Page 12 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

“Mr. Smith was just saying goodbye,” he reminds me.

“Oh. I’m sorry. My mind must have been somewhere else. Have a great afternoon.”

“You as well. Thank you, again, for coming. I hope we left a good impression!”

Sam and I smile at him, wave, and head out amid another wave of arrivals. I glance over my shoulder as we leave and see Marissa waiting in her spot, grinning as another group heads in her direction. I don’t see Mr. Rainey anymore.

”I think you just lost out on a guaranteed spot at that shopping party,” Sam says when we get into the car. “He seems pretty excited at the idea of you becoming a devoted mall shopper.”

I scoff. “Such a terrible missed opportunity. I’m sure it will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

“Well,” Sam says, acting like he’s going to take off his seat belt and get back out of the car, “I could just go back in there and let him know you would absolutely love to fill out one of those entry forms for a once-in-a-lifetime chance at attending the party.”

“No, I think that the mall open house is a one-time entry sort of situation. Once you leave, that’s it. We didn’t get our hands stamped. It’s a whole thing,“ I remark.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. That’s how things like this work.”

“That’s too bad,” he shrugs. “I think this could have been the beginning of a really beautiful partnership.”

“Between the mall and the FBI?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Exactly. It’s revolutionary. Never been done before,” Sam says.

“That’s true. Imagine all the merchandising opportunities,” I say.

“But, you know, hand stamps,” Sam says.

I shrug. “Can’t fight the man.”

He laughs and pulls out of the parking space, following the directions of yet another neon-dressed parking attendant guiding us out of the parking lot and back onto the road.

We talk about the tour as we drive home, comparing notes about what we saw and what we were looking forward to doing when it was officially open. Sam seems more impressed by it than I expected him to be. I could tell there was at least a little bit of curiosity when we arrived, but by the time we got over the first encounter with Keilan, had taken a glimpse into the first anchor store, and were browsing our way past the first stretch of shops, including a huge arcade, he was starting to get interested. I don’t think we’re going to be planning date nights there any time soon, but I have a feeling there are going to be some Christmas shopping bags from several of those stores tucked conspicuously into various closets and corners throughout our house come mid-December.

“We should go back when they put the Christmas display up,” I say. “See Santa taking pictures. Did you ever do that?”

“Of course,” he says, shooting me a sideways look. “Don’t you remember the awful framed pictures my mother would put up every Christmas season of me sitting on Santa’s lap in those sweaters my great-grandmother made for me?”

“You know, I don’t remember the pictures themselves, but I think I have an impression of those sweaters in the back of my mind.”

He shudders slightly. “Oh, you would know. If you saw those things once, they stayed with you for the rest of your existence.”

I laugh, then let out a breath. “I never did it.”

“You never did what?” he asks.

“Took one of those pictures?”

This time the look is less confused and more shocked. “Never? You never had a picture taken with Santa when you were little?”

“No. I mean, I might have gotten one when I was a really little baby and don’t remember it, but I never got one when I remembered it. And there were never any pictures like that of me that came out during the Christmas season or were in any of those scrapbooks or the boxes of pictures my mother had. I think it’s just something my parents didn’t do,” I say.

“I thought your mom loved Christmas,” Sam frowns.

“She did. She loved decorating and she always made angel wings like her mother did back in Russia. Sitting on Santa’s lap for a picture was just one of the traditions she and my dad never picked up on.”

“Oh, we have to get a picture of you sitting on Santa’s lap,” he laughs.

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