Liz Talley - The Spirit of Christmas

But she knew she would not. Could not.

Triple darn.

No time to get another pair. Plus, the only other socks inside were a pair of plain blue ones. There had been only one pair of perfectly horrendous Christmas socks, and she knew they hadn’t been intended for anyone at Uncle Fred’s house. Not Aunt Betty with her giant mole, or Cousin Trav with his ugly comb-over, or Mr. Dan the eccentric butcher, who showed up to Uncle Fred’s party every year uninvited. Nope, these Christmas socks were for the bum who had flipped her the finger.

She sighed and bent down, meeting his gnarled fingers with the cup. “You don’t have any socks. It’s awfully cold out here for bare feet.”

The man took slurping sips of the scalding liquid as if it were nothing more than lukewarm tea. “Yes, socks t’would help, I imagine.”

“Yes, well, I happen to have a pair right here. How about we put these on so you don’t freeze your toes off? And then, I can take you to a shelter where you can get some hot food and a warm place to sleep.”

The man peered at her over the rim, his disarming blue eyes measuring her. She ripped her gaze from his and dug the ugly socks from the plastic bag, eyeing his dirty but, oddly enough, well-manicured toes. She tore the tag from the socks and bent toward the man, uncertain as to whether she should actually lift his foot. “Should I help you put these on?”

The old man clasped her hands, stilling them as she picked at the sticker stubbornly gunking up a sparkly silver tree.

“You ever read A Christmas Carol?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You know…old Ebenezer Scrooge?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” She nodded and the blunt ends of her bob swung into her eyes. She tucked the wayward strands behind her chilled ears. “The socks. Let’s get them on you.”

“Yes,” he said staring at the gaudy socks in her hand. “What I meant was the Spirit of Christmas.”

“What?” Mary Paige said biting her lip and scrunching each sock so she could jab them onto his almost-blue feet. “You mean the ghosts, like the ghosts of Christmas past?”

“They were all part of the Spirit of Christmas, right?” His voice was low, intense and raspy…and also quite refined. Odd for a street person. She slid the first sock on his right foot.

“Mmm-hmm.” She shifted her weight so she wouldn’t fall on her butt onto the slick concrete. She wasn’t the most graceful of gals.

“Well, you’re the Spirit of Christmas,” he said, jabbing a finger at her.

“Maybe so,” she said, hoping to pacify the old man, as she put the other sock on his deathly cold foot. She prayed she had hand sanitizer in her purse. No telling where the man’s feet had been even if he had trimmed his toenails.

“There. Nice and toasty. Let’s get you out of this weather.” She prepared to rise, but the man clasped her wrist. She pulled away but he held firm.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier.”

“That’s okay. You’re enduring a hard time right now,” Mary Paige said, trying to wrench her arm from his grip, growing uncomfortable with his familiarity. “Living out on the streets makes a man defensive. I understand. If you will let go of me, I will see that the cab driver pulls around so we can find you a nearby shelter.”

The man ignored her. “What’s your name, my child?”

Mary Paige stared into his hypnotic blue eyes and responded without thinking. “Mary Paige.”

“Well, Mary Paige, can I offer you a gift in return for the one you have given me?”

She shook her head. Jeez. There was no telling what the bum would give her. Visions of grimy bottle caps or shiny pieces of glass danced in her head. What valuable object would soon be hers? “You owe me nothing. Now let’s get—”

Her words died as the man released her hand and fished around inside the pocket of his worn flannel shirt. Dear Lord, please don’t let it be his old socks. Or something dead.

She should get out of here. The old man could be nuts, rooting around for something more sinister than a piece of old junk. He could have a gun. Or a knife. Or…a piece of paper.

The man held a paper that had been folded several times and smiled at her, his teeth remarkably straight and white. A gold crown winked at her from the back of his mouth, sparkling as much as his blue eyes. “I needed to know your name, my child, so I know what to write on this.”

He unfolded the paper and extended it to her. She took it as if she were in a trance before finally glancing down.

It was a check.

She blinked.

It was a check for two million dollars.

Signed by Malcolm Henry, Jr.

The Malcolm Henry, Jr., of Henry Department Stores.

She blinked. “I don’t understand. Where did you get this?”

He grinned. “My child, you are the Spirit of Christmas.”

A flash of light blinded her, forcing her to squinch her eyes together. When she opened them, she found another man emerging from behind the Dumpster. The light was so blinding and her feet were now so numbed by the cold, she stumbled back, tilted and fell, landing hard on the icy pavement.

She tried to get up, but her legs failed to comply, so she sat there feeling water seep through the seat of her newest skirt, no doubt ruining the charcoal tweed and her favorite silk panties.

The elderly man stood and shrugged into a long cashmere coat the cameraman handed him while shoving feet still clad in the garish Christmas socks into a pair of lined hunting boots stored within one of the cardboard boxes. Then he extended one hand to her. She took it, bobbing her glance nervously toward the man filming the oddest thing that had ever happened to her—and she’d had plenty of oddness in her life…she’d once been bitten by a llama, for heaven’s sake. She still held the check, so she shoved it toward the older man, who didn’t look so much like a bum anymore. His coat probably cost a week’s salary. Maybe a month’s.

He waved the check away. “No, no. That’s all yours. I feared we wouldn’t find a kind soul at all. Been doing this for four straight days.”

She didn’t say anything. Merely stood there. Shocked.

“By the way, I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Malcolm Henry, and I must tell you I love these socks.”

CHAPTER TWO

BRENNAN HENRY STUDIED the huge Christmas tree towering in front of the glass elevator of his office building. The thing was nearly thirty feet tall and took up so much space on the marble floor everyone had to walk several feet out of the natural path to the elevators. And the lights blinked in time with loud holiday music that spilled from overhead speakers.

Ridiculous.

He would have his secretary pen a strongly worded letter to the owner of the building—who happened to be his grandfather. Didn’t matter. A letter would be official. After all, Brennan didn’t mind people enjoying the upcoming holiday season, but not at the expense of others.

The elevator shot up to the top floor and swooshed open, revealing the tasteful lobby of MBH Industries, the company bearing his great-grandfather’s initials. An attractive receptionist gave an automatic smile, which deepened when she saw him stride out. “Good morning, Mr. Henry.”

Brennan gave her little more than his normal clipped smile. “Mr. Henry is my grandfather, Cheryl.”

She laughed because it was a game they played every day. A small flirty little game he allowed himself, like an extra shot of cream in his coffee. He pushed on toward his office in a far corner, and entered his assistant’s area.

“Good morning, Brennan,” Sophie Caruso said, looking up from her keyboard and spinning toward the antique sideboard housing the coffee. The office smelled like cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and his stomach growled.