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Steve swung the SUV into his parents’ driveway and stopped short of running over Brie, who was arriving on foot. In her hand was an envelope. Steve clambered out of the car. So did Lincoln.
“Mission accomplished.” Brie pulled a number of processed photos from the envelope. “Now what?”
“Steve is brilliant,” Lincoln said to Brie. “Brilliant.”
“Don’t go overboard, bro.”
Brie whispered, “Steve, I still say Hope—”
“Hush. Don’t jinx this. I haven’t told you everything.”
Steve led Brie and Lincoln into his father’s office and scanned the photos into the desktop computer. Working on the project with the same diligence he’d given in college to every project that would lead to the career he’d craved, he created a flyer by collaging the photo images and adding the call to action words in the center to draw focus. He used bold green-and-red borders to drive home the Christmas theme.
As the art came together, Lincoln chanted, “Steve, Steve, Steve.”
“Okay, that’s enough adulation,” Steve said. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back. Lincoln, get Brie some milk and cookies.”
“Sure thing. You ’da man!”
Steve retreated to his bedroom, removed the Santa costume from his suitcase, and slipped into it while humming “Jolly Old St. Nick.” He shoved his feet into the big black boots, unable to remember feeling more in tune with himself.
Brie’s eyes widened when he trotted down the stairs. “No, Steve. Don’t. Listen to me, Santa . . . it’s a bad idea. Bad. Idea.”
“You don’t know what I’ve got in store.”
“I’m not blind. You want to get Hope to accept the Disneyland trip again. Don’t. If Dave finds out—”
“Wrong.” Steve made a game-show buzzing sound. “I’m not going to beg her to take the prize. That ship has sailed. And if you’ll recall, Dave is no longer my boss, so I don’t give a flying—” he glanced at his brother—“truck what Dave thinks.”
“Ouch,” Lincoln said. “A flying truck. That could hurt.”
“Then what is your plan?” Brie folded her arms and lasered him with a look, waiting.
“You’ll see. Hop in the car,” Steve said.
“Shotgun,” Lincoln called.
“I can’t go with you.” Brie shook her head. “I offered to help Gabe out at the café. He was slammed when I left.”
“Okay, well, before you leave . . .” Quickly, Steve outlined how the rest of his plan would unfold.
When he finished, Brie released a sigh of relief and finally smiled. “Wow. I love it. Your brother was right. It’s brilliant.”
“Told you.” Lincoln radiated confidence.
Steve drove to KQHV humming. Literally humming. “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas,” he crooned as he entered the building.
Cici was still opening envelopes. Many of the cards that she’d removed earlier were now push-pinned to a corkboard. Mr. Q was one popular guy, Steve noted, realizing he’d never received that much correspondence and certainly no cards that required postage.
Mr. Q emerged from the sound booth. He must have seen Santa enter. “What’s going on?”
“Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Q!” Steve bellowed.
Like a little kid, Lincoln popped from behind Steve and jutted his hands in Steve’s direction. “It’s my brother Steve.”
Mr. Q stifled a grin. “I didn’t have a clue.” He regarded Steve somberly. “Care to tell me what’s going on, young man?”
Steve produced a packet of flyers and thrust one at Mr. Q. “We need to secure a team of students to post these all over town.”
Mr. Q read the flyer and clicked his tongue. “Not bad. Not bad. So, that’s where I come in? Getting students on board?”
“They listen to you,” Lincoln said.
“Plus . . .” Steve hesitated.
Mr. Q rotated a hand for him to continue.
“Plus I’d like to chat up the plan on the radio. This is a local call to action. I’d like to urge Hope Valley’s fifteen thousand residents to show their true Christmas spirit and give, give, give.”
Mr. Q clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, “My boy, I didn’t know you had it in you. Your parents should be proud.” He eyed Lincoln, “And you, young man, are a great Santa’s helper.” He drew Lincoln into a bear hug.
To Steve’s amazement, Lincoln hugged back. The way his brother was beaming sent chills through Steve. Good chills. He’d never seen him so happy. Obviously, Mr. Q’s praise was akin to magic.
In the studio, Mr. Q relayed a message to the teens of Hope Valley to come to the station and help with a worthy cause by posting flyers. Streets had been cleared of snow, he said. They had a window of opportunity before the next snowfall. Within a half hour, the Hope Valley High School cycling team plus a number of recreational cyclists were lined up and ready to help out. When they all departed, Steve’s admiration for Mr. Q grew tenfold as well as his realization that radio wasn’t dead after all.
Next, Mr. Q situated Steve at the microphone and said, “Ever done this before?”
“Not since high school, sir,” Steve replied. Back when he’d thought radio was dorky, he’d been the voice of Hope Valley High. He recited morning news. Led the pledge of allegiance. Dumb stuff.
“A few tips,” Mr. Q said. “Don’t yell. Don’t get too close or too far away. Speak slowly and distinctly. There’s a knack.” He tapped the script Steve had placed on the desk. “When you’re ready, go for it. And smile.”
“I’m off camera.”
“Believe me, young man, a smile transmits through the airwaves.”
