Holiday Grind Read Online Free PDF Page A

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