Preface

 

My name is Tanya Hammond, for a long time now, ok, five years, I’ve dispensed with the Christmas spirit. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but one that was forced on me. You may well ask how that can happen as there is that little matter of free will. Unless of course you had a partner, both business and personal, who decided to leave you on the eve of Christmas. I should have seen it coming—don’t we all say that? With hindsight all those lunches with the THAT sales woman, who was trying to sell the company copier paper of all things, should have been the perfect indicator. I want to add not only do I dislike this time of year I abhor sales people who arrive cold calling to my office. 

There was one good thing that came out of the situation; the business that had been floundering five years ago, now was doing remarkably well, even with a recession. My partner always insisted we needed to spend money to reap the rewards and she was good at that. When she left me, I was given the task of extricating myself out of a hefty business mortgage, which was tied to the apartment we shared. Fortunately I was astute enough to have a lawyer involved. That resulted in Bethany waiving her rights to the apartment and the business on the proviso she wasn’t responsible for any of the debts. At the time, I sourly supposed that she thought I’d end up bankrupt. In fact, I worked every hour I could and that paid off handsomely. After two years, I gained a major local government contract, which extended across the country within eighteen months. Now, I mortgage free on the apartment, I have a satellite office in Seattle. Of course, it came with a price—sacrificing the few friends we’d garnered as a couple. In retrospect, it wasn’t a hard thing to give up as most had stayed loyal to Bethany. I highly doubt that if I dropped dead at my desk tomorrow anyone would notice.

 That was my state of mind as I left a late meeting with my bank manager. I needed groceries and stopped in the unfamiliar neighborhood’s supermarket. Absently I moved up and down the aisles taking in the products but not seeing them until something caught my attention.

 

Street Urchin

 

I watch in fascination as a street urchin, that description in my opinion, aptly described the child, once again pocketed an apple from the green grocery section. His movements then took him down another aisle in Reggie’s Supermarket, I follow casually picking up the odd item as I surreptitiously watch the child’s antics. The street urchin tag had to be accurate. Who in their right mind would send a child out dressed in clothes that appeared to be hand me downs twenty times over. His too big shoes made a slip slap noise and the numerous scuff marks on the toe cap were definitely in need of shine. In my opinion, his attire was good for only one thing—rags. The more I watch the child the more fascinated I become. Straggly blonde hair hung like rat’s tails and the face made it difficult to decide if it was a boy or girl. The clothes, if you could call them that, didn’t help with a gender since they were unisex, since they were nothing more than a pair of torn and faded jeans and a brown non-descript sweater.

The child, furtively looking around, picks up a fancily ribbon wrapped box of chocolates and slides it under the sweater. Apparently, my presence several yards away isn’t of interest. The urchin moves toward the glass sliding doors of the entrance and I wonder what the child is doing. Then, the child’s action makes me smile, as the child limbered under the barrier and headed toward the entrance waiting for a customer to open it. I shake my head for this urchin was very practiced at the art of leaving a building without being detected. I continue my observations as a burly man dressed in a security uniform caught hold of the child’s sweater roughly effectively stopping the small body a few yards from the entrance. The child squirmed in the obviously tight hold that is unnecessary in comparison to the bulky frame of the security officer against the thin child.  

I don’t know why I’m doing what I am but something triggers in my subconscious propelling me to abandon my shopping cart in the middle of the aisle and rush toward the entrance at the same time the security guard is dragging an unwilling child inside the building. The child protests both verbally and physically. He kicks the man with his scuffed shoes, which I can see don’t have much leather left on the toecaps.

“What are you doing to that poor child?” I allowed my voice to hold an authoritative edge as my pale blue eyes were claiming the man’s brown disgruntled ones.  

“It’s a thief, lady; don’t be fooled by the croc tears. The store has zero tolerance for shoplifters.” He jabs a finger in the direction of a notice on the door indicating thieves would be prosecuted.

I ignore the man’s action and gaze down at the urchin whose hazel eyes are welling in tears. That look alone cements my resolve to become involved. In a cool tone I remark, “You prosecute children? What kind of feudal policy is that? Next, you’ll be telling me you chop of their hands. I demand you let the child go.”

The security guard frowns, his heavy jowls wobbling as he shakes his head firmly. “Not a chance, lady. If you are so concerned, you’d better speak to the manager…it isn’t my call.”

Ten minutes later, I face the manager of the supermarket. He is an average stature man with balding hair and a moustache. He clasps his hands together, before turning his attention to the window of his office where the security guard and the child stood on the other side of the glass.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hammond, it is company policy to call the police. We can’t have this kind of behavior. An exception will travel around like wildfire to all the vagabonds in the area. We will have a plague of them stealing from us.”

After listening to him, I decide the man is being particularly hash. As is my nature, once I make a decision, I follow through no matter what. “A little melodramatic wouldn’t you say. The child is hardly Fagin material.”

The man coolly remarks, “No more melodramatic than what you’ve just said. We are not in Victorian times with situations like Oliver Twist.”

“Ok, wrong analogy. It’s barely a week to Christmas. Surely, you can be lenient. Judging by the clothes this child obviously doesn’t have much.” I persist a little gentler. As I watch the manager, he slides another glance toward the people outside his window.  

Looking deep in thought, the man curves his slim fingers around his chin. Then with a grumpy clearing of his throat, or, so it sounds, he gruffly says, “The only way the kid will get away with a caution is if the parents pay for the things stolen.”

I turned my attention to the child who was sitting in a large chair. The thin legs were dangling and the too big shoes were swinging in the air. “I’ll pay for the items. How much?”

The man shook his head. “Ms. Hammond, you might live to regret this impulse. Look at the child. It’s obvious that the parents won’t be able to pay you back even if they wanted to. Parents often send their children out to steal for them. I suppose, on reflection, your Fagin comment might not be far short of the mark.”

I refuse to reply to that suggestion and produce my credit card. “I’ll take the child home and check for myself. I’m sure this child won’t do anything like this again.”

The manager merely shrugs his thin shoulders and a few minutes later, we head to the outer corridor. “Steve, let the kid go. If you do this again in my store, we won’t be so lenient. Do you understand, boy?”

The child didn’t speak, but nods and then peers inquiringly at me.

I give the kid a wry smile not in approval for his actions, but merely to make the child less frightened.

“I’ll take you home.”

I take the child’s hand and we head out of the building in silence. The two men we left behind whispering derogatory comments about my actions that I hear as we exit the corridor. I would have challenged them under other circumstances—this wasn’t the time.

Once outside, the winter sun made the experience more tolerable as I drew in a deep gulp of fresh air. “Where do you live?”

The child simply looks at me. Then, without a word, drops my loosely held hand and shoots off across the parking lot. I am stupefied as I speed after the child, my long legs easily eating up the distance between us. Silently I thank God that I go to the gym regularly. I slow slightly realizing the child will probably lead me away from home if there was any chance of being caught again. Keeping the urchin in my line of sight, I hide behind a stationary truck just as the child looks around behind him. The urchin appears satisfied that no one is following and stops running. Then he moves at a more leisurely pace down the street.

I follow for the three blocks to a distinctly drab and rundown neighborhood. So much so, a that demolition team is more fitting than a repair team. Not one of the houses looks fit to live in. With a terse expression, I continue following the urchin until an opened gate that squeaked horrendously and wobbled precariously swung shut behind the child. The child skips up the porch steps and opens a door that blue paint is peeling from every crevice—it squeaks, as much, if not more, than the gate.

Sighing heavily, I wonder what I am doing outside a stranger’s home and in a less than desirable neighborhood. The strange thing is—I’ve lived in town all my life, but have never been here before or even heard of Holly Street. In light of its appearance, my apartment, in one of the more salubrious areas of the town, would stick out like a sore thumb. I, on reflection, realize that if someone is watching my arrival, they will know I don’t belong there either. I glance around. There was not a soul in the street and no twitching of curtains indicating a nosey neighbor. With a determined step, I follow the path of the child and moments later am rapping on the dilapidated door.

 

The Mother

 

I heard the definite sound of footsteps and a wail of don’t open the door from what I could only describe as a frightened child. “This had been another impulsive and bad idea,” I mumbled before the door swung open. Gentle, yet cautious hazel eyes the exact same shade as the child’s mesmerized me.

“Hello, can I help you?”

I let a brief smile cross my face. “Hi. Look, I know you don’t know me but we need to talk.”

My gaze, takes in the woman’s shoulder length honey blonde hair, noting that the split ends indicated the need of conditioning and a good cut. I find the woman’s angular face appealing. Her chin was a little too long to call it in perfect balance. The nose was small and the lips were full, and a little grim. Yet, the haunting and bewitching eyes capture me immediately.  

“You are right. I don’t know you. Please state your business?”

The voice was calm and controlled yet with a pleasant southern lilt to it. I understand the reaction for I probably have done the same or worse—I would have closed the door on a stranger. Once I again I knew what I was doing was so out of character for me. Only three months ago, a business analyst called me, the most impersonal woman on the planet. At times, I figure they weren’t far short of the mark. What happened to me in that store? Had this street urchin been an epiphany? God only knows.

“Look, if you don’t say why you’re here then I’m going to close the door.”

The anxious words, made me say,   “I need to speak to you about your child. At least I’m assuming it’s your child…the youngster who came into the house a few minutes ago.”

I saw a startled expression cross the woman’s face as she quickly spun around and called out, “Lewis, come here now. What have you done?” 

I like the name. Some parents copy the weird names of rock stars and actors. It seems to me, that naming your kid after a planet or fruit indicates that the adults don’t they have a shred of common sense—their kids would go through hell in school.

The child appeared around the mother’s legs encased in a pair of worn jeans much like her what her son wore. Frightened hazel eyes look at me and I attempt to give him a reassuring smile. My smile was to no avail as tears began streaming down the child’s cheeks. To say I am uncomfortable is an understatement.

Calmly I say, “Hi, Lewis, remember me from the supermarket?”

Lewis nods. His eyes that seem so much larger fill with tears.

“You said you needed to speak to me about Lewis. Has he done anything wrong? Are the police involved?” This time the woman’s voice sounds desperate.

Shaking my head, I gaze into those expressive eyes and draw in a shallow breath before I speak. “Oh, no, absolutely not! He helped me out when I dropped my shopping in the parking lot and saved a particularly expensive bottle of champagne from breaking. I rewarded him with something from the store and he left them behind. It was a good deed so I figured I’d bring them over.” Ok, all a barefaced lie, but something about the woman’s demeanor made me want to cover for her child by fabricating a story. It wasn’t the most inventive but it was the best I could muster at short notice.

“He did a good thing? You rewarded him?” The mother’s tone sounded less than convinced.

 “Yes. Surprisingly, he only wanted an apple, orange, and a box of chocolates.” I hold out the plastic shopping bag with the items but the mother merely stares at them in surprise.

As she opens the door wider, she quietly murmurs, “You’d better come in.”

Feeling slightly perplexed, I follow her inside, clutching the supermarket bag with the child’s spoils inside. As I went in, there was a strong scent of wood polish and disinfectant invading my nostrils. Inside the tiny hallway, there was a rickety hall stand and a couple of items of clothing hanging limply from the hooks. They were probably coats but it was hard to distinguish exactly what they were. The mother leads me into what I perceive to be the main living area. It holds a well used twenties style cabinet in a deep dark wood with numerous scratches. A melamine coffee table was placed in front of sofa in a brown square pattern that in places was almost threadbare. There was no television, radio or any sign of the taken for granted entertainment systems most families possessed. The floor was bare of any carpet coverings or rugs. As we entered, our footsteps echoed in the room the sound vying to displace the only other sound in the room—a loudly ticking vintage cuckoo clock that hung on the wall above the fireplace. There was also no evidence of Christmas in the house. It was totally void of the festive season and a part of me feels sad for them.

“Take a seat please.”

Hesitating for a second, I gingerly sit wondering if my larger frame might be the last straw for the old sofa. Although it protests, it remains intact. I wiggle a bit noting that it is quite remarkably comfortable. “Thank you. I’ve been remiss. My name is, Tanya…Tanya Hammond.” Standing again, I held out my hand.

The mother peers at me suspiciously, then tentatively, takes my proffered hand and shakes it lightly. “Brooke Short. As you know, my son is Lewis. Can I offer you a drink?”

The willingly offered invitation surprised me. This small family appears to have sparse resources so giving away what meager provisions they have makes me feel humbled by the offer. Sitting back down on the old sofa, I smile. “Thanks for the offer but I’m going to the gym from here and a drink inside me doesn’t work out well.” It is another small lie since I drink gallons of water when working out at the gym. However, I don’t think that this woman will know that. 

Nodding, the mother remains standing by the fireplace giving me a guarded look. When she speaks again her voice is soft and barely above a whisper. “Is what you said about Lewis true?”

Refusing to look directly at Brooke Short, my reply is upbeat. “Sure. Are you going to take his gift,” I say holding out the bag of goodies again.

Brooke moves forward, takes the bag, and looks inside with a sad expression as she gazes at the contents. Then she looks toward the door and motions for the loitering child to enter. Holding out the bag, she asks in that quiet voice of hers, “Lewis, you know I don’t approve of lying. Is what Ms. Hammond is saying the truth?”

The boy scoots forward, his face chagrined as he shakes his head. “No, Mom, I borrowed them from the supermarket...its Christmas,” the child says seemingly pleading for understanding.

“Lewis, you know that isn’t the truth. Why did you steal them?”

Lewis caught his mother’s glance in a determined fashion. I feel like a voyeur watching the interchange. “I wanted you to have something nice for Christmas, Mom. Besides,” he juts out his chin determinedly, “they wouldn’t miss them.”

Brooke shakes her head in consternation. “Lewis, go to your room. We’ll discuss this and your punishment later.”

The boy obediently turns away and heads toward the door. There was only the sound of the ticking clock as the door closes behind the boy.

“Are you from the supermarket? If you are, why did you make up that idiot story? I don’t appreciate making what my son did a good thing,” Brooke remarks in an angry tone.

Once more, I stand up and accept the mini wrath wave from the mother. “I’m not from the supermarket. The security guard caught him with the stolen items and the store manager was going to hand him over to the police. I thought that it was wrong, especially at this time of the year—he’s so young. Call it my effort toward the Christmas cheer. I paid for the items and persuaded them to let him go. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“You’d better let me know what we owe you.” There was a resigned tone to Brooke’s voice as she walks over to the cabinet and opens one of the doors. Reaching inside, she brings out a leather wallet, which, by the scaring on the leather, looks like a very old item.

“It’s ok. I don’t want the money. I just didn’t think it was good for a boy of his age to be in the hands of the police…not at this time of year.” My reply is quite genuine and that surprises me much like most of what I’d been doing since I saw my street urchin, Lewis.

“Christmas is a luxury we can’t afford, Ms. Hammond. Please tell me how much do I owe you?” Brooke’s long chin juts out determinedly reminding me of her boy, Lewis.

“Twenty-one dollars.”

The creasing of the brow at the amount causes me to regret telling, for the first time, the mother the truth. The fruit was barely a dollar but the boy chose a reasonably expensive box of chocolates.  

Brooke opened the wallet and then removed two grubby looking notes and held them out.

Frowning heavily, I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to be paid for the items, Mrs. Short. I just wanted the...Lewis to make it home safely. Perhaps when you’re husband comes home you can explain what he did was wrong. As it is Christmas, maybe you could be lenient on the punishment.” Not knowing what else to say, I said, “I better be on my way.”

What the woman did next had me flummoxed—she simply cried. The tears she shed and the soft sobs emanating from her put me on the back foot. A person crying comes on my list of things I’d rather not encounter. Uncomfortable is the only word that comes to mind. Blustering I say, “Won’t your husband understand?”

Through the tears and sobs the woman answers, “I don’t have a husband, I’m a single mom.” Shaking her head vigorously, she softly says, “Why did I tell you…that it isn’t your problem.”   

I consider that statement and conclude rather fancifully that she is having an epiphany too although it makes little sense from the acute poverty angle. I gaze at the woman more closely. Age is always a difficult one to tell but Brooke was probably in her early to mid-twenties. If I was so inclined to have a family, this woman was old enough to be my daughter. It makes me feel my age of fifty-two as I draw in a shallow breath. “It must be hard.” My comment is lame but I have no other expression for it.

Through her sobs, Brooke tersely replies, “You don’t know the half of it. We were doing so well until the economy collapsed and I lost my job at the bank when it closed. The mortgage went into foreclosure and we had to sell what little we had to pay legal fees. That was eighteen months ago. Lewis doesn’t even have any of his toys he once had. We barely make it through a week. We have to live in a house where everyday something else breaks down that we can’t afford to repair and the landlord doesn’t care. My child stealing is the last straw. How am I going to stop him from becoming a serial criminal if I can’t provide him with a decent life?”

I sit down again, primarily because each sentence seems to punch at my gut. Sure, I know the economy is hard on people, but it has somehow become a background annoyance hearing about it on the news and then forgetting immediately. My job is as secure as anyone can get currently. I own a medium sized IT company that is weathering the economic storm well. Unsure as to what to say next, I quietly remark, “I don’t think Lewis is the criminal type. He just wanted to do something nice for his mom at Christmas.” The more I think about that sentence the sadder I feel for this mother and her child. “What was your role at the bank?”

Brooke gives me a startled expression then wipes her nose with a tissue she removed from her pocket. “I was assistant manager.”

“I’m impressed. With a young child, it must have been tough to do. Did you have help from family and friends?” It was a normal kind of question or so I thought until I see a sour expression cross Brooke’s face.

Through gritted teeth the young woman says, “No family…at least none that want anything to do with me. Besides, they live down south. Friends…are hard to come by for a single mom with a full time job.”

Nodding in agreement for something I have no personal experience in, I ask, “I know it’s not my business…what about Lewis’s father. Can’t he help?”

Brooke shakes her head, as her face grows red. “I don’t know who Lewis’s father is.”

“Oh.” What can I say since it definitely isn’t my business. Again, my normal self kicks my proverbial ass by asking what the hell am I doing here.

There is a marked silence between us before I stand up again making me feel like a jack in a box. Reaching inside my jacket pocket, I pull out my wallet, a shiny expensive Italian leather creation, I opened it and I was about to remove something and stopped when there was a harsh, No. Puzzled I asked, “No?”

“I don’t want your charity.”

My lips twist slightly, curving their generous proportions into an almost comical expression. “I wasn’t going to offer any.” Continuing my task, I removed a business card. “I’m looking for help. If you drop by my office tomorrow morning at eleven…who knows…if you have the right experience there could be work for you.”

Brooke opens her mouth, but doesn’t say a thing, as I thrust the card in her hands.

“I do need to go. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven. Goodbye, Ms. Short, and please say bye to Lewis for me.” I high tail it out of the house without waiting for any further comment.

When I reach the parking lot of the supermarket and the relative security of my car, I heave a sigh of relief. As I open the car door and slide inside I remark quietly, “What the hell am I doing? I don’t have any work for the woman.” Engaging the engine, then the gears, I drive away, somewhat perplexed at my impulsive actions.

The Office

 

Grinding my teeth, I throw my appointment diary with a thud on the desk. To the empty room I bark, “Why can’t people turn up for the right appointments. Don’t they know I’m a busy woman?” Three people arrived this morning, two said they had the same appointment time and the third was a cold caller. With my business offices leased in a building with several others, cold callers come by far too frequently. The situation only enhances my bitterness of professional salesman. All I want is to sit at my computer and do my work. Is that such a hard achievement? I am due at the satellite office in Seattle tomorrow evening and my employees, though only five in total, expect my arrival along with the bonus check I give them as a Christmas present if the company does well. Remarkably, against the odds, it has this year.

The sound of the door opening has me curling my upper lip into a snarl as I shout at the intruder, “Will you people please leave me alone. Don’t you know what an appointment is?” Turning, fully expecting a clean cut suited man to be standing in the small reception area, since eighty percent were always men, I stare at the intruder. My eyes roll heavenwards—Brooke Short is standing in the doorway.

Brooke Short screws up her eyes, probably in horror, as her hand rests on the door handle looking like she is ready to bolt.

Catching the look of shock tinged with what I thought was despondency, I feel like a heel. “I’m sorry, Ms. Short, I’ve had a bad day. Please come inside. I’d offer you coffee except I haven’t had the time to set it up yet.” It was the truth. Coffee is a low priority on my list of things to do when I arrive at the office.

“If you’re busy, it’s ok. I thought it was too good to be true,” the timid voice replies.

Brooke, I am sure, wants flee at the first sign of me verbally scorching her with a lightning bolt rather than Christmas cheer.

“I’m not. At least I am but…please come inside.”

Brooke looks around the room and then moves away from the door. “Don’t you have any help here?” Her eyes fix on the spare desk in the office.

I briskly reply, “No.”

“I see. Have you ever had any help in the office? It seems to me a bit big for a one person operation and you do have two desks.”

Frowning, I reluctantly comment by saying, “Once, when the office was set up twelve years ago there was two of us…the partnership dissolved five years ago.”

Brooke nods. “Exactly what type of work did you have in mind for the job you said you had available?”

I allow the previous aggravation of the day to disappear as I scratch the side of my cheek, hoping that the woman would take the action as indicating deep thought. That goes by the wayside when the desk phone rings, my cell phone beeps insistently, and the door opens and a young man, dressed in a pinstriped suit with a black leather briefcase, enters the office area. I groan as my eyes flash to the desk phone, then to my pocket, before finally giving the young man a harsh dismissive glare.

Brooke gives a small smile. “Ms. Hammond, why don’t you answer your calls and I’ll see what this young man wants.”

I gratefully nod as I pick up the desk phone and ask someone to hold and then answer the cell. Twenty minutes later, a cup of steaming black coffee is in front of me on the desk next to the computer console. I am still in a conversation with the customer who called on the landline. Moments later, I end the call and swivel around in my chair to face Brooke Short, who was standing much where I left her a short time ago. She also has a hot drink in her hand.

“Thanks, how did you know I like it sweet and black?”

There was soft chuckle, which I find very pleasant and inwardly I smile as I wait for the reply. I casually take in Brooke’s appearance for the first time. She is dressed in a skirt suit in a pale grey linen. It isn’t new, but the style is one that doesn’t go out of fashion. It certainly is good enough to make an impression. Brooke’s hair is tied back in a bun, effectively disguising the neglected condition I noticed the day before. Her thin lips are pulled into a smile; it is gentle and transforms her features attractively.

“I figured it out. As you are the only one in the office and there are empty sugar sachets in the bin next to the coffee pot it wasn’t such a leap. Besides, I thought you look a little stressed and can do with the sugar rush as well as the caffeine fix.”

For a few moments, I am absorbed by the comment deciding that telling her I had a job for her wasn’t a bad idea after all. I quietly say, “You’re hired.”

The shocked expression on Brooke’s face causes me to let out a hearty laugh. I can’t remember the last time I did that. “You want a job don’t you?”

“Sure, but you haven’t asked me any questions or told me what exactly am I hired to do?”

“Oh that’s easy. Do what you’ve just done and we’ll work out fine.” At the woman’s puzzled look, I indicate the chair opposite my desk and she dutifully sits down. “I need someone to take care of the general running of the office. Keep me happy in coffee during the day and sandwiches at lunch. Keep me away from the undesirable salespeople who seem to make a beeline for my office when I’m extra busy. Finally, take care of my schedule.”

Brooke purses her lips and then quietly replies, “Most of that isn’t a problem, but running the office what will that entail?”

Biting down on my lower lip gently, I consider the logical question. I shrug and say, “Not sure yet, but we can work on it. What do you say…do you want the job?”

“I know I’m in no position to ask, but what will the remuneration be? Also, you should know that I can only work part time during the hours Lewis is in school.”

I notice Brooke’s hesitation and what I believe is resignation that I will tell her to forget it. I didn’t. This whole thing is ridiculous since there isn’t really an office position and any kid fresh out of school can do what I need in the office. However, something keeps pushing me to help this woman and her family. “I’m sure we can work around your schedule. I’m here by seven in the morning and often don’t go home until after eight. The pay will be ten dollars an hour to start and after a month we can reevaluate and change.” I figure Brooke is obviously enticed by the salary since her hazel eyes seemed to blaze in pleasure.

Brooke remarks, “Wow. Are you a workaholic?”

I hadn’t really thought about that. Am I? If I am did that explain why I no longer had friends I can call on? Had I blamed Bethany for my work ethic? Had it been my choice because I preferred the solitary existence of work to friends?

“Sorry, that isn’t my business,” Brooke says in apology.

“No, you are right. I’m a workaholic.” I shrug again before saying, “Who knows things might change.” The cell phone ring again and I glance at the screen noting it is the manager of my Seattle office. “I need to take this.”

Brooke nods.

“Jim, what do you need?”

“Hmm, can it wait? I’ll be there tomorrow around noon.”

“No huh, let me find out if I can get an earlier flight out and I’ll call you back.”

There is a beep from the computer console. Giving it a furtive glance, I turn back to my new office assistant. “No rest for the wicked.” Placing my fingers in a pyramid shape, I ask, “When can you start?”

Brooke answers immediately, “Now, if you want. However, I expect you’ll want to check my previous employer and do all the formal checks.”

I know I should, it is prudent since I know nothing about this woman except for what she told me the day before. Then, once again, against type, I easily remark, “No need,” I smiled, “I have your first official job…I need a flight to Seattle anytime today, the sooner the better. I’ll give you my address book with my usual contacts, feel free to improvise.”

Brooke smiles. “It will be my pleasure.”

Those simple words make me feel good. Maybe today isn’t going to be that bad after all. Finding my phone book in the desk drawer, I hand it to Brooke.

 

Another Good Deed

 

Jim Broadbent grins happily, as he looks down at the bonus check I hand him. I have spent the best part of two days in the satellite office placating the operations manager of one of our largest clients. I am ready to go home. There has been a plus managing to convince, a prospective client, the team in the office has been unable to tie down to a contract to join them in the New Year. All in all, things are looking up. Even my new employee in the main office appears to be doing fine. I left menial tasks and lots of filing for Brooke to contend with in my absence. I expect when I return to the main office, she’ll be all filed out and ready to quit. Yet, she is always cheerful whenever we speak or in a conference call when I need particular information from my files. Just listening to her lively explanation of what is happening has me smiling openly, which is a task I rarely allow to happen these days.

“...Brooke is a fine girl, Tanya.”

I frown wondering what the conversation is about for it is obvious that I missed something. “Yeah, ok. I have my flight out in two hours. If I don’t make it I doubt I’ll get another flight out tonight since this is Christmas eve.”

“I’ll take you to the airport, Tanya, it will be my pleasure. As I said, I’m glad you got help in the office back home,” Jim says to me.

“Let’s go. Or I’ll be having turkey dinner in the airport cafe.”

Jim knows when to shut up which makes me happy since I know we will only speak of business issues on the drive to the airport.

Looking up at the board, I noted my gate, and went through the dreaded body scanner before heading to my gate.

With the flight half over, the older woman sitting next to me, who, in my opinion, looks way too frail to be taking a plane journey, says, “I’m visiting my daughter and grandson this Christmas. It will be the first time I haven’t had dinner at my house in fifty years.” With a sad sigh, she further comments, “My husband, Stan, God rest him, will be turning in his grave. He loved everyone to come home and have the full family atmosphere at this time of year. What about you dear?”

Hmm good question. I will probably do what I always do and visit the office…probably not for all the day, but certainly the morning. Bitter memories of a Christmas morning five years ago flit into my mind reminding me that I woke up that day to find that the only gift I had from Bethany was her leaving me. “Oh, I’ll probably sleep in and have dinner with a friend.” I lied but this woman will never know or even care.

“No family, dear?”

“Nope.” Changing the subject rapidly, I ask, “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have to leave your home and make the trip?”

The old woman’s light grey eyes turn watery as she quietly replies, “My Stan died six months ago, and Jackie, my daughter, lost her job a year ago and can’t afford the flight tickets for her and my grandson. This was the cheapest way.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that about,” I reply absently before my new office assistant came to mind.

“The dying…or the job losses.”

I notice the slight uplifting of the woman’s voice and I feel the smile I give her before saying, “Both I guess.”

“Terrible to have no money and fret over if you can pay the next bill and Christmas time...it’s so much worse. Thankfully, my grandson is almost eighteen and he understands. We were optimistic of him going to college, but...well, he’ll be ok. He’s hoping to get work in computers like his mom.”

“What about your daughter’s husband…surely if he’s working it won’t be so...”

“A waster that one is. She’s better off without him…they both are.”

I’d obviously hit on a raw spot and didn’t say anymore as I check my watch. Only another two hours and I’ll be home. Something that the old woman said has me thinking and I bend down to pick up my purse and remove a business card. I turn back to the woman seated by me and I know my smile looks self-conscious. “I’m in computers and might have some work available to the right person. I’ve just secured a new contract so have your daughter contact me after Christmas and we can talk.” I push the card forward and the woman takes it as her watery eyes fill with real tears. Tears always make me feel uncomfortable so I took out my laptop, pulled out the small table in front of me, and went to work.

Emotively the woman says, “My name is Emily Beech. This is very kind of you,” she held up my business card, “do you mean it,” she looked at the card in her trembling hand, “Miss Hammond?”

I smile warmly. “Every word, Emily, and my name is Tanya.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Tanya.”

There were only one thing to say really on that note and I press the bell for the steward service. A few minutes later, we are both sipping a sparkling wine and toasting Christmas. I’ve decided to go with the flow this year. Something is pushing me on this path, and right now, I am happy to follow it—it makes me feel good inside.

 

*

 

The more I stare at the screen the less sense it makes to me. What the hell am I doing at six o’clock on Christmas Eve—working. My flight landed at four and instead of doing what most normal people do and go home to begin to enjoy the festivities, I’d taken a taxi back to the office. A part of me hopes to see Brooke’s familiar face and I know I’m an idiot. I barely know the woman and our time together has been less than three hours face to face. Obviously she isn’t here…she’s home with her son. I raise my hand and touch my throbbing head. I bet the wine I consumed on the flight is the reason for that. “Yeah, right…I had one glass.”

I spin my chair, look out the window, and see the mall across the street. I assume that the people scurrying around are on their last minute shopping sprees. I wonder just what has happened to me this week and why I was so generous with my time, money, and job opportunities. “Maybe I was struck by a falling object and am in a daze.”

That thought makes me wonder if all that is happening is nothing more than a dream. Something out the windows catches my eyes and I follow a woman with a child hanging onto her hand. It looks like the child is virtually dragging its willing parent who is laughing at something her offspring is saying, as they moved toward a car with lots of colorful packages and bags.

I turn back to my screen and sigh heavily. It is the simple fact that I am alone and until this moment, I didn’t care, that is eating at me. Now I don’t want to be alone.

“Why now? What has happened in the last week that can possibly make me change my solitary ways without a moment’s thought to the consequences?”

Standing, I walked over to the desk that Brooke used. It was neat and tidy, everything filed away, without the paper trail chaos I usually leave in the area. Then, I notice for the first time, a note propped up against the in tray—addressed to me.

I slice open the envelope and pull out a Christmas card, complete with a glowing tree with presents underneath and I feel a slight smile curving my lips as I read the simple inscription.

 

Tanya, Merry Christmas to you and yours. Thank you for giving Lewis and I hope for the future. It’s the most precious gift anyone could have given us. Brooke 

I stare at the inscription and for the first time in years, I begin to cry for all the things that I missed by placing myself in a bubble away from the outside world. My tears stop and I place the card on my desk before I switch off my computer—it is time to go home.

 

Christmas Morning

 

I am standing outside the gate of Brooke Short’s home at nine o’clock Christmas morning and by the telltale twitching of my cheek, I know I am nervous. The same impulse that made me follow Lewis Short home, offer Brooke a job, and discuss a job opportunity with a total stranger on a plane brought me to this place. It had me climbing out of bed early as usual, but instead of immediately going into the office as I’ve done in the past five years, I made coffee and toast at home and simply chilled as the younger folk say. It is then that I made another of those impulsive decisions and am now at this spot in a quandary, I finally let my nervous thoughts go and let whatever power was pushing me this week to take over.

Opening the rickety gate, I felt my face contort at the screech of the hinges. A few moments later, I am standing outside the door as I suck in a breath of courage before rapping confidently on the peeling paintwork. Immediately there is a shuffle inside the building and the door opens.

Fully expecting Brooke to be standing there, I am disconcerted by the expectant face of Lewis Short. I see his hazel eyes cloud for a moment before politely asking, “Misses Hammond, Merry Christmas.”

I know I am smiling as I reply, “Merry Christmas, Lewis, Is your mom home?” I mentally slap myself at the silliness of my question. Of course she is home…she certainly isn’t a delinquent parent; she made that patently clear at the odd interview she and I had days earlier.

Lewis nodded and I saw his gaze turn back inside the building. “Mom’s cooking breakfast. We’re going to have bacon.” He announces proudly, as if it was something really special. It occurs to me that as impoverished as they are, bacon will be a treat. He scurries away and a minute later Brooke arrives with her face wreathed in a smile and her eyes full of puzzlement.

“Is there a problem, Tanya, Ms. Hammond? Oh, sorry. Merry Christmas.”   

I feel the grin plastered on my face. “Merry Christmas and no there isn’t a problem.” The distinctive smell of bacon throughout the house was masking the previous odors I’d encountered the first time I visited this house. I look around and from what I can see, the place is homier now and not like an old people’s home were the smells of old age are masked by disinfectant.

“Want to come inside? We are about to have breakfast...if you want to share.”

I feel my lips tug into a wider smile this time. The woman has barely enough to feed herself and her son and she is offering me a part of her meal. I feel my head shake as words tumble off my lips. “I’ve had breakfast. Thanks for the offer though. Actually, I don’t want to disturb you.” I turn to leave and a hand with thin fingers and short but neat nails latches onto my arm.

“There must have been a reason for you to visit, Ms. Hammond.”

Brooke’s eyes capture mine, and feeling embarrassment, I am the first to drop the gaze. I shrug before I pull an envelope out of an inside jacket pocket and hand it to her. She takes it and gazes at me inquisitively before opening it to withdraw a card. The card has a picture of a child’s entranced gaze at a Christmas tree pilled around its lower branches with presents.

“Thank you,” Brooke says with a smile.

“I’ll see you in the office on Tuesday. Have a nice Christmas, Brooke. Oh, and check the envelope, before you throw it away.” This time I do leave and walk away as I hear a shout from Lewis that her breakfast was getting cold.

My legs reluctantly move away from the house and my heart is lighter but not entirely happy knowing that I chickened out on the real reason I was there.

As I head toward my car parked on the opposite side of the street, I hear a voice call my name. I spin quickly around and see Brooke making her way toward me. She is waving a piece of paper in her hand.

When she arrives at my position, she softly says, “I can’t take this,” as she pressed the paper toward my hand.

I know what she is giving me and I won’t take it. “All my employees get a bonus check at Christmas, Brooke. I take it you haven’t resigned since I’ve been gone.” I try to make light of the situation but from her glower I can tell she isn’t happy.

Quietly she replies, “I’m not a charity case. I’ve not worked a full week for you yet. It would be wrong. Please take it back.”

Reluctantly, I accept the check muttering, “Sorry.” I turn away to leave feeling like an idiot.

I stop in my tracks as Brooke’s gentle voice remarks, “I’ll snap your hands off next Christmas.”

My heart, feels considerably lighter as I shift my gaze back to her and grin. “I’m hoping it’s bigger next year.” We both stand there grinning at each other and it feels so good to me. I realize that years have passed without me interacting with another person in quite the same way. I am glad I did all the things I did to meet this young woman. In this moment, my erratic behavior makes perfect sense.

“Breakfast is still on offer,” Brooke says with her eyes never leaving my face.

“I have a better idea. What are you and Lewis doing for lunch?” I finally voice the real reason I am there. I know there is another reason but I want to hear this answer first.

Brooke rolls her eyes. “I have a small chicken and vegetables. The local grocery store at the end of the block gave me credit since I could prove I have a job.”

“Bacon too, according to Lewis,” I say to her with a smile. The last thing I want is to sound condescending.

Brooke laughs and again the tone captivates me. It will be good to have her laughter in the office.  “Yes, next year I promised him the tree and the presents…he’s happy because I am.”

The simplicity of a child’s loving acceptance is all the more potent at this time of the year.

“Will you and Lewis join me for lunch? I have turkey with all the trimmings and I can do the tree thing too.”

Brooke giggles. “The tree thing, huh. Better not let Lewis hear you say that since it’s one of the most potent things that attracts him about Christmas. It must be all the flashing lights.”

Eagerly I announce, “I have lights too.”

“Ms. Hammond you don’t need to do...”

“Tanya, please, and I want too. Christmas isn’t Christmas on your own.”

She must think I am sincere since she smiles warmly at me. “You are right, it isn’t. What time shall we come over and where exactly do we go?”

I laugh. “Yeah right, where exactly. How about I pick you up at noon.”

Brooke nods. “We’ll be ready.”

This time, as I amble to my car I am happy and drive away with a beaming smile.

 

*

 

Brooke and I are sitting at the dining table the debris of the meal all around us. Replete from the meal we sit quietly resting our full stomachs and sipping a glass of wine and chatting like old friends. Lewis is playing in another room with the train set I’d bought him. His eyes had lit up like the tree and probably glowed at least ten times brighter when I’d told him to check the tree and see if Santa came.

Brooke was speechless, but she hadn’t decried my gift to her son. Who could after seeing the joy in his face? Christmas is about giving not receiving; especially for children.

While he was looking at the gifts, Lewis found one with Brooke’s name. He solemnly handed it to his mother and as he did, his eyes flashed to mine and I gave him a smile.

I watched as Brook opened the prettily wrapped box of chocolates that brought this family into my life. Tears of gratitude rolled down Brook’s cheeks as she hugged her son tight.

Now, as we sit in quiet contemplation, Brooks asks, “Why have you done this for us, Tanya?”

I have had time to think about this all morning knowing that she would ask the question—it is her nature or so I think. “Because this box of chocolates was the cheapest job agency I’d ever been to.” I know my remark is flippant but I see that is has the right effect as Brooke nods.

“This is the best Christmas I’ve had in years, Tanya. It means a great deal to me and Lewis too.”

“Me too, I’ve been alone too long and have forgotten what it’s like to share this time with ...anyone.” I could feel myself frown inwardly at my odd choice of words. In the space of a few days, I am actually thinking of Brooke Short as a friend rather than an employee. I know the obstacle that circumstance can bring yet I have this feeling that in the office, everything will work out professionally.

With her gentle expression never leaving my face, she asks, “Out of curiosity, Tanya, what did you receive for Christmas?”

I shrug and take another sip of my wine before saying “Oh this and that.”

“I know what I received...other than the chocolates.”

I incline my head for her to continue totally absorbing her quiet happiness. Her eyes never wavering, she confidently says, “I have a job, my son is happy, but I think I also gained a friend.”

I can feel my face heat up but allow my gaze to be held by her gentle one as I drew in a short breath. “I gained a friend too along with something my new friend movingly wrote me.”

Brooke gives me a puzzled look and I chuckle.

“A very precious gift. Actually it is one I’m not going to squander—hope for the future.”

It is obvious that the term rang a bell as Brooke smiles slowly. “I think we need to toast that don’t you.”

I pick up the wine bottle and fill our glasses, and then we raise them. “To hope for the future and new friends.”

After making the heartily toast we move toward the room where Lewis is playing.

I watch as Brooke immediately sits on the floor with her son—their happiness seems to glow in the room. As I watch for a few seconds, I realize, much as Scrooge must have done in Charles Dickens novel A Christmas Carol, that a good deed pays you back a thousand times over; in a smile, laughter, company and joy. In this small room, I have all that and I am proud to have made it happen.

I look up and see two pairs of hazel eyes gazing at me intently. With a grin, I join them—trains were always my favorite toy when I was a kid.

 

Merry Christmas to all!