I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a humbug the last few years.”
“Isn’t it the ghost of Christmas future who is so frightening?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Not for me,” Brice answered flatly. Then she changed the subject before unhappy memories could crowd in and ruin her evening.
As they strolled, Damien acquainted Brice with the city and some of its Christmas traditions, beginning with the literary world but expanding into tales of invention and commerce. She laughed when he told her about the first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parades and how they used to release the balloons at the end of it.
“But then there was a near collision with an airplane and a few hysterical reports from ships at sea about flying monsters attacking New York. That put an end to the practice.”
“Cost would probably have ended it eventually,” Brice commented. “Those balloons are expensive.”
Damien nodded, but she knew he was thinking that the expense was worth it, and that he would choose to give the balloons their freedom if he ran the parade. She wasn’t certain that she could be so frivolous, but wished to be. Life would probably be a whole lot more fun if she could sometimes do things and not count the cost.
Brice was surprised to learn that her favorite children’s author and illustrator, Maurice Sendak, had gotten his start decorating the wonderful windows at F.A.O. Schwarz.
“And would you believe that I actually played Father Christmas at a party once?” Damien asked. “It was at a fund-raiser for the Met,” He shook his head as though still stunned with disbelief.
“Er…is this a trick question?” Brice responded, feeling a smile tug at her lips.
“Not at all. A rhetorical one, maybe. I tried to live up to the part—I swear I did—but my ‘Ho ho ho’ was a bit inadequate and the adhesive on the beard gave me an ear-to-ear rash that had me scratching in an embarrassing way that made a woman ask me about head lice. There is nothing like a persistent itch to make one grouchy. I’m afraid I spent the night scowling.”
Brice nodded gravely. “Holidays! I obviously never played Santa, but I dressed up as an elf at a book-signing once—and to this day I strongly suspect the costume I was given was inauthentic.”
“How so?”
“Any elf who wandered around in a skirt that short at the North Pole would end up with frostbite on her—southern regions.”
“I see.” Damien smiled. “But was the signing fun otherwise?”
“Hardly! I got pinched black and blue. There are a lot of perverts in this world. And apparently, some of them read.”
“Indeed.”
They strolled along, arms almost touching, not feeling the cold or noticing the people, so wrapped up were they in conversation. A small part of Brice held back from the fun, observing herself and Damien. She found it fascinating that he didn’t appeal to her nurturing instincts, such as they were. There was no shy little boy in him. He was, in fact, the most adult man she had ever met. Self-contained, self-sufficient, and yet not selfabsorbed.
He also didn’t seem the type of male who flirted automatically because it was an easy way to have his ego stroked. They passed many pretty women who smiled at him, but he was never more than polite.
In spite of this, she remained alert. He said nothing, did nothing that wasn’t completely polite with her, but Brice had a sense that this man had made up his mind—somewhere between the pâté and the lemon-fennel sorbet—to seduce her. If not tonight, then soon.
It wasn’t until they reached the trumpeting angels that lined the plaza leading up to Rockefeller Center that either of them became aware of the drastic increase in snow and a peculiar smell of ozone floating in the air. The wind abruptly changed directions and thrust its icy blades through the crowd, penetrating clothing and flesh and burying the cold in the marrow of their bones.
The crowd shuddered and began muttering. The
“Isn’t it the ghost of Christmas future who is so frightening?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Not for me,” Brice answered flatly. Then she changed the subject before unhappy memories could crowd in and ruin her evening.
As they strolled, Damien acquainted Brice with the city and some of its Christmas traditions, beginning with the literary world but expanding into tales of invention and commerce. She laughed when he told her about the first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parades and how they used to release the balloons at the end of it.
“But then there was a near collision with an airplane and a few hysterical reports from ships at sea about flying monsters attacking New York. That put an end to the practice.”
“Cost would probably have ended it eventually,” Brice commented. “Those balloons are expensive.”
Damien nodded, but she knew he was thinking that the expense was worth it, and that he would choose to give the balloons their freedom if he ran the parade. She wasn’t certain that she could be so frivolous, but wished to be. Life would probably be a whole lot more fun if she could sometimes do things and not count the cost.
Brice was surprised to learn that her favorite children’s author and illustrator, Maurice Sendak, had gotten his start decorating the wonderful windows at F.A.O. Schwarz.
“And would you believe that I actually played Father Christmas at a party once?” Damien asked. “It was at a fund-raiser for the Met,” He shook his head as though still stunned with disbelief.
“Er…is this a trick question?” Brice responded, feeling a smile tug at her lips.
“Not at all. A rhetorical one, maybe. I tried to live up to the part—I swear I did—but my ‘Ho ho ho’ was a bit inadequate and the adhesive on the beard gave me an ear-to-ear rash that had me scratching in an embarrassing way that made a woman ask me about head lice. There is nothing like a persistent itch to make one grouchy. I’m afraid I spent the night scowling.”
Brice nodded gravely. “Holidays! I obviously never played Santa, but I dressed up as an elf at a book-signing once—and to this day I strongly suspect the costume I was given was inauthentic.”
“How so?”
“Any elf who wandered around in a skirt that short at the North Pole would end up with frostbite on her—southern regions.”
“I see.” Damien smiled. “But was the signing fun otherwise?”
“Hardly! I got pinched black and blue. There are a lot of perverts in this world. And apparently, some of them read.”
“Indeed.”
They strolled along, arms almost touching, not feeling the cold or noticing the people, so wrapped up were they in conversation. A small part of Brice held back from the fun, observing herself and Damien. She found it fascinating that he didn’t appeal to her nurturing instincts, such as they were. There was no shy little boy in him. He was, in fact, the most adult man she had ever met. Self-contained, self-sufficient, and yet not selfabsorbed.
He also didn’t seem the type of male who flirted automatically because it was an easy way to have his ego stroked. They passed many pretty women who smiled at him, but he was never more than polite.
In spite of this, she remained alert. He said nothing, did nothing that wasn’t completely polite with her, but Brice had a sense that this man had made up his mind—somewhere between the pâté and the lemon-fennel sorbet—to seduce her. If not tonight, then soon.
It wasn’t until they reached the trumpeting angels that lined the plaza leading up to Rockefeller Center that either of them became aware of the drastic increase in snow and a peculiar smell of ozone floating in the air. The wind abruptly changed directions and thrust its icy blades through the crowd, penetrating clothing and flesh and burying the cold in the marrow of their bones.
The crowd shuddered and began muttering. The
Similar Books
