He meant Santa Claus, who sat not far away from us, in an old sleigh that Frank had borrowed from one of his farmer friends. We didn’t have the reindeer to go with it, but the children who had lined up for a turn to have their picture taken didn’t seem to mind. And Santa—Gianni’s uncle Tony, who looked the part perfectly, down to his naturally bushy white beard—was giving his performance everything he had. “He’s doing great. He’s already said he’ll come back next year. Except next year, when all the restoration work is done, I think we’ll do it by the fireplace in the kitchen. Where it’s warm.”
“I kind of like the sleigh.” He was better dressed than I was for the cold, a long-sleeved layer underneath his flannel workshirt, and his gloves tucked in his tool belt. “It’s a good fundraiser.”
I couldn’t take the credit. “It was Harvey who suggested it.”
“You’ve got him on your side, I think.”
“I’m learning how to manage him. He likes to be the centre of attention. I’m just finding ways to channel that.”
“Like having him do that TV thing.”
“Exactly.” I was starting to feel warmer now, not only from the coffee but because his body blocked the wind. “He loves wearing that Revolutionary War costume, and he’s better connected around here than I am, so it was a win-win. We’ve already had people calling to offer donations because of that interview.”
We’d also put up lists—in Gianni’s deli, Lara’s store, and in the library—of items we were trying to acquire, and the response had been encouraging. The Sisters of Liberty might have refused us their grant of support, but the community seemed ready to step up and do their part.
“And,” I told Sam, “I finally heard back from that museum in New Jersey, saying I could come pick up the Spanish chair.”
“It took him long enough.”
“It was his assistant who called, actually. I don’t think the director himself really wanted to loan us the chair. I think he just got tired of me calling to ask. He knew I wasn’t going to give up.”
“Nothing wrong with knowing what you want,” said Sam, “and waiting for it.”
It was tempting to read something more into that comment, but I forced myself to take it at face value. Nothing in his voice had changed, or his expression, and he wasn’t even looking at me. He was watching Uncle Tony Claus, who at that moment by coincidence was saying nearly the same thing to the two wide-eyed children on his knees.
“Keep wishing hard, kids, and be patient, and you’ll get good things on Christmas morning.” Sage advice he followed with some light extortion. “And if you want really good things, make sure you leave me cookies.”
I smiled, and glanced at Sam as the photographer snapped one last picture of the kids before they were released to run around the clearing, getting messy in their Sunday best. “Long Island Santa.”
“Hey,” he told me. “We have our priorities.” We watched the next kids have their turn. “When are you going to get the chair?”
“Well, ideally I’d have liked to go tomorrow, get it done before the weather changes, only my car’s not big enough. I’d have to borrow Dave’s van, and he needs it tomorrow to go to an auction.”
Sam raised his coffee cup, his eyes still on the kids, one shoulder lifting in a careless shrug. “Good thing you know a guy who’s got a truck.”
? ? ?
“Look at you!” Gianni grinned approvingly as I came through the living room. Rachel had been having trouble sleeping. She was still in her pyjamas, hair unwashed, but Gianni had her settled on the sofa for a day of watching movies on TV.
“She’s going out with Sam,” said Rachel.
“I am not,” I told them, “going out with Sam. He’s taking me to pick up something in his truck.”
“He’s taking her,” said Rachel, “to New Jersey.”
Gianni asked, “Where in New Jersey?”
She told him, and he whistled. “That’ll take you a couple of hours.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why we’re leaving now.” I used the microwave door as a mirror while fixing my loose earring. I didn’t think I looked particularly fancy. Sure, I’d maybe taken more care with my hair this morning, and I’d worn a nicer sweater. And I’d put on makeup.
“Here he is,” said Rachel, as we heard the truck’s door slam. I had my shoes on by the time he reached the side door.
He’d brought Bandit, who wagged once at me and made a beeline for the sofa, where he curled between Gianni and Rachel, right at home.
I checked my pockets. Rachel held her hand up with my cell phone in it. Cleared her throat.
“Oh. Right. Thanks. Bye.”
“Have fun, guys.” Gianni winked. Ignoring him, I stepped onto the porch and locked the door and turned to Sam.
He said, “Nice sweater.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t blushed since high school.
“Got a coat?”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s Rachel doing?”
“She’s been better. It’s good she’ll have Bandit today.”
He walked around with me to open the passenger door of the truck. “Her boyfriend seems to look after her okay.”
“He’s not her boyfriend. At least, that’s what she keeps telling me.”
“He acts like her boyfriend. You in? Watch the coffee, there. Yours is the one with the sticker.” He closed my door and came around to get behind the wheel. “The traffic looks good so I’m thinking we just take the Belt to Verrazano and across that way. Okay with you?”
“Okay with me.”
It was a good day for a drive. I liked this season of the year, when fall changed into winter.
The trees had grown more bare now and the colours of their leaves were lost, the smudge of branches on the hillside faded to a quiet mix of brown and grey and burnt sienna, marked in places by the skeletal white outline of a sycamore. I watched the trees, Sam watched the road, I drank my coffee.
Given my awareness of the man beside me, I’d have thought the silence in this closed space would feel awkward, but it didn’t. It felt comfortable. There was just something peaceful about him that put me at ease.
There was just something. Malaika had used those same words when she’d talked about falling for Darryl. Sometimes the right man, she’d said, just sneaks up on you.
I was still pondering this when the traffic on the Belt Parkway slowed, then crawled and stopped and crawled again to show we’d hit construction or an accident. Sam steered us off at the next exit and began to navigate a grid of unfamiliar streets without a map or GPS. I was impressed.
He said, “Don’t worry, I grew up here. I know where I’m going.”
“Oh. So this is Brooklyn?”
“Yeah.” His sideways glance was curious.
I said, “Malaika mentioned it.”
“Just randomly?”
“She also said your father was an ironworker.”
“Yeah, he was. My dad was a connector. That’s one of the guys who climbs up on the beams, you know—bolts them together. He died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind talking. Keeps him close.”
It turned out both Sam’s grandfathers were ironworkers also, but from two different communities—one up by Montreal, the other just west of Niagara Falls. Historically, as Sam explained, the Mohawk territories in Quebec had been more closely allied to the French than British, while the opposite was true for Mohawks in the province we now called Ontario. “I got a bit of everything,” he told me. “Mohawk, English, French, Oneida, Scottish, Catholic, Protestant—you name it. Keeps life interesting.”
His mother’s parents were both residential school survivors. “My mom’s dad had this big scar, here, from being beaten. Wouldn’t ever talk about it.”