Holiday Grind

great gig” for him because he was also working the comedy club circuit. Not only did the Santa act pay him a regular salary, it helped him hone his stand-up routine.

Twice a week, he even made time to bring his Santa act to soup kitchens and homeless shelters. “Those places can give a person a bed or a hot meal,” he’d told me, “but what they need even more is laughter—a leavening of the life force, you know?”

He truly did embody the spirit of Christmas.

Matt stepped up and pulled me aside. “I saw your Santa on my way here.”

“Where?” I asked. “Close by?”

Matt nodded. “He was pushing his sleigh down Hudson.”

Unlike the Salvation Army, whose bell ringers staked out permanent locations throughout the city, the Traveling Santas lived up to their name by roving the busy streets. They pushed small wheeled “sleighs” in front of them while cheerfully coaxing pedestrians to throw money into “Santa’s bag.” As Alf himself said, the gig was made for him.

“So he was heading for the Blend?” I assumed.

“He might have been. But it looked to me like he was making a stop at the White Horse.”

“He must have forgotten about my invitation,” I said. “I’m going to get him.”

Matt held my arm. “Let me, Clare. The weather’s bad out there—” Just then Matt’s cell went off. He checked the Caller ID and scowled.

“Breanne?” I guessed.

He nodded. “I’ll just be a minute.”

I shrugged and headed for the back pantry to get my coat. Take all the time you need, I thought. The West Village was a small neighborhood. Alf and his cheery ho-ho-hos would be easy to find.

As Matt quickly strode to a corner to continue arguing with Breanne, I zipped up my parka. Alf will lighten up my griping baristas, I thought, put things in perspective.

As I headed for the door, I saw Tucker opening it, setting off our festive new jingle bells once again.

“You’re not closed, are you, Tuck?” boomed an impressive male voice from beyond the threshold.

I stepped closer to see an attractive man standing there. I’d seen him in the Blend a few times before, often chatting with Tucker. His fair hair and complexion were a stark contrast to his pitch-black overcoat and scarf. His boyish “look” was the kind I used to see on my daughter Joy’s teen magazine covers—cute dimples, a golden shag, trendy chin stubble—only this guy was way beyond his teen years. My guesstimate was thirty-five, maybe older.

“It’s a private party,” Tuck informed the man. “But you can join us.”

“Great ’cause I’m freezing my butt off out here!”

“And a very nice butt it is.” Tucker laughed.

“Who’s this?” I asked, stepping closer.

Tucker introduced us. “Shane Holliway, Clare Cosi.”

“Charmed.” Shane threw me a wink.

“Shane was in my cabaret last summer,” Tucker explained. “We met when I was on that daytime TV show —before the writers killed my character! Shane played the suave private investigator with an eye for the ladies.”

Shane shook his head. “Those were the days, weren’t they, Tuck? Easy lines. Big paydays. Gorgeous females using shared dressing rooms—of course, that was a perk for me more than you.”

I raised an eyebrow. So Shane’s straight, I thought, and a soap actor. No wonder he’s so good looking.

Tucker snapped his fingers. “No doubt.”

“Now what’s this I hear about your putting a show together for Dickie?” Shane asked.

“You mean the Elf extravaganza?” Tucker smirked. “Come on in and we’ll dish.”

“As long as there’s a part for me,” Shane said.

Tucker laughed. “You want to play a dancing elf?”

Shane shrugged. “I could use the gig. Dickie mentioned you needed another dancer and—”

“Nice to meet you,” I told Shane, moving out the open door as his big boots clomped in. Then I caught Tucker’s eye. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I promised as I flipped up my hood, “with our Christmas spirit.”

Outside the heavy snowfall was tapering off into light flurries. The occasional icy flake pelted the hood of my white parka, then fell to the ground to join its brethren, but for the most part the storm appeared to be over. The glistening blanket it left behind, however, now draped every inch of the historic district—the cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks, the parked cars and town house roofs.

There was nothing like walking through the Village on a snowy winter night. The few vehicles on the slippery street crept along no faster than horse-drawn carriages. Every surface appeared flocked with white; the pungent smell of active old fireplaces floated through the air; and bundled couples hurried past dark storefronts, eager to get back to their warm apartments or inside a cozy pub for a glass of mulled wine or mug of Irish coffee.

As I passed by St. Luke’s churchyard, the whole world seemed to go silent, save the icy flurries that still pecked at my parka and the crunch, crunch, crunching of my winter boots. At one intersection I stood alone, watching a traffic light provide a signal for crossroads that had no traffic. Hands in pockets, I waited half-amused as the bright red light flipped to green in an unintentional Christmas display just for me.

Suddenly I was a little girl again, back in Pennsylvania, slipping away from my grandmother’s house and carrying my cheap little red plastic toboggan to the dead end of her street. The other kids were tucked in for the night, but the snowfall was fresh, not a mark on it, and the vast, empty hillside was all mine.

That kind of exhilarating privacy was rare in Manhattan. Snow almost always melted to rain upon entering the heat and intensity of this crowded island. But tonight—for a little while, anyway—the world was mine again, a blank canvas, fresh and clean for me to mark as I pleased. And block after block, I did make my mark, each footfall breaking through the frozen crust to leave its momentary print in the soft powder.

When I finally reached the corner of Bank and Hudson, I sighed, stamped the snow off my boots, and reluctantly rejoined civilization. The White Horse Tavern was crowded despite the weather, and I knew Alf often stopped here for a burger or Coke. (Being an ex-alcoholic, he told me he no longer drank alcohol, but he still loved the atmosphere of pubs.) Unfortunately, I didn’t see him inside.

I chatted with the bartender, who told me he’d served Santa a cranberry juice. “He came in to get warm, wait for the snow to ease up, you know? And we were just hanging out, shooting the breeze when he jumped up all of a sudden and left in a big hurry.”

“Which way did he go?” I asked.

“West,” said the man, pointing. “Toward the river.”

That sounded wrong on a night like this, but I didn’t say so. I simply thanked the bartender, left the tavern, and returned to the chilly sidewalk. Moving off the bright main drag, I headed purposefully down the side street. Within two blocks, however, my firmness faltered.

The picturesque charm of the officially designated historic district was gone now. This close to the river, there were no more legally protected Italianate and Federal-style town houses. The buildings here were mostly remnants of the nineteenth-century industries that once supported the working waterfront.

Protected or not, however, the location of these former factories, garages, and warehouses put them right next door to a real estate bonanza. With the West Village commanding some of the highest rents in all of New York City, developers had taken advantage over the years, converting these old white elephants into residences for new money.

To make matters worse, the flurries started changing back into serious snowfall again. The clouds had thickened once more, and the icy flakes were getting heavier and more frequent. Even the halogen streetlamps were straining to cut through the returning blizzard.

With a shiver, I flipped up my parka’s hood. But my mood didn’t get any warmer. Traffic was nonexistent on