“Not really.” My mother and I didn’t talk farm business. Our conversations focused on the twins or John. “How are your folks?” I asked.
“They’re good. Ma and Pop are figuring they can finally buy that RV, drive cross-country the way they’ve always talked about.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” He scratched his beard with the back of one hand. “Although they’re leaving me in a bit of a jam. I’m actually looking for somebody to take over the books now.”
“Mommy,Santa,” Daisy said.
“In a minute, honey.”
Carl glanced down. “These yours?”
I’d always dated clean-cut, clean-shaven types, like John. The beard, though, was kind of hot. I blinked. What was the question again? “Yes. Daisy and DJ.”
“Cute. I don’t suppose you’re interested?”
A flush swept my face. Had he caught me staring? “Excuse me?”
“In keeping the books,” Carl said.
“Oh.” I was relieved. And maybe just a little... disappointed? “Oh no. I’m not... That is, I don’t...”
“Course, we couldn’t pay what you’re making now. It’s not really a full-time job. Compared to the bank, a spread like ours is pretty small potatoes.” He smiled at his little joke.
I couldn’t help smiling back. “It’s not that,” I assured him. I’d always liked working with small businesses. But... “I’m not at the bank anymore. I’m home with the kids.”
It’s what I wanted. What John wanted, after having to raise himself and his brother while their mother worked two jobs to support them.
“Then this job is perfect. You could do it from home. In your spare time. Say, twenty hours a week? Less.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I have twins. There is no spare time.”
Certainly not twenty hours a week. Not even one. Every second of every day was taken up taking care of other people, doing all the things my mother seemed to manage so effortlessly. If my house was never as clean, my cooking never as good, my children never as well behaved, it wasn’t for lack oftrying.
“Gotcha,” Carl said. “Well, if you ever change your mind, you should call me.”
“Thanks.”
Not that I ever would. But still, it was nice to feel wanted.
The line for Santa wended past the fire safety display and the cake walk table. A female firefighter with elf ears and a clipboard took our names. Another manned a camera set up by the fire truck. DJ kicked his feet in the stroller as Daisy danced forward in line.
“Look, DJ. It’s Santa.”
He smiled his slow, sweet smile.
Clipboard Elf beckoned. “Next.”
But as I lifted DJ from the stroller to pass to Santa, seated on the textured metal step at the back of the fire truck, his little body stiffened. “No.”
“It’s Santa, honey,” I said. Actually, I was pretty sure the guy behind the fake white beard was Randal Collins, the assistant fire chief, but to DJ, he was a strange man in a red fat suit. “Don’t you want to see Santa?”
“No. NO!”he screamed, and twisted away.
“He doesn’twantto, Mommy.” Daisy, two minutes older than her brother, was fierce in his defense.
It took almost three minutes of coaxing and the promise of a cookie when we were through to settle my children onto Santa’s lap. Even so, DJ fussed until I hauled myself onto the truck, conscious of all the mothers waiting in line with their perfectly behaved children. I squeezed into the frame, grabbing Santa’s knee for balance.
