Cara Colter - Postcards At Christmas

She almost turned to him then and asked why the merchant had wanted him to pay for her scarf and what was with the child-size belt. But then, what did it matter, really? She knew already that he was generous to a fault. And maybe the belt was for one of his nephews.

As they moved on, he bought more gifts for children, boys and girls alike. He bought toy trucks and cars and any number of little dolls and stuffed animals. He bought a tea set and three plastic water pistols, Ping-Pong paddles and balls, packets of crayons, colored pencils and a stack of coloring books.

She finally asked him, “Who are all these toys for?”

He only smiled and advised mysteriously, “Wait. You’ll see.”

She might have quizzed him some more, but she was having far too much fun finding treasures of her own. Just about every booth seemed to have at least one small perfect thing she wanted. The bazaar was giving her so many ideas for new designs featuring the colors and textures all around her. A kind of glee suffused her. It was like a dream, her dream, from all those lonely shut-in years of growing up. That she would someday be well and strong and travel to exciting places and be inspired to make beautiful things that women all over the world would reach out and touch, saying, Yes. This. This is what I want to wear.

But wouldn’t you know that Dami got quicker at detecting her choices? And the merchants all seemed to expect Dami to pay. They ignored the bills in her hand and grabbed for the ones in his.

She finally had to lean in close to him and whisper, “Okay. Enough. I mean it, Dami. If I want something, I am perfectly capable of buying it myself.”

They stood, each weighed down with bags and packages, beside a flower stall where glorious bouquets of every imaginable sort of bloom stood in rows of cone-shaped containers. He bought a big bouquet of bright flowers, then took her arm and guided her to the side, out of the way of the pressing crowd. “Do you realize that this bazaar was established over thirty years ago in honor of my father, in the year that my oldest brother, Max, was born?”

“How nice. And what does that have to do with why you keep buying things for me when I have plenty of money of my own?”

“It has everything to do with it.”

“I don’t see how.”

“My dearest Luce,” he said with equal parts affection and reproach, “Thanksgiving is, after all, an American holiday. Yet Montedorans embrace it and celebrate it. They do this for my father’s sake. And this bazaar was named for him because he gave my mother happiness—and a son, very quickly.”

“How virile of him. And why do you sound like you’re lecturing me?”

He actually shook a finger at her, though his eyes glittered playfully as he did it. “My darling, I am lecturing you. We celebrate Thanksgiving in Montedoro for the sake of my father, and this bazaar exists in respect for my father. And when a Bravo-Calabretti prince attends the bazaar, he tries to buy from each and every vendor, in thanksgiving for the gift the Montedoran people have bestowed on us, to trust us with the stewardship of this glorious land.”

“Well, all right. Wonderful. You bought a bunch of things. And you paid for them. In thanksgiving. But no way are you expected to pay for my things.”

“Don’t you see? Each item I buy blesses the vendor. The more I buy, the better.”

She laughed. “Good one. I’m actually helping you out when I let you buy my stuff.”

Along with the usual all-around hotness, he was looking very pleased with himself. “That’s right. And the vendor, as well. Surely you cannot deny us these blessings.”

She stared at him. He looked at her so levelly under those straight dark brows. His mouth held a solemn curve. But the usual mischief danced in his eyes. She accused, “You’re making this up.”

“Why ever would I?” Lightly. Teasingly.

She still wasn’t sure she believed him. But he had a point, she supposed. Why would he make up a story like that? And the vendors really had seemed to want him specifically to be the one to pay.

She tried to explain, “It’s just that you always look like you’re teasing me, Dami. Even when you’re serious.”

“Because I am teasing you—even when I’m serious.”

She shifted the mountain of bags in her arms in order not to drop any. “You’re confusing me. You know that, right?”

He bent a fraction closer and she caught a hint of his aftershave, which she’d always really liked. It was citrusy, spicy and earthy, too. It made her think of an enchanted forest. And true manliness. And a long black limousine. “Try to enjoy it,” he said.

“Being confused?”

“Everything. Life. All these people out for the holiday. Sunshine. This moment that will never come again.” Suddenly, she wanted to hug him close. There was something so...magical about him. As though he knew really good secrets and just might be willing to share them with her. He added, “And won’t you please believe me? The Thanksgiving Bazaar is in my father’s honor and the more I personally buy here, the happier the merchants will be.”

She groaned, but in a good-natured way. “I think I give up. Buy me whatever you want to buy me.”

He inclined his dark head in a so-gracious manner that made her feel as if she’d just done him a whopping favor. “Thank you, Luce. I shall.”

By then they’d strolled the length of one side of the rue St.-Georges and bought goods from about half of the booths. Dami set down the bouquet of flowers and a few bags of toys and got out his phone. He made a quick call. A few minutes later two men appeared dressed in the livery of the palace guard.

The guards carried their packages for them, falling back to follow behind as they worked their way up the other side of the street, buying at least one item from each of the vendors. The ever-present photographers followed, too, snapping away, their cameras constantly pressed to their faces, but they did keep enough distance that it wasn’t all that difficult to pretend they weren’t there.

Midway back up the other side of the street, they came to the food-cart area, a separate little courtyard of its own in the middle of the bazaar. The carts reminded Lucy of old-fashioned circus cars, each brightly painted in primary colors, some decorated with slogans and prices and pictures of the food they served, others plastered with stenciled-on images of everything from the Eiffel Tower to jungle cats. Dami bought food from each cart—pastries, meat pies, sausages on sticks, cones of crispy fried potatoes, flavored ices, tall cups of hot chocolate. There was no way the two of them could have made a dent in all that food. But conveniently, groups of Montedoran children had gathered around. They were only too willing to help. Dami bought food and drinks for all, while the food sellers smiled and nodded and accepted his money. Were they grateful to be so richly “blessed”? Or just pleased to be doing a brisk business?

Lucy decided it didn’t matter which. Dami had been right. She was enjoying the experience, reveling in this moment that would never come again.

When they left the food carts, the children followed, falling in behind the palace guards with their high piles of packages.

Dami spotted someone he knew across the street. He waved and called out, “Max!”

The tall, gorgeous man with the unruly hair and mesmerizing glance bore a definite resemblance to the prince at her side. He returned Dami’s greeting and then went back to his negotiations with a vendor who sold scented soaps and bath salts.

Lucy asked, “Your oldest brother, right?” Dami nodded. “Will he make the rounds of every booth?”

“And buy something from each one.”

“No wonder the vendors feel blessed. I mean, there are nine of you, brothers and sisters together. That’s a lot of blessings.”