ours." Dorey picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Okay, I've done my job. I'm going home. See you tomorrow."
As Dorey walked home, she didn't bother glancing upward to see the families gathered at their windows, watching the parade.
If she had, she might have seen one angry, bitter face gazing out.
The face of Victor Lamberg.
Lamberg had not made his fortune by being kind. He was vicious, rotten, and unforgiving. And it all showed in the pinched lines of his craggy face.
"Mr. Lamberg?" his maid asked softly as she entered his study. "Your grandchildren have arrived . . . to watch the parade."
But Lamberg did not turn around. His eyes were focused on the Santa Claus—and on the radiant faces of the crowd.
This was not part of the plan.
He nodded slightly, and the maid quickly left.
A few blocks away, Dorey breezed into her apartment. She gave the entryway a quick glance. Perfect, as always. Spotless walls, tasteful paintings, all colors perfectly balanced. Like a museum.
Which was just the way Dorey liked it.
"Susan?" Dorey called out.
She walked into the living room. On the TV, a 35-inch-diagonal freeze-frame of her six-year-old daughter smiled at her.
Dorey hit PLAY on the Handycam above the TV.
Susan's video image came to life. "Mom," she said, "I'm still at Mr. Bedford's. We can see the parade from his window." Susan's face loomed closer to the camera, and she whispered, "He's really into parades. I'm doing it for him. I'd rather watch it on TV. It's more real that way. So slip into something comfortable and come over. Oh, P.S. Mr. Bedford put the turkey in the oven." Her face leaned even closer. "He said you forgot to sew up the turkey. The stuffing'll all fall out. He told me not to say anything because he looooves you and wants to kiiiiiss —"
At that point a man's arm reached into the frame, and the video went dark.
Dorey turned off the VCR. She frowned. If Susan thought she was going to be a matchmaker, she had another think coming.
In a small apartment down the hall, Bryan Bedford sipped his coffee as he watched the parade.
Susan Walker turned away from the window and said, "You know how much it costs to make this parade? One point six million—and it's probably a big mistake, because some guy's going to buy Cole's and turn it into a junk store."
"Where'd you hear that?" Bryan asked.
"My mom."
Bryan shook his head. "It's not going to happen. Two big banks came in and rescued Cole's."
"But Cole's has to pay them back, plus interest," Susan said. "If they don't sell a lot of stuff at Christmas, you can forget about it, pal."
"Well, you know what? I think you should ask Santa Claus to give Cole's an interest-free loan for Christmas."
"Ha. That's a good one." Susan gave Bryan a gentle pat on the knee.
"Mr. Bedford? May I call you Bryan?"
"I told you you could."
"Bryan. You know what? I know the secret—about Santa Claus. He's not real. I've known for a long time."
"Says who?" Bryan asked.
Susan turned to the window again. "My mom."
Bryan sighed. He remembered being six—almost thirty years ago. Back then, he'd believed in Santa Claus. He could barely sleep on Christmas Eves. But he always did, and Santa always came. Like magic.
Oh, well. That was a long time ago. Kids were different now.
Maybe.
Dingdong!
Bryan put down his coffee cup and answered the front door.
"Hi," Dorey greeted him. "You have something of mine?"
"About four-foot-two, dark hair? Talks like she's sixty-four years old?"
Dorey smiled and walked into Bryan's living room. "What do you think of the parade?" she asked Susan.
"It's a good one," Susan replied.
"Santa Claus come by yet?"
"Nope. Is it Tony Falacchi?"
"Tony had to leave."
Susan raised her eyebrows.
"Bombed?"
"Yeah."
"It's the pressure."
"I got a new guy at the last minute," Dorey went on. "He looks like the real thing."
"Maybe he is," Bryan suggested.
Dorey grinned. "Are you still coming for dinner?"
"You bet," Bryan
As Dorey walked home, she didn't bother glancing upward to see the families gathered at their windows, watching the parade.
If she had, she might have seen one angry, bitter face gazing out.
The face of Victor Lamberg.
Lamberg had not made his fortune by being kind. He was vicious, rotten, and unforgiving. And it all showed in the pinched lines of his craggy face.
"Mr. Lamberg?" his maid asked softly as she entered his study. "Your grandchildren have arrived . . . to watch the parade."
But Lamberg did not turn around. His eyes were focused on the Santa Claus—and on the radiant faces of the crowd.
This was not part of the plan.
He nodded slightly, and the maid quickly left.
A few blocks away, Dorey breezed into her apartment. She gave the entryway a quick glance. Perfect, as always. Spotless walls, tasteful paintings, all colors perfectly balanced. Like a museum.
Which was just the way Dorey liked it.
"Susan?" Dorey called out.
She walked into the living room. On the TV, a 35-inch-diagonal freeze-frame of her six-year-old daughter smiled at her.
Dorey hit PLAY on the Handycam above the TV.
Susan's video image came to life. "Mom," she said, "I'm still at Mr. Bedford's. We can see the parade from his window." Susan's face loomed closer to the camera, and she whispered, "He's really into parades. I'm doing it for him. I'd rather watch it on TV. It's more real that way. So slip into something comfortable and come over. Oh, P.S. Mr. Bedford put the turkey in the oven." Her face leaned even closer. "He said you forgot to sew up the turkey. The stuffing'll all fall out. He told me not to say anything because he looooves you and wants to kiiiiiss —"
At that point a man's arm reached into the frame, and the video went dark.
Dorey turned off the VCR. She frowned. If Susan thought she was going to be a matchmaker, she had another think coming.
In a small apartment down the hall, Bryan Bedford sipped his coffee as he watched the parade.
Susan Walker turned away from the window and said, "You know how much it costs to make this parade? One point six million—and it's probably a big mistake, because some guy's going to buy Cole's and turn it into a junk store."
"Where'd you hear that?" Bryan asked.
"My mom."
Bryan shook his head. "It's not going to happen. Two big banks came in and rescued Cole's."
"But Cole's has to pay them back, plus interest," Susan said. "If they don't sell a lot of stuff at Christmas, you can forget about it, pal."
"Well, you know what? I think you should ask Santa Claus to give Cole's an interest-free loan for Christmas."
"Ha. That's a good one." Susan gave Bryan a gentle pat on the knee.
"Mr. Bedford? May I call you Bryan?"
"I told you you could."
"Bryan. You know what? I know the secret—about Santa Claus. He's not real. I've known for a long time."
"Says who?" Bryan asked.
Susan turned to the window again. "My mom."
Bryan sighed. He remembered being six—almost thirty years ago. Back then, he'd believed in Santa Claus. He could barely sleep on Christmas Eves. But he always did, and Santa always came. Like magic.
Oh, well. That was a long time ago. Kids were different now.
Maybe.
Dingdong!
Bryan put down his coffee cup and answered the front door.
"Hi," Dorey greeted him. "You have something of mine?"
"About four-foot-two, dark hair? Talks like she's sixty-four years old?"
Dorey smiled and walked into Bryan's living room. "What do you think of the parade?" she asked Susan.
"It's a good one," Susan replied.
"Santa Claus come by yet?"
"Nope. Is it Tony Falacchi?"
"Tony had to leave."
Susan raised her eyebrows.
"Bombed?"
"Yeah."
"It's the pressure."
"I got a new guy at the last minute," Dorey went on. "He looks like the real thing."
"Maybe he is," Bryan suggested.
Dorey grinned. "Are you still coming for dinner?"
"You bet," Bryan
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