'Tis the Season Read Free Page B

gotten to the part that mattered most to him: Were the insoles manufactured by underpaid Honduran children? No way was this meeting going to end in time for him to pick up Gracie at her preschool by five o’clock.
    He sighed again, this time not caring if everyone inthe room heard him. “Excuse me,” he said, gazing at the Georgian gents and ignoring the anger he could feel radiating from Jennifer. “We’re going to have to take a break here. I’ve got to make a call. Or—” a pleasant idea struck him “—you can keep on going without me.” He sent Jennifer a broad grin.
    She did not grin back. “I think we’ll all take a quick breather,” she suggested. Heaven forbid Evan should miss a single scintillating minute of the presentation.
    He liked Jennifer. More important, he needed her. She was yin to his yang, or however the saying went. She was the one who found new products, introduced them to Evan and helped him decide whether to stock them in the stores. She was good at her job. And for all he knew, these Pep Insoles might be a fabulous product—although even if they were, he wasn’t going to devote precious shelf space to them during the pre-Christmas sales season, when people would be streaming into Champion Sports outlets throughout southern New England hoping to buy little Johnny or Susie or Uncle Mike a nice leather first-baseman’s glove, a soccer ball, a pool cue, golf clubs, ice skates, free weights or whatever else might look suitably festive wrapped in red and green paper and planted under a Douglas fir in the family room. Somehow, Evan couldn’t imagine little Johnny or Susie or Uncle Mike writing a letter that said, “Dear Santa, I’ve been really good this year, so please bring me some Pep Insoles for my sneakers.”
    He nodded to the Pep Insole guys as he passed them on his way to the door. It wasn’t locked; he didn’t have to pound on it and scream, “Let me out!” Even so, when he crossed the threshold, he felt liberated. He had to stifle the urge to sprint to the elevator and make his escape.
    Exercising exemplary self-discipline, he crossed the hall to his office, reached for the phone on his desk and pressed the memory-dial button for Gracie’s preschool. After two rings, a familiar voice came on the line: “Children’s Garden, may I help you?”
    â€œMolly? It’s Evan Myers.”
    He could almost picture the school’s director cringing. “I hope you’re not calling to tell me you’re going to be late.”
    â€œI’m calling to tell you I’m going to be late,” he said, seasoning his voice with contrition and brave cheerfulness. “I’m really sorry. These people flew up from Atlanta to pitch their product, and they’re running long. I can’t get them to shut up. We’ve got at least another half hour here before we’re done.”
    â€œEvan.” Molly sounded stern. He could understand how she managed to keep a school full of rambunctious toddlers in line. She didn’t even have to raise her voice to make him quail in his loafers. “This is the third time in two weeks you’ve been late.”
    â€œI’ll pay the late fee, Molly. I’m really—”
    â€œâ€”sorry,” she finished for him. “Not good enough. The late fee is supposed to be a deterrent, Evan. It doesn’t seem to be deterring you.”
    He raked a hand through his hair and scrambled for a strategy to soften her up. She was a petite woman, cute and warm and wise in the ways of children—but she was also tough. Very tough.
    He decided to make a play for pity. “You know, it’s hard being a single father. I’ve got a business to run, I’ve got two kids to raise and I’m doing it all by myself.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be,” Molly said simply. “You ought to hire a nanny or a baby-sitter. Or