The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler

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СКАЧАТЬ frowned. “Feels like the sweater Mrs. Richter gave me.”

      “Mrs. Richter?”

      “She lives on our block. I have to say thank-you even if I’m never gonna wear it.” Gently, he poked at the space between Sam’s lower lip and the top of the beard. “How come your beard’s not stuck to your face?”

      From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the elf give him the speed-it-up signal.

      “Listen, Tim. I want to make sure you get what you want for Christmas, so why don’t you tell me what’s on your list?”

      The boy continued to look at him quizzically. “Are you the for-real Santa?” He sounded doubtful.

      Not sure whether to be insulted or relieved, Sam allowed himself a second to think. Getting two dozen troops to march in a straight line was nothing compared to this Santa stuff.

      What if he admitted he was just a guy in a cheap velvet suit? Would he ruin the kid’s psyche forever?

      Another glance into the candid auburn-lashed eyes, and the answer seemed to come out unbidden. “No, I’m not the real Santa.” Disappointment flashed across Tim’s face. “But I know him.” Oh, jeez! Did I really say that?

      “Are you guys friends?”

      “Yeah. We’re friends. We…raced reindeer together… in Alaska.” Oh, boy.

      Timmy seemed more interested in Sam’s having lived in Alaska than he was in the concept of reindeer racing. Sam answered eager questions about Eskimos and igloos, then saw the elf give him an emphatic wind-it-up. He ignored her.

      “Where’s the for-real Santa right now?”

      “Right now?” Sam frowned. “He’s at the North Pole. Resting. He’s got to be up all night, you know, on Christmas Eve, and…well, he’s not getting any younger.”

      “Like my granpop.” Timmy nodded. “He goes to bed at night sometimes even before I do. How old is Santa Claus?”

      “Older than anyone I’ve ever met,” Sam acknowledged. “If you tell me what you want for Christmas, I’ll make sure he hears all about it.”

      Timmy got quiet then, plucking at the broad brass clasp of Sam’s belt, looking up with wide, achingly innocent eyes.

      Before the little boy could respond, the lady elf approached with a strained smile. Placing both hands on her jutting green-stockinged knees, she leaned forward and spoke to Timmy. “You’re getting along so well with Santa, aren’t you? And I hate to interrupt, but there are lots of other little boys and girls who want to speak with him, too. We can’t take all his time.” Her syrupy voice merely underscored her irritation.

      Immediately, Timmy looked like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. Sam felt a surge of very un-Santalike anger.

      “Give us a moment, would you, please?” he requested, more politely, he thought, than she deserved.

      “Oh, now—” she wagged a finger at Sam “—it isn’t fair to the other children in line to make them wait.”

      “We’ll be done in a minute.”

      Smiling wider, the elf moved to stand directly in front of them so the parents could not see their exchange. “My lunch hour was thirty minutes ago. I have signaled you three times. I know you saw me—”

      “Hey! Elf Lady,” Sam interrupted. “We’re not done yet. When we are, I’ll signal you.”

      Timmy watched with openmouthed awe as the woman blinked several times, recovered enough to glare at Sam, then turned and stalked to her station.

      “She’s mad,” the little boy breathed.

      “Forget about her,” Sam instructed. “She’s not a real elf. So what is it you want this year?”

      Timmy’s little legs began to swing nervously. Sam winced when the boy connected with his shin. Gently, he placed a hand on Timmy’s knees. “What do you say, champ? What do you want? Some of the kids have been asking for Power Rangers. They were about your age, I think. You want one of those?”

      Timmy shook his head.

      “No, huh? Got something else in mind?”

      Hesitantly, the boy nodded.

      “Okay. Let ’er rip.”

      Gaze lowered, Timmy Harmon mumbled something Sam couldn’t understand. “Say it again?”

      Timmy raised his eyes. “I want a daddy.”

       Hell.

      Oh, how Sam wished he’d listened to the damn elf. Feeling his throat freeze, he wondered what he could say. I’m sure your mommy will get you one?

      Involuntarily, his eyes fastened on the boy’s mother. The soft smile was still in place. She was standing near the exit, too far away to hear what was being said, particularly with the piped-in holiday Muzak, but she looked curious, apparently aware that he was taking more time with her son than he had with the others.

      “Where’s your daddy?”

      Timmy folded his hands neatly in his lap. His cheeks were pink. The small shoulders lifted in a shrug.

      Well, you had no business asking that, Mclean, none at all. But he wondered. He definitely wondered.

      A woman who made cookies for her son to give to Santa, who had hair like autumn, skin like winter and—if they were anything like her son’s—eyes green as summer leaves…had someone walked away from that? And from this boy?

       Keep your mind on the job.

      “Listen,” he began. He no intention of implying that Santa could dish up dads for Christmas. “Fathers… you know, they aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I mean, without one you only get yelled at half as much, right?” The smile he attempted fell flat.

      His logic made no impression on Timmy, who shrugged again, then asked, “Will you tell Santa?”

      Sam looked at the little fellow, so hopeful, so tentative. To say he was out of his element didn’t begin to describe the ineptitude Sam felt. What could he say? “I’ll tell him.”

      Timmy stared at Sam a long time. Probably wondering if he should trust a’guy who admits to wearing a fake beard.

      Sliding off Sam’s lap to stand at his knee, the child issued a very polite thank-you, then turned and ran off.

      The exit from Santa’s Holiday Village was a green runner between two rows of painted cardboard pine trees. Timmy got about halfway down the twenty-five-foot walkway before another child approached for an audience. Sam smiled absently at the little girl, lifting her to his knee. He kept his eyes on Timmy.

      At the end of the makeshift aisle, Timmy jogged right, running headlong for his mother and the man Sam guessed was Granpop. The woman received her son СКАЧАТЬ