fingers and dislodged some more cotton.

He was suitably impressed, but did his darnedest not to show it. “You must have a very understanding boss to allow you to take off at a minute’s notice.” Probably more understanding than he was at the moment, he grudgingly admitted.

To his surprise, Sherrie Latimer didn’t answer right away. In fact, she appeared to be having some trouble with her eyes, since they were tightly shut. Just when he was on the point of asking her if she was all right, she opened her eyes and blinked several times.

“I happen to be on vacation, Mr. Blanchard. I had intended to spend the holidays with my brother, until this emergency came up.”

He could swear he saw a tear glistening in her eye. No doubt she was terribly disappointed that her plans for Christmas had been upset. He was beginning to feel like a prize jerk for yelling at her and was relieved when a sharp tap on the door interrupted the conversation.

As he took Mrs. Claus’s clothes from the arms of the young man at the door, a thought flashed through his mind. He wondered what kind of figure Sherrie Latimer was hiding under all that padding.

Annoyed with himself, he practically threw the outfit into her arms. “I’ll get out of here while you change,” he muttered. “Lock the door behind me and when you’re finished, take the Santa suit down to toys and have someone dress the mannequin and put it back in the house.”

“Yes, Mr. Blanchard.”

The words had been polite enough, but he’d detected a note of rebellion in the quiet voice.

“Please,” he added, as an afterthought, then wondered what the hell was the matter with him. He was her boss, after all. Even if it was temporary.

Deciding the best thing he could do was to get out of there as quickly as possible, he gave her a brief nod and escaped through the door. The firm click of the lock behind him seemed to echo in his mind as he strode down the hallway.

Inside the office Sherrie scrambled out of the Santa suit, breathing a sigh of relief. Tom would have been upset if she’d messed things up for him. He’d been so torn between the chance to go to Mexico and his responsibility to Blanchard’s, not to mention letting down the hordes of children eagerly waiting to meet Santa. Most of all, he’d been worried about leaving her on her own for the holidays.

In fact, it had taken a superb acting job on her part to convince him she’d be perfectly happy by herself. She had nowhere else to go, she’d pointed. out, and she certainly didn’t feel like facing her friends after the fiasco at the church.

Sherrie stepped out of the roomy pants, struggling with the sudden onslaught of depression. It was bad enough that she’d been jilted practically at the altar, leaving her a month’s vacation to get through.

Instead of spending two weeks in Hawaii on her honeymoon and another two moving into a new, expensive condo, she was now faced with the prospect of finding somewhere cheaper to live, since she’d already moved out of her old apartment.

With her furniture in storage, and unable to bear the thought of everyone feeling sorry for her, Sherrie had immediately agreed when Tom had suggested she stay with him until she found somewhere else to go.

It had seemed the perfect solution. Tom wasn’t the kind to commiserate with her. He’d told her flat out that Jason’s last-minute cold feet was the best thing that could have happened to her. Knowing that he was right was poor consolation, however. Spending the holidays alone in her brother’s apartment was not her idea of celebrating Christmas, and playing Santa for a crowd of excitable, hyperactive children had definitely not entered into her plans.

Nevertheless, once she made a commitment, she stuck with it. Through heaven and hell, if need be. She’d promised Tom she would do the job for him, and Sherrie Latimer always kept a promise. Even if Matthew Blanchard did not approve of her. Besides, playing Santa would at least keep her mind off her own troubles.

Sherrie eyed the Mrs. Claus outfit with a frown. It was still too big for her, but a vast improvement on the suffocating red wool suit that now lay crumpled on the floor amid a pile of pillows.

The full skirted dress with the red-and-green holly pattern slipped easily over her head. She added a pillow to give her a bosom, and another under the waistband, then pulled on the white wig and the bonnet.

Placing the pair of granny glasses on the edge of her nose, she squinted through the empty frames. She wished she had a full-length mirror to inspect herself before she went public. Matthew Blanchard didn’t have one mirror in the entire room. Obviously he didn’t like looking at himself.

Which was too bad, Sherrie thought, as she bent over to pick up the Santa suit. The man would be quite attractive if he learned to smile.

The glasses slid down her nose and fell to the floor. She reached for them, grunting as the pillows prevented her from bending that far. She almost toppled over as she made a grab for the spectacles.

Straightening again, she let out a long sigh. She was clumsy enough as it was, without having to deal with the unfamiliar padding obstructing her every movement. Heaven help her if she dropped a child off her lap.

After folding the red coat neatly, she laid it on the uncluttered desk. The photo of the little girl was turned partly away from her, and Sherrie couldn’t resist taking a closer look. Turning the frame toward her, she saw a pretty child of about four or five.

It was obvious the little girl was Matthew Blanchard’s daughter. She had the same gaunt cheekbones, straight nose and light blue eyes, though her hair was dark blond instead of black like her father’s. Her smile lit up her entire face, in stark contrast to her father’s grim, austere expression, but even so, she bore a marked resemblance to Sherrie’s temporary boss.

Sherrie turned the frame back to its original position, wondering what the little girl’s mother looked like, and why her picture wasn’t on Matthew Blanchard’s desk beside his daughter’s. Deciding it was none of her business, she folded up the rest of Santa’s suit, then bundled it under her arm. It was time to get back to work.

An hour or so later, Sherrie was beginning to wish she had never agreed to take Tom’s place. Why her brother enjoyed the job, she couldn’t imagine. His instructions had seemed simple enough—greet the children, ask them if they’d been good, ask them what they wanted for Christmas, never promise to deliver but tell them she’d see what she could do, throw in a couple of Ho Ho Hos, give them a candy cane and go on to the next one.

What he hadn’t told her was that children could be remarkably curious and sometimes downright personal. One little girl had asked her if she and Santa slept in the same bed, and one smart-mouthed boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, asked her for a date.

Another little girl, who had sat in silence for so long Sherrie had just about given up on getting a word out of her, suddenly asked in a loud voice what kind of underwear Mrs. Claus wore at the North Pole.

Question after question poured from their eager lips. What was it like to be married to Santa? Did she get lonely when he was out delivering the toys? What kind of dinners did she cook for him?

When she did finally manage to get in a couple of questions of her own, some children boldly demanded everything from sports cars and motorbikes to automatic rifles.

More than one handed her a list as long as a toilet roll, while others touched her heart by asking for nothing more than a new sweater or a jacket. Those were the ones she wished she could take into the clothing department and let them pick out whatever they wanted.

After delivering a screaming child back to its determined parent, Sherrie longed for a break. Her back ached from the constant hauling up and down of dozens of kids, some of whom weighed almost as much as she did.

A glance at her watch told her she had about ten minutes to go when she caught sight of Blanchard’s owner heading through the crowds around the toy department. He was almost up to her before she saw the small child he led by the hand.

She was a fragile little girl, with dark blond curls embracing an unsmiling, heart-shaped face. She looked up with a wistful expression when the tall man at her side spoke to her.

Sherrie braced herself. If her memory served her right, she was about to meet Matthew Blanchard’s daughter.

She was quite impressed when the store owner stood patiently in line, holding his daughter’s hand. Saying goodbye to her break for a while longer, Sherrie concentrated on the children ahead of her boss.

At last it was the solemn little girl’s turn. Matthew Blanchard stood discreetly back from the platform as the child sat stiffly on the edge of Sherrie’s knees. The little girl seemed to weigh hardly anything at all, and her blue eyes were huge in her delicate face.

“Can you tell me your name?” Sherrie asked, and was rewarded with a soft whisper.

“Lucy Blanchard.”

“Lucy. That’s a nice name.” Sherrie smiled, forgetting for the moment that the child’s formidable father stood just a few feet away. “I can tell you’ve been a good girl. What would you like me to ask Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

Lucy stared at her, as if she wasn’t sure she understood the question. “Daddy said Santa couldn’t come.”

Sherrie nodded. “I’m afraid Santa is really busy getting all the toys ready for Christmas Eve. But I’ll be talking to him before he leaves the North Pole on his sleigh, so you can tell me what you want. I’ll make sure he gets the message, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherrie waited a moment, while the little girl continued to study her face. “Is there something you really want for Christmas?” she prompted, when Lucy seemed content to remain silent.

Lucy nodded, then looked over her shoulder at her father, who was watching the kids in the toy department trying out everything on the shelves. Apparently reassured, the little girl leaned forward to put her mouth close to Sherrie’s ear.

“I want a mommy,” she whispered.

Her hair tickled Sherrie’s ear, and she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You mean a mommy doll?”

Lucy shook her head. “A real mommy.”

Sherrie felt cold, as if someone had turned on the airconditioning. “You don’t have a mommy?”

Again Lucy shook her head, her beautiful eyes pleading with Sherrie to understand.

Sherrie had to clear her throat. “Well, Lucy, that’s quite a wish. I’ll be sure to tell Santa what you want, but you do understand he can’t always bring children what they ask for. He will do his very best, and I’m sure you’ll be happy with whatever he does bring for you.”

Lucy listened gravely to the practiced speech, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Claus’s face. She seemed to think about it for a while, then she let out a small sigh. “I just want a mommy. Daddy and me is very lonely.”

Sherrie looked into those liquid blue eyes and felt her heart melt. Scrooge himself couldn’t have denied the appeal in that face. “Well, sweetheart,” she said softly, “we’ll just have to see what we can do, won’t we?”