Christmas Sweets

by Joanne Fluke

  In those moments, my neon stripe thighs didn’t seem so bad, after all.

  When it was slow, we chewed the fat and snacked on roasted chestnuts from a kiosk next to the Christmas tree. I told him about my life as a freelance advertising writer, and he told me about his career as an actor—starting out playing Lady Macbeth in his all-boys prep school, going on to do Shakespeare in the park in New York City, and starring as Tevye in the national touring company of Fiddler on the Roof.

  “My acting days are pretty much over,” he told me during one such gabfest. “Except for some community theater and my Santa gig. And there’s the Tiny Tim Project, of course.”

  “The Tiny Tim Project?”

  He pointed to a large plastic bin right outside Santa Land.

  “We collect toys for underprivileged kids. I started it a couple of years ago when I realized how many children never even get a gift on Christmas.”

  What a welcome change from the insufferable Scotty, whose favorite charity was, no doubt, himself.

  Chapter Five

  And so the days passed as I dragged myself through my shifts with Scotty, the hours flying by with Barnaby.

  It was on one of those days from hell with Scotty when I was listening to a twelve-year-old explain why she needed a pair of diamond studs from Tiffany that I heard my name called out.

  “Jaine Austen! Is that you?”

  I turned to see a mucho attractive guy with jet black hair and a crooked smile, carrying a Godiva shopping bag.

  Omigod. I’d know that smile anywhere. It was Jason Nicoletti. I’d had quite a crush on him back in high school in Hermosa Beach, when we worked together on our school newspaper, the Hermosa Herald.

  From the first day I saw him in our editorial offices (which we shared with the janitorial supplies), my heart melted just a tad.

  Much to my delight, Jason had taken a liking to me, too. Working at adjacent desks, we shared our teenage angst and took great pleasure in making fun of the “A” listers who ruled our school with despotic glee.

  The more we kidded around, the more I liked him, and the more I was convinced he liked me, too.

  Then one day, he turned to me. For once looking quite serious, he said, “Jaine, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  Omigosh! This was it. He was going to ask me out on a date.

  “Go ahead!” I said, grinning like a maniac. “Ask.”

  He cleared his throat nervously and then quickly blurted out: “Do you think I stand a chance with Becca Washton?”

  My maniacal grin froze.

  Becca was a cheerleader, an insanely popular redhead, a prominent member of the Reign of Terror we always made fun of. My heart sank. Surely Jason couldn’t possibly be interested in her? All along I’d assumed he was the kind of guy who looked past the superficial and saw the true beauty inside a person with slightly generous hips.

  But clearly I’d been wrong.

  “So?” he asked eagerly. “What do you think? Do I have a shot with Becca?”

  “Sure,” I managed to say. I had no idea if Jason stood a chance with Becca, and I didn’t care.

  Somehow our friendship was never the same after that, and I’m ashamed to confess that I took great pleasure when Jason asked Becca to the prom and she turned him down.

  And now here he was all these years later, looking more attractive than ever. The soft lines of adolescence were gone, replaced by craggy cheekbones and sharply etched laugh lines.

  In spite of myself, I felt a jolt of excitement.

  “Jason!” I said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Great. Just great. I’m a creative director over at Saatchi.”

  Yikes. Saatchi & Saatchi was one of the world’s biggest ad agencies.

  “And what about you?” he asked. “What have you been up to?”

  Oh, Lord. It suddenly dawned on me that I was standing there in my elf suit, my striped thighs glowing like spandex flares.

  How mortifying. I couldn’t possibly let him know that I’d been reduced to going on donut runs for an out of work actor.

  “I’m a freelance writer,” I said.

  At which point, Scotty barked out, “Oh, Elf #2! Santa needs an espresso latte. Now!”

  I shot him an angry glare and turned back to Jason who was no doubt wondering why a freelance writer was hanging around Santa Land in a cheesy elf suit.

  And then I thought of the most marvelous explanation. True, it was a bit of a whopper, but it was all I could think of at the time, so I went with it.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m writing a piece for L.A. Magazine on what it’s like to work as a Santa’s elf.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “You write for L.A. Magazine? Very impressive.”

  Yes! He bought it!

  “Gosh, Jaine,” he said. “We used to have so much fun together at the Hermosa Herald, didn’t we?”

  He shot me that crooked smile, the same smile that first melted my heart next to the janitor’s mops.

  “You know,” he said, staring deeply into my eyes. “I’ve never forgotten our time together.”

  Was it my imagination or was he interested in me? Had he finally grown up and realized what he passed up all those years ago?

  “I’m throwing a little Christmas party,” he said, “and I’d love for you to stop by.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  Indeed it did.

  “What’s your number?” he asked. “I’ll text you an official invite.”

  “My phone number?”

  Oh, darn. His smile had me so rattled, it had totally slipped my mind.

  “My phone number. Of course. It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

  When at last I finally remembered my own phone number, Jason typed it into his phone.

  “Can’t wait to catch up,” he said, blasting me with another killer smile.

  “Me, too,” was my witty rejoinder.

  Then he headed off to do some Christmas shopping while I proceeded to zoom straight up to Cloud Nine.

  Looked like Santa had just brought me an early Christmas present.

  * * *

  Later that night, I was stretched out in my bathtub, up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles. Perched across from me on the toilet tank, Prozac was deep in sleep, her pink mouth slightly open as she snored.

  We’d just spent a rather vigorous half hour running around my apartment, me chasing Prozac with my camera, trying desperately to get her to stay still for one millisecond while I got a shot of her for my holiday greeting card. I had long since given up any notion of sticking felt antlers on her head. All I wanted at this point was a plain old photo, and even that was proving impossible.

  I’d taken at least twenty-five shots of her, one blurrier than the next.

  “How can one cat be so aggravating?” I’d finally wailed, tossing my camera on the sofa in defeat.

  She looked up at me with huge green eyes.

  It’s not easy, but I try.

  Soon the hot bubbly water began to work its wonders and ease away my stress. (The glass of chardonnay perched on the edge of the tub didn’t hurt either.)

  And my thoughts drifted back to Jason Nicoletti. I told myself not to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help it. I saw the way he’d been looking at me. He was interested. Most definitely.

  Clearly he’d outgrown his shallow Becca Washton days and realized that flaming red hair and skinny hips did not a soul mate make.

  I couldn’t help thinking that our chance encounter at the mall might be the start of something big.

  Before long I was lost in a fantasy, walking down the aisle with Jason on a beach in the Bahamas, then settling down in a Santa Monica cottage and raising a passel of adorable moppets while writing my Great American Novel. I was in the middle of telling our future grandkids how Jason and I made our love connection at Santa Land when I heard a disembodied voice float through the air.

  “Hey, you’ve been in that tub long enough!”
>
  No it was not the voice of my conscience, but Lance, whose X-ray hearing allows him to hear toilets flushing in Pomona.

  “I need to talk to you!” he called out, banging on our paper thin walls. “On an extremely urgent matter!”

  Lance’s idea of an urgent matter is a BOGO sale at Old Navy, so I took this with a grain of salt. Nevertheless I dredged myself out of the tub and fifteen minutes later I was perched across from him on my living-room sofa, a bowl of pretzels between us.

  “So what’s this urgent matter?” I asked, helping myself to a pretzel or three.

  “Russian River Pinot Noir or Singing Chihuahua?” he asked.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’ve narrowed Greg’s Secret Santa gift down to two choices. A bottle of Russian River Pinot Noir, or a mechanical Chihuahua that sings ‘Feliz Navidad.’”

  “A Chihuahua that sings ‘Feliz Navidad’?”

  “It was either that, or a moose that pooped M&M’s.”

  Remind me never to go gift shopping with Lance.

  “The Pinot Noir says I’m an urban sophisticate, suave and debonair. While the singing Chihuahua shows him my fun side, the zany, madcap me. So which one should I choose?”

  He bit into a pretzel, eagerly awaiting my answer.

  “I’d go with the Pinot Noir.”

  “But the Chihuahua is pretty darn funny. I mean, a sense of humor is very important in a relationship.”

  “Okay, then go with the Chihuahua.”

  Lance’s brow furrowed in doubt.

  “But then Greg might think it’s silly. I’m probably better off playing it safe and going with the Pinot.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. That’s what I think.”

  “Then I’ll stick with the Chihuahua.”

  “What???”

  “C’mon, Jaine. Let’s face it. You don’t exactly have the greatest track record winning over the opposite sex.”

  “For your info,” I said, whipping the bowl of pretzels from his hands, “my track record with the opposite sex is about to take a gigantic leap forward.”

  “Why?” he asked, perking up at the scent of some hot news. “What’s up?”

  I told him all about my chance encounter with Jason, how cute he looked in his jeans and blazer, carrying his Godiva shopping bag. I told him how we’d met all those years ago at the Hermosa Herald and how he was now a big cheese advertising man and how we locked eyeballs over Candy Cane Lane and the next thing I knew he was asking me to his Christmas party.

  “Omigod!” he cried, jumping up. “That’s fantastic! Just fantastic!”

  How nice that he was so excited for me.

  “That’s what I’ll get Greg! Godiva chocolates!”

  “What??”

  “They’re sweet and sensuous at the same time. Just like me. So what do you think? Should I get him milk chocolate or dark?”

  Like a fool, I said, “Dark.”

  “Then milk chocolate, it is.”

  One of these days, I’ve got to stop answering my door.

  Chapter Six

  I knew I was in for trouble when I showed up at Santa Land the next day and saw Scotty sprawled out in his Santa chair, his beard in his lap, grousing to Molly.

  “Those fools wouldn’t know acting talent if it bit them on the fanny,” he whined.

  I remembered him telling me he was up for a role in a TV pilot. From the pout on his pretty boy lips, it looked like he hadn’t gotten it.

  “They were idiots to turn you down, honey,” Molly said with a placating smile. “But I’m sure a much better part will come along soon.”

  “Like what?” he sneered. “The Easter bunny?” He waved his beard in disgust. “God, I hate this crummy job.”

  What an ingrate. He was damned lucky to have this gig. If I were Molly, I would’ve sent him packing on the spot.

  But I was not Molly. She was actually in love with the creep.

  “I’d better get to work,” she said, checking her watch. “Love you,” she added, clearly waiting for him to echo her sentiment.

  But all she got in reply was an abrupt, “Yeah, right.”

  She walked away with a worried look in her eyes, and Scotty took out his “hot chocolate” thermos for his morning slug of tequila.

  Then for the first time he noticed me standing there.

  “Not you again,” he moaned. “Why the hell do I always get stuck working with you?”

  The feeling, I can assure you, was mutual.

  But not wishing to set off the powder keg I sensed was brewing under his Santa cap, I merely replied, “And a good morning to you, too.”

  By now the mall was open and a few kids were heading over to Santa Land.

  “Better put on your beard,” I told him. “And pop an Altoid. You don’t want the kids passing out from the tequila fumes.”

  “Fooey on you.”

  (Technically he didn’t use the word “fooey.” But this is a family novel, so I’ll spare you the real F-word involved.)

  After another slug from his thermos, he muttered, “Bring on the brats.”

  Fasten your seat belts, kids, I felt like saying. It’s gonna be a bumpy sleigh ride.

  * * *

  And indeed it was. The kids were on and off Scotty’s lap so fast their little heads were spinning. He was in such a foul mood, he didn’t even bother flirting with the cute moms.

  He refused to pose for any photos, snarling, “Santa’s having a bad beard day.”

  One of his favorite gags, when the kids would tell him what they wanted, was to say, “Sorry, we’re out of that this year. Elf #2 was supposed to make them, but she’s too lazy, so it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Santa’s only kidding,” I’d hasten to assure them, glaring at Scotty. “He’s going to try his very best to get you your gift, aren’t you, Santa?”

  “Oh, all right,” he’d pout.

  A couple of hours of this nonsense had passed when, with a redheaded tyke perched on his knee, Scotty looked up and saw Corky walking by.

  She’d already walked by several times that morning, and each time he saw her, he’d called out, “How’s it going, Porky?”

  Each time she’d gritted her teeth and ignored him.

  This time, however, Corky was not alone. She was walking with a fellow security officer, a young hunk with muscles the size of ham hocks. They were laughing about something, and from the way Corky was looking at her co-worker, I sensed she had a bit of a crush on him.

  She was punching him on the shoulder playfully when, in a booming voice, Scotty called out his familiar refrain:

  “How’s it going, Porky?”

  Corky stopped in her tracks, her face flushed.

  Then she left Mr. Ham Hocks and marched up Candy Cane Lane, fire burning in her eyes.

  She gently lifted the little redhead off Scotty’s lap and, with bulging biceps, grabbed Scotty by the collar of his Santa suit.

  Up close I could see a knotted vein throbbing in her forehead.

  “You call me Porky one more time,” she hissed, “and you’re a dead man.”

  By now, her grip was so tight, Scotty was gasping for air.

  “Corky!” I cried. “Cut it out! You’re strangling him.”

  “Am I?” she sneered. “What a shame. Next time,” she practically spat in Scotty’s face, “I’ll finish the job.”

  Then reluctantly, she let go and marched off.

  Scotty sat there hacking for a few seconds. Then, hands trembling, he screwed open his thermos to take a slug of tequila.

  “Fat cow,” he muttered when his breathing had returned to normal. “She doesn’t scare me.”

  Like hell she hadn’t.

  From that point on, Scotty was a train wreck, guzzling tequila and barely talking to the tots. It got so bad that, after a while, I was the one the kids were telling what they wanted for Christmas.

  The hours dragged by a
nd at long last we reached the end of our shift. Outside Santa Land I saw Barnaby and Gigi waving to us in their street clothes, having come to relieve us.

  “Thank goodness you guys are here!” I said, racing over to them.

  “Bad day?” Barnaby asked.

  “The worst. Scotty got turned down for his TV pilot and has been on a rampage ever since.”

  We looked over to where a gawky little girl was sitting on Scotty’s lap, whispering in his ear.

  “A Barbie doll?” we heard him sneer. “Better ask Santa for a nose job, sweetie. That’s what you really need.”

  A long-limbed moppet with wide doe eyes, the little girl would probably grow up to be an Audrey Hepburn lookalike, but at this stage in her life, her nose was large for her face. With cruel accuracy, Scotty had zeroed in on her weak spot.

  Her hands flew up to her face, covering her nose. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Next to me, Barnaby gasped in disbelief and scooted over to the little girl, who had left Scotty’s lap, sobbing.

  “Honestly,” I muttered to Gigi, “sometimes I feel like strangling Scotty with his own sleigh bells.”

  Barnaby now kneeled down to talk to the little girl.

  “You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he said. “And your nose is just fine. Santa didn’t mean what he said. In fact, he’s not really Santa. He’s just an out of work actor.” He turned to glare at Scotty. “And a bad one at that.”

  At which point, Scotty bolted out of his chair and marched over to Barnaby.

  “You’re calling me a bad actor?” he fumed. “Why, you two bit fraud. You may have everybody else fooled, but I know all about you. You never did Shakespeare in the Park. Or toured with Fiddler on the Roof. The closest you ever got to Broadway was the TKTs booth in Times Square. You’re a joke, that’s what you are. A joke!”

  With a colorful expletive, not at all suitable for little ears, he kicked Rudolph in the shins and stormed off.

  I turned to the crowd of astonished kids and their parents.

  “Well, kids,” I said. “Santa’s imposter has gone to his anger management class. But if you wait just a few minutes, the real Santa will be here to talk to you.”

  And as I walked off with Barnaby and Gigi to the employees’ locker room, I prayed that Scotty had at last gone too far, and that Molly would be forced to fire him.