Page 26 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter eighteen

Gideon

T he community center looked like a crime scene—holiday spirit murdered by industrial lighting. The Reapers agreed to help out at the center's annual Christmas party for families.

Blake stood in the center of the main hall, arms spread wide like a conductor preparing to direct his orchestra. Camera operators scurried around him, positioning equipment. Tinsel blanketed every surface—like a craft store exploded.

"The wise men need to face camera two," Blake announced, gesturing toward the nativity scene. "And that tree needs more sparkle. Way more sparkle."

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—"

"Ma'am, you're over by at least fifty people," the marshal interrupted. "This is a fire safety issue. I'll have to shut this down unless you can get these numbers under control immediately."

Silence reigned. Blake's face turned pale. "But we're filming a documentary—"

"Sir, I don't care if you're filming the Second Coming, my job is keeping people safe, not protecting your production schedule."

Wren's thoughts churned at light speed. She didn't panic. Instead, she calculated resources and logistics with the efficiency of a computer processing data.

"Give me fifteen minutes," she told the marshal.

She turned to the team, her voice calm and commanding.

"We're going satellite, boys. Pluto—face painting moves to Murphy's Pub.

They've got the back room and it's already decorated.

Linc—story time at Second Street Coffee.

They've got the reading nook and the owner's a fan.

Knox—games and activities will be moved to the parking lot.

I'll coordinate with public works for portable heaters. "

While she spoke, she was already texting, her thumbs hurrying to manage the impending disaster.

"Bricks, you coordinate overflow at the fire station—they offered their community room if we needed it. Gideon, you and Thatcher stay here with the core activities, but we must move at least half the crowd to satellite locations."

Blake stammered about production logistics and camera coverage, but Wren was already three steps ahead.

"Your crew follows the story," she told him without looking up from her phone. "The story is that this community is so invested in this tradition that we'll move heaven and earth to ensure it happens. That's your documentary."

Within ten minutes, she'd coordinated with four local businesses and organized volunteer coordinators for each location. She turned a potential disaster into an expanded community celebration touching every corner of downtown Richmond.

Families began migrating to the alternate locations. Children chattered excitedly about visiting new places. Parents gathered contact information to coordinate pickup times. Grandparents settled into chairs at Murphy's Pub like they'd been planning to spend Christmas Eve there all along.

"This," Wren told Blake as the crowd dispersed cheerfully across downtown Richmond, "is the story you came here to tell. This is what real community investment looks like."

The main hall settled into a more manageable celebration. I operated the hot chocolate station, watching the children's activity area where a group of kids claimed Thatcher to educate him in the finer points of holiday crafts.

A seven-year-old girl with pigtails had appointed herself his personal instructor in the ancient art of paper snowflake construction. She explained the process patiently.

"You fold it like this." Her small fingers worked the paper confidently. "Then you cut here, and here, and here. You have to be careful not to cut all the way through, or it falls apart."

Thatcher followed her instructions, his large hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate paper. When he unfolded his creation, it looked like abstract art.

The girl studied his work with the diplomatic expression of someone searching for encouraging things to say about a hopeless effort. "That's... very creative," she finally managed.

Thatcher examined his mangled snowflake with genuine delight, turning it in the light to appreciate its spectacular failure from multiple angles. "It's terrible," he laughed, "I think I cut in all the wrong places. Can you show me again?"

His laughter wasn't the practiced chuckle he used for cameras. It was pure joy at failing spectacularly at something that mattered to no one except a seven-year-old who'd decided he was worth teaching.

The girl beamed at his request for more instruction, delighted to have such an attentive student. "Okay, but this time, make sure you watch."

She demonstrated again, her movements slow and deliberate so he could follow. Other children gathered around, latching onto the possibility they might get to teach the big hockey player something he didn't know.

A tiny boy with sauce stains on his shirt tugged at Thatcher's sleeve. "Will you help me write my letter to Santa? My mom says I have to use my best handwriting, but my best handwriting is still pretty bad."

"Of course, buddy. What do you want to tell him?"