Buch lesen: «Unexpected Angel»

1

IT WAS ALL EXACTLY as he’d remembered it. The little candy cane fence, the gingerbread cottage with the gum-drop roof, the elves dressed in red shoes with jingle bells around the ankles, and the tinsel-trimmed Christmas tree. Eric Marrin’s heart skipped a beat and he clutched his mittened hands to still the tremble of excitement.

He peered around the chubby kid standing in front of him and caught a glimpse of the man he’d come to see, the man half the kids in Schuyler Falls, New York, had come to see this night. “Santa Claus,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe.

As he stood in line waiting to take his turn on Santa’s lap, he wondered whether his name was on the “nice” list. Eric made a quick mental review of the past twelve months.

Overall, it had been a pretty good year. Sure, there’d been the time he brought the garter snake into the house and then lost it. And the time he’d put his muddy shoes in the washing machine with his dad’s best dress shirts. And the time he’d gotten caught down at the railroad tracks squashing pennies on the tracks with his best friends, Raymond and Kenny.

But in the whole seven and a half, almost eight, years of his life, he’d never done anything naughty on purpose—except maybe for today. Today, instead of going straight home from school, he’d hopped a city bus with Raymond and jumped off right in front of Dalton’s Department Store. Riding the city bus alone was strictly against his dad’s rules and could result in punishment harsher than anything he’d seen in his life. But, technically, he hadn’t been alone. Raymond had been with him. And the trip had been for a very good reason. Even his dad would have to see that.

Dalton’s Department Store was considered by everyone in the second grade at Patrick Henry Elementary School as a shrine to Santa Claus. From the day after Thanksgiving until the hours leading up to Christmas Eve, children flocked though the shiny brass revolving doors and up the ancient escalator to the magical spot on the second floor where Santa and his minions reigned supreme.

Raymond claimed that a meeting with Dalton’s Santa was much better than a visit to any other Santa in New York. Those others were all just “helpers,” pretenders dressed up like the real Santa to help out during the Christmas rush. But this Santa was special. He had the power to make dreams come true. Kenny even knew a kid who’d gotten a trip to Florida just because his dad had lost his job right before Christmas.

Eric reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter. He’d used his very best penmanship and sealed the note in a colorful green envelope. He’d even added some of his favorite smelly stickers to decorate the outside, just to make sure the letter stood out from all the others. For this was the most important letter he’d ever written and he’d stop at nothing to make sure it got into Santa’s hands.

He watched as a little girl in a blue wool coat slipped her own letter into the ornate mailbox outside the Candy Cane Gate. She’d sealed it in a plain white envelope, addressed in sloppy crayon. Eric smiled. Surely her letter would be passed over for his. He closed his eyes and rubbed the lucky penny he always kept in his pocket. “Don’t mess up,” he murmured to himself. “Just don’t mess up.”

The line moved forward and Eric shoved the letter deeper into his pocket. First, he’d plead his case with Santa, and if the opportunity presented itself, he’d slip the letter into Santa’s pocket. He could imagine the jolly old man sitting down at dinner that night and tucking his glasses into his pocket. He’d discover the letter and read it immediately.

Eric frowned. If he really wanted to do the job right, he’d come down every night after school with a new letter each time. Santa would have to see how important this was to him and grant his wish. Maybe they’d even become best friends and he’d invite Eric over to play at the North Pole. And he could bring Santa to school for show and tell! That old sourpuss, Eleanor Winchell, would be so jealous she’d have a cow.

Of course, Eleanor had read her letter to Santa out loud in front of Miss Green’s class, a long recitation of all the toys she’d need to have a satisfying Christmas, the pretty dresses she’d require. She’d also informed the class that she planned to be the very first in line to give her letter to Santa once the Gingerbread Cottage opened for business at Dalton’s.

Secretly, Eric hoped that Eleanor’s letter would get lost in the shuffle, and that she’d fall through the ice on the Hudson River and she’d be swept downstream to torment some other kids at a grade school in faraway New York City. She was greedy and nasty and mean and if Santa couldn’t see that from her letter, then he didn’t deserve to drive a magic sleigh! Eric’s wish for Christmas didn’t include a single request for toys. And his Christmas wish was anything but selfish; it was as much for his dad as it was for himself.

Two years had passed since Eric’s mom had walked out. He’d been five, almost six, years old and Christmas had been right around the corner. The stockings were hung and the tree decorated and then she’d left. And everything had turned sad after that.

The first Christmas without her had been hard, mostly because he thought she’d be coming back. But last Christmas had been even worse. His dad hadn’t bothered to get a tree or hang the wreath on the door. Instead they’d left Thurston, their black lab, in a kennel, and flown to Colorado for skiing. The Christmas presents hadn’t even been wrapped and Eric suspected Santa had passed them right by because their condo had a fake fireplace with a really skinny chimney.

“Hey, kid. You’re next.”

Eric snapped his head up and blinked. A pretty elf, dressed in a puffy red polka-dot jacket and baggy green tights, stood at the gate and motioned him closer with an impatient expression. Her name tag said Twinkie and he hurried up to her, his heart pounding. He was so nervous he could barely remember what he wanted to say.

“So,” Twinkie said, “what are you going to ask for?”

Eric gave the elf a suspicious glance. “I think that’s between me and Santa,” he replied.

The elf chuckled. “Ah, the old Santa-kid confidentiality agreement.”

Eric scowled. “Huh?”

Twinkie sighed and rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

He shifted back and forth between his feet, then forced a smile at the elf. “Do you know him pretty well?”

Twinkie shrugged. “As well as any elf,” she said.

“Maybe you could give me some tips.” He opened his pocket and showed her the envelope, making sure that she saw his name scrawled in the upper left corner. If Santa didn’t remember who he was, he’d be sure Twinkie did. “I really need him to read my letter. It’s very, very, very important.” He pulled a bright blue Gobstopper out of his other pocket. “Do you think if I gave him—”

She studied the envelope. “Well, Eric Marrin, I can tell you this. The big guy doesn’t accept bribes.”

“But, I—”

“You’re up, kid,” Twinkie said, pushing him forward, then quickly turning to the next person in line. Eric approached slowly, reviewing all he planned to say. Then he crawled up on Santa’s lap and drew a steadying breath.

The smell of peppermint and pipe tobacco clung to his big red coat and tickled Eric’s nose. His lap was broad and his belly soft as a feather pillow and Eric leaned closer and looked up into the jolly old man’s eyes. Unlike the elf, Eric could see that Santa was patient and kind. “Are you really him?” he asked. Some of the kids at school claimed that Santa wasn’t real, but this guy sure looked real.

Santa chuckled, his beard quivering in merriment. “That I am, young man. Now, what’s your name and what can I do for you? What toys can I bring for you this Christmas?”

“My name is Eric Marrin and I don’t want any toys,” he said soberly, staring at a coal-black button on the front of Santa’s suit.

Santa gasped in surprise. “No toys? But every child wants toys for Christmas.”

“Not me. I want something else. Something much more important.”

Santa hooked his thumb under Eric’s chin and tipped his head up. “And what is that?”

“I—I want a huge Christmas tree with twinkling lights. And I want our house all decorated with plastic reindeer on the roof and a big wreath on the door. I want Christmas cookies and hot cider. And Christmas carols on the stereo. And on Christmas Eve, I want to fall asleep in front of the fireplace and have my dad carry me up to bed. And on Christmas Day, I want a huge turkey dinner and cherry pie for dessert.” The words had just tumbled out of his mouth and he’d been unable to stop them. Eric swallowed hard, knowing he was probably asking for the impossible. “I want it to be like when my mother lived with us. She always made Christmas special.”

For a long moment, Santa didn’t speak. Eric worried that he might toss him out of the Gingerbread Cottage for demanding too much. Toys were simple for a guy who owned his own toy factory, but Eric’s request was so complicated. Still, if Raymond was right, this Santa was his best shot at granting his Christmas wish.

“My—my mom left us right before Christmas two years ago. And my dad doesn’t know how to do Christmas right. Last year, we didn’t even have a tree. And—and he wants to go skiing again, but if we’re not home, we can’t have a real Christmas! You can help me, can’t you?”

“So you want your mother to come home for Christmas?”

“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. “I know she can’t come back. She’s an actress and she travels a lot. She’s in London now, doing a play. I see her in the summer for two weeks and she sends me postcards from all over. And—and I know you can’t bring me a new mother because there’s no way you can make a human in your toy factory. Not that I wouldn’t like a new mother, but hey, I know she won’t fit in the sleigh with all those toys and you’d never be able to get down the chimney carrying her in your sack and what if my dad didn’t like the kind you brought and—”

“What exactly do you want?” Santa asked, jumping in the moment Eric took a breath.

“The best Christmas ever!” he cried. “A Christmas like it used to be when my mom was here.”

“That’s a pretty big wish,” Santa said.

Eric cast his gaze to the toes of his rubber boots. “I know. But you’re Santa. If you can’t make it happen, who can?”

He risked a glance up to find Santa smiling warmly. “Do you have a letter for me, young man?”

Eric nodded. “I was going to put it in the mailbox.”

“Why don’t you give it to me personally and I’ll make sure I read it right after Mrs. Claus and I finish our dinner.”

Reaching in his jacket pocket, Eric withdrew the precious letter. Did this mean that Santa would grant his wish? Surely it must mean that he’d consider it. “Eric Marrin,” he murmured pointing to the return address, just to make sure. “731 Hawthorne Road, Schuyler Falls, New York. It’s the last driveway before you get to the bridge. The sign says Stony Creek Farm, Alex Marrin, owner. That’s my dad.”

“I’m sure it’s on my map,” Santa said. “I know I’ve been to your house before, Eric Marrin.” He patted Eric on the back. “You’re a good boy.”

Eric smiled. “I try,” he said as he slid off Santa’s lap. “Oh, and if you hear I broke the rules coming to see you tonight, maybe you could understand? I know I’m supposed to go home directly after school, but I really couldn’t ask my dad to bring me here. He’s very busy and I didn’t want him to think that I—”

“I understand. Now, do you know how to get home?”

Eric nodded. The city bus would take him back in the direction of his school and he’d have to run the mile down Hawthorne Road to make it home before dinner. He’d already told Gramps he’d planned to play at Raymond’s house after school and Raymond’s mother would drive him home. He’d have to sneak into the house unnoticed, but his father usually worked in the stables until supper time. And Gramps was usually busy with dinner preparations, his attention fixed on his favorite cooking show while the pots bubbled over on the stove.

Eric waved goodbye to Santa and, to his delight, Santa tucked his letter safe inside his big red jacket. “Some of the kids at school say you aren’t real, but I’ll always believe in you.”

With that, he hurried through the crowd and down the escalator to the first floor. When he’d finally reached the street, he took a deep breath of the crisp evening air. Fluffy snowflakes had begun to fall and the sidewalk was slippery. Eric picked up his pace, weaving in between holiday shoppers and after-work pedestrians.

The bus stop was on the other side of the town square. He paused only a moment to listen to the carolers and stare up at the huge Christmas tree, now dusted with snow. When he reached the bus stop, a long line had formed, but Eric was too excited to worry. So what if he got home a little late? So what if his father found out where he’d been? That didn’t matter anymore.

All that mattered was that Eric Marrin was going to have the most perfect Christmas in the whole wide world. Santa was going to make it happen.

“I DON’T LIKE THIS. This whole thing smells like month-old halibut.”

Holly Bennett glanced over at her assistant, Meghan O’Malley, then sighed. “And last week you thought the doorman at our office building was working as an undercover DEA agent and our seventy-year-old janitor was an international terrorist. Meg, you have got to get over this obsession with the news. Reading ten newspapers a day is starting to make you paranoid!”

As she spoke, Holly’s breath clouded in front of her face and a shiver skittered down her spine. She pulled her coat more tightly around her body, then let her gaze scan the picturesque town square. There was no denying that the situation was a little odd, but danger lurking in Schuyler Falls, New York? If she took a good look around, she would probably see the Waltons walking down the street.

“I like to be informed. Men find that sexy,” Meghan countered, her Long Island accent thick and colorful, her bright red hair a beacon even in the evening light. “And you’re entirely too trusting. You’ve lived in the big city for five years; it’s time to wise up.” She sighed and shook her head. “Maybe it’s the mob. I knew it! We’re going to be working for wise guys.”

“We’re two hundred miles north of New York City,” Holly cried. “I don’t think this is a hotbed of mob activity. Look around. We’re in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting.” Holly turned slowly on the sidewalk to take in the gentle snowfall, the quaint streetlights, the huge Christmas tree sparkling with lights in the center of the square. She’d never seen anything quite so pretty. It was like a scene from It’s A Wonderful Life.

One side of the square was dominated by a majestic old courthouse and the opposite by a department store right out of the 1920s called Dalton’s, its elegant stone facade and wide plate-glass windows ablaze with holiday cheer. Small shops and restaurants made up the rest of the square, each and every one decked out for the Christmas season with fresh evergreen boughs and lush, red ribbon.

Meg surveyed the scene suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. “That’s what they’d like us to think. They’re luring us in, making us feel comfortable. It’s like one of those stories where the town appears perfect on the surface but it’s got a seamy underbelly that would—”

“Who is luring us in?” Holly demanded.

“Exactly my point,” Meg said. “This morning, we get a mysterious letter with a huge check signed by some phantom client with very poor penmanship. We’re given just a few hours to go home and pack, then take a train halfway across the state of New York and you don’t even know who we’re working for. Maybe it’s the CIA. They celebrate Christmas, don’t they?”

Holly glanced at Meg, then looked down at the letter clutched in her hand. The overnight missive had arrived in the Manhattan office of All The Trimmings just that morning at the very moment she’d learned her struggling business was about to finish yet another year in the red.

She’d started All The Trimmings five years ago and this Christmas had become a turning point. She was nearly twenty-seven years old and had all of $300 in her savings account. If her company didn’t show at least a few dollars profit, Holly would be forced to close down the tiny office and try another line of work. Maybe go back to the profession she’d trained for and failed at first—interior design.

Though she had plenty of competitors, no one in the Christmas business worked harder than Holly Bennett. She was a Christmas consultant, holiday decorator, personal corporate Christmas shopper and anything else her clients required. When called upon, she’d even dressed a client’s dog for a canine holiday party and baked doggy biscuits in the shape of candy canes.

She’d started off small, with residential installations, decorating New York town houses both inside and out. Her designs became known for unique themes and interesting materials. There’d been the butterfly tree she’d done for Mrs. Wellington, a huge Douglas fir covered with colorful paper butterflies. Or the decorations she’d done for Big Lou, King of the Used Cars, combining gold-sprayed auto parts ornaments and nuts and bolts garland. Over the next few years, she’d taken on corporate clients—a string of shopping malls on Long Island, a few boutiques in Manhattan—and the demand for her services had required a full-time assistant.

Holly had always loved Christmas. From the time she was a little girl, she’d anticipated the start of the season, officially beginning the moment Thanksgiving was over and ending on Christmas Day—her birthday. No sooner had her mother put away the Indian corn and Horn of Plenty centerpiece than she’d retrieve all the beautiful Christmas ornaments from the dusty old attic of their house in Syracuse. Next, Holly and her dad would cut down a tree and the whirl of decorating and shopping and cookie-baking wouldn’t stop until midnight on the twenty-fifth, when she and her mother and father would tumble into their beds, exhausted but already planning for her next birthday and the Christmas that came with it.

It was the one time of year she felt special, like a princess, instead of the shy, unpopular girl she’d been. She’d done everything to make the holiday perfect, obsessed with the tiniest details, striving for perfection. Holly’s mother had been the one to suggest that she turn her degree in interior design toward something more seasonal.

At first, Holly had been thrilled with the strange path her career had taken and she’d doted over the designs for her earlier clients. But lately, Christmas had become synonymous with business and income, profits and pressure, not happy memories of her childhood. After her parents had moved to Florida, Holly usually spent the holidays working, joining them once all her clients were in bed on Christmas night.

Without a family Christmas, she’d gradually lost touch with the spirit of the season. But it was impossible to make the trip to Florida and still keep watch over her business. So Christmas had turned into something she barely tolerated and had grown to dread, filled with last-minute details and loneliness. She sighed inwardly. What she wouldn’t give for a real family Christmas this year.

“I’ve got it!” Meg cried. “This guy we’re working for is in the witness protection program and he’s left his family behind because he doesn’t want to burden them with—”

“Enough,” Holly interrupted. “I’ll admit, his request for an immediate consultation is a bit unusual. But look at the bright side, Meg. Now that all our other holiday installations are complete, we really don’t have that much to do.” She could certainly find time to make Christmas perfect for a client who chose to pay her a $15,000 retainer for a two-week project, even if he was in the witness protection program.

“Nothing to do?” Meg asked. “We’ve got six new commercial installations with mechanized reindeers and sleighs to maintain and you know how temperamental those singing reindeer are. And that tree we did for Farley’s courtyard on Park Avenue is going to take a lot of maintenance. If we get a stiff wind, all the decorations will end up in the East River. Plus we’ve got a list of corporate Christmas gifts we still need to shop for.”

“We can’t afford to turn this job down,” Holly murmured. “I’ve already spent my inheritance keeping this business afloat and my parents aren’t even dead yet!”

“So how are we supposed to know who we’re meeting?” Meg asked.

“The check was from the TD One Foundation. And the letter says he’ll be wearing a sprig of holly in his lapel.”

That very moment, Holly saw a tall gentleman approaching with the requisite holly. She jabbed Meg in the side and they both smiled graciously. “No more cracks about the mob,” she muttered.

“Miss Bennett? Miss O’Malley?”

“He knows our names!” Meg whispered. “He probably knows where we live. If we make a run for it now, we might be able to get to the train before he sets his goons on us.”

He held out his hand and Holly took it, noticing the fine cashmere coat he wore and the expensive gloves. Her gaze rose to his face and she felt her breath drain from her body. If this man was a mobster, then he was the handsomest mobster she’d ever seen. His dark hair ruffled in the wind and his patrician profile looked like carved marble in the dim light from the street lamps.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “And thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Mr.—I’m sorry,” Meg said, holding out her own hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”

His cool expression didn’t change as he brushed off her indirect question. “My name isn’t important or necessary.”

“How did you know it was us?” Meg asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I just have a few minutes to talk, so why don’t we get down to business.” He reached for a manila envelope tucked beneath his arm. “All the information is here,” he said. “The contract is for $25,000. Fifteen for your time, ten for expenses. Personally, I think $25,000 is entirely too much, but then, it’s not my decision. Of course, you’ll be required to stay here in Schuyler Falls until the day after Christmas. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

Startled by the odd demand, Holly wasn’t sure how to respond. Whose decision was it and what decision was he talking about? “Usually we suggest a budget after we’ve done a design, and once that’s approved, we work out a timetable for installation. I—I don’t know what you want or where you want it and we’re up against a tight deadline.”

“Your brochure says ‘We make Christmas perfect.’ That’s all he wants, a perfect Christmas.”

“Who?” Holly asked.

“The boy. Ah, I believe his name is Eric Marrin. It’s all in the file, Miss Bennett. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must go. I have a car waiting for you just over there. If you have any problems with the contract, you can call the number listed on the front of the folder and I’ll hire someone else to do the job. Miss Bennett, Miss O’Malley, have a merry Christmas.”

With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd of shoppers strolling through the square, leaving both Holly and Meg with their mouths agape. “Gorgeous,” Meg murmured.

“He’s a client,” Holly said, still stinging from his abrupt manner. “And rude! Besides, you know I’m engaged.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “You broke up with Stephan nearly a year ago and you haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t even called you. He’s not much of a fiancé if you ask me.”

“We didn’t break up,” Holly replied, starting off toward the car parked on the other side of the square. “He told me to take all the time I needed to decide on his proposal. And he has contacted me. I had a message on my machine a few weeks ago. He said he’d call me after the holidays and that he had something very important to tell me.”

Meg grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “You don’t love him, Holly. He’s snooty and self-absorbed and he has absolutely no passion.”

“I could love him,” Holly said, a defensive edge to her voice. “And now that my business will be in the black, I’ll have some independence. I won’t be marrying him for his money, for a secure future. We’ll be equals.”

Meg paused for a long moment, then groaned. “Oh, I didn’t want to tell you this,” she muttered, “especially right before the holidays. But I read something in the papers last month and—”

“If this is another story about underworld crime, I—”

“Stephan’s engaged,” Meg blurted out. “That’s probably what he wants to tell you. He’s marrying the daughter of some really rich guy. They’re getting married in June in the Hamptons.” Meg slipped her arm around Holly’s shoulders. “I shouldn’t have told you like this, but you have to put Stephan out of your life. It’s over, Holly.”

“But—but we were engaged,” Holly murmured, stunned at the news. “I finally made my decision and—and—”

“And it wasn’t right. Holly, why do you think it took you a whole year to decide? It’s because you didn’t love him. Someday you’ll meet a man who’ll sweep you off your feet, but that man wasn’t supposed to be Stephan.” She patted her back sympathetically. “So, let’s just focus on work, all right? We’ve got a new job that pays $15,000. Open that envelope and let’s hear what we have to do.”

Numbly Holly tore open the envelope. In her heart, she knew Meghan was right. She didn’t love Stephan, she never had. She’d only decided to accept his proposal because no one else had bothered asking. But the news still stung. Being rejected by a man—even a man you didn’t love—was still humiliating.