The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus (22 page)

“H
ave 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
land.”

“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.

T
hat 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.

“Tell me you’re joking? That sled…” He shook his head in dismay. “A giant replica of Santa’s sled in a bed of snow. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we have to create an elaborate snow scene in San Francisco? I mean, it’s not as if the natives can relate. When was the last time you saw a snow-covered Telegraph Hill?”

I hitched up my Mrs. Claus skirt and hoisted myself onto the sled display. “I have always liked this sled,” I defended, moving a package so that I could sit on the emerald and purple striped velveteen seat. “When I was a little kid, my mother brought me here, and the first thing I’d look for was the sleigh. It worried me that it might not be here one year, that it might get lost or damaged and that would surely foil Santa’s journey, because I knew in my heart of hearts that this was the sled that did it all.” That was back in the years when Agate’s second husband had us celebrating Christmas.

“It’s a creaky white elephant, destined for the junkyard come January.” He leaned in beside me. “I’m surprised it can even handle your weight without buckling.”

“Are you kidding? This thing is solid.” I smacked the seat beside me and found it surprisingly sturdy. “It can take you. Climb on up. We can take you on.”

To my surprise he planted one foot on the floor and in one move swung himself into the seat beside me.

“See? What do you think of that?”

He took a deep breath, staring forward. “I think, Mrs. Claus, that your knickers are showing.”

“They are?” I glanced down and sure enough, my hitched-up skirt was way up over my fitted cotton boxers. “Oh. Sorry.” I pushed the skirt over my knees and started to slide out, but his hands were on my waist, helping me down. Warm, solid hands. When I touched ground, he touched my skirt, gathering it in his fingers.

“Please don’t be shy.” The velvet whispered up over my knee, tickling my skin as he pulled it up my thigh. “This may make me sound like a fetishist, but how many blokes have the opportunity to examine what Mrs. Claus wears under her skirts?”

I held my breath, watching his face as he lifted my skirt and explored. “Ah, tonight she wears her Calvins, of course. White cotton boxers. How practical.”

“They match the trim on my costume,” I said weakly, feeling the dampness of the cotton between my legs. I had wanted the other morning not to be an anomaly, and now here, with his fingers stroking my thigh, my body was responding with frightening speed.

“I want you,” I whispered. “But somehow, I don’t think Santaland is an appropriate place.”

He lowered his face to mine. “Where else should Mrs. Claus be defrocked?”

I stepped away from him. “I have a few ideas. Follow me.” I tugged his hand, pulling toward the women’s sportswear section.

“You know, we could go down to my office,” he called after me. “Or perhaps you just want to go down.”

“Come!” I motioned him ahead, and suddenly we were looping around circular racks, headed toward the dressing rooms in the corner.

I burst into a large corner booth, and he kicked the door closed behind us. We quickly tugged off our clothes and moved toward each other.

“Let’s see, where were we?” he asked, reaching down to my inner thighs. “Right about
there.
Yes, that was it.”

“Perfect,” I whispered, loving the way he always eased into seduction, working slowly to the core of sensation. In this, he could have me. I might argue design and business and principle, but when it came to his plying fingers and breathtaking kisses, my body and his were in total agreement.

He glanced down at our half-stripped bodies. “These are rather restrictive, though, don’t you think?” He pushed his fingers under the bottom cuffs of my boxers without much progress, then pressed his hand over the cotton crotch and nudged into the warm folds there. I closed my eyes and groaned over the stirring motion of his fingers. He was pushing me toward orgasm, but I wanted more of him, real flesh on flesh.

“That’s fabulous,” I breathed. “But I want more.”

“Don’t worry, we shall get there.”

“A
nd it was at that moment that the Christmas bearknew it was time. This was the year that Santa would choose him from the toy shelf, place him in the giant bundle of toys, and gently carry him down a chimney to wait under the tree until Christmas morning…”

From the corner of my eye I saw an elf signal that the line was moving, so I started wrapping up the story for the children sitting on cushions at my feet. I had started telling stories to pass the time while the children were waiting in line, and the device worked so well that we’d worked it into the daily routine, bringing groups of eight or ten kids over to sit beside the giant sleigh that had been part of this Rossman’s decorations since it opened. The stories were not elaborate, just tales I’d made up as Christmas bedtime stories for Tyler, adapted and edited with his input.

I finished the story, then ushered the children from our cozy snow enclave beside the sleigh back to the path to Santa’s house.

“Bye, Mrs. Claus.” One boy waved, nearly sliding away as his mother yanked his hand.

“Mommy, can I have a Kwissmiss bayoh?” a three-year-old asked her mother.

“You have loads of stuffed animals,” the mother said, her mouth a stern line. “I don’t know why you would need one more.”

“Bye! When you see Santa, be sure to tell him that his Christmas stew is almost ready!” I waved as the children and their parents disappeared through a trellis covered with glittering white branches. The storytelling was one of the highlights of my job as Mrs. Claus, and the low point had to be dealing with the moms, the ladies dressed in ivory whose cool composure on the cosmetics floor had little appeal when used to put a four-year-old into a deep freeze.

My first week as Mrs. Claus had been an eye-opener in the area of child care. Why did these women even bother having kids? They wanted the nanny to tote them through Santaland. They wanted to drop off their kids and pick them up at the end of the day. They wanted little Jeffrey to stop throwing a terrible-twos tantrum, little Suzie to stop crying and tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas.

Don’t judge them
, I told myself one night, when the first week of overtime was beginning to take its toll.
You’ve been there. You’ve lost your temper a time or two
.

“How’s it going up there?” I called.

Tyler’s head popped up from the floor of the sleigh. “I need more wheels. Did we bring more wheels?” he asked.

I told him I wasn’t keeping track, and he explained the elaborate wheel system he planned for his Lego truck. Although Tyler’s trap had not yet caged a mouse, Mr. Buchman had suggested that Tyler design a vehicle for the creature to ride in, like Ralph the Mouse or Stuart Little. The suggestion made me wince, but it was right up Tyler’s alley, the only thing he’d been able to talk about for the past few days. School had closed for the holidays yesterday, which made today Tyler’s first long day at Rossman’s. Although Jaimie was going to take him for her days and evenings off, I was already feeling a little off pace, having missed my morning with Mr. Buchman.

Since our first fling I’d become a regular visitor to Buchman’s office. Mornings with Buchman were my
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, my time to regenerate and let loose and pretend that great things were possible in my life. Actually, great things
were
possible astride Buchman, just not with the kid around.

Although I’d secretly started to enjoy his wry and self-deprecating comments, I kept reminding myself not to get attached. This was all temporary—my stint as Mrs. Claus, Buchman’s presence here in San Francisco. These were aberrations to be enjoyed until they ended, just as the Christmas season would surely run its course and dwindle headlong into January gloom.

Fortunately, my involvement with Mr. Buchman helped solidify my other life goals: raising Tyler, building a family, and enlisting his father. So far Bree hadn’t been able to get us into the studio yet, and TJ still wasn’t answering my calls. With Christmas only two weeks away, it was time to let TJ know I was serious. Last night I had spent thirty minutes in phone consultation with a lawyer.

First, Nina Cho tried to talk me out of employing her. “You don’t want to pay me to do something you can do yourself,” she said in a slightly nasal voice that suggested she was no fun pulling all-nighters in law school. “It’s always best for the couple to work things out among themselves.”

I told her that we weren’t really speaking. Then I told her that Tyler’s father was TJ Blizzard, the Snowman, the Blitzer, the talk show host.

Suddenly, she was warming to me. “Maybe I can help you…”

That day while I was working in Santaland, Jaimie stopped by and I brought her up to speed on the legal services of Ms. Nina Cho. We talked quietly as I went through the line of kids, handing out lollipops. “She’s going to contact TJ, who’ll probably refer her to a lawyer, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” she said. “Are you prepared for your worst-case scenario? If TJ says he wants no part of raising Tyler?”

“Nina Cho can be very persuasive,” I said, hoping she would prove worth the retainer I’d paid. “But she did spell out the law, that TJ is not obliged to see Tyler at all, as long as he pays child support.”

Jaimie shrugged. “I wouldn’t expect too much from the Blitzer.”

“This is such an important life issue. In the end, when TJ really understands what I’m asking for, I’m confident he’ll reach out to Tyler.”

“Mom!” Tyler ran up the side of the line holding something out toward me. He had been down in the storage room, checking his mousetrap with Buchman. “Look what the mouse likes…”

The other children turned to stare at us as Tyler placed three empty Tootsie Roll wrappers in my open palms. “He went for the bait. Mr. Buchman thought he’d like Tootsie Rolls. Only problem is, he got away again.”

“The little stinker,” Buchman said, putting his hands on Tyler’s shoulders. “Next we’re going to try peanut butter.”

“Peanut-butter pretzels.” Tyler’s eyes grew wide. “Mouses can’t resist peanut butter.”

“Mice,” I corrected him, handing back the icky wrappers.

“Who can resist peanut butter?” Jaimie said.

As the guys discussed new strategies for capture, I was once again relieved that they hadn’t been successful. Mouse hunting was not among my favorite tasks, but I was glad Buchman was willing to indulge Tyler and encourage his ideas.

Jaimie and I had turned away from the boys to chat. We were discussing Scout’s new sleep patterns when a woman in faded jeans, a short fake fur, and long, striking silver hair strolled up to us.

Not your typical Rossman’s shopper, I thought, watching her from the corner of my eyes. I braced myself for some sort of Santaland complaint when she stepped into our space.

“Cassie?”

That square chin and demure nose were hauntingly familiar. “Oh,” I gasped, surprised by her sparkle, by the easy way she sauntered up to me. The years had been kind to my mother. “Agate…” I leaned forward and she embraced me. After all these years, it was the oddest sight to see my mother walk into a department store and find me working the line in a Mrs. Claus suit. “I’m in shock.”

“I got your message, honey. Philip and I were out of town, visiting his brother in Arizona, and you know me with answering machines. Well, I just about raised the roof when I heard your voice last night.” She lifted a piece of hair from my shoulder and gently pushed it back. “How are you, Cassie?”

“Fine, I’m fine.” I blinked, realizing my friend was standing beside me in awe. “Agate, do you remember Jaimie?”

“Merry Christmas, Agate,” Jaimie said, pouring on the charm with that demure smile that got us out of trouble when we’d vandalized a neighbor’s garden in fourth grade.

“Jaimie?” Agate looked from my best friend to me, her head ponging back and forth. “I didn’t know you were still in the picture. Are you two…partners?”

Jaimie’s eyebrows shot up and I let out a breath. “Actually, we’re just good friends, Agate, but you score major points for open-mindedness. Jaimie is married, with a little baby boy at home.”

“Congratulations!” Agate squeezed Jaimie’s shoulder with a warm smile.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said, thinking that the silverhaired woman before me was more Mrs. Claus than I would ever be. “Do you have a few minutes? I’ll take my break in the café, and we can—”

“Mom,” Tyler interrupted, “is it okay if I use my Legos as part of the mousetrap?”

Agate clapped her hands together, her mouth popping open in glee. “Is this little one yours? Oh, Cassie! He’s a living doll.”

Tyler’s nose wrinkled as he forced a smile. “No, I’m not.”

I kneeled beside Tyler. “Honey, I know you’ve heard me talk about my mother. This is Agate. Your grandmother.”

Ever the diplomat, he opened his arms for a hug. Agate embraced him with passion, then leaned back to cup one smooth cheek. “Such a doll. Do you like frogs, Tyler? I’ve got lots of them near my cottage.”

He nodded. “Sure. Am I supposed to call you Grandma?”

“Definitely not.” She winced. “We’ll need to come up with something else. Mimi or Nana or something more palatable.”

I smiled. Still the image-conscious Agate.

As we headed off to the café I passed by Buchman, who lightly patted my back, a small, simple gesture. He’d always struck me as a man who bulldozed over things and insisted on taking control, but in truth, he seemed to know instinctively when to take a step back. A surprising trait for the imperious hatchet man from Chicago. I filed that one away for exploration at another time.

Once we were settled at a table with food, the tales and details couldn’t pour forth quickly enough. Agate was living in the same cottage, still practicing Wicca, searching for the goddess within every spirit. Last year she’d hooked up with Stu, a social worker who specialized in counseling teens.

I brought her up to date on the past few years, the slow fizzle of my relationship with TJ and the continuing struggle to create a relationship between TJ and Tyler.

“Mom,” Tyler interrupted when we started to discuss his father. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

“I’m just filling in Agate, honey.”

“Not that. Can you stop trying to get me a father? I don’t need one. Really. Timber doesn’t have a father and that’s okay.” Timber was one of his classmates.

Agate’s astute eyes looked to me to resolve this one.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” I said.

He slid out of his seat and backed onto my lap. “All I need is you, Mom. I’m okay with that.”

Such adult language from such a little one. I tightened my arms around him and rocked him back and forth. “You’re tired, I know.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Tyler, have you made a list for Santa?” Agate asked, adeptly changing the subject. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“Game Boy stuff and alien racers.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Bionicles. And I want my mom to stop making me see my dad.”

I swallowed hard, stung by his wish. He’d never stated it so baldly before.

“You know, Tyler…” Agate leaned closer to the table to confide. “That is the absolute opposite of what your mother used to wish.”

“That’s true,” I admitted. “I would have given anything for a chance to meet my father.” I studied my mother, wondering if she remembered that her refusal to reveal his identity was the reason for our long split.

Agate sighed, her shoulders dropping dramatically. “Your poor mother,” she told Tyler, who was totally tuned in to her. “I couldn’t let her meet her father, because I was afraid he would try to take her from me, and I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

And yet she did lose me…years later, over my father.

She clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at the table as if looking into a crystal ball. “He was far too mercurial, a Beat Generation poet, an existential giant who couldn’t make a cup of coffee. Never had money for food or rent.”

I was riveted to her words. “A poet. What was his name?”

“Quentin.” Her fingers spread, then formed a loop against the table. “Quentin McAllistair was his name. I’m not sure if he’s still alive, though I heard he had a heart attack a few years ago. He never knew about you, Cassie. So dramatic and swashbuckling, he would have stormed in and claimed you as his daughter without following through on responsibility. A thrilling man, yes. Exciting and reckless. But not father material. He would have destroyed you, honey, and I couldn’t let that happen. It was my job to protect you.”

Not father material.

How many times had I heard that about TJ?

Was I so inept, so ill raised that I didn’t understand how that could harm Tyler, or were my instincts correct, that TJ could find his fathering abilities if he just tried hard enough?

I was quiet through the rest of the dinner, lost in myself.

Agate and Tyler didn’t seem to mind, having found common ground in old tales of my misbehavior.

As I gathered Tyler to head back to Santaland, he went around the table to give Agate a hug, this time a genuine, soulful squeeze.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said. “Now we can be a family.”

A family. I didn’t want to push it, but I did see the possibilities.

I could just imagine the days ahead. Cozy storytelling around the stone hearth in Agate’s stone cottage. Tyler skipping through a field of wildflowers behind a white-gowned Agate who turns to take his hand and tells him she’s so proud he’ll be participating in his first skyclad ritual…

Hold on. Rewind to the part where I tell Agate that, much as I trust her love for Tyler, I don’t want him coerced into practicing Wicca or veganism or anti-faux grois or whatever the cause, at least, not until he is of a more discerning age and ready to make his own informed decisions.

I took her hands in mine and her dark eyes snapped onto mine, as if trying to receive a telepathic message. “Thanks for coming, Agate.”

“I’m glad you called. Tyler is a dream.”

“Thanks. I’m not really sure how we do this,” I said, feeling awkward.