Page 77 of Cold Comeback
Mrs. Anderson, who'd been coordinating the event since the Carter administration, stood with her arms crossed. She was seventy-three, built like a linebacker, and had taught Sunday school to half the adults in Richmond.
"Excuse me." Her steely voice brooked no argument. "That wise man has stood in that exact spot since 1987."
Blake's media smile never faltered, but he took a step backward. "I understand your attachment to tradition, but for the documentary to capture authentic Christmas spirit—"
"Son." Mrs. Anderson moved closer, and Blake's retreat became more obvious. "I've been capturing Christmas spirit since you were learning to walk. Those wise men stay where they are."
Knox appeared beside me with coffee that smelled like he'd filtered it through gym socks. "Twenty bucks says she makes him wet himself before lunch."
"That's a sucker bet. I give him ten minutes."
Around the room, my teammates processed the invasion in various ways. Pluto snagged a cup from the hot chocolate station. Bricks lingered near the entrance, terrified of being filmed while interacting with children. Linc surveyed the camera setup, calculating how much acting would be required to survive the day.
Then I spotted Thatcher.
He knelt beside a folding table in the far corner, helping two teenage volunteers untangle what appeared to be the entire Christmas light inventory of Richmond, Virginia. The lights were knotted, perhaps deliberately sabotaged by the ghosts of Christmas Past.
The teenagers complained about their volunteer assignments, using the theatrical drama of frustrated seventeen-year-olds. Thatcher listened carefully, understanding they believed all adults might be idiots who didn't understand real problems.
"This is literally the worst," the girl declared, holding up a string of tangled lights. "My mom made me come here instead of going to Ashley's party, and now I'm stuck doing crafts with little kids all day."
Thatcher worked at a particularly stubborn knot. "That does sound rough. Missing out on plans with friends."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. He wasn't patronizing or dismissive. He actively validated her disappointment.
"At least you get it," she said, warming to his attention. "Adults always act like teenage problems don't matter."
"Teenage problems matter a lot when you're a teenager."
A recognition grew inside me as I watched him work—with the lights and with the kids. This was who Thatcher was when he forgot to perform. Patient. Present. Useful without making it about himself.
"You're staring again," Linc observed.
"Monitoring team dynamics."
"Right. Very captainly of you." He sipped his toxic coffee and grimaced. "Pluto must have used motor oil instead of water for this."
By nine-thirty, the first families had begun arriving for what Wren described as an intimate community celebration. She'd explained the usual crowd for the event was fifty people—parents with young children, a few grandparents, and the volunteers who helped coordinate activities.
By ten, I realized she'd far underestimated Richmond's investment in the tradition.
The line to get in stretched past the community center doors, around the municipal building, and down Maple Street toward the elementary school. It wasn't dozens of families. It was hundreds, and they kept coming.
I recognized some of the faces. Mr. Petrov, our van mechanic, stood with his three grandchildren, speaking to them in heavily accented English.
Behind them, the overnight shift from Richmond General Hospital, still in scrubs, stopped by on their way home from saving lives. An older man near the front of the line wore a Reapers jacket so faded the logo had worn to ghost threads. When our eyes met, he touched the brim of his cap.
Blake was having what appeared to be a controlled panic attack. "This wasn't in the plan," he muttered to Rachel,frantically gesturing for his crew to reposition cameras. "We prepared for intimate small-town footage. Heartwarming but manageable. This is..."
"This is a story," Rachel said. They'd come prepared to document quaint minor league charm, not genuine community investment that spanned generations.
The noise level climbed steadily—the warm rumble of people happy to be together, celebrating a favorite holiday. Then, the fire marshal arrived.
The door opened to admit a stocky man in uniform. Conversations quieted as everyone made space for his authority.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." His voice carried over the diminished chatter as he surveyed the packed room with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen too many celebrations end in tragedy. "How many people are in here?"
Wren materialized beside him instantly, her crisis management instincts sharp. "We're monitoring capacity very carefully—"
