Santa's Playbook. Karen Templeton
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as the redhead gave Claire a once-over that would make a Mafia goon cringe. “What on earth are you doing here, doll? I thought you’d blown this joint years ago.”
“I had. But I’m back. Teaching up at Hoover. Drama and English,” she said to the woman’s raised, insect leg–like eyebrows.
“You don’t say?” Her sharp gaze darted over a dozen spinning, chattering little girls. “Which one’s yours?”
“Isabella. But only for this morning.”
“Bella, yeah. Little blonde toughie. Love her to bits.” Miss Louise lowered her voice. “So sad about her mommy, but the kid seems to be doing okay. So...wait a minute...” Her eyes sidled to Claire’s. “You and her daddy...?”
“No,” Claire said, laughing, and the microthin brows arched again. “Long story, I’m only pinch-hitting. Anyway, figured I’d say hi.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “How long’s the class?”
“Forty-five minutes.” Her mouth curved. “You can still do a double pirouette?”
“Ha! Like I ever could!”
Miss Louise grinned, then patted her arm. “Hey, we have an adult class on Wednesday evenings. Lots of mommies who took ballet when they were kids, now they want to lose the baby weight.” Smirking, she glanced at Claire’s midsection. “Couldn’t hurt, right?”
“It’s the vest, I swear!”
“Whatever,” she said, walking away. “Ten bucks a class, starts at seven on the dot...”
Okay, so maybe she’d put on a few pounds since she moved back, Claire thought on a sigh as she left the studio. And maybe—she saw Juliette staring at something in the window a few stores down—there were more important things to worry about.
She hustled down the street, which in three weeks would be all gussied up for Christmas. Right now, though, despite all the redbrick fronts and colorful awnings and pretty black iron benches—the little town was nothing if not determined to survive the plague that was urban sprawl—between the stripped-bare maples and barren planters lining the curbs, it was kind of blah.
And fricking freezing, the stiff river breeze ripping right through her vest. She dug her hat out of her pocket and crammed it over her curls, but that wasn’t going to help her soon-to-be-numb butt. In contrast, Juliette—who was hardly dressed like a Laplander—seemed totally unfazed by the bitter wind, her streaked hair whipping around her face as she stared.
“Wh-whatcha l-looking at?”
She pointed. “Aren’t they the cutest things ever?”
“They” being a pair of fluff-ball kittens, one gold, one gray, wrestling in a shredded paper nest in the window of the local adoption shelter’s adoption center.
“Omigosh...” Suddenly her bum didn’t feel so cold. “Adorable.”
“Dad said maybe Belly could have a kitten for Christmas, if she promises to take care of it. Meaning I’ll probably end up doing it. Like I do everything else...” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Sorry,” she mumbled, still watching the kittens. “That sounds terrible.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Claire said gently, steeling herself for wherever the conversation might be headed. “It sounds like somebody who’s got a lot on her plate these days. Totally understandable.”
“Except it’s not even true, not really. Yeah, okay, so sometimes it does feel like that, but it’s not like Dad doesn’t do more than his share. Speaking of having a lot on his plate—he’s got his teaching, and coaching, and making sure the boys don’t, like, destroy the house. Or themselves,” she added with a little smile, then sighed. “And it’s not like I mind cooking. Actually, I love it. And we got this new washer/dryer set last year, it’s so awesome, it does everything but fold. And Baba helps, too, when she can. Except there’s only so much she can do. Because she’s, like, sixty...” Juliette looked over, her brow knotting at Claire’s gotta-keep-the-blood-moving jig. “You cold?”
“A l-little, yeah.”
“There’s that tearoom over there, maybe we could get some hot chocolate or something while we’re waiting?”
“You’re on.”
The two-bit diner Claire dimly remembered from her childhood had morphed into something very quaint and prissy, but the hot chocolate came in enormous mugs with a mountain of whipped cream, so she was good. She would have been even better with one of the pastries winking at her from underneath the gleaming glass dome on the counter, but remembering the brutal look Miss Louise had given her hips, she passed.
“That was so nice, you offering to take Belly to dance class,” Juliette said, focused on her mug as she swiped a napkin over her whipped-cream mustache. “I’m sure Dad appreciated it.”
“No biggie. Glad I could help.”
“So it was a good thing we ran into each other at the estate sale, huh? And then you taking me home? Like...it was fate or something.”
Claire’s lips twitched. “Serendipity.”
“Exactly.” Juliette leaned forward, her eyes all blue fire, and Claire thought, And here it comes. “Don’t you ever think that things happen for a reason? Sometimes, anyway. Like there’s some big plan for each of us, if we can only see it?”
Claire sat straighter in her chair, a pink, curlicued confection that was hell on her back. “I certainly think life presents...opportunities,” she said carefully. “But being open to opportunity is very different from seeing something that’s not actually there. Or trying to make something happen.” She met the girl’s gaze dead on. “No matter how right it might feel to you.”
The girl sagged back in her own chair, hugging her mug to her chest. “Dad said something, didn’t he?”
“Even if he hadn’t, I would’ve figured it out on my own.” Eventually. Maybe. Juliette snorted. “So you have been trying to fix him up?”
“No! Well, okay, sort of. I mean...” She blew out a sigh. “What’s wrong with wanting him to be open to the possibility of getting married again? Or at least having a girlfriend.”
“Because that’s for him to decide, sweetie. Not you. Sometimes, when someone we love isn’t...around anymore—”
“Mom died, Miss Jacobs. It’s okay, you can say it. She died. And it sucks, and we were all miserable, and I know Dad still is, but...” She shook her head. “I know it sounds like I’m only thinking about myself, but I’m not, I swear. The extra work’s not that big a deal, and like I said, I’m cool with cooking. And I love my brothers and sister, even when they’re being pains. Except, for one thing, I’ve only got three more years before I’m gone. Because I’m so not sticking around for college. Not if I can help it. And for another...”
Juliette set her mug back down. “You didn’t know Dad before. When he was happy. I’m not saying he acted like a clown all the time or anything—that’s not his style—but at least he smiled, you know? I mean, for real. Eyes and everything. And laughed... Omigosh, his laugh... It was insane.”
Claire took a sip of her drink. “Having a hard time picturing that.”
“I’m having a hard time remembering it. Which is so sad.” The girl sighed, then scooped up a blob of whipped cream with her finger, poked it in her mouth. “I do remember, though, how he used to look at Mom when she didn’t know he was watching, and he’d, like, glow. Seriously. Like he’d struck gold or something. And that feeling... You’d walk into the house, and you’d just feel it, that glow. Like everything was okay. And it’s not there anymore.” She looked up, tears brimming. “And I can’t believe that’s how it’s supposed to be for the rest of our lives. Especially the rest of D-Dad’s.”
“Oh,