The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus by Carly Alexander

Author:Carly Alexander [Alexander, Carly]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780758209269
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2006-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

2

“Oh, thank God you’re still here.” Jaimie Mayhews reached toward us as if she were extending a lifeline to save us from drowning in the employee locker room.

“We’re on our way out.” I was zipping up Tyler’s bag of Legos and books and emergency snacks, and Tyler was swaying against the painted concrete wall by the door, dusting it with the back of his coat as he munched cheese crackers.

“No, you can’t go!” Jaimie tucked the thick, wavy tendrils of her hair behind both ears. We’re both brunettes, but her hair springs forth in lush Victorian curls while mine is the straight-as-a-flat-ribbon variety. Jaimie is petite and sweet looking, but that wiry frame is solid and strong as a bull, which fits Taurus, her birth sign. We’ve been friends since junior high when she felt sorry for me sitting alone in the lunchroom with my plantain chips and carrot juice. She offered me a seat at her table and half of her Hostess Ding Dong; we’ve been friends ever since.

“There’s a meeting in the buyer’s conference room and you have to be there,” she said urgently. “Chicago has sent us a new manager, a hatchet man, I think, and he came here straight from the airport and I think he’s going to fire anyone who didn’t work a full shift tonight.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Probably illegal, too.”

“He’s the kind of guy who’ll fire first, worry about lawsuits after the smoke clears.”

Tyler’s chin lifted. “Does he have a gun?”

“No, honey, it’s a figure of speech.” Jaimie kneeled beside him. “But your mom needs to talk with him. Do you want to come up to my office?” Jaimie is a buyer at Rossman’s, which is a godlike position that requires a phone and an office—an oasis of calm. When she was pregnant with Scout we all worried that she’d be kicked out the door through some loophole, but in fact Rossman’s wanted her back, even on her terms: job sharing with another experienced mother of three. “We can set up your sleeping bag, and you can watch my portable TV,” she told Tyler. “How about that?”

“We need to get home,” I said. “And I’m an hourly employee. I don’t have to work full shift.”

“Just come.” Jaimie took the bag in one hand, Tyler’s hand in the other. “If you’re good, you can read the new Captain Underpants book that someone gave Scout.”

“Scout is three months old,” I called after her. “Who’d give a book like that to a baby?” Ever since Jaimie and her husband Matt had their first child, she’d been showered with gifts from coworkers and family, many items, like batting helmets and footballs, a tad inappropriate for a teething blob o’ baby.

“Just come on,” Jaimie insisted.

It was an exercise in euphemism to call the cold tiled room with vinyl chairs and a Formica table a conference room; the drab, windowless space was a sad indicator of the run-down inner workings of this branch of Rossman’s, but tonight the room was brimming with employees churning with suspicion and discontent.

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