Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (18 page)

Right after that we drove home. When we pulled in to our street, it was obvious we’d have to leave again ASAP and find something else to do. But we didn’t mind.

The street was full of cars!

We drove in front of the house, and I could see the silhouette of my mom through the window, laughing with another lady. There must have been ten people in the house.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to get ice cream,” Dad said. He smiled broadly. I was sure if he hadn’t been driving the car he would have done his figgy pudding dance again.

“Oh, too bad,” Louanne said, faking sorrow.

We drove by the town center. “There’s Father Christmas,” I said, pointing him out to Louanne. “This is the last weekend to get your requests to him before Christmas.”

She shook her head. “I’m too old to visit him or sit on his lap. I’m going to look on the computer tonight and see if I can find his address.”

Dad looked at me out of the corner of his eye. We both knew a letter to Father Christmas mailed to points unknown didn’t have any more chance of arriving than letters addressed to Santa Claus, care of the North Pole. “Actually, I was planning to go see him tomorrow,” I said. Dad and Louanne both looked at me like I was crazy.

“I have a few follow-up questions from my interview,” I said. Like any good reporter, I wanted to talk directly with the source before deciding what to tell and what to hold back.

“Oh, will you take my letter then?” Louanne asked.

“I will,” I said.

“Thank you, Savvy,” she said quietly. “It’s really important that he gets this.” This time it was her eyes that brimmed with tears.

The next morning when we woke up the house was a mess. But we didn’t mind helping Mom clean up. She swept around the kitchen more like Mary Poppins than a chicken this time.

“So apparently there aren’t a lot of women on our street,” she said as she loaded the tiny dishwasher with coffee mugs.

“There sure were a lot of cars,” I said.

“Vivienne decided to invite her book club, which I thought was very nice,” Mom said.

I thought so too.

“She’d asked me last week if she could invite a few others, and of course I said yes. But I didn’t know who she meant. I don’t know why she waited so long to reply, but I didn’t want to seem rude and ask.”

I knew why. But if Aunt Maude was keeping her secret—and not claiming credit for the good deed—then I wouldn’t tell either. It made Mom happier this way, I think.

A couple of hours later I pulled on my puffy coat and sadly worn UGG boots before heading out to see Father Christmas. “These have a rip in them,” I complained. “And they’re stained.”

Louanne stood by, smiling widely.

“What’s so great?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She held out an envelope to me. “Thanks for taking this.”

“You’re welcome,” I grumbled. And then I headed off toward the town center.

There was no snow today, but the frost had made pretty patterns on the windows I passed, and the tree limbs were frozen in limbo till spring. I could feel the cobblestones beneath the worn tread of my old boots, and I was careful to step firmly and not slip. I knew I was getting close to the town center, because I could hear the music in the distance. As I got closer, I could see small groups of Dickens carolers standing here and there with their black leather music books open, singing aloud. The girls all had felt bonnets on, lined with pretty white satin ruffles, and long red velvet dresses with button-up boots. The guys wore tall top hats and black woolen jackets with ties that matched the girls’ dresses. It looked—and sounded—very English. Very Christmassy.

And, of course, in the middle of the town center was Father Christmas. I got in line.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to say. Would I ask him questions? Would I keep his secret? Would I inform him that I was going to tell? Or simply give him Louanne’s letter? I didn’t know, but I hoped I would by the time I got to the front of the line.

Dear Jesus, please help me know what to say,
I prayed. I’d spent an hour the night before looking up the word
secret
in an online Bible concordance, looking for wisdom for the decision I needed to make. A few verses stuck in my heart and mind. I hoped that the Holy Spirit would bring one to light as I talked with Father Christmas to let me know what to do.

“Move along then.” A woman with a small boy nudged me from behind. He glared at me and then picked his nose.

Merry Christmas to you too,
I thought. The line shuffled for a few more minutes before it was my turn. “Would you like to go first?” I asked the woman behind me. I didn’t want to be rushed when it was my turn to talk, and her son looked like he was going to have a breakdown pretty soon.

“That’s very decent of you,” she said. She eyed me carefully and kept her arm tightly around her son as they moved past me. No doubt she was wondering what a teenage girl was doing in line to see Father Christmas.

Then I took my turn. I didn’t sit on his lap—of course!—but I did come close enough that our conversation would remain private.

“Well, it’s the intrepid reporter,” Father Christmas said as I came closer. “With the eagle eye.” I looked closely at his. They were twinkling.

I dived right in. “Speaking of eyes, how is yours feeling?”

“Oh, my eyes are just fine, young lady,” he said. “Nothing at all to worry about. A few days of tender care by the missus, and Bob’s your uncle.”

He wasn’t admitting anything, but he grinned. He knew that I knew. I liked being a reporter and knowing the inside scoop.

“Are you here as a reporter or someone with a Christmas list?” he asked.

“Both. I was wondering: can you tell me anything about secrets?” I asked.

“Of course I can,” he said. “As Father Christmas, I hear lots of secrets. People whisper what they want for gifts, of course. But a lot of times they whisper a lot more than that. They tell me if their mum and dad are fighting and ask me to fix that for Christmas. They share their secret hopes, knowing that, as Father Christmas, I can be trusted to keep it all right in here.” He thumped his chest. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked.

I nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Do you remember when you asked me what the best part of my job was?”

I nodded. “You said helping other people, doing a bit of good when you can.”

“That’s right. Now, do you think I can do more good as Father Christmas or as . . . say, a regular old postman?”

I drew in my breath. He was as good as admitting it! But then I had to think about it before answering him. It began to snow lightly, and a few flakes stuck on his cheeks and mine. “As Father Christmas, I suppose. Because people believe that you have the power to help them. If you’re just, well, someone they see every day, they might not think you can.”

“Even Jesus said that a prophet was rejected in his hometown. Right? Because they didn’t think anyone they knew could be that special.” Father Christmas knew the Bible? Well . . . I suppose it made sense that he would.

“He did say that,” I agreed.

“Now I’m not perfect like Jesus, of course, but the principle is the same. Do you see that, young lady?”

“I do,” I said. “But then how do you get any credit? Don’t you care that people don’t know about the good things you do?”

“Ah, but I am rewarded.” He smiled and pointed a finger upward, toward heaven. “I just have to trust that as I do good for others,
Someone
will notice.”

I nodded. I was starting to understand what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to keep his secret so he could keep his secret—and keep doing his good deeds, too. I promised nothing, though.

“You’re on your way to having both a reporter’s eye . . . and a writer’s heart. Now—what about your Christmas list? We’d better get moving before the queue behind you starts to grumble.”

I laughed. “I’m mostly here to deliver this for my sister.” I held out the small red envelope that carried a Christmas card—and Louanne’s dearest wish. She’d written
Father Christmas
on the front and put our return address in the corner.

He took it from me. “Do you know what’s in here?”

I shook my head. “No, though I did want to peek,” I admitted. “I don’t, uh, know exactly how this Father Christmas thing works. But I put my mom’s e-mail address on the back of it. Just in case, you know, you needed some help getting whatever my sister needed. Because I think it’s really important to her.”

“Thoughtful,” he said. “But . . . what about you? What would you like?”

I started to say, “Nothing.” But then I thought,
Take a leap. Take a chance, Savvy.
I could hear the little girl in line behind me start to cry, so I knew I needed to hurry.

“I’d like . . . a really good friend.” The words rushed out. “A guy who likes me for myself. A way to help others. A ministry. And . . .”
Should I say it? I’d be sharing a secret of my own, then.

“A Wexburg Academy
Times
pen,” I said.

“That’s it?” he joked.

I grinned. “Yeah, short order. I know.”

At that, the little girl behind me rushed up and dived into Father Christmas’s lap. My audience was over.