He could swear he saw a tear glistening in her eye. No doubt she was terribly disappointed that her plans for Christmas had been upset. He was beginning to feel like a prize jerk for yelling at her and was relieved when a sharp tap on the door interrupted the conversation.
As he took Mrs. Claus’s clothes from the arms of the young man at the door, a thought flashed through his mind. He wondered what kind of figure Sherrie Latimer was hiding under all that padding.
Annoyed with himself, he practically threw the outfit into her arms. “I’ll get out of here while you change,” he muttered. “Lock the door behind me and when you’re finished, take the Santa suit down to toys and have someone dress the mannequin and put it back in the house.”
“Yes, Mr. Blanchard.”
The words had been polite enough, but he’d detected a note of rebellion in the quiet voice.
“Please,” he added, as an afterthought, then wondered what the hell was the matter with him. He was her boss, after all. Even if it was temporary.
Deciding the best thing he could do was to get out of there as quickly as possible, he gave her a brief nod and escaped through the door. The firm click of the lock behind him seemed to echo in his mind as he strode down the hallway.
Inside the office Sherrie scrambled out of the Santa suit, breathing a sigh of relief. Tom would have been upset if she’d messed things up for him. He’d been so torn between the chance to go to Mexico and his responsibility to Blanchard’s, not to mention letting down the hordes of children eagerly waiting to meet Santa. Most of all, he’d been worried about leaving her on her own for the holidays.
In fact, it had taken a superb acting job on her part to convince him she’d be perfectly happy by herself. She had nowhere else to go, she’d pointed. out, and she certainly didn’t feel like facing her friends after the fiasco at the church.
Sherrie stepped out of the roomy pants, struggling with the sudden onslaught of depression. It was bad enough that she’d been jilted practically at the altar, leaving her a month’s vacation to get through.
Instead of spending two weeks in Hawaii on her honeymoon and another two moving into a new, expensive condo, she was now faced with the prospect of finding somewhere cheaper to live, since she’d already moved out of her old apartment.
With her furniture in storage, and unable to bear the thought of everyone feeling sorry for her, Sherrie had immediately agreed when Tom had suggested she stay with him until she found somewhere else to go.
It had seemed the perfect solution. Tom wasn’t the kind to commiserate with her. He’d told her flat out that Jason’s last-minute cold feet was the best thing that could have happened to her. Knowing that he was right was poor consolation, however. Spending the holidays alone in her brother’s apartment was not her idea of celebrating Christmas, and playing Santa for a crowd of excitable, hyperactive children had definitely not entered into her plans.
Nevertheless, once she made a commitment, she stuck with it. Through heaven and hell, if need be. She’d promised Tom she would do the job for him, and Sherrie Latimer always kept a promise. Even if Matthew Blanchard did not approve of her. Besides, playing Santa would at least keep her mind off her own troubles.
Sherrie eyed the Mrs. Claus outfit with a frown. It was still too big for her, but a vast improvement on the suffocating red wool suit that now lay crumpled on the floor amid a pile of pillows.
The full skirted dress with the red-and-green holly pattern slipped easily over her head. She added a pillow to give her a bosom, and another under the waistband, then pulled on the white wig and the bonnet.
Placing the pair of granny glasses on the edge of her nose, she squinted through the empty frames. She wished she had a full-length mirror to inspect herself before she went public. Matthew Blanchard didn’t have one mirror in the entire room. Obviously he didn’t like looking at himself.
Which was too bad, Sherrie thought, as she bent over to pick up the Santa suit. The man would be quite attractive if he learned to smile.
The glasses slid down her nose and fell to the floor. She reached for them, grunting as the pillows prevented her from bending that far. She almost toppled over as she made a grab for the spectacles.
Straightening again, she let out a long sigh. She was clumsy enough as it was, without having to deal with the unfamiliar padding obstructing her every movement. Heaven help her if she dropped a child off her lap.
After folding the red coat neatly, she laid it on the uncluttered desk. The photo of the little girl was turned partly away from her, and Sherrie couldn’t resist taking a closer look. Turning the frame toward her, she saw a pretty child of about four or five.
It was obvious the little girl was Matthew Blanchard’s daughter. She had the same gaunt cheekbones, straight nose and light blue eyes, though her hair was dark blond instead of black like her father’s. Her smile lit up her entire face, in stark contrast to her father’s grim, austere expression, but even so, she bore a marked resemblance to Sherrie’s temporary boss.
Sherrie turned the frame back to its original position, wondering what the little girl’s mother looked like, and why her picture wasn’t on Matthew Blanchard’s desk beside his daughter’s. Deciding it was none of her business, she folded up the rest of Santa’s suit, then bundled it under her arm. It was time to get back to work.
An hour or so later, Sherrie was beginning to wish she had never agreed to take Tom’s place. Why her brother enjoyed the job, she couldn’t imagine. His instructions had seemed simple enough—greet the children, ask them if they’d been good, ask them what they wanted for Christmas, never promise to deliver but tell them she’d see what she could do, throw in a couple of Ho Ho Hos, give them a candy cane and go on to the next one.
What he hadn’t told her was that children could be remarkably curious and sometimes downright personal. One little girl had asked her if she and Santa slept in the same bed, and one smart-mouthed boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, asked her for a date.
Another little girl, who had sat in silence for so long Sherrie had just about given up on getting a word out of her, suddenly asked in a loud voice what kind of underwear Mrs. Claus wore at the North Pole.
Question after question poured from their eager lips. What was it like to be married to Santa? Did she get lonely when he was out delivering the toys? What kind of dinners did she cook for him?
When she did finally manage to get in a couple of questions of her own, some children boldly demanded everything from sports cars and motorbikes to automatic rifles.
More than one handed her a list as long as a toilet roll, while others touched her heart by asking for nothing more than a new sweater or a jacket. Those were the ones she wished she could take into the clothing department and let them pick out whatever they wanted.
After delivering a screaming child back to its determined parent, Sherrie longed for a break. Her back ached from the constant hauling up and down of dozens of kids, some of whom weighed almost as much as she did.
A glance at her watch told her she had about ten minutes to go when she caught sight of Blanchard’s owner heading through the crowds around the toy department. He was almost up to her before she saw the small child he led by the hand.
She was a fragile little girl, with dark blond curls embracing an unsmiling, heart-shaped face. She looked up with a wistful expression when the tall man at her side spoke to her.
Sherrie braced herself. If her memory served her right, she was about to meet Matthew Blanchard’s daughter.
She was quite impressed when the store owner stood patiently in line, holding his daughter’s hand. Saying goodbye to her break for a while longer, Sherrie concentrated on the children ahead of her boss.
At last it was the solemn little girl’s