The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler
known better than to put that suit on this morning. When they said you wanted me to play Santa, I thought it was a real job offer. I didn’t want to insult your sorry carcass by refusing.”
“It was a real job offer.” Joe climbed out of the fallen chair, righted it and sat down. “Our regular Santa has the flu.” When he grinned, his full mustache hugged his mouth like an upside-down U. “Good to see you, buddy.”
Sam shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, good to see you, too.”
“Seriously,” Joe said, “I know you’re ticked, but you did a good job today. I hid behind the canned pears display and watched. You’re good around kids. You want to do it again tomorrow?”
Sam grimaced. “I’d rather face a court-martial.” Tossing a paper bag on the desk, he said, “Here. Some kid’s mother actually made cookies for Santa. Can you believe that?”
“Yeah? What kind?” Joe reached for the bag. “My sisters always put a plate of oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk near the chimney on Christmas Eve.” Humor pushed his cheeks into rosy apples. “I left M&M’s. I didn’t think he could get them at the North Pole.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Didn’t you ever do that when you were a kid?” Unrolling the top of the bag, he peered inside. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try to stay up all night to catch Santa when he came down the chimney, ’cause everyone I know did that.”
“Sure. Of course.”
Watching Joe inspect one of the large cookies Timmy’s mother had made, Sam wondered why he’d just lied. He was not dishonest by nature, but suddenly he’d had such a strong image of Joe and his sisters secretly awaiting Santa’s big entrance, of their parents peering in from a doorway, smiling in the background, that a myriad of confusing feelings rumbled through him—envy, regret and a strange, discomfiting inadequacy, ludicrous but powerful. Sam couldn’t remember even believing in Santa Claus.
“Not bad.” Joe nodded after taking a bite of cookie. “But we’re running a special on iced molasses bars—one dozen for a dollar ninety-nine in the bakery. Now that’s a good deal, my friend.”
Sam frowned. “These are homemade,” he said, incomprehensibly annoyed that Joe would compare store-bought to the cookies the redhead had made.
Joe shrugged. “You want homemade? My sister Carol is a whiz in the kitchen. She bakes all the time.”
“Hmm.”
“Carol’s smart, too, and funny. You’d like her. Did I ever show you her picture?”
Sam quirked a brow at the man who had been his first friend way back in boot camp. “Are you trying to set me up with your sister?”
“Sure.” Joe grinned. “That’s what big brothers are for. Are you interested?”
Sam grew hot and prickly with the sudden urge to escape. He opened his mouth to decline, then closed it without speaking. He met Carol Lawson years ago and liked her. But she had Family written all over her even then, and Sam had the ethics not to start something he had no intention of finishing.
He shifted on the hard chair, both his leg and his conscience making him uncomfortable. If he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d come here looking for more than a job. He remembered the Lawson family, their boisterous meals, their easy way with one another, Joe’s comfortable home.
Family.
He wanted to be around it. For awhile. But as a spectator, not a participant. He could close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to sit at a table that wasn’t part of a mess hall. A small table, maybe, small enough to reach across and pour a drink for somebody else. Working together to set the places, smiling and laughing as you handed around the plates. There would be evidence of caring in the simplest ways. Did you get enough potatoes? Yeah. Do you want more gravy? Sure.
Looking out for each other. Appreciating that someone had bothered to make potatoes just because you liked them. Appreciating that someone knew you liked them.
Suddenly he wanted it so badly, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he’d been caught with his fly down. The muscles in his jaw tightened with resentment. He was like an ex-smoker who had to breathe the aroma from someone else’s cigarette to get through the night. When he’d decided to come to Idaho, in the back of his mind had been the notion that he could be around Joe’s family for a brief time and take the experience with him, like a secret, when he left—one final deep inhalation of someone else’s smoke to store up for the years of deprivation that lay ahead.
Sam gave a sharp, reproachful shake of his head. The fact was, no matter how much he craved a glimpse of that life, he wasn’t about to mislead anyone to get it.
To Joe he said, “I’m a bachelor. You know what they say about old dogs.”
Joe grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I’m an old dog myself.” Finishing the cookie, the big man brushed his hands. “Where are you staying tonight, Fido?”
“The Park Motel, outside of town.”
“That dive? I wouldn’t let my pet spider stay there.”
With a brief smile, Sam said, “It’s fine.”
Joe pointed a finger. “You’ve been living with men too long. So listen, you’ll come to dinner tonight Tomorrow you can move your gear to the house. We have plenty of room.”
Sam held up a hand. “Thanks, but I—”
“No, don’t give me any crap.” Pulling a piece of paper from the mess he called his in box, Joe muttered, “Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor. My mother’s all over me to get married. Give her someone new to torture.” He grabbed a pen. “Here, I’ll give you directions.”
“Thanks, you’ve convinced me. I’ll stay at the motel.”
“What? Naw, seriously—”
“Seriously, Joe, I’ve got plans tonight. But soon.” Sam reached for the bag of cookies, rolled the top of the paper sack and stood, relying on the cane more than he wanted to after a long day of sitting. And he did have plans. He just hadn’t realized it until this moment.
Wanted, man to work on small organic farm…room, board… Plus, he amended silently, the kind of cookies Santa likes. And no strings.
All they wanted was a worker. Testing his bum leg, he decided that as a worker, he could come through just fine.
Rising, Joe held up a sheet of computer paper. “I had personnel print up a list of the jobs available in the store.”
Leaning on his cane, Sam raised a brow. “What are they?”
Joe snapped the paper with a flourish, then cautioned, “Remember, this is only a preliminary list.”
“Uh-huh. Is there anything on that page that involves wearing a giant crow costume and waving people into your parking lot?”
Eyes widening, Joe lowered the list. “That’s not a bad idea. Not a crow, though. What’s that Froot Loops bird?” He fished around for a pad of paper. “We could do a tie-in with breakfast cereals. Sugar-sweet savings. How does that sound? I—Hey, where’re you goin’?”
“Get the elf to do it. She’d make a great bird.” Sam tossed the words over his shoulder on his way to the door. He knew where he was headed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“What about dinner?”
Raising the bag of cookies, Sam smiled. “All I need is a quart of milk. I’ll call you.”
“You’re going to break my sister’s heart?” Joe put a hand over his chest.
Grasping the office doorknob, Sam paused long enough to answer. “No. I’m not going to break anyone’s heart.”