The Perfect Christmas - Debbie Macomber [30]
“Are you really an elf?”
Cassie nodded.
“You don’t look like an elf.”
“I don’t?” Cassie said, surprised.
“You look more like a—”
“You pushed in front of me,” the child’s mother protested, elbowing the woman ahead of her in line.
“I most certainly did not!” The second woman elbowed the other one back as her son watched, eyes wide.
“Mommy, I have to pee.” This plaintive declaration came from the first combatant’s daughter, aged four or five.
“We are not getting out of this line now. I’ll find you a restroom as soon as we’re done,” she said and shoved her way to the front, dragging the little girl.
“Would you kindly tell this person that I was ahead of her?” The comment was directed at Cassie by the other woman. The shoving match continued.
“Sorry,” Cassie said, coming to stand between the two mothers. “I really wasn’t paying attention, but if this goes on, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you both to leave.” She said this with great authority and was rather proud of herself.
“Mommy,” the little girl cried, her voice urgent now. “I can’t wait anymore.”
That was when Cassie felt the warm liquid soak into the top of her foot. She glanced down and saw a small waterfall raining down, ruining her shoe—the one unstained by vomit.
Letting out a yell, she leaped back and automatically shook her foot.
“Orange!” the woman shouted.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to pee anymore.”
“Oh, dear…”
“Your daughter’s name is Orange?” the other woman asked.
The first woman nodded. “We’re from Florida.”
The second mother backed away from the puddle on the floor, clutching her son’s hand—and leaving Orange at the head of the line.
“I have a tissue.” Orange’s mother—Grapefruit? Cassie thought hysterically—offered her a crumpled wad.
“I’m fine,” Cassie muttered. She intended to burn these tights once her shift was over. The shoes were probably goners, too. She wondered if Simon could possibly have known what this stint would entail.
After the two squabbling mothers had finished with Santa, a young girl, the very last one in line, approached Cassie all by herself.
“She hasn’t paid,” the photographer said as he returned his camera to its case.
Pleading eyes were raised to Cassie’s. “I need to talk to Santa for just a minute,” the girl whispered. “You don’t have to give me a candy cane.”
“How old are you?” Cassie asked, bending down so they were eye-to-eye.
“Eight.”
Just a bit too old to believe in Santa Claus. And yet the child was so intent, Cassie didn’t feel she could turn her away.
“Forget about the picture,” she said when the photographer cast her a dirty look.
“Ho. Ho. Ho. And who do we have here?” Santa asked, ignoring the other man. He held out his arms to the child.
“Catherine,” the child said softly. She walked up to Santa but didn’t sit on his lap.
“And what would you like for Christmas?” he asked, playing his role to the hilt.
Staring down at the carpet, the child said, “I want my daddy to come home.” Huge tears welled in her eyes. “He left and now my mommy says they’re getting a divorce. All I want for Christmas is my daddy back.”
Cassie felt tears burning in her own eyes. She looked at Floyd and wondered how he’d handle this.
“That’s a mighty big order, Catherine,” he said.
“I don’t want anything else. I don’t need toys but I need my daddy.”
“Catherine?” A woman’s voice echoed through the mall.
“I’m here, Mommy!”
The child’s mother rushed up the steps to Santa’s throne and fell to her knees in front of her daughter. She seemed about to burst into tears. “I looked everywhere for you,” she cried. She threw her arms around her daughter’s waist.
“I told you I was going to talk to Santa,” Catherine reminded her. “I had to wait in line.”
“I’m sorry if Catherine caused a problem,” her mother said and, standing, took the little girl by the hand—but not before Santa whispered a few words in the child’s ear.
“We’re finished,” Santa said as Catherine’s mother led her daughter away.
Cassie must have looked as upset as she felt because Floyd gently patted her back. “Those