Ginger (Marrying Miss Kringle)

by Lucy McConnell

Stella grinned. “I know—like dark chocolate with a twist of lemon. Come on. This is supposed to be a good thing.”

  They hastened through the many corridors of their ice-encased home. Ginger loved the white and blue walls; they were sturdy and beautiful in an exotic way. What little girl wouldn’t love growing up in an ice castle? Not that the house suggested an ice castle from the outside. The exterior said “ice cave” while the interior said “palace.”

  Ginger didn’t really have time to contemplate the natural grace around her as Stella propelled her forward.

  Stella spoke quickly. “Lux was worried that the magic was fading—you know, because we’re girls instead of boys and the power has flickered for months and the elves are slowing down. I think even Dad’s worried, but you know him, he’d never say anything.”

  Ginger nodded. This was why she loved Stella, despite her penchant for finding trouble. She didn’t believe in sugarcoating; she was brave. As they made their way down the Hall of Santas Past, which connected the workshop to their living quarters, Ginger felt the eyes of the paintings follow her. Santas’ images, captured by talented artists throughout the ages, lined both walls. The weight of their legacy bore into her as sharply as the tinsel tattoo had just moments before.

  At the end of the hallway was a large, wooden door carved with the Kringle family crest. Ginger paused, wishing for a fraction of Stella’s bravery as she stepped forward to break her oldest sister’s heart and upset the First Family of Christmas like never before.

  Chapter Two

  Joseph Bear stepped up to the counter at the Northern Trading Post and glared at the price listed on the can of green beans. The Trading Post was more like the gouging post, as prices had gone up by at least thirty percent.

  “I have to make a living,” said the owner, Kazu, when Joseph complained. “Fuel prices increased again last month.”

  Fuel prices dictated a lot of things in this remote Alaskan town. Town? More like blip. Outpost would be a good name for it too. With less than three thousand inhabitants, Clearview was the perfect place to escape the world without losing amenities like flushing toilets. Although, indoor plumbing had only come about in the last five years. Many of the older residents still made the morning trek to the outhouse in their red flannel underwear. Joseph preferred to keep his morning routine—and his underwear— to himself. He snatched the burlap bag from Kazu’s burly hands.

  “Have a nice day,” called Kazu.

  “What’s left of it,” grumbled Joseph. At two in the afternoon, the sun was already disappearing. He headed to his snowmobile, parked at an odd angle in front of the store. In the winter, all of Main Street was available for parking. When the snow melted and the old pickups came out of hibernation, parking was relegated to the lots behind the stores.

  “Joseph!” called Susan White as she hustled along the boot-beaten path. Her heavy coat and snow pants whish-whished as she jogged his way. “Hi!” She beamed as if it wasn’t fifteen degrees outside. “We’re working on a fundraiser for the Santa stand. How would you like to buy a batch of Christmas cookies?”

  “I wouldn’t.” He shoved his helmet over his beanie.

  Susan stepped closer. “But the kids look forward to this every year, and the old stand has rotted straight through.”

  “Not my problem!” he yelled over the motor as he started the snowmobile.

  Susan jumped back as if he were going to run her down. He wouldn’t, but she probably thought he would after being so short with her. It wasn’t that he hated cookies. Cookies he liked. It was Santa he had an issue with.

  Joseph nodded once and gave the machine some gas. Maybe moving back here wasn’t the best idea. When Ruth, his sister, called to tell him she was pregnant, he’d dropped everything and moved north. In true Ruth form, she’d followed love all over Alaska, dragging Layla with her. She looped back to Joseph between boyfriends, and he relished the family time he got to spend with his niece. Providing a small level of security and a sense of belonging for Layla was important. More important than the increase in fuel prices or the mayor’s wife begging for funds.

  Clearview faded behind him, and Joseph enjoyed the ride home. Just a few miles out of town were enough to provide the seclusion he craved to work on his wood sculptures.

  Pulling around back to his woodshop, Joseph cut the engine and contemplated the lights blaring through the thick glass windows. His shop was the size of a two-car garage with a green metal roof and log walls. The last snowstorm had piled mounds of the white stuff around the building and up to the bottoms of the windows, giving it a Christmas card appearance. Not that he sent Christmas cards …

  He’d shut everything off before he left for town, yet the windows lit up the night—well, afternoon. A welcoming sight, but he wondered who was inside. One thing he’d learned about Clearview was that no one waited in the cold for you to get home, not when there was a woodstove on the other side of a door. Oh, everyone locked their doors; you had to in case bears decided to wander into town. But there was always a spare key hung next to the lock—just in case a neighbor, friend, or even a stranger needed to warm up.

  In this case, the face that peeked out the window wasn’t a stranger. Joseph tossed the burlap bag over his shoulder and threw open the door. The six-year-old squealed with delight and rushed to his open arms.

  “Uncle Joseph. You’re cold!” She wiggled against his thick coat as he held her in a one-armed hug.

  “Hello, Joseph,” said Ruth from across the room. She sat in the roughly carved rocking chair near the stove. The chair functioned well enough, but it hadn’t turned out as well as the one in Joseph’s head, so it was relegated to his shop and not his online store or the outlet he owned in Anchorage. He kind of wished he could do the same for his sister—confine her to Clearview. But Ruth was a free spirit and couldn’t be nailed down any easier than a butterfly in a tornado.

  “Ruth. It’s good to see you.” Joseph smiled. If there was anyone he’d like to see, it was his sister and his niece. “Are you staying for Thanksgiving?” Joseph thought of the canned turkey, cranberries, and string beans in his burlap bag. Not the greatest dinner to offer guests, but they could make do and be miles ahead of the Thanksgivings they’d had as kids.

  Ruth’s arms tightened. “Well …”

  Layla wiggled away with a giggle. “I’m staying. I’ll be here for Christmas too!” Her bright eyes held all the innocent excitement of a child. A child oblivious to her mother’s faults. Oh, to be six years old again. She fluttered about the shop, lightly touching his drill, the bench, and finally landing next to her mother, where she tucked her head on Ruth’s shoulder.

  Joseph narrowed his eyes at his sister.

  Ruth wrapped her arm around Layla and ignored his glare. “Tell Uncle Joseph about the surprise.”

  “We got a Christmas tree!” Layla bounced.

  “That’s special. Did you decorate it yet?” Though Joseph wasn’t a fan of Christmas, he didn’t begrudge his niece the holiday. A pang of guilt hit at the way he’d brushed off Susan. Children deserved a happy holiday season. Maybe he should have bought those cookies. Just because he preferred to ignore the jingle season didn’t mean he had to keep kids from enjoying it. If she asked again, he’d give a better answer.

  Satisfied with his decision, he dropped his bag on the worktable and set about dusting the shavings onto the floor so he could sweep them up as he listened to his niece.

  “We couldn’t find the ornaments.”

  “What do you mean?” Setting his chisel in the holder on the wall, he continued puttering.

  “She means we don’t know where you keep your ornaments,” clarified Ruth.

  “My …?” Joseph turned around in time to see Layla skipping to the door where a medium-sized tree leaned against the wall. He hadn’t seen it because it had been behind the door when he came in. Of all the sneaky, downright dirty tricks. Bringing a tree into my place. “Ruth,” he warned. Ruth knew he didn’t celebrate Christ
mas. Thanksgiving, he could get behind. He had plenty to be thankful for: his thriving business, the chance to do something he loved every day, peace and quiet …

  Ruth’s gaze traveled to the window, and she fiddled with the snowmobile key around her wrist. Upon deeper inspection, Joseph caught the wanderlust flitting through Ruth’s gaze. She just couldn’t sit still, never had been able to as far as he knew. She wasn’t planning to stick around long. But then why the tree?

  “Mommy says it’s just my size so it’s perfect.” Layla grinned as she brushed her hand over the needles.

  Layla. She’s leaving Layla behind.

  The thought struck him like a thirty-foot tree crashing through the forest to smack him in the chest. He stared hard at Ruth until she met his gaze. His worries were confirmed by the guilt in her eyes.

  Turning to Layla, Joseph chiseled a smile in place. “I’m all cleaned up out here. Why don’t we head inside and you can say hi to Timber?”

  “Yay!” She struggled into her coat, happy to visit with the ancient dog who acted more like a throw rug next to Joseph’s stove than a guard dog.

  Joseph grimaced at the length of Layla’s coat sleeves. Her tiny wrists stuck out and she struggled to get the zipper closed around her chest. “Here, you wear my gloves and I’ll wear yours.”

  “Uncle Joseph! They won’t fit,” Layla laughed.

  “Sure they will.” He stuffed his mittens onto her hands and tightened the strap so they wouldn’t fall off. “See?” He wiggled her limp arm in the air.

  Her giggle was muffled by the thick scarf Ruth wrapped around her neck and face. “We’ll give you a head start, love.” Ruth kissed the top of her head before securing her stocking cap.

  Layla took off at a sprint through the knee-high snow that quickly slowed to a trudge. With the light from the open woodshop door, she could see her way easily to the house.

  “Joe.” Ruth put her hand on his arm. “Please understand.”

  He couldn’t understand. After everything they’d been through—“You’re no better than Mom and Dad.”

  She yanked her hand back as if he’d burned her. “You don’t have to be cruel.”

  “Cruel?!” He pointed towards the little blue-coated figure moving slowly through the night. “Abandoning your daughter is cruel.”

  Ruth’s eyes pleaded with him to understand. They asked the impossible. “I’m starting a new job. It’s a chance at a life. I just need time to get a start—to get my feet under me. Then I’ll come back for her.”

  Joseph rubbed his beard. His facial hair was as unruly as his sister, reminding him that a life of solitude worked for him. Worked, because no one asked anything of him, nor did they have the opportunity to take. He’d created this life of seclusion because he’d had enough pain in his thirty years to last a lifetime. Layla was vibrant and hopeful and full of optimism. A life of isolation would strangle that out of her and she’d turn into … into her mother. “You can’t leave her here. I don’t know the first thing about kids.”

  “You’re her favorite uncle.”

  “That’s not encouraging. I’m her only uncle.” He shoved his arms into his coat. “You can’t do this, Ruth. If you both move back to Clearview I can help—”

  “That’s not an option for me.” Ruth practically bared her teeth.

  “Neither is leaving her.” Joseph stepped into the night, the wind drowning out Ruth’s response. Contemplating the sky full of black and silver cotton clouds and twinkling stars, Joseph sighed. From the get-go, his parents had used him—hiring him out in the summers to work like a dog and then starving him in the winters while they collected welfare and fished their days away. Ruth had been another source of income, a nanny without a curfew as long as you paid before you brought her home. They both had scars, but they weren’t a matching pair. Where he drew into himself and pushed others away, Ruth begged for love wherever she went.

  And then there was Layla. The child never asked for a thing except his love, and for that, Joseph would give her the world—and make sure her mom was a part of her life. The kid needed, no, deserved her mom. He wouldn’t give Ruth the easy out.

  Chapter Three

  The Kringle living room was lined in dark wood paneling, giving the space a sense of warmth and intimacy. Bookshelves lined the west wall. Adorned with classics, contemporary romances, mysteries, thrillers, and the complete collection of Harry Potter books, the shelves also held their mother’s snow globe collection. That the books and globes balanced one another was a feat of design elegance. The Kringle girls all read, but Frost gobbled literature, her speed reading abilities set her Kindle afire.

  The south wall sported a massive flat-screen and entertainment center. Several overstuffed couches and chairs faced that wall, and a fluffy rug lined the floor. Ginger had spent many nights on that rug staring up at the beautiful faces of Matt Damon, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Pratt as they saved the world and won the hearts of leading ladies.

  The east wall housed the entrance into the room from the Hall of Santas Past that Ginger and Stella used, as well as another set of doors that lead to the kitchen and dining room. Family dinner was a nightly ritual in the Kringle household. Except for Christmas Eve. That night was a “grab what you can and get the work done” kind of night.

  Along the north wall was a Goliath fireplace where a yule log glowed brightly, scattering light into the room. The fire was for ambiance. One of the privileges of being a Kringle was a constant body temperature unaffected by external changes in weather or temperature. A handy little gene to pass on, to be sure. Harvey and Gail’s padded rocking chairs cozied together in front of the hearth. Tonight, with the power still low, the family gathered between the chairs and the fireplace.

  All seven Kringles hovered over Ginger’s wrist, staring at the snowflake shimmering in the firelight.

  “I want one.” Frost ran her finger over the design. “But in bright blue.”

  “I’d take one in black,” said Stella as she shoved the sleeves of her leather jacket up.

  “No tattoos,” Gail admonished her youngest daughters with “the look.” They each grinned, but didn’t commit to staying out of trouble. Ginger bit her lip—she’d worry about her sisters later.

  Robyn grabbed Ginger’s hand, squeezing hard enough that if Ginger had been an orange, she would have become orange juice. Robyn smeared her thumb over the flake as if the image would disappear with a good rubbing. It wouldn’t. Ginger had felt the branding all the way to her bones.

  “Is this a joke?” Robyn demanded, the hurt in her grey eyes sharpening the accusation.

  Like Ginger had done this on purpose. No one controlled Christmas Magic any more than they controlled the tides. Even Santa had limits.

  “I wish it were,” Ginger snapped back. Standing across from her father, Santa himself, she was overwhelmed with the enormity of the task before her. The Christmas Eve ride, overseeing the year-long preparations, the iconic perpetual jolliness—what the fudge ripple had she been thrust into?

  “Dad?” Robyn pleaded with him to make things better, to set the wrong to right. Like becoming the next Santa was a toy Ginger had stolen from her sister and he could remove it from her hands, insist she apologize, and harmony would reign once again in the Kringle home.

  Harvey Kringle rolled up his flannel shirt and flipped over his arm, bringing it alongside Ginger’s. “They’re an exact match.”

  “No!” Robyn flung Ginger’s hand away. “What is happening around here? First the power outages. Now this …” She flapped her arms in Ginger’s general direction. “Christmas has gone nuts.”

  “Actually, this explains quite a bit.” The whole group stared at their introverted sister. Lux’s emerald eyes grew wide behind her glasses. She hated being in front of people, preferring to hide behind her circuit boards and mainframe, communicating through email and text. Volunteering information wasn’t her style. Therefore, whatever she had to say had to be good.

  Ginger rub
bed her hand where the skin burned from Robyn’s rough treatment. Robyn folded her arms and turned her back.

  Sisters!

  Ginger didn’t need her naughty & nice radar to tell her Robyn’s thoughts weren’t on the sugary side. Yet her naughty-list radar buzzed uncomfortably under her skin. Pushing the warning aside, she focused on Lux’s explanation.

  Taking a deep breath, Lux stared at her laptop balanced on her forearm. “For my senior project at Caltech, I tapped into the North Pole’s center to power our facility. Before that, we were running on generators and solar power, neither of which—”

  “Lux,” Ginger interrupted before she could go into the kilowatts and converters. Lux had graduated online high school at sixteen and left early for college. She was bored hanging around here, her curiosity about how things worked got her into more trouble than a puppy in a pantry.

  “Right.” Lux adjusted her glasses. “Well, I’ve gone back through the records and charted the power usage and available power.” She flipped her computer around, resting it against her chest. A chart with one red line going up and a green line going down appeared on the screen. “As you can see, every Christmas the available power decreases while the power used goes up.”

  “Are you saying we need to cut back on production?” asked Stella, aghast. Fewer toys meant fewer Christmas wishes came true. That wasn’t an option.

  “We can’t do that,” Frost interjected, placing a supportive hand on Stella’s shoulder. “We have more letters to Santa than ever.”

  “Children need Christmas,” added Harvey, his hands in fists.

  “We could tighten up the good list.” Robyn cast a sideways glance toward Ginger, implying Ginger was too lenient.

  “You have to earn the naughty list—I can’t just throw good-hearted kids on there for making one mistake.” Ginger planted her feet.

  “How about several mistakes?” Robyn countered.

  “If you’re talking about Tyler Gibbons—”

  “Among others.”