It Had to be Good! - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1929 - 7. VIII. Week Two – Chapter 3: Hope and Wonder

VIII. Week Two –

Chapter 3: Hope and Wonder

 

Lowell, alone and waiting for the twins' arrival in the Santaland green room, slowly raised his hand and pressed it to his cheek.

Yesterday, Bettina Martin had kissed him there.

Now, as he glanced around the room, and as his gaze casually picked out spots of sateen color from all the hangered costumes, he recalled how it had happened.

Their main course cleared, the menus reappeared, and the dessert section consulted. No cake, naturally, as she'd already had her natal-day limit of frosting, but that didn't mean Lowell could not treat her with another spot of sweetness.

He watched her eyes scan the choices and light up telling the waiter she'd like some tutti frutti ice cream.

'She's still so much a girl,' he had thought at that moment. 'But so grown up in many ways too.'

After their coffee – after Lowell enjoyed both his slice of lemon meringue pie and the sight of Bet with her frosty bowl, it was time for the girl to relieve Glen with another urgent 'telegram' delivered by reindeer-courier – they had to leave the rarefied air of the Famous Tea Room and its lilting string quartet band.

But on the way out, he inquired of the maitre d' if the young lady could have a souvenir menu. "It does have the date of her 21^st birthday printed on it, after all."

The menu, finally coming to rest in Bettina's hands on a permanent basis, made the girl so happy that she tugged on Lowell's jacket sleeve, made him lean down, then kissed him.

Now his fingers lightly brushed the spot and his mind considered that even if he blushed at the gesture, imagine the passion the girl's kiss could raise in the hearts of young-bloods like Lawrie or Glen. It was a powerful notion.

Just then, voices busy and lost in the details of problem solving sounded outside the open door.

Shuler and Wilkins strode in wearing their 'civilian' clothes, the sight of which reminded the adman that this was Sunday afternoon; the store was closed, and the troupe had come to mend, clean, touch up paint, and for the twins especially to oil and troubleshoot potential problems with the mechanical animals.

The minute they saw him, they shifted their attention to Lowell, who stood up and shook twin hands.

He gestured, and they all sat down. "You boys don’t dress alike?" For indeed, Shuler wore blue overalls and a denim shirt without a tie, and Wilkins appeared in tweed knickers, argyle calf socks, white shirt and yellow bowtie. Lowell knew both had identical cabby caps which hung billowy on the clothes rack behind him.

"We do," started Wilkins. "When we're not working."

"Yes," added Shuler. "But today I have to crawl around on the floor and get axle grease on my hands. I can't traipse around as pretty as him today." He gestured to his twin, and the motion of leaning his left shoulder to his brother was met halfway by the matching right shoulder of his brother.

To Lowell's ear, their accent was not Northwestern; it lacked the certain mellow brassiness of boys from Minnesota.

The adman flipped open his pad of paper and pulled down the waiting pencil from behind his ear. "You boys mind if I take notes while we talk?"

They glanced at each other, and shrugged.

"Nope," affirmed Shuler, resting elbows on his knees.

Wilkins also leaned forward, suddenly becoming interested in the adman's process as well. Instantly, Lowell could get the sense of how penetratingly curious the two handsome heads in front of him were. "First of all, where are you from? Where were you raised?"

Lowell crossed his legs as he sat back, raised his pad and started sketching. The boys were almost perfectly matched – pale blond hair, cut close and neatly free of pomade, about five-foot-ten-inches-tall, with lean farm-work built physiques. They were Nordic-looking chaps, with an easy smile, and friendly but reserved natures.

"We're hardscrabble Mainers," Shuler announced proudly.

"Born and bred," his twin confirmed.

"How old are you?"

"We're twenty-eight," said Wilkins matter-of-factly.

"See, we're the type who'd rather roll up our sleeves and fix a problem before yammering about it." Shuler's bright blue eyes sparkled at Lowell in pride.

"He's right." Wilkins agreed with his own smiling fix on the adman. "Shuler's the electrical wizard. He invented the mechanical figures the troupe hauls around: a black bear, a rearing lion for Dandiprat Dave to use his pony crop on, a pair of clown figures, and three baby elephants."

"If the railroads damaged, or…" Shuler shook his head in the slow unfolding of a nightmare scenario "…if they ever lost them figures, the troupe would be toast."

"Yeah," Wilkins agreed.

Shuler's tone brightened. He bragged, "Wilkins is the real artist here. He takes my steel armature and cable-wires under tension, and makes them alive."

"What do you mean?" Lowell asked, as he sketched the young man's smile

"Wilkins here made all the intricate paper-maché muscles underneath based on studying live creatures at the Como Zoo, in Saint Paul."

"Well – " protested his brother mildly, until Shuler cut him off.

"He also sewed all the fur 'costumes' our figures wear."

"Look boys, you both did a bang-up job – those mechanical beast round out your troupe's performance to a tee."

The twins glanced at one another again before turning back to the adman with matched blushes, and a softly-voiced 'thank you.'

Lowell restored his attention to sketching Wilkins and his bowtie. "So, how is it that you boys became acrobats, and wound up at the Doershunk-Martin troupe?"

Wilkins started before his brother could. "We were working for an older fella at another outfit."

"Everybody wondered if Arnie wasn’t skimming off the daily receipts."

"But anyway," continued Wilkins. "He was the one who 'discovered' us and taught us to be acrobats – "

"So we felt we owed him some loyalty, you know, some – "

"Benefit of the doubt. And that's where we'd still be too, if not for Alden."

Lowell halted in mid pencil stroke. "Alden? How does he tie in?" Interest shone in his voice, and confirmation that they had caught that interest got passed between the twins' fleeting glances.

Shuler went on with the story. "As Singer's right-hand-man, Alden likes to check out the competition. And that's what we were doing one night too at a rival setup."

"Alden has a reputation in the carny world as a stand-up type of guy, so we befriended him, and he bought us lemon ices."

"He told us that night, that if – "

"We got tired of Arnie's shenanigans – "

"We could come to him and Singer."

Wilkins clarified. "He said we could come to Alden if we even needed anything. There's something so decent about Alden, so – I don’t know – open and honest, that we wound up telling him about our concept for the moving animals. He was excited for us."

"Like we said," Shuler stated slowly. "We felt we owed Arnie, so we got our sketches together, and about a week later went to our boss. We explained how everything worked; how cheaply we could get them up and running."

"But…" Wilkins shook his head. "Arnie had been drinking, and he laughed in our faces. Said we should be happy as two-bit tumblers. Said that he picked us up as double-jointed guttersnipes knowing that's all we'd ever be."

Shuler concluded the tale for the both of them. "Long story short, that same hot summer's night, we found Alden's tent, then together with him showed Singer our ideas. Next day, we were on a train with them, rolling out of town as the newest members of Doershunk-Martin."

"And, we've been happy ever since."

While Lowell reinserted his pencil behind his ear, he thought, 'That Alden seems to know how to turn hero for a lot of people.'

He smiled to himself. That was surely a remarkable attribute for a man to have. It clearly pointed like a compass needle to the northward bearing that Alden must be a remarkable man as well.

"One more question, fellas; same one Singer and I discussed. What do you think about the current work outlook?"

"The economy?" asked Shuler.

"Yeah, that's what he means," clarified Wilkins for his own brother. "Well," he continued. "As far as I can tell, nothing's changed. The country's just as productive and prosperous as before the October 'crash' – "

"All that's needed," confirmed Shuler, "is confidence. If we have that, as a people, as a nation, then all we have to do is roll up our sleeves and bootstrap our way out of it."

Both young men folded arms and sat back with self-assurance.

"Funny, that's pretty much what Singer told me."

But in the adman's mind was a nagging tie-in of bad times to his own job, to his own future, or lack of one. He 'just had to roll up his sleeves' and produce a campaign, but sometimes the way to reach the simplest goal is the most harrowing and circuitous of all.

He hoped the jobs outlook was not going to prove the same.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

'Sakes Alive!' Bettina thought, conjuring up Lorna's favorite exclamation. 'It's a busy Sunday afternoon.'

She strode through the main entry of Santaland Circus carefully gripping a rattling tray with both hands. On it were a dozen sandwiches, each carefully enfolded in a sheet of wax paper, and an equal dozen green bottles bearing the moniker Cleo Cola.

As the young woman walked the troupe's refreshments towards a card table she'd set up before heading to the staff canteen on 12, she glanced around at the activity. Everyone was busy with work and barely seemed to notice the girl's entrance.

Pint-sized cans of periwinkle were open, and in one corner, Dandiprat Dave was touching up a section of wall it appeared kids had a natural tendency to brush against.

Bet thought about her lunch with Lowell yesterday. What a wonderful 24-hours of glowing memories she had relived several times already. The palms, the ritzy patrons, the cold-fish waiter, and especially the theater of food performed to the warm strains of music from the Tea Room's string quartet.

She'd have these memories locked forever of what it was like to turn twenty-one in this place, at this magical time.

One thing the girl did wonder about was the way Alden and the adman were 'dancing around' one another with such caution. For Alden at least, that behavior was well out of character.

That thought, as she re-gripped the heavy tray, got lost in another. Namely, how much affection she felt towards Lowell Fredricks. In her mind's eye, she could see yesterday's menu sitting open on her boarding house dresser.

She glanced to her left. Lorna's sewing machine was back against the window for the best light, and the woman – with pins in her mouth – was raising up a costume to test out the strength of a repaired crotch split. The satin held, and Lorna was pleased.

Singer was nearby. He had his tricycle upside down, and diligently worked with an oilcan on the front wheel. The back left wheel had a carefully cultivated squeak. She had occasionally seen her father take off that wheel and apply a few grains of sand to adjust the squeet-squeet-squeet's precious volume and tone. He was a master of his craft, and his stock and trade were in children's laughter.

Bet reached the table and set her tray down with some relief. Still no one seemed to really notice her, and motion from one corner drew her eye. Here Alden and Lawrie were working with the mechanical lion.

'As for Lawrie,' she considered quietly to herself. 'He's a good boy at heart.' A switch was flipped and the lion slowly rose on its hind legs to do its rearing routine. 'But, like any animal feeling caged, he's unpredictable.'

Bettina Martin unwillingly found herself glancing at Singer again, but as she did so, the vague perception of being watched overtook her. She followed the physical source of the tingling sensation. A cocky-looking, undeniably handsome, Glen Curtis was leaning in the doorway to Santa's Throne Room with folded arms and a slight smile for her.

Bet casually strode in that direction, using the distracting motion of a hand adjusting her hair as excuse to see if anyone in the room had also noticed the cowboy. Apparently, no one had.

As she got to within a foot of him, Glen stood erect, and now not only the lower portion of his face was grinning at her, but his blue sparklers smiled as well.

She held out her hand and used her momentum to help him walk backwards into the throne room.

Once they were in the center of that empty space, she cocked her head. "It's your day off, you know. You don’t have to be here."

"I know. I also know you need some time off too."

"Well, it's not like I can go far – "

"Who said far?"

Bettina folded her arms in suspicion. "What do you have in mind?"

His grin narrowed into sincerity. "Ever feel like exploring a great department store when nobody's around?"

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Bettina Martin and Glen Curtis wandered casually amongst the displays of sewing machines. No one was around on the 6^th floor this Sunday afternoon, so as the young woman's fingers idly bounced over the top of machine to machine, her eyes scanned bolts upon bolts of fabrics in the neighboring department. She glanced the other direction, and took in displays of needlework canvasses, and racks full of rainbow-hued skeins of silk embroidery thread from France. Evergreen wreaths here, like on the 1^st floor, added that extra holiday dimension of scent to other Christmas decorations scattered 'round about.

She turned and walked backwards for a while, dipping her expression to the side for the viewing pleasure of Glen. That young man hefted his inscrutable cowboy smile at her, and easily reinforced Bettina's mood of feeling as light and carefree as a child again. Maybe she was letting 'December' seep into her heart… Or, maybe it was all due to the six-foot, blue-eyed companion wryly inspecting her as she walked.

"Did you mother make your clothes?"

He was pleasantly stunned. He gripped the lapels of his tweed sports coat. "These?"

Bettina's rebuttal got snagged a moment in consideration of just how attractively the young man's wavy blond hair was slicked back.

"No, silly. I mean, when you were a boy."

There was that mysterious whiff of coconut again which seemed to emanate from or through that boy.

"Oh! Yes and no. She had to make my knee-breeches for school out of the school uniform fabric, but all the rest she'd buy."

Bettina paused, so she could stroll side by side with Glen.

"Remember what I said about the Montgomery Ward catalogue? Well, it was good too for my wardrobe."

"What do you mean? Singer would buy your clothes from there?"

"No, no. I mean, the catalogue would come, Lorna would tell me to pick my two favorite outfits for the new season, and she'd sit down at the sewing machine and figure out how to reproduce them, right down to the smallest detail. She's a wizard with bobbin and foot-pedal."

"That sounds sweet. I bet you were a very fashionable little girl."

Bettina chuckled; it was the sort of laugh that welled from the deepest well of hidden emotion. "Yes and no. Everything was cut and sewn just like the pictures from Montgomery Ward, but Lorna – bless her soul – could only use the cloth she could get her hands on. So I had a bunch of fancy-sewn spring and summer dresses made out of shirt flannel and bed ticking, and fall and winter looks made from old drapes – but, I loved them! I surely did."

"Sounds like your father, Lorna and Alden made sure you wanted for nothing."

"Yes. It's true; even now it's true."

When Bet glanced away from her charming companion, she realized they were moving out of the sewing-goods department. A sign suspended from the ceiling across the aisle said: 'Phonographs.'

While Glen veered to the right and began perusing the Victrolas – both cabinet and tabletop models – Bet went left to the wooden racks of records.

Hundreds upon hundreds of them were sectioned in 'troughs' that hoisted labels above waist level, and within easy perusal of wandering fingertips. Bettina used hers to just lightly skim over the tops of the many ridges of paper sleeves holding the discs to note the signs stuck between them announcing categories. One said 'Dance Music,' another said 'Black Label Jazz,' and a third announced it housed 'Hill Country Music.' Bet idly pondered if she could find a 'Western Blues' category as well.

The singer in question came up to her, distracted. "I wonder where the radio department is – "

He stopped once he saw she was looking at the records. "You know," he told her, his rich baritone even mellower than usual. "Someday you'll find my records in those racks."

She grabbed his lower arm. "I know I will, Glen. You're very talented. Soon everyone will be buying your recordings."

This protestation of faith in Glen's future glory seemed to affect him. To Bet's eyes, it looked like it made him sad.

"You really think so," he asked.

"No thinking required, bud. I know so."

Now he smiled. "You're a good girl, Bettina Martin. A really good one."

There was something in Glen's tone, more so than in his words, that made the young woman blush. She distracted herself by glancing around. "Look!" She pointed at another sign saying: 'Piano Salon.'

They went towards it, and beyond a display area full of sheet music and elegant cabinets to store it in the parlor at home, was a huge room behind glass.

They entered the Piano Salon, closed the door after them and Glen switched on the lights. A space that was about 100-foot long and 50-foot deep contained more holiday decorations, and dozens and dozens of pianos. Many were upright models, and displayed back to back to form aisles. The styles, cabinets and finishes were all different – and one area was even made up of parlor organs, both the traditional pump-pedal variety, and the newfangled electric motor type.

While Glen wandered off down the first row of uprights, Bettina spotted a dish of business cards on the desk near the door. She picked one up, read it and laughed. Just like the card that had led her to Famous-Barr on the first day, this one too had an F-B shield, wreath and eagle trademark in the upper left-hand corner, but the reason the girl had laughed was because the name on it was also familiar.

She went to Glen, who was tickling the ivories of a particularly handsome upright piano in a satinwood case.

"Look at this." She held out the card, and read it for the young man. "H. J. Dickhaus, Manager Piano Section."

His eyes sparkled, wanting to share in her mirth, but he didn't get it. "So…?"

"So, I know where the Piano Manager's misses spends her days."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that while her husband is an ivory-pusher downstairs, Mrs. Dickhaus is a bean-counter upstairs."

"And you know this…how?"

"Trust me, I know because I have to see her sauerbraten puss every Saturday afternoon to get the troupe's pay."

Glen paused, then let out a tremendous laugh.

Inexplicably, Bettina felt close to Glen at that very moment. It was as if his mere openness drew her nearer to the real Glen Curtis that he never really seemed concerned with covering up anyway.

In the motion of his laughing, he spotted something.

Bettina followed his eyes and saw them locked on a sign. 'Duo-Art Reproducing Pianos.'

"Come on," he said, setting out for the new section with awe-induced quiet.

There were four or five models set up in horseshoe fashion.

Glen drew back the tambour door on the central one, and Bet could see a pure-white roll of silk with dozens of tiny cutouts threaded into the instrument.

"Are these special?" Bet asked.

"Yes. These aren’t your Old West variety player pianos plunking away in the saloons. The Duo-Art can record in high fidelity. When the recording artist sits down to play, the Duo-Art can record something like two-hundred and sixty settings simultaneously, every half second. So when it's played back, every one of those nuances are reproduced live, each time."

"That's amazing."

"Sure is. Gershwin records on a Duo-Art. I'm sure they have his piano rolls here. This store seems to have everything."[1]

"I bet they do."

While the handsome young man placed a hand on top of the cabinet and leaned down with cocked eyebrows to inspect the roll mechanism, Bettina was overcome with curiosity. "You never really speak about your family. Are they good people?"

"They're fine," Glen said absentmindedly.

"But, where are they? What do they do? Don’t they miss you?"

Glen stood upright. He focused on Bet. "They're back home, on our ranch in SoCal. We've got about five hundred acres of orchards growing oranges and almonds."

"So, you grew up there?"

"Yes. Always lots to do on a farm. My brother, sisters and me were always kept occupied."

"And what'd they think of you going on the road?"

Glen chuckled. "My mother couldn't quite believe I wanted to become an 'entertainer.' Below our station in life, she probably thought."

"And your dad?"

"I think he understood better. Understood the impulse to strike out on my own. But he made sure the last thing I heard was that the ranch was always open to me if things got tough."

"And have they?"

"Gotten tough?"

"Yes."

"Oh, yes." He smiled. "Life ain't easy, but it'd be very 'tougher' to go back before I can prove to myself that I can make it. And, I don’t mind the road."

Bet sighed. "But still, it's nice to have a place where you can hang up your hat for awhile."

"You mean like your troupe's place in Florida?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."

They left the Duo-Art section and began walking down an aisle towards the windows.

Bet continued, "Anticipation is such a sweet thing to have. Like when I was young, Singer and Lorna would write in and order one of those Montgomery Ward specials – 10lbs. of hard candy – so it was waiting for us in Florida. First day there, me and Alden would trudge down to the post office in town and lug it all the way home."

"Ten pounds of candy?"

"Yeah, I know it sounds like a lot, but between the eight of us, it would barely last until spring and our trip back up to Minnesota."

"Never heard of – "

"See, for $2.79, not only do you get the candy, but it comes in something practical – like a milk pail with a lid, or an aluminum cooking pot. 'Can't spend money on something that simply melts away,' Singer always says."

"So, you don’t like being on the road?"

Bet had to glance at and hold Glen's blue eyes; there had been something like trepidation in his question.

"I like having a place at the end of the road." She grew pensive. "There's a difference, I think. It goes back to 'anticipation.' I guess it's like how Singer always made sure I woke up on Christmas morning to one of those red mesh stockings, the kind that's factory-filled with little toys and treats." She chuckled. "Although sometimes they'd be shaped like Santa Claus; his breeches stuffed with goodies, his upper body a printed version of the ole Saint with beard, grin and good cheer."[2]

"Singer is a good dad, isn't he?"

"Very good. Of course, he had Lorna and Alden to help raise me, but sometimes – like Christmas – he'd always make sure he did something himself for me. He made sure I knew he was there for me, always."

Glen was sad.

Bettina continued. "Anyway, I'd wake up Christmas morning, and usually find Singer's mesh stocking placed on top of my packed suitcase – that'd be the day we often set out for Florida."

"So, that was your 'place at the end of the road?'"

"Yes, but I was a good little girl. I'd save my stocking candy and orange from midnight mass for the train ride. That was the one trip a year I enjoyed the most. Everyone in the troupe was exhausted, but quietly excited – maybe it's better to say 'relieved' – to get some time off. We don’t get much of that from April to January, so we're mentally beat."

Bet spotted how the area by the windows opened up. This is where all the baby-grands were on display.

"Come on." She grabbed his hand.

Bettina pulled him over and selected a nice one. She then sat Glen Curtis down on its bench, before moving to stand in the curve of the instrument. "Listen to me," she told him with a chuckle, "rambling on about myself like a bore."

Glen started tinkling the ivories again. "It's all right. I like hearing about you."

"But since you don’t seem to want to talk about you, will you do me a favor?"

He laughed: "Sure."

"Will you sing a song for me?"

The smile was back on Glen's face. "What kind of song?"

"One that you like. One that 'speaks' to you."

Glen inhaled, made an elaborate run of the scales, which dissolved effortlessly into blue notes and a ballad tempo. "This is a little number I like from George and Ira Gershwin."

Bettina rested her chin on her palm as she leaned over the ebonized piano lid to watch him perform.

He sang smoothly with a lot of tender expression, and just the right blend of rustic twang and urban blues that Bettina could already recognize as his trademark.

 

"Modern progress strikes a blue note

When with Nature it plays cutthroat –

Give me the open range before it all goes.

My nostalgia gets a tickle

Away from the city and its nickel –

Give me the open range before it all goes.

In the deepest woodlands

Or on the wide scrublands

My heart is happiest when all that it surveys

Is Nature at its purest –

Without a single tourist

To spoil my heart's song – my Nature's melody.

 

 

Let me stroll amongst the meadows

Where my heart's light and free

Where my song is ever singing!

And my echo's ever sighing

For you and me.

Let me climb the highest mountains

Where our minds at peace can be

Where my voice is ever calling

To the sun just then rising

For you and me.

 

And I can stroll along the beach

Where all my cares dissolve like the dunes of sand,

Because the changing tides can teach

How we should all walk hand-in-hand

Without a care in our heart

If we would only start

Not to spoil our Nature's melody."

 

Bettina righted herself and applauded. "You have a real gift, Glen Curtis. You'll go far, I know it!" She could still feel the piano vibrations echoing through her body.

He demurred, saying, "Come over here and sit with me."

She did, and Glen picked up her left hand. He placed her fingers on the keyboard, and with his placed over the top as a guide, played the opening chord of the song again. "This tune is really a duet, you know," he said as he adjusted her spread and played the second chord. "The girl's part is all about the thrill of convenience and city life."

Bettina scanned his profile. "And you want me to learn it?"

He kept his eyes on her hands as he struck the third chord. "It'd be fantastic to do it with you; a new billing perhaps? The Blues Singing Cowboy and Cowgirl." He looked over to her. That sadness was back. "Do you really think I have talent?"

"I know you do."

"But I guess you have a desire to settle down, don’t you?"

Bettina chuckled. "Cottage-for-two ambitions?"

He remained serious. "Yes. Giving up the troupe's wandering ways."

Glen's fingers had stopped attempting to guide hers over the keys; instead they simply stroked her with a slight tremble. "I fear that because of your tumbleweed existence, you'll long most for those familiar things girls want in popular songs – a home, a hearth, a little family too."

Bettina knew she was going to surprise him. "No, I can't give up the road. I thrive on it." She picked up his hand and simply held it. "I guess today I just realized, you and I are more alike than we probably knew. You like it because it offers you escape from your down-on-the-farm prison, and I have to embrace it as the only thing I've ever known. But in any event, we are aligned."

Right before her eyes, Glen's mood lightened like a million concerns had just flown from his heart.

"I want to share, Bettina; I do." He reached out and held her other hand as well. "You want to know about my mom? I'm an open book. Well, when I told my folks I had auditioned for the Orpheum agent and been offered a vaudeville contract, my mother was shocked, but she accepted that I had to try it." He chuckled. "Maybe both my parents think it's a phase! But it's not. You can see it's not – I'm paying my dues until I can get on the radio, and now that Hollywood sees the necessity of making talking pictures, there's more opportunities for guys like me."

"Yes, Glen." Bet found his enthusiasm infectious.

"I don’t have anything against my folks, or the life they've built for themselves, but when I consider going back to SoCal, it won't be to white-wash the base of trees, but to spiffen up the white-wall tires on my Duesenberg – that's once I've signed a contract with Columbia Records, or Universal Studios!"

Bettina was all aglow. This boy was so special.

Glen slowly leaned sideways on the bench towards her. His lips parted, and his eyes closed.

Bet swallowed down a lump. An unwanted image of Singer caused her to drop his hands and stand up.

Glen sprung to his feet, looking concerned. "I'm – "

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," Bettina pleaded. "'Cause the last thing I want is for you to be sorry."

His fear was slowly replaced with cocky swagger. "Good to know, because I'd never be sorry a day in my life to kiss you."

He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Glen – I better be getting back upstairs." She made to go.

"Wait. I'll go with you, but I almost forgot to give you this." He extracted a small paper bag from his pocket and held it out.

Bettina took it. White with holly designs printed all over it, one corner was reserved for the lettering: 'From the Famous-Barr Candy Counter.'

She undid the folded-over flap and reached in. Although there were about half a dozen items in there, she pulled out a red Santa face French cream.

She glanced up at Glen in amazement.

"You said," he explained softly, "that you never had one. I want you to have it, and many more, Bet." His tone was deep and sincere.

In her mind, Bettina Martin considered that kissing Glen Curtis would probably be sweeter than all the ten-pound pails of candy ever sold through the Montgomery Ward Christmas catalogue, even with its green-ink pages of endless hope and wonder.