“I happen to be five feet five in my heels.”
“Which is another thing.” Matt pressed his point home. “In my entire life, which amounts to a little less than forty years, I have never, ever, seen a Santa wearing high-heeled shoes.”
“They make me look taller.”
“They make Santa Claus look ridiculous, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.”
He could almost see the frost on her breath. And the hot sparkle in those remarkable green eyes was really something to watch. With a start he pulled himself together. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said abruptly.
“Which question was that, Mr. Blanchard?”
Her constant use of his last name was beginning to get on his nerves, for some reason. She made it sound as if he had one foot in the grave. She couldn’t be that much younger than he, for pity’s sake.
He cleared his throat, loudly, as if to silence the inner voice. “I would like to know why your brother made these last-minute arrangements and why I wasn’t informed in time to hire someone else.”
“My brother,” Miss Latimer said coldly, “is with a mercy mission team traveling to Mexico to bring some small vision of Christmas cheer to underprivileged, underfed children who have little conception of what Christmas is all about. They have never owned expensive toys, let alone played with them. And they have never seen expensive, commercialized displays in overpriced toy departments. Neither have they ever spoken to a fake Santa Claus and judged whether he looked real or not.”
Taken aback, Matt allowed several seconds to go by while he recovered his voice. “Your brother’s mission is very commendable, I’m sure. That does not, however, excuse him from deliberately ignoring his contract with me. Or explain why he entered into it in the first place if he intended to spend Christmas in Mexico.”
“He didn’t know he was going to Mexico until yesterday afternoon. Somebody had to drop out at the last minute and the organization people were desperately hunting for a substitute. If you knew my brother, Mr. Blanchard, you would understand. This is a project very close to his heart. He couldn’t turn them down.”
“Certainly not as easily as he could turn me down, apparently,” Matt said, struggling to hold on to his resentment. There was something about this young woman that threatened to make him forget why he was angry with her.
“He tried everywhere to get someone else to take the Santa job. He’s been playing Santa for years at different stores in Portland. When you’re in construction you have plenty of time off in the winter, and he loves the job.”
“Yes, he told me. That’s why I hired him.” Matt leaned back in his chair and let his gaze travel over her suit’s bulging padding again. “And because he looked the part.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard,” Sherrie Latimer said, sounding not a bit apologetic at all, “but I was the only one available. I agreed to do it for him.”
“Under protest, by all accounts,” Matt said dryly, remembering the caustic comments about commercialized, overpriced displays. “You must love your brother a great deal.”
“I do. He’s the only one I’ve got.”
Matt felt a moment of envy for Tom Latimer, then quickly squashed the thought. “The fact remains, you do not bear the slightest resemblance to your brother in any shape or form, and no matter how high the heels of your shoes, or how deep you pitch your voice, there is not one child within a hundred miles of here who is going to believe for an instant that you are Santa Claus. In fact, if I allow you to continue this farce, Blanchard’s will be the laughingstock of the town.”
“We can’t let the children down, Mr. Blanchard. Most of them know that Santa can’t be everywhere, anyway. They look upon us more as Santa’s helpers.”
“I know, I know. Even so, you just don’t look the part. Not by any stretch of the imagination.” He reached for a pencil and tapped it irritably on the table. “Well, I guess there isn’t much I can do about it today. You can finish the day out, while I try to find a replacement. Though heaven knows where I’m going to find one at this late date.”
“I do have a suggestion,” Sherrie Latimer said, a little hesitantly.
He’d heard just about enough explanations from her. Nevertheless, he was near desperation himself. How Lucy was going to take this he had no idea. That thought irritated him more than anything. He might not be able to provide a proper family Christmas without a mother, but he could at least make his daughter’s visit with Santa Claus a very special treat. At least, he could have managed until today.
“Go ahead,” he said, resting his fingers against his eyes. “It can’t be any worse than what we’ve got.”
“I could be Mrs. Santa Claus. The clothes the mannequin is wearing in the gingerbread house should fit me much better, and we could dress up a mannequin as Santa and have him in the doorway of the house. I’ll just tell the children that the real Santa is busy with the elves at the North Pole and he sent his wife instead.”
Very slowly, Matt lowered his hand. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. He would be the only store to have a Mrs. Claus, which would surely gain points with the mothers. The whole concept could bring even more curious people into his store, just to get a look. He might even swing a spot on local television and get some free publicity.
He looked steadily at Sherrie Latimer for a long moment, noticing with a small sense of satisfaction that she seemed to fidget under his gaze. “That might work,” he said, letting just the right amount of doubt creep into his voice.
It wouldn’t do to let her know how pleased he was with the idea. In his experience, if he offered someone as young as Miss Latimer an apple she was likely to turn it into an entire orchard. No, let her think he was grudgingly allowing her to try to make up for her brother’s mistake. She would be far more likely to work her butt off proving she was right.
He just hoped she had the stamina for the job. Playing Santa was a grueling experience, judging from the comments of his past employees. “Are you sure you can handle it?” he asked, letting his gaze flick over her padded figure. “It’s a tough job for a woman.”
As he’d hoped, her chin came up a fraction. “If my brother can handle it, then so can I. Tom would feel very badly if the children were deprived of a Santa. I really do think Mrs. Claus would be a hundred times better than no Santa at all.”
“Yes, well, that remains to be seen. I guess it couldn’t hurt for now, anyway.” He reached for the phone and dialed the warehouse. “Yes, take a male mannequin to toys as quickly as possible. I need the clothes on the mannequin in the Santa display in my office. Do it as discreetly as possible, and have someone let the customers know that Santa will be there soon.”
He replaced the receiver and looked back at Sherrie Latimer who was staring at the picture of Lucy on his desk. He waited for a comment, but she hastily directed her gaze back to his face.
After a moment of awkward silence, he asked heavily, “When you aren’t bailing your brother out of trouble, Miss Latimer, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a research assistant for Conway Pharmaceuticals.” She touched her lips with her fingers and dislodged some more cotton.
He was suitably impressed, but did his darnedest not to show it. “You must have a very understanding boss to allow you to take off at a minute’s notice.” Probably more understanding than he was at the moment, he grudgingly admitted.
To his surprise, Sherrie Latimer didn’t answer right away. In fact, she appeared to be having some trouble with her eyes, since they were tightly shut. Just when he was on the point of asking her if she was all right, she opened her eyes and