“Why?” Jordan asks.
“Can you take a puppy to the vet when they’re sick?”
Jordan shrugs.
“Do you have a car, little man?” Dad asks.
“No, but you do, Pop.”
“Then that settles it. Santa should bring Pop a puppy.”
“Pop’s over twenty,” Amanda points out.
I lean over to get an eye on her paper like I’m cheating on a pop quiz, but she hunches over it, not letting me see what she’s written on the page.
“What do you have going on there?”
“It’s between me and Santa,” she snarls.
And that’s how it stays. She doesn’t let me peek, and she seals it up before I have the chance to swoop over and read. I can only hope she’s still asking for the LeapFrog game she told me about a month ago. Otherwise, this letter to Santa actually will stay between her and Santa.
Four
EVE
“Santa has a sexy bum,” the tailor informs me with a wink.
“Thanks?” I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t asked her about him.
In fact, I don’t even want to know who the big guy is. As far as I’m concerned, he can be the real Saint Nick. There’s still no way I’m getting everything on my Christmas list. Not this year.
Okay, I admit, the real Saint Nick would be helpful in my situation. Whoever Mister-Sexy-Bum-Santa is, he won’t be the real Kris Kringle. It’ll be an imposter in a red suit, probably some city councilman.
Maybe I should send him a letter, I think. The real Santa, that is. Not the city councilman.
It worked when I was a kid. My letters were answered promptly. And I almost always got what I wanted. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I had divorced parents competing for my affection. Sometimes I even got the same present at both houses.
“Santa must’ve forgot that he left you a Furby at your mom’s house too,” I can almost hear my dad say as Mom glares at him through piercing blue eyes. “Anyway, now you have one in two colors.”
I took those purple and blue talkative monsters everywhere for months, annoying anyone and everyone within a fifty-foot radius.
Santa was always good to me. I tried to be good back. I visited the big guy every year, when the town put on the Olde Time parade and festival. It was only when I got older that I realized “Santa” was just some sleezy guy in a suit.
But recently, the city has stepped up their Santa game. For one, the fake beard is better. They’ve gotten a makeup artist who does movie special effects; he uses adhesive glue to keep it on the man’s face. They even have a prop nose so every Santa for the past few years has kind of looked alike.
By far the best thing they’ve done is invest in a fat suit. Back when I was a kid, when the guy didn’t have the right amount of jolly—you know what I mean—they stuffed a pillow or two in his jacket and called it a day. Now, it’s like they’ve stolen Tim Allen’s costume from the set of The Santa Clause.
Mrs. Claus is a more recent edition. She doesn’t get quite the same treatment. Sure, there’s makeup and a wig. I have to find my own shoes. And the dress, well, it’s all right. Nothing too special.
Still, the tailor frets over taking it in.
“I’m not sure we’ve ever had such a boney Missus Claus before.” She squeezes my bicep to get her point across. “These hips, or rather the lack thereof, I think I need them to lie—if you know what I mean.”
I don’t.
“Have you ever heard of Spanx?” she asks.
As a woman over thirty, of course I’ve heard of Spanx. I’m just a wee bit shocked she’s going in this direction.
“I’ve got some, I think,” I say.
“Oh, shug,” she sticks a pin in her mouth, “I didn’t mean it like that. And what on Earth do you need a pair of Spanx for? I’ve seen fuller hips on a caterpillar. Sorry, that probably sounds weird. I raise butterflies with my granddaughters.”
“Well,” I say, “Spanx are for getting rid of lines too. If you know what I mean.”
She smirks, raising that pin still in her mouth. “I do. I do. But it’s not lines or sagging middles I’m worried about. Honestly, I’ve never had to take the dress in so much. I’m wondering if you can help a gal out.”
“How?” I’m all ears.
“What I want you to do, is go find you some Spanx—I have some in the storefront—make sure they’re about two, no, three sizes too big. And we’ll pad you around the middle. I have just the stuff.”
“Not pillows, right?” I have to ask.
“No, not pillows.” She laughs. “This ain’t the nineties anymore.”
I go to retrieve a pair of Spanx, as instructed, and I can’t help but glimpse out the storefront window.
The tailor shop, like Mable’s Kitchen, is on Main Street with a bijillion—not a real word or number—other local stores and restaurants. The main reason our location is so sought after is because it sits smack-dab in the middle, next to the courthouse.
Down here, on the end of the street, is the tailor shop. And it’s directly across from Good Stuff Bakery, famous for their donuts and petit fours.
Strolling outside of Good Stuff, donuts in hand, is Jackson Rimes. I swear under my breath, not because of Jackson—the opposite really. I don’t want him to see me like this, in workout clothes, a curly gray-haired wig, and with my face painted up like an octogenarian. Now, of course, I have a pair of Spanx in my hand.
How is it that fate could separate us for ten years, then keep thrusting us together in the span of only a few days? And those days be the worst possible?
I hide behind a rack of rental tuxes and wait for him to pass. However, seeing him with donuts does put my heart at ease. I was afraid he’d chose this hour to eat at the Mable’s Kitchen—the precise time I’d squeezed in for the fitting.
I can breathe easy, easier—until I get on these Spanx. Maybe I will see him one more time. And when I do, I won’t be done up like Mrs. Claus’s unmarried sister straight from a Las Vegas trailer park.
* * *
JACKSON
“Jackson Rimes—the donut terror of Caribou Lake. There better be some lemon-filled ones left or I’m calling the authorities.”
I turn around at the sound of the familiar voice. I smile. “Actually, the authorities were just here.” I turn around, smiling. “If it isn’t Scrooge McDuck himself. How are you, man?”
I struggle with the box of donuts and my car keys to free a hand for Bryan Ferguson to shake. Bryan, seeing my dilemma, goes in for the real thing. He wraps me around the shoulder and pats my back with his meaty bear paw of a fist. “Long time, no see. And if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—Scrooge isn’t a banker.”
“That’s true.” I shrug. “But don’t tell me you don’t swim in the bank’s vault after hours. It’ll ruin the mental picture I have of you in my head.”
Bryan laughs. “Oh, we do that. Every other Friday—you’re welcome to join if you’ll still be in town after Christmas. In fact, I wouldn’t’ve believed that was you if I didn’t hear you were playin’ Santa for the parade this year.”
“Does everyone know?” I ask. “Was it in the paper?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But small towns. I heard from my momma who I’m sure heard from yours. Their prayer circle might as well be called the gossip circle, am I right? Speaking of,” Bryan motions down the road, “are you excited? Your old gal-pal as Missus Claus?”
“My old gal-pal?” I’m not following. Mom didn’t tell me who was playing Missus Claus. In fairness, I hadn’t asked. In fact, I tried a million different ways to shirk out of the obligation. But Mom strong-armed me, telling the kids. Amanda’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning.
“You haven’t heard?” Bryan looks skeptical. “Eve Halliday. And Lord knows she could use a bit of Christmas cheer this week. Still, I think she’s making a mistake closing so early.”
“What do you mean?” It’s my turn to look skeptical.
“Oh, nothing.” Bryan looks away like he’s said too much. He probably did. “Now, you didn’t hear this from me, but Eve tried to buy the building almost the day Mister Rhodes put it on the market. We just couldn’t make the finances work. Trust me, I tried. I did everything in my power to help her.”
I nod along, still unsure where this is going.
“Well, it sat on the market a couple of months. Then they got an offer. A big restaurant chain thinking they can move in and make a few bucks in downtown Caribou Lake. I slipped up and told Avery before the deal went through. She told Eve.”
“And what happened?”
“That’s the thing. The deal hasn’t gone through. Not yet. There’re city approvals that still have to go through. And, get this, I heard some rumblings from their corporate headquarters about buying land instead. It’s all kind of up in the air.
“Right now, the owners have Eve doing month-to-month, so that when it does happen, she’ll be ushered out quick. That’s why she’s making her move now.
“Maybe she’ll open again when she finds a better location?”
Bryan shakes his head. “No, I think she’s gonna have the same problem anywhere. She’s not going to qualify for a lease. The best she can do is rent. And let’s be honest; there’s no better spot in town than where Mable’s Kitchen is right now.”
I slow down as I drive past Mable’s Kitchen. It’s busy. There’s a line out the door. When I pass the alley, I see Eve’s car—it’s the same one she drove in high school. She leaps out of it, in workout clothes, and sprints for the side door.
I have half a mind to stop. But the kids are waiting on donuts, and I don’t know what I’d say. I just wish I had some time to talk to her, to get to know her again.
Then I remind myself that if I moved back to Caribou Lake, I’d have all the time in the world.
Five
EVE
I feel like I’m in first grade again, asking for the Barbie Dreamhouse. It was one of the only years I didn’t get what I asked for—and I wrote my letter to Santa and everything.
Instead, Santa, at Mom’s house, brought me Barbie’s car. Santa-Dad bought two Barbies. One was regular with glitter hair, and the other was one of those special Christmas editions, a collectable.
I remember Dad telling me not to open the box. I opened the box, and I played with that Barbie more than any other. Why? I wonder. Why did I open that box? Was it to see if I could get on the naughty list? Was it to see if Santa would bring me a lump of coal? Or was it because Santa had got me the wrong thing, and I thought I was punishing him somehow? I don’t know.
But I do know, I’ve been a good girl all this year. For years and years, really.
And I’m only asking for one thing this year. At least in the letter, that’s true. In my heart of hearts, I might be asking for two things.
I slip the letter inside the faux red mailbox outside our downtown’s rendition of the North Pole, fondly named Santa’s Village. The spray-painted plywood house, the plaster snow, and the candy cane factory made from who-knows-what all lead up to the green cushioned chairs where me and Santa will sit in only a few hours.
I scurry past the setup, feeling seen, feeling exposed. It’s time to get ready, time to put on the Spanx and the makeup, to take photos with my imposter husband, Jolly Old Saint Nick.
Whoever it is behind the beard, I just hope he’s nice. I hope he’s in the spirit—because even though I want to be, I know I’m not feeling it. Not this year.
* * *
JACKSON
When I was in the military, on a deployment exercise, they’d force us to simulate MOPP 4. MOPP: mission oriented protective postures. Basically, it means putting on a special suit and a gas mask in preparation for a potential chemical, biological, or nuclear attack.
It’s not meant to be comfortable—it’s meant to keep you safe. Breathing is difficult. Everything feels heavy. And on top of it all, you’re supposed to act as if you can do your normal job along with it all on.
In the Air Force, I worked maintenance. Doing my job in MOPP 4 was almost impossible.
But donning my turnout gear as a firefighter is the opposite. Our gear keeps us safe in dire circumstances—and it’s what we wear for work.
Putting on the Santa suit, the fake nose and beard, having bushy white eyebrows glued over my already thick brows feels more like the former than the latter.
It’s hard to breathe with the smell of latex. Cumbersome. The world hovers on my periphery like I’m outside my body looking down.
The man in the mirror, he’s unrecognizable. Only a small window, above the beard and below the hat, give any hint who’s underneath. My cheeks. My eyes.
But the scratchy beard covers the rest of my face, grazing my top lip.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I joke with the reflection, surprised to hear it come out so jolly.
“I’ll take that as a good sign,” Jen Haddock says from outside the dressing room.
I’ve been here an hour already. A weird guy with a British accent applied the face, then moved over to help with Mrs. Claus.
“Are you presentable?” Jen asks. “There’s just a few things I’d like to go over before we meet Missus Claus and begin your day. I hope you’re ready.”
“I am.” At least I’m as ready as I’m going to get.
Jen opens the door—it’s her office we’re using as a staging area. Then she heaves a burlap sack into the corner of her office with a few others around the same size. It tips over, envelopes spilling out. They’re all addressed to Santa at the North Pole.
My heart leaps as the middle-aged brunette curses.
“Oh, shi—” she stops herself with a glance at me as Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick, then she starts stuffing letters back in the bag. “Well, here you go, Santa. All the hopes and dreams of your little admirers written down. You better get them something good!”
She winks, a little flirty. I help her collect the letters before taking the sack from her.
So this is where all the town’s Santa letters end up? I’d brought the kids to the Santa mailbox that morning. At the time, my heart sank. I’d yet to wriggle Amanda’s letter away to ensure Santa got her what she wanted.
But now, well, now I had my chance.
The little sneak. Amanda thought she was getting away with something. But it looks like Daddy has the upper hand.
“Are you ready?” Jen asks.
“Actually,” I tell Jen, “there’s one thing I need to adjust before we go.”
She waits. Her pose says we don’t have the time for this. And she didn’t catch my drift. I used the word adjust, didn’t I?
“I, uh,” I gesture to my nether regions, “I’ll be quick. Like I said, I need to make an adjustment.”
“Oh.” She flushes red. “Yes, please do.”
She rushes out, slamming the door behind her. I don’t bother to lock it because there’s nothing that needs adjusting. I just need Amanda’s letter back.
I dump out the sack again and sift through the letters, frustrated at how similarly awful every kid’s handwriting is.
What color crayon did we use again? Then I find my own handwriting in green. Jordan’s letter. No, we’re not getting a puppy. Amanda’s envelope is essentially attached to it, sticky from the candy cane she was eating.
I pick them both up and stuff them inside the front pocket of the green shirt underneath my red velvet coat. Ho ho ho!
I open the office door and find Jen waiting with the British guy. Then I catch my first glimpse of Eve as Mrs. Claus. My heart stops. She looks like herself but fifty years older. I stare, thinking it’s a sight I could get used to well into our twilight years.
Six
EVE
Santa looks every bit the part in his red suit. It’s trimmed, as usual, in white fur but with golden embroidered Christmas trees on each side of the coat. His black boots shine in the sunlight streaming into the atrium. He has a thick black belt secure across his middle. Basi
cally, it’s like he stepped out of a Coca-Cola commercial.
Even his beard is perfect. It’s not the curly cotton monstrosity I remember from when I was young, hanging from the faux Santa’s face and revealing the sly pretender underneath.
No, this guy might as well be Santa. I don’t even muster a guess at who it might be. But there is a familiarity to his eyes. I can’t place him. Not even when he says, “Hello.”
He shakes my bare hand with white gloves over his own.
“Now, we’re going to take some photos for the paper,” Jen says. “Then, of course, we have the parade. Afterward, Santa’s village will be open until 8:00 p.m. tonight. You’ll be greeting children, taking photos, hearing Christmas lists, the whole gamut. Are you two ready?”
“I guess,” I say.
“Ho ho ho,” Santa says.
“We’ll give you bathroom breaks about every hour,” Jen continues. “And there’s snacks in the lounge down the hall if you feel peckish.”
“I’m always peckish,” Santa jokes, patting his belly. His voice sounds husky and jovial. “I sure hope there’s cookies.”
I laugh.
“I like that.” Jen admires Santa like he’s her prize horse. In a way, I guess he is. “Which reminds me, do stay in character while you’re out and about—and with children. Obviously.”
“Obviously. Ho ho ho.” Santa pats his belly again. “What say you, Missus Claus? Are you feeling peckish now or should we wait for later?”
Who is this guy? Whoever he is, he’s funny. And that’s exactly what I need today. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
Closing On Christmas (Second Glance Second Chance Book 1) Page 3