The Christmas Company Page 7

  “It will be good,” Clark said. “You know, for the people in town to get to know me.”

  …Before you take their jobs away. Kate struggled with this Clark Woodward character. Every time she thought she got him, every time she saw some light poking out through the cracks in his walls, she remembered why she was here in the first place. He was close to destroying the town, trying to take away everything they held dear.

  She wanted to see the best in him, and more than anything she wanted to find a way to make him happy in the same way his family made this town happy for so many years. And yet…he seemed to go out of his way to make himself out to be the biggest jerk around. Until now. Until this moment.

  “All right.” Kate handed him one of the crates, groaning under its weight. What had they bought these kids, lead bricks? “Take this. And pull the car around. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  They departed. Emily and Kate remained in the living room. When the door closed behind the two men, signaling that they were really alone, Emily’s mouth popped into a perfect O and her eyes widened with fake horror.

  “Wow. He’s…”

  Kate held up a silencing hand. She didn’t need to like Clark to make her plan work, but she wanted to like Clark. No one deserved to be miserable at Christmas, not even the very cruel, but it would make things so much easier if she felt he had even a chance of being a good man.

  “I’ve never heard you say a bad thing about another person. Don’t start now.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve heard me say many bad things about many people. Most people, actually.”

  “Still.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything bad about him. Just…”

  “Just what?”

  Emily’s hesitation spoke louder than any condemnation ever could. She was one of the most passive-aggressive, backhanded-compliment people Kate ever knew. You’d be on the receiving end of the world’s most beautiful smile while being told you’re a moron, but she’d say it so you thought she was lavishing praise on you. In the end, she picked up a storage tub, shook her head once, and said in the most piteous voice Kate ever heard:

  “Bless his heart.”

  Even if Clark hadn’t told her he’d rented this car, Kate could have guessed it. The sleek silver car hid a leather interior with a control panel so futuristic it might as well have been ripped out of a Star Trek ship. She could imagine him driving around Dallas in a usually broken-down clunker before she could imagine him forking over the thousands of dollars this car probably cost.

  In the front seat, Michael guided Clark down the hill and the twisting, turning roads leading them to the back roads of Miller’s Point. Out here, things were even quieter than in town, if such a thing were possible. Kate’s request to turn the radio to 109.7, the local station that played all the holiday hits from yesterday and today, was firmly denied, and they rode into town in total silence, save for Michael’s occasional navigation tips.

  “Yeah, and just pull in here.”

  They turned up the familiar drive to the Lewisham house, where little Bradley and his family would be waiting for them. Sure enough, when they passed the tree line towards their humble house, Bradley sat on the front steps, tapping his feet and twiddling the famous Tiny Tim cane. Apparently, last night no one had the heart to tell him he couldn’t bring the costumes home. Kate’s gaze flickered to Clark. Was he heartless enough to take a fake cane worth less than three dollars from a little boy?

  Probably not… Right?

  Before the car even lurched to a stop, Bradley launched himself at the machine, shouting Kate’s name as loud as he could. It was a good thing no one else lived out here, or he’d be disturbing the entire neighborhood.

  “Miss Kate! Miss Kate!”

  No matter how many times she heard it, she always got a thrill of the maternal every time one of the children in the festival called out to her. Leaving the donation tub behind her, she leapt out of the car and scooped him into her arms, hugging him tight.

  “How’s it going, Bradley?”

  Bradley, as it turned out, wasn’t interested in telling her about his day. Missing front tooth and all, he spluttered, “Are we going back? Is the festival back on again? Do I need to go get my hat?”

  The belief in his eyes that everything was set right again stabbed a knife straight between her eyes. This boy with the saucer-big brown eyes believed she had the power to wave a magic wand and make everything well again.

  She hoped she could prove him right.

  “No, buddy. We’re still working all of that out, but—”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  Still holding him in her arms—he was too big for it, but she indulged him anyway—Kate turned to watch the movement in the car.

  “Sure. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”

  “Good. Because I have been working on my accent and,” he dropped into a thick and terrible Cockney accent, “I fink it’s going swell, I do!”

  He continued speaking in his accent, but her mind wandered. By the end of the afternoon, if they kept to their plans, they’d visit four houses with presents while a second group visited later in the evening with hot meals and frozen, reheatable food for the next day. If the festival were going on, the food would have been served at the event and the presents doled out on Christmas morning, but given the unexpected changes, this morning they devised a new plan. In some ways, this might be better. More personal. On the other hand, Kate knew how deeply these families hated anything remotely resembling charity. In the friendly environment of the festival, where huge buffets of turkey and sweet potato pie ran through town hall like a deliciously fattening river, no one felt they were accepting charity because everyone shared equally. Bringing a bunch of food directly to a family with maybe six or seven days off a year so that they could spend their precious time together instead of cooking was targeted, singling out the people who needed the most help.

  By the time she turned to the car, it was empty.

  Well, empty except for one.

  Clark, for his part, hadn’t moved away from the car at all. He leaned against the hood, reading something on his phone and determinedly not looking anywhere but the dimmed screen. There was a strange duality to Clark. On the one hand, he clearly lived a frugal, tight-fisted existence. On the other hand, he had every luxury and advantage at his fingertips. He should have been a snob. Being a snob definitely would have explained his refusal to even interact with the Lewisham family or their aging but proudly kept home. There were only two motives she could see for keeping himself away from the people he’d driven here to help.

  A) He was an unsalvageable, irreversible, cruel man beyond salvation, who hated the poor, resented the working, and slept happily on stacks of money. He had to rest up, naturally, because he spent his days diving into money bins full of gold coins. Or:

  B)…Something else. She wasn’t entirely sure what that something else was, but there had to be a second option. She refused to see the worst of him and only the worst. Maybe he was allergic to the wildflowers in the front lawn? Maybe he didn’t want to rub his wealth in their face?

  She looked at his face. Tight. Strained. Maybe he was nervous?

  “Hey, Bradley?”

  “Yep!”

  She released him; he plopped to the ground with the lightest thud she ever heard. Like a dedicated method actor, he leaned against his Tiny Tim cane, putting all his weight on it. Kate bent down to his eye level; she needed to impress upon him the importance of this mission. Just one little interaction could be the key to understanding the bank vault of a man who’d driven her here.

  “If you do something for me, I promise I’ll tell you everything. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Bradley brandished his cane like a sword. “Now, who do I have to fight?”

  “You don’t have to fight anyone. You see that guy over the
re?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His name is Clark, and—”

  “I know who he is!”

  “Okay. Okay! What do you think about him?”

  “He looks kind of lonely.” Bradley shrugged. He matched his voice to the whisper of Kate’s, keeping his tone low and confidential. “He’s not your boyfriend, is he? Because everyone hates him.”

  Hate. What a bold, uncompromising word for a nine-year-old. A shiver gripped Kate’s spine. The hairs on her neck raised.

  “We don’t hate him. We have to help him. Can you go over there and just…” She searched for the words to describe what she wanted. In the end, she landed on the one thing she wanted to do. “Just be nice to him?”

  Bradley’s face scrunched as he leaned on his cane, giving him the appearance of a curmudgeonly old man. A mini Scrooge. Of all the times not to have a camera handy.

  “What, just like talk to him and stuff?”

  “You said he looks lonely. Go be a friend.”

  “But everyone hates him! Everyone’ll hate me next.”

  Hate, hate, hate. That wasn’t Christmas talk at all. That wasn’t Miller’s Point talk. Kate couldn’t let the poison of fear infect her town any more than it already had.

  There was only one thing to do now: talk to the small child as though they were secret agents.

  “No one’s going to be mad…” She looked left, then right, as if checking for spies. “You’re helping with the plan.”

  “What plan?”

  “The secret plan to get the festival back. I can’t tell you the specifics until you finish this mission. I have to know you can be trusted.”

  “Deal.” Bradley started for the car, but stopped so hard he created a dust cloud. “And I want a candy bar.”

  “You can have a stick of gum.”

  He beamed.

  “Deal.”

  Clark didn’t often make bad decisions. At least, he told himself he never made bad decisions. Before coming to Miller’s Point, the last bad thing he did was choose the cranberry orange protein bars instead of the blueberry protein bars during his last grocery shop.

  But upon arriving at Miller’s Point, he seemed incapable of making good decisions. Leaving his car on the street to get towed? Bad call. Letting Kate talk down to him on his first night? Really bad call. Giving Kate free rein over his family’s house? Terrible call. Coming along on this charity mission? The worst call.

  Like most things—including the cranberry orange bars, which had fifteen fewer calories than the blueberry—it started with good intentions. Good, stupid intentions. That was the reason Clark tried his best never to do anything with good intentions. He preferred neutral intentions. Good intentions always backfired. Neutral intentions weren’t capable of backfiring, because no one had any skin in the game.

  This decision was innocent and knee-jerk. He saw her struggling under the weight of packages, fighting to hold them upright, and eventually falling right down the steep hill from the Woodward House into town. He imagined being called to the hospital and having to identify her scraped-up face—a ridiculous thought, of course, since he would have been the last person she ever listed as an emergency contact. However absurd, the horrible images wouldn’t leave his head, so he volunteered to drive her and her friends.

  Now, he was here, in front of a tiny shack of a home. The second he pulled the key out of the ignition and got a good view of the place, not to mention the little boy with the Tiny Tim cane sprinting into Kate’s arms, a swirling hurricane drew all of the energy from Clark’s body and concentrated it in the pit of his stomach. His palms grew clammy, and as soon as he was finished carrying the heavy tub of general sundry and supplies up to the porch, he slipped on a reliably dark pair of sunglasses and focused his attention on his phone.

  He knew how it looked. They would think him standoffish and rude, superior and arrogant. He’d rather they think that than know the truth.

  The truth was…he’d taken something important away from these people. The festival was stupid as far as he was concerned, but it clearly meant more to them than he realized…

  He was used to being hated. Hatred was the cost of doing business. But hatred was always a distant thing brought on by business decisions. It wasn’t up close. Personal.

  When he came to town, he’d assumed he could hide from people. Dissolving the company would be easy enough; he was the boss. No one could openly hate the boss. But here at someone else’s house, the house of a family who clearly loved the festival…

  He couldn’t face them. Hence the sunglasses. And the phone. And general please don’t come near me vibe.

  So, it surprised him when a small child ran up and stood beside him.

  “Hey.”

  Clark did not respond.

  “Hey, guy.”

  The child tugged on Clark’s suit jacket. Still, he did not respond.

  “Hey!”

  When children shout, there’s no choice but to respond. Raising one eyebrow over the top ridge of his pitch-black sunglasses, Clark glanced down.

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Bradley. And you’re Clark Woodward, right?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  He pocketed his cellphone. There was no reason to invest his time in this kid at all, but it would be worse to ignore him and have him run up to the house screaming about the mean man outside. Clark believed in his ability to be minimally polite.

  “I knew that was your name. I’m really good at remembering stuff. That’s why I got the part of Tiny Tim. I can remember all the lines. And I have a ton of lines. I’m good at remembering stuff and I’m really short. And poor. I guess it’s at least a little bit because we’re poor. I really get the Tiny Tim thing, you know?”

  “Mm-hm.” Clark bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Bradley was a character. It didn’t surprise him he got cast as the lead in this town-wide play. His little face expressed a range of emotions in a second. The little boy huffed and leaned on some kind of roughly carved wooden walking stick. Not being familiar with the Dickens canon, Clark was vaguely aware the Tiny Tim character was crippled… Was this boy also injured, or did he just not want to let the role go?

  “You’re not making this very easy.”

  “Making what easy?”

  With his free, non-walking-stick hand, Bradley smacked his face and sighed. Clark called him a character, but “ham” would have been more accurate.

  “Miss Kate said I could have a candy bar if I came over and made you happy but you’re not making it easy. Well, she actually said I could have a stick of gum. I don’t think Miss Kate can afford candy bars either.”

  Ignoring Kate’s desire to make him happy for the moment, he caught instead on the insinuation of her poverty. She was clean and well-dressed. Her boots were scuffed and strained from wear, but that could just as easily be explained as she loved them too much to get rid of them, rather than them being the only shoes she owned or could afford to own.

  “Why’s that?”

  “She lost her job when you cancelled the festival. It was kind of her life. She was the youngest person to work there, you know.”

  This is exactly why Clark avoided children. They didn’t know anything about tact or keeping secrets or not punching their conversation partners in the stomach with their words. The only thing Clark knew concretely about Kate’s relationship with the festival was that she loved it. Having deliberately kept his attention in the business to non-Christmas matters when his uncle was alive, he hadn’t taken a look at the employee roster yet or familiarized himself with their staff, so he didn’t know she worked there. Or that it was her life.

  He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. Change the subject, Clark. Change the subject.

  “Stay here for one second.”

  “Where’re you going?”

/>   Back in his car, Clark dove for the glove compartment. He usually took pride in its perfect organization—he liked his registration and safety manual where he could easily get them—but today he needed the one bit of clutter shoved in it. A white plastic bag with a blue outline of a tooth stamped on it. Out of that baggie came a silver-wrapped chocolate bar. Clark returned and handed it over to the wide-eyed boy.

  “I got this at the dentist office the other day.”

  “You dentist gives you candy?”

  “All dentist offices are rackets. They give you candy so you have to go right back and get more fillings. Make sure you brush your teeth.”

  Bradley ripped away the wrapping like a Roald Dahl character. He tore into the chocolate. Clark couldn’t help but wonder when the child last had a dentist appointment. If they couldn’t buy their own Christmas presents in a Christmas-obsessed town, who’s to say they had enough money for dental work?

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.” Bradley smacked his lips as he chewed, a pet peeve of Clark’s he decided to ignore for the moment. After a contemplative silence, Bradley swallowed and spoke again. “You know…you’re kinda like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Scrooge.”

  Clark didn’t even have time to absorb the blow of those words. Kate interrupted their chat with Michael and Emily in tow.

  “I think we’re all done here.”

  Tucking his cane under his chocolate-holding arm, he held up his free hand.

  “Gum, please.”

  “You think you earned it?” Kate chuckled. The sound was better than music. “He’s not even smiling.”

  “C’mon, Mr. Clark. Give her a smile.”

  No. A line in the sand needed to be drawn. He’d been…polite to the boy and he was going to be stuck with Kate for the next thirty-six hours or so. None of them were going to walk away from this conversation thinking he could be manipulated. Not by gap-toothed children with chocolate-covered hands or beautiful women with laughter like wind chimes on a sunny beach.

  “I’m not a trained animal. I don’t smile on command.”