Free Remembering Christmas by Dan Walsh Page A

master’s degree could ask such a lame question.
    Sitting there now in Art’s squeaky chair, he looked back on this whole episode with a fair amount of self-disdain. Because, after all, he wasn’t interested in Andrea, so there was no point responding to some misguided impulse to get her phone number. She was attractive enough, more than a little, and had a pleasing personality . . . and she smelled nice.
    But she was a churchgoer, like his mom.
    Worse than that . . . she had a kid.

     
    Andrea popped her head through the office doorway. “How’s it going back here?”
    Rick looked around at the mess of papers and stacks of folders. “Not so good. I’m sure Art had some kind of system here, but I’m not seeing it yet.” She had given him a written list of books, records, and religious paraphernalia to reorder, hoping to get them in the store and ready for resale by this Friday. Almost two hours had passed. “So far,” Rick said, “I’ve only found three of the wholesale vendors who sell the items on your list.”
    “Any of them those big nativity sets?”
    Rick shook his head. “Nope.”
    “Hope you find them. I’ve had several people asking about them. Think your mom said they had a really nice markup.” She looked around the office. “Wish I could help you, but I hardly ever did anything back here.”
    “I’m sure if I keep digging, I’ll connect all the dots. No customers out there?”
    “Not at the moment. Care for a cup of coffee?”
    “I’d love one.”
    “Feel like making it? What’s left in here doesn’t smell very good.”
    Rick made a face.
    “I know you watched me make the last pot, but tomorrow you’re going to have to tackle this giant on your own.”
    Rick smiled then got up. At about the same time, the front door opened and closed. “Better see who that is,” she said. “Sure you’re okay?”
    He wanted to say “It’s just coffee.” But he was a little nervous. “I remember what you did. Just not sure how it’ll turn out.”
    “We’re not Dunkin’ Donuts, so if it’s close, most people will be fine.” She smiled then walked away.
    He got up and walked the few steps to the little cabinet next to the sofa, where the Mr. Coffee sat. As he began carefully following the steps he’d just committed to memory, he remembered reading an interview with the inventor of Mr. Coffee in a Forbes magazine article last year. The guy compared his creativity to that of Michelangelo. It was a clever little thing. But c’mon . . . it just made coffee.
    He glanced over at Amy still hard at work on her catalog project. She looked up at him. “I like that smell.”
    “Me too. Like how it tastes?”
    “I’m only six.”
    Rick laughed. “Right.” He needed to stop talking so he didn’t screw up the count on the scoops. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was still looking at him.
    “Sorry about your dad,” she said. “I mean, your stepdad. I really like Mr. Art. He’s so nice to my mom and me. Sometimes I pretend he’s my grandpa, and your mommy is my grandma. It’s easy because they act just like grandparents are supposed to. Your mommy always gives me Chiclets gum from her purse. Both of them always give me big hugs when they see me, and more hugs when I have to go.”
    Rick kept his eye on his assignment. It didn’t seem like Amy required anything from him to keep the conversation going.
    “Sometimes after school I have to come here, because my friend Jenny’s mom can’t watch me. Sometimes Mr. Art sits right here beside me and reads me Bible stories. Did he ever read you stories when you were a kid? He always smells nice. Like flowers for men. Hope he feels better soon.”
    Rick smiled. At least she wasn’t a brat. He listened for, then heard, the appropriate gurgling sound, bent over to watch the black drips as they started spilling into the pot. He had a few minutes, so he walked over and sat down beside her. “You almost done with your