“So the bottom line is that you have no idea whether or not the doll I ordered will arrive by Christmas Eve.” This time it wasn’t Mrs. Lassiter who spoke. It was the Santa Claus man. His voice carried and several customers who’d been browsing nearby stopped to stare in his direction.
“You said the dolls would be here no later than today,” Mrs. Lassiter chimed in. “Don’t we have a free trade agreement with Mexico? Would it help if I called my congressman?”
Cat turned the full wattage of her smile on the small group gathered in front of her and kept her voice calm. “I don’t think it’s time to panic yet. I only learned yesterday afternoon that the delivery of the dolls might be delayed a day or so. Might be. They could be on their way right now. Each doll is handmade, and a few of them weren’t quite ready for shipment. I told them to ship the ones that were immediately.” What she didn’t add was that Juan Rivero, who’d called her with the bad news, had answered her by saying that they only needed one more day. And then he’d hung up.
“In the meantime, my buying assistant, Matt Winslow, flew to Paxco, Mexico, late last night. I’m hoping to hear from him any time now.”
She should have heard from him already, even with the time difference. And Matt wasn’t answering his cell. Cat concentrated on the unhappy faces in front of her and firmly pushed that worry out of her mind.
“Worst case scenario, they’ll express ship the ones that are ready today, and Matt will personally bring back the dolls that are holding up the shipment with him.”
“You’re sure?” This question came from a very worried Mrs. Palmer.
“My granddaughter Giselle is expecting Santa to bring her that doll for Christmas. I showed her your brochure and that doll is the only one she wanted,” Mrs. Lassiter said. “I don’t want her to be disappointed.”
“It’s the same with my daughter.” In contrast to Mrs. Lassiter’s confrontational expression, Mrs. Palmer’s eyes held a great deal of worry and sadness. Her black wool coat was off the rack and was growing threadbare at the sleeves. “That doll was the only gift Mandy asked Santa for.”
Cat’s heart twisted. Both Mrs. Lassiter and Mrs. Palmer frequented her store. And because she made it a habit to learn as much as she could about her customers, Cat was aware of the number of visits that Mrs. Palmer and Mandy had made to the Cheshire Cat to choose that one special gift. If it didn’t arrive, Cat wagered there would be nothing else under the tree.
But the shipment would arrive. She’d been chanting that sentence to herself like a mantra all day long. The unique dolls that were now being finshed in the small town of Paxco, Mexico, were even more special to Cat because she’d asked the craftsmen to create them from a design of her mother’s. She’d taken twenty-four orders and added on one she intended to give her father. That had been in mid-November.
“The dolls are going to get here,” Cat assured the group in front of her. Her gaze lingered on the Santa Claus man. With his index finger, he shoved his glasses to the bridge of his nose and met her gaze for a moment. Once again, something tugged at the edge of her mind. She knew that she’d never seen him in the store and she wondered who had taken his order.
“You can track the shipment, can’t you?” The question came from the Santa Claus man in a calm voice.
Cat beamed a smile at him. “Absolutely. Just as soon as I get a tracking number.” Matt was supposed to phone her with that information. “Tell you what. I have a list of all your names and your phone numbers. I’ll call you just as soon as I get some news from my assistant. It should be before the end of the day. First thing in the morning at the latest.”
In her peripheral vision she saw that Adelaide had stepped away from the counter to assist a customer, and there was now a line at the checkout station. Matt was supposed to be here working today, but though she needed him badly, she needed him in Paxco more.
She masked her relief as the small crowd in front of her began to drift away—all except for the Santa Claus man who stepped forward and handed her a card.
“I’d appreciate a call the moment you get the tracking number.”
She glanced down at it, noted the ritzy address on East 70th and the name. George Miller. It didn’t ring a bell. She glanced back up at him. “Have we met before, Mr. Miller? You look familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it.”
He gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. I would have remembered if we’d met before, Ms. McGuire.” He turned to exit the shop.
Cat tucked the card into her pocket, took out the notebook she always carried with her, and jotted down a reminder to personally call each customer who was waiting for a doll just as soon as they arrived.
One crisis postponed, she told herself as she moved as quickly as she could toward the checkout counter. As she did, she brushed by Adelaide.
Pitching her voice low, Adelaide said, “Nicely done. You’re better than anyone I know at defusing panic attacks.”
“I didn’t do so well on my own,” Cat murmured.
Adelaide shot her a quick sideways glance. “At least no one brought up the Nor’easter that’s due to arrive tomorrow. If they close down the airports…”
Cat clamped her hands over her ears, and Adelaide’s rich laugh filled the shop. She was a round, comfortable-looking single woman in her late fifties who combined a love of children with an accounting degree from Sarah Lawrence. In addition, she had a personal warmth that reminded Cat of Paula Deen, one of the most popular chefs on the Food Network. Adelaide had retired early from a lucrative job at Price Waterhouse and referred to her work at the Cheshire Cat as her little mad money job.
Adelaide patted Cat’s shoulder. “Just teasing. These winter storms are never as bad as the predictions. It’s all hype.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Cat said. Then she added, “The man who cut into your checkout line earlier—George Miller—did you take his order for one of the dolls?”
“No. I’ve never seen him before. Have you?”
Cat shook her head. “But there’s something familiar about him.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Cat spotted the beginnings of a protest at the checkout counter. Dashing forward, she beamed a smile at the man who was first in line and rang up the sale. While he was signing the credit card receipt, she pulled her cell phone out and speed-dialed her neighbor.
Josie Sullivan was a retired schoolteacher in her early seventies who’d moved into the apartment below Cat’s about a year ago. She had an ethereal air that reminded Cat of one of Tennessee Williams’ southern heroines. But beneath her seemingly fragile exterior, Josie had an energy and an ironwilled determination that must have served her well in a thirdgrade classroom.
It certainly worked when she was steering customers toward a sale. Off and on over the past year, Josie had been filling in at the store during what Cat had dubbed the “crush hours.” Since their apartments were in the building that shared a courtyard with the Cheshire Cat, Josie could make it to the store on a moment’s notice. All she had to do was exit the back of their building, cross the courtyard and take a shortcut down an alley. The arrangement was working out so well that Cat was going to offer her a more permanent part-time job right after the first of the year.
“Cat, tell me you desperately need me in the store,” Josie said the instant she picked up her phone. “I’m simply bored to death.”
Cat smiled. “I desperately need you in the store.” Then she held out her hand to the harried-looking woman who was next in line at the counter. “Sorry you had to wait. Let me take that for you.”
BY EIGHT O’CLOCK, Cat’s head was aching and her feet were killing her, but she was finally able to lock