Miracle On Christmas Eve. Shirley Jump

him a knot in a piece of wood, and he could coax the best side out of the hard oak. Throw him together with an ego-driven director, a penny-pinching producer and a movie star terrified the lighting might show her true age and latest face-lift, and he’d find a way to make everyone happy with a slight shifting of a plant here, a building there, a wall here. Put a complicated set design in front him with an insane deadline, and he’d thrive under the pressure, rise to the challenge, and never break a sweat, while his crew would fret and pace, sure the impossible could not be accomplished.

      But a crying first-grader?

      There wasn’t any course in film school for that. And nothing he’d seen in the books he’d read in the past few days to cover ponytails, birthday party emergencies and clueless dads.

      Should he get her a tissue? Tell her to stop? Call for backup?

      LuAnn was gone, probably for hours. That left one other female solution.

      “I know who can do this hair stuff, Sarah,” C.J. said. “And she’ll probably throw in a Slinky for all your trouble, too.”

      Sarah rolled over, and C.J. could see the stain of tears running down her cheeks, doubling his guilt and feelings of inadequacy. Oh, man, he really needed a better parenting manual. “Who?”

      Another tear brimmed in the corner of Sarah’s eye, and C.J. reached forward, plucked tissues one-two-three-four from the box on her nightstand and handed them to her in a big wad. “You know the toy shop downtown? The one owned by—”

      “Mrs. Claus?”

      “How do you know that?”

      Sarah rolled her eyes at him. “Everyone knows that, even though it’s s’pposed to be a secret, ’cuz she works at Santa’s toy store. Only she doesn’t have her suit on.” Sarah’s eyes brightened, then dimmed. She looked down at the ball of white in her palms and started shredding the paper. “Only I hear she won’t be Mrs. Claus this year, ’cuz she’s going to Florida or something. Maybe she doesn’t like kids anymore.”

      “Oh, no, she likes kids. Loves ’em. She told me so.” She hadn’t said any such thing, but heck, C.J. was already on a lying streak, might as well keep it up. Besides, the mention of Jessica—Mrs. Claus—seemed to have opened up a direct line to Sarah’s voice box, increasing C.J.’s reasons for getting the woman involved. He handed Sarah more tissues, hoping it would head off any subsequent tears. “And she’s really good at doing hair, too.”

      Liar, liar.

      “She can do my hair ’fore I have to go to Cassidy’s party?”

      “Certainly.” If she hasn’t left for her flight yet. If she’s still talking to me. If a hundred other ifs haven’t gone wrong. He put out his hand, but Sarah didn’t take it. “Do you want to see if she can fix your hair?”

      “Okay.” Sarah still looked unconvinced, but she slipped down off her bed and grabbed her party shoes off the floor, dropping the tissues into a puffy white pile in their place.

      She did a half turn, then caught her reflection in the mirror that hung over her dresser. She put one hand on her hip and cast another I-told-you-so glance at her newly minted father. “I sure hope Mrs. Claus knows how to tie a bow, too, ’cuz you’re making a mess of things.”

      Sarah didn’t how right she was.

      

      C. J. Hamilton was on her doorstep for the second time in the space of a day. Jessica didn’t know whether to be flattered or to take out a restraining order.

      She glanced at her suitcase, sitting beside the door. Soon enough she’d be on her way, far from Riverbend. Christmas and all the memories that holiday conjured would be out of mind and out of sight.

      Less than forty-eight hours. That was all, and she’d be gone. She’d purposely booked the trip for the night of the Winterfest, to give her an excuse to miss the event and get out of her Mrs. Claus duties. And yet, here was C. J. Hamilton like a rebounding ball, determined to get her into that silly red suit.

      “Mr. Hamilton,” she said as she pulled open the door. “Again.”

      “I have a problem.” He held up his hand, gaily decorated with ponytail holders, then gestured toward Sarah, who Jessica now noticed was standing next to him, arms crossed over her chest, face screwed up in disapproval. Her hair was a jumble of curls on her head, her dress a crinkled mess, the bow haphazardly tied and tilted at an odd angle. The gift in her hands had been wrapped either by C.J. himself or by a barrel of monkeys.

      Jessica bit back a laugh. “I can see that.”

      “He tried to help me,” Sarah said, her tone grumpy, face sullen. “He’s not very good at it.”

      Jessica bent down, a burst of sympathy running through her for the motherless girl. How she wanted to just pull Sarah into her arms and fill her with cookies and hugs. But Sarah wasn’t her daughter and Jessica reminded herself to keep her distance, guard her emotions. “I can see that,” she repeated, softly, just for Sarah.

      “Hey, I’m new at this.” C.J. took Jessica’s hand and dumped the ponytail holders into her palm. “Here. You do it.”

      Jessica stared at the multicolored elastics with their jaunty rainbow of balls. He expected her to just know how to do this? “What about LuAnn?”

      “She had an appointment. And Sarah has a birthday party to get to.”

      Jessica thought a second. “Cassidy Rendell’s seventh birthday, am I right?”

      “Yeah,” Sarah said, surprise arching her brows. “How’d you know?” Her expression perked up when Bandit wriggled his body between them and inserted a friendly doggy nose against her hip.

      Jessica put a finger beside her nose, the familiar gesture she and Dennis had used to imply a Santa-only secret. Only she wasn’t playing Mrs. Claus this year. So she couldn’t very well pretend she had any secrets or magic. She lowered her hand and tried to ignore the whisper of wistfulness that ran through her. “Mrs. Klein and Tammy were in the store yesterday, talking about it,” she said, naming one of the other first-graders in Sarah and Cassidy’s class.

      “Did they buy her a doctor Barbie? ’Cuz that’s what I got her and I told Cassidy nobody else better bring one, ’cuz I want my present to be the most special one.”

      “No, they didn’t. I think your gift—” she gestured toward the badly taped and wrapped box, then looked at C.J., who gave her another what-do-I-know, hands-up gesture “—is going to be perfect.”

      Sarah beamed and gave Bandit extra pats.

      “I told Sarah you’d know how to do her hair. Tie her bow. That kind of girl stuff.”

      “Because I’m a girl, is that it? I must come prewired to do all this?”

      He nodded. “Yeah.”

      She grabbed his palm and put the ponytails back into his grasp. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Hamilton, but my personal résumé doesn’t include small children.”

      “But you’re ah, you know, her,” C.J. said, the implied meaning, that Santa’s wife should know all things child related. “You own a toy store. You work with small children every day.”

      “That doesn’t mean I know how to—” She cut off her words when she noticed Sarah watching the entire exchange. “I thought someone said something about not wanting any help?”

      “I didn’t know that meant being Bill Blass and Vidal Sassoon at the same time.” He gestured to Sarah’s mess of a bow and unkempt hair. “Will you please help me?”

      She should say no. Be firm with C. J. Hamilton, wish him well and get back to—

      To what? She had nothing to occupy her evening. She could go back to the toy shop, put in a few more hours, but she had a capable staff running the operation—a