The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler
Ark look like a singles’ cruise.”
“You could get out more. Take a girlfriend and drive into Boise. Maybe there’s someplace there you could go dancing.” His inflection rose with hopefulness.
Dancing. After nine or ten hours of work every day, Dani’s feet hurt just thinking about it. “I don’t want to pick someone up at a dance. Or have them try to pick me up. I like my idea better.”
She splayed her hands across the scarred top of the pine table. There was a business-size white envelope next to the ceramic salt shaker. Gene’s gaze followed hers, and his expression grew more troubled. With an effort, Dani steeled herself to proceed even in the face of her father’s uneasiness. Even in the face of her own.
Inside that envelope was her chance to create a family for her son. Mentally, she reviewed the words she’d written and had read to her father early this morning.
A home for the holidays Small family on small farm seeks man willing to make our house his home. Must love kids and hard work. Clean living, solid background with work and personal references required. Ninetyday trial period leading to legal union. Serious inquiries only.
“I got most of my cars through the newspaper,” Gene grumbled. “Half of ’em were lemons.”
Dani mustered a smile. “That’s why I’m insisting on a trial period. It’s like a three-month test drive.”
Gene found little humor in the situation. He shook his head, then stood. “Well. We better get going if we’re going to make it to Lawson’s in time to see Santa.”
The abrupt change in topic threw Dani off stride. She’d intended to talk until Pop saw things her way. But he’d always been the kind of father who let his daughter make her own mistakes. And she’d made some dillies. Praying this wasn’t going to be another of them, Dani picked up the envelope and tucked it in the pocket of her cardigan. Later, she would ask Pop to run the ad over to the Tribune office while she did the grocery shopping. That way she’d have no chance to get cold feet. The County Trib was circulated all over the state. Her ad would get a lot of play.
“I’ll get Timmy. Thanks for coming with us, Pop. These outings with you mean the world to him.”
Gene waved her gratitude away. “He’s my grandson, isn’t he? Better make him put on his mittens. Looks like it may snow again.”
Dani rose. Instead of proceeding to the living room, she laid a hand on Gene’s arm. “It won’t be just anybody. If the right person doesn’t come along, then we’ll just keep doing what we’re doing. But I have to try, Dad. For Timmy.”
Gene covered her hand with his and nodded.
Turning, Dani called out to her son. “Grab your coat and your mittens, pup. We’re going to visit Santa!”
In all his thirty-two years, Sam had never seen so many runny noses.
Seated on an oversize armchair of cheap black vinyl and wood that was spray-painted gold, he gazed at the ocean of children before him and felt like he’d been sacrificed to an alien nation.
They were lined up in an endless stream, dozens of them, not a one taller than its mother’s hip and as far as Sam could tell, each doing the same thing—wiping its nose on its sleeve and waiting to sit on his lap.
The minute—the very instant—he saw his old friend Joe Lawson, he would tell the back-stabbing lummox exactly what he could do with this “job.” Come to Idaho, buddy…. Always a place for you at Lawson’s, pal…. Sam’s gloved hand clenched. Wiseacre, joking son of a—
“We’re ready, Santa!” A woman dressed in a short green tunic, green tights and ankle boots gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sam winced on her behalf. She looked like a cross between an elf and the label on a can of peas. Behind the stiff, scratchy beard the Lawson’s Superstore management had. handed him, Sam gave a brief, sorry shake of his head. He doubted he looked any more dignified than she.
“Testing…” The woman tapped a microphone. She whispered, but her voice carried. “One, two, three, testing…” Satisfied the PA system was up and running, she motioned for quiet—got none—and proceeded.
“Greetings, shoppers!” she boomed into the mike. “Welcome to Lawson’s Superstore’s third annual holiday extravaganza!” Scattered applause. “A month-long schedule of sensational seasonal events designed to make your holiday shopping spectacular!”
Unbelievable. Sam 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