The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler

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СКАЧАТЬ scanned the crowd while Ms. Elf held for cheers. A few people clapped. A baby cried. Undaunted, she continued. “Only three weeks to Christmas, shoppers, and you know what that means. All throughout the store today and every day between now and December twenty-fifth, you’ll find super-phenomenal savings on a wide variety of products, everything from bulk carrots in our produce section—” she pointed east “—to holiday tablecloths and place mats in housewares, aisle four. And while you’re shopping, shoppers, don’t forget that we have a special treat for little customers.” She grinned. “That’s right, he’s here—”

      Oh, brother. Beneath the mountain of foam padding that covered his stomach, Sam felt his gut clench. I swear to God, the next time someone offers me work—

      “—in Lawson’s Holiday Village—” the elf warmed her audience like a veteran Ed McMahon, and this time the children screamed with pleasure “—straight from the North Pole—”

       Joe, you son of a bitch.

      “Moms and dads, boys and girls—” she flung out an arm “—the one, the only…Santa Claus!”

      Trapped, gulled, conned into playing a part as foreign to him as Bermuda shorts to a polar bear, Sam raised a white-gloved hand. His smile felt as frozen as his vocal cords, his lips barely moved, as he attempted that immortal refrain.

      “Ho. Ho. Ho.”

      

      Three hours later, the line of children had dwindled considerably, but both of Sam’s legs were killing him. He’d been seating the kids on his uninjured right thigh, which was now almost as sore as his left.

      At present, a little girl named Sarah Jean was running through a list of requests that would bankrupt her parents within an hour.

      “…and a Malibu Barbie, Hunchback of Notre Dame lunch box—I don’t like Pocahontas anymore…”

      Sam nodded. Discreetly, he thought, he lifted his gaze to where the elf stood, checking the flash on the camera she used to capture these special holiday moments—for three bucks a pop. It was her job to signal when a kid’s five minutes with Santa were up. Sarah Jean, he was sure, had to be pressing the limit.

      “Are you listening?” The pigtailed girl caught him shifting his focus.

      Sam returned the malevolent stare. “Yeah. You don’t like Pocahontas.”

      Looking at him suspiciously, Sarah Jean resumed her request concert. With each new mention of a toy, she swung her patent-leather shoes into Sam’s shin. He’d asked her twice already not to do that.

      “Sarah Jean,” he said once again, “I told you, don’t kick Santa.”

      The little girl glared at him. “I don’t like you. The other Santas are better. I went to Boise and that Santa told me I’d get everything I deserved for Christmas.”

      For the first time that day, Sam allowed a genuine smile beneath the bushy mustache. “I’m sure he’s right.” At last his co-worker gave him the high sign. Thank God. “Okay, kid. Turn around and face the elf.”

      A bright flash caught them both, then Sarah Jean hopped off his knee and scurried toward her mother, casting suspicious glances at Sam.

      Mildly repentant, he sighed. He was probably ruining Joe’s business, giving dozens of innocent Idaho youths a fear of Santa Claus—and their parents a fear of shopping at Lawson’s.

      Ten children remained in line. Rubbing his leg, Sam resolved to be as Santalike as possible for the next fifty minutes. The next child up, a little boy, approached and stood at his knee.

      For several moments—long ones, Sam thought—he and the kid just stared at each other.

      Thick, wavy red hair hugged the boy’s head like a woolly cap. Freckles splattered the bridge of his nose. Dressed warmly in crisp, neatly pressed clothes and brightly colored tennis shoes, he was just the kind of kid Sam remembered his friends picking on in grade school. The kind of kid who looked wellmothered.

      Thrusting out a flannel-covered arm, the little guy held up a paper lunch bag. “These are for you. My mommy made ’em. She says they’re the kind you like.”

      Accepting the bag, Sam opened it to examine the contents. The aroma of butter and brown sugar drifted up. Four very large, very thick golden brown cookies that begged tasting rested inside.

      “The kind I like?” he murmured. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. Breaking his own rule—the less contact with parents, the better—he glanced up, searching almost unwillingly for this boy’s mother. She was easy to find.

      “I asked her to put in extra for the reindeers, but she says no dessert for them because they can’t brush their teeth. Do reindeers have very big teeth?”

      Sam nodded.

      Her hair was like fire, as red as her son’s. It waved thickly back from her forehead, exposing a gentle widow’s peak and skin as creamy and subtly toned as her hair was bright. She stood next to an older man, too old, Sam thought, to be the boy’s father. Her gaze was all for her son.

      She would stand out in any crowd. Tall and slender, with refined features he could easily imagine on the cover of a magazine, she looked like a woman who belonged in a city—at the theater, in an elegant restaurant, dressed to the nines.

      Then she smiled at her child, and Sam had no trouble picturing her in jeans in her kitchen, making snacks for Santa.

      All of a sudden, he had the overwhelming urge to taste one of the cookies, just so he could tell her how good they were.

      A light tug strained his sleeve. “Should I get on your lap now?”

      “Yeah.” Rolling up the bag, Sam looked for somewhere to stow it, settling for behind his chair, next to the cane he was still using. “Thanks,” he said. “Tell your mom…thanks.”

      “Okay.” The youngster nodded, then climbed onto Sam’s lap.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Timmy Harmon.”

      “How old are you, Tim?”

      “Five.”

      “Five.” Sam nodded. “Pretty big for five, aren’t you?”

      It wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but it puffed Timmy Harmon up like a helium balloon in a Thanksgiving parade.

      “I guess,” he answered proudly, his teeth showing in a white line interrupted by a couple of empty spaces, like missing slats in a picket fence.

      Sam smiled a little. This kid was easy to please. Remembering his Santa dialogue, he asked, “Have you been a good boy this year?”

      Timmy considered the question. “Uh-huh. I think. ’Cept I forgot to pick up my building blocks.”

      The other half of Sam’s mouth joined his smile. “That doesn’t sound too bad. So, what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?” The words rolled more easily than they had all day.

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