Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance

by Krista Sandor

  “Look who finally decided to join the living.”

  Soren perked up. He recognized this voice and saw the judge coming toward him with a dish towel in hand.

  “Here, Scooter, clean yourself up.”

  Soren patted his face. “I figured you went back to the mountain house, Judge.”

  The man took a seat next to him. “No, I told you somewhere between your ninth or tenth shot of whiskey that the people at Kringle Acres had offered to put us up for the night due to the late hour. They had two spare rooms, but it appears you never made it to yours.”

  The aftermath of his life blowing up had been almost as surreal as walking into a cozy Christmas mountain house teeming with strippers. The judge had driven him to Kringle Acres. The man had made several friends there over the last few days, and the kind residents had assured him that they could put him up for the night. He’d wanted to go straight to the airport and get the hell out of town, but the roads were terrible. The truck had slipped and skidded down the icy, snow-packed street that led from the mountain house to the village.

  He rubbed his hands across his scruffy cheeks. He had to look like a Christmas zombie.

  “Let me get cleaned up a bit, and then I’ll call for a cab.”

  “No, you won’t be doing that. Not yet,” the judge answered in his firm judge voice.

  Soren propped his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his tangled, sticky hair. “Why is that?”

  The Santa and Mrs. Claus crew pulled some chairs over and sat down, observing him closely.

  A burly Santa cleared his throat. “You’re on the naughty list, son. And we’re here to help.”

  “There’s a naughty list for adults? What do you do? Check people’s web browsers and see who’s been watching porn?” he joked.

  A petite Mrs. Claus raised an eyebrow. “Do you look at naughty pictures on the computer, young man?”

  He sat up, ramrod straight. “No, ma’am.”

  The woman narrowed her gaze.

  He glanced around, wishing like hell the drinks lady would bring him another glass of milk so he could slowly sip it and buy some time to figure out how to extricate himself from this Christmas catastrophe.

  He shifted on the couch. “Maybe I’ve accidentally seen a few naughty things on the internet. But not a lot. A normal amount. A normal adult man amount.”

  Fuck.

  You’ve never known shame until three Santa couples stared you down like the deviant you were.

  “Scooter, last night, while we were kicking your ass at poker, you shared a few things with us,” the burly Santa continued.

  Why were they calling him Scooter? That life was over.

  He rubbed his temples as the events of last night came back to him. They’d entered Kringle Acres, and the bearded men had waved them over, then dealt himself and the judge into the game before he’d had a chance to decline the offer to play. To his surprise, it had been the perfect surreal escape. The Santas didn’t say much, and as one drink became five, it gave him the opportunity to confess his transgressions.

  The whiskey probably helped, too.

  What did it matter? He knew he’d be gone in a matter of hours.

  He set the dish towel on a side table and addressed the North Pole contingent. “I appreciate your hospitality and thank you for letting me get a few things off my chest. But I’ve come to realize that there’s not much hope for someone on the naughty list, is there?”

  The Mrs. Claus, who’d given him the stink eye for the naughty internet browser history, softened her expression. “That’s not how it works, dear. You’re not bad, but you’ve made some unfortunate choices.”

  “Oh, I’m bad, Mrs. Claus. Ask the judge. I ruined his grandson’s—and my now ex-best friend’s—wedding because I didn’t want anything to change. I didn’t want to lose the only thing that mattered. I was selfish and greedy. A real-life scrooge,” he finished, leaving out how he’d also stomped on the heart of the only woman he’d ever loved.

  Loved?

  He pictured Bridget’s face, the curve of her neck, the way she could go from angel to vixen in a split second.

  He’d loved her from the moment he saw her.

  He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I can see why I spilled my guts to you last night. It’s remarkably easy to talk to all of you.”

  “Well, we get quite a bit of practice talking to youngsters,” a Mrs. Claus offered.

  “And you’re also a chatty drunk,” the short Santa, who’d won fifty bucks off him last night, chimed.

  Great! He was not only hitting rock-bottom—he was living out the holiday edition of hitting rock-bottom.

  “Scooter, does the name Lawrence Duncan sound familiar?” the judge asked, blessedly shifting gears, but he didn’t know of any Lawrence Duncan.

  Or did he? The name had a strange familiarity.

  “I don’t think so.”

  A quiet Santa who hadn’t swindled him at cards raised his hand. “I’m Lawrence Duncan.”

  Soren stared at the man. “You’re one of the Santas I talked to a few days ago when we’d come for the spaghetti dinner. You were fixing the snowcats.”

  “That’s right,” the man replied with a twitch of a grin hidden in his white beard.

  But there was something else familiar about him. He’d thought it that day as well.

  The judge sat back. “Larry’s an old friend from law school. We’d lost touch over the years after we each retired from the bench. I was quite pleased to run into him again, here, in Kringle.”

  Soren stared at the Santa judge. “You can be both a judge and a Santa?”

  Larry chuckled. “What do you think we did for the rest of the year?”

  Soren glanced around the group. “Make toys?” he answered, knowing he sounded like an idiot as Team Ho-Ho-Ho broke out into laughter.

  “I never get tired of that response,” the burly Santa crooned, slapping his leg in delight.

  “Larry was a judge for the family courts in Manhattan,” the judge offered with a curious glint in his eye.

  Soren nodded to this retired judge, Lawrence Duncan, trying to place him. “Okay.”

  “You see, Scooter, Larry came to me with a perplexing case many years ago. He was charged with overseeing a very contentious custody battle.”

  Larry Duncan nodded. “But this was different from most custody battles I’d presided over. In this case, despite being exorbitantly wealthy, neither parent wanted custody of the shared child.”

  Soren froze, unable to move. His heart hammered in his chest as the name Lawrence Duncan clicked into place.

  “Larry came to me for advice when it was time for the minor child to go to high school,” the judge continued.

  Larry leaned forward. “The parents finally agreed on something. They each advocated for boarding school. I knew that Frank here had a grandson the same age as this minor, so I asked for his advice on possible schools.”

  Soren looked from Judge Lawrence Duncan to Judge Franklin Abbott, before his gaze settled on the man who had taught him how to fish. “You suggested that I go to the same school as Tom, didn’t you?”

  The judge nodded. “And that you share a dorm room.”

  Soren sank back into the couch cushions, unable to believe that there had been those looking after his welfare as a child. Not just Janine for the short time she’d been his nanny, but Judge Lawrence Duncan and Judge Franklin Abbott. A man who knew he’d been unwanted from the start.

  He shook his head to clear the stupefied haze. “Why didn’t you ever say anything, Judge? All this time I thought…”

  “That you’d just gotten lucky?” the man supplied.

  Soren nodded.

  “We spoke about the decision. I believe one of your nannies had brought you to meet with me. Do you remember what you said when I’d told you the news?” Lawrence asked gently.

  Soren nodded. Judge Lawrence Duncan’s beard wasn’t white when they’d met years ago in that Manhattan cou
rthouse. But there was no doubt that he was sitting across from the man who’d changed the trajectory of his life.

  Larry Duncan shared a look with the judge. “You hugged me, right there in my chambers, son. And you told me how excited you were to have a place that could be a real home. I knew right then and there that you were a good kid. And that you deserved to find a place where people cared about you.”

  “And I knew you and Tom would hit it off,” the judge added.

  Crushing guilt weighed heavy on his heart. All that kindness, and he’d never learned from it. He’d never thought to incorporate all he’d learned from the Abbotts into his life.

  He slumped forward. “Judge, I ruined everything.”

  “Well, you may have outdone yourself in upsetting Tom, but I think you and my grandson can work it out.”

  He exhaled a shaky breath. “I would love to believe that.”

  “Now, what about your Alice,” the man pressed.

  He searched the judge’s eyes. “My Alice?”

  “This fell out of your wallet when we were bleeding you dry at the poker table,” the short Santa said as he handed over the photo strip.

  “You don’t have to be like your parents, Mr. Rudolph. Your birth doesn’t determine who you are. You and you alone are responsible for your choices. And I know that the grateful young man I’d met in my chambers is wholly capable of forging a new path,” Larry Duncan offered.

  “And wholly capable of dedicating himself to his friends and to the love of his life,” the judge added.

  “You know about Bridget?” he asked.

  “Oh, kid! We could all tell that you were crazy about that stoned young lady the night you brought us those peanut butter blossoms,” the burly Santa answered.

  The judge bit back a grin. “I’ve spent a lot of time with couples over the years. Overseeing marriages, divorces, and everything in between, you start to get a knack for reading between the lines when it comes to love.”

  Soren turned to the Santa crew. “And she’s not actually a stoner. She accidentally ate a bunch of Tanner’s gummy bears without knowing the special ingredient,” he replied, remembering that wild, wonderful night.

  “I don’t think that there’s anyone here who hasn’t indulged in Tanner’s treats. Just make sure she only eats a few next time. Unless she’s spent the day with hundreds of screaming toddlers. In that case, give her the bag,” a Mrs. Claus replied as the Santa contingent nodded in agreement.

  He stared down at the photos. “As much as I wished it were true, I don’t think that there will be a next time with her. And more than that, I don’t deserve her.”

  “What kind of person deserves her, Scooter?” the judge asked.

  Soren sat back and pictured the life he wanted for the woman he loved.

  A sad smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “A man who puts her first. A man who sees how lucky he is to have her every day of his life. A man devoid of selfishness and greed. A man capable of keeping a promise,” he answered, tracing his finger over the image of their photo booth kiss.

  The judge patted his leg. “How about a man who grew up without love but found it through friendship and an adopted family? How about a man who desperately needs to give himself a gift?”

  Soren released a sad little chuckle. “Judge, I have more money than God. What gift do I need to give to myself?”

  “Trust,” the man replied.

  The word hung in the air.

  “Trust?” he questioned. What could he mean by that?

  “The gift of trusting yourself not to be like your parents. The gift of taking a leap and promising to protect another’s heart. The gift of trusting in the goodness of your own heart,” the man answered.

  Trust. That was it. He’d trusted himself with the Abbotts because he believed that they had made him good. And in that slice of his life, up until completely jacking up Tom’s wedding, he had been good, loyal, and trustworthy. The qualities he’d learned from the people who called him Scooter. Still, a thread of doubt wove its way through his heart.

  “But what if I fail, Judge?”

  The man he’d known since he was fourteen held his gaze. “What if you don’t?”

  What if you don’t?

  Like the Grinch himself, his heart swelled with love. He had two promises to make. Two promises he’d spend his life honoring.

  “Now, if you still want to go to the airport, Scooter, I’ll call you a cab. It’s your decision to make,” the judge said.

  Soren stared at the picture of Bridget. “There’s somewhere I need to go. But it’s not the airport,” he replied, voice brimming with conviction. He pressed the photo to his heart and closed his eyes as a sense of peace washed over him. But he wasn’t expecting for something to poke him in the chest.

  He unzipped his coat. Yes, he’d passed out wearing his jacket. It happens when drinking with ex Santas. But when he reached into his breast pocket, he couldn’t believe what he’d found.

  A black velvet pouch.

  “The rings! Judge, I forgot I had them in here. Tom gave them to me the day Bridget and I arrived at Kringle Mountain and…” He glanced at the clock. They still had a little time before the Christmas Eve wedding festivities would start. “And you, Judge! We have to get you back to the mountain house. You’re the one who’s supposed to officiate the wedding. We have to go!”

  With determination flooding his system, he rose to his feet.

  “I’m putting it all on the line! It’s time to take the leap. Whether I’m forgiven or not, I need to get to Kringle Mountain and speak my peace. I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle,” he said, a man on the verge of redemption.

  The North Pole contingent clapped and cheered as Judge Lawrence Duncan tossed him a little wink.

  “Go get ’em, Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph!”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t think anyone is going anywhere. Have you looked outside?” another Santa-looking man said, cutting short the celebration as he pulled off a snow-covered cap and propped a snow shovel against the wall.

  Soren stared at the man. “What do you mean?”

  “The roads are treacherous. They even closed the highway. Not to mention, it looks like Kringle Mountain has lost power,” the man added, stomping the snow off his boots.

  “But we have to get to the Kringle Mountain House. I’ve got a wedding to save, and I need to tell Bridget that I love her.”

  “Sit tight, young fella. They usually get the power back in a day or two. Dan and Delores know what to do. They’ve got a generator and are always stocked up this time of year.”

  “What about the gondola to get to the Kringle Chapel,” he pressed.

  The man scratched his head. “Kringle Chapel has a fireplace, so if you could get there, you’d be able to keep warm. But if the mountain’s lost power, the gondola to the chapel won’t be running.”

  No, no, no! Not when he was so close!

  Soren paced the length of the gathering area, staring out the large windows into the parking lot, covered in drifts of snow.

  He’d give anything if Cole were right, and Christmas fairies did exist.

  He knew exactly what he’d wish for.

  He rested his head on the cold windowpane when the answer to his dilemma looked him square in the eye.

  He turned to the Santa contingent. “Those three snowcats—they could make it up Kringle Mountain, right?”

  The bearded men joined him at the window along with the man who’d been out shoveling snow.

  “You mean Rudolph, Vixen, and Dasher.”

  “Who?”

  “The snowcats,” one of the Mrs. Clauses called. “They’re named after our reindeer.”

  “Santa’s reindeer,” he corrected.

  “Yes, our reindeer,” the honorable Lawrence Duncan, retired judge and part-time Santa, replied with another sly wink.

  “And the three snowcats you’ve got here just happen to be Rudolph, Vixen, and Dasher?”

  “
That’s right,” the burly Santa replied.

  Soren stared at the snowcats, feeling more determined than ever, as something else caught his eye. “What’s that, over there?”

  “That would be a snow angel,” the shoveling man replied.

  Holy Christmas fairies!

  “Did you make it?” he asked excitedly.

  The man chuckled as he brushed the snow off his coat. “No, son. My snow angel making days are well behind me.”

  It had to be a sign!

  He turned to the Santas. “I need your help. The judge and I must get to the Kringle Mountain House, and then the wedding party will need a ride up to the chapel. Can Rudolph, Vixen, and Dasher handle that?”

  “There’s not much that Rudolph, Vixen, and Dasher can’t handle,” the burly Santa replied.

  Soren grinned. No, there wasn’t!

  “Then, we need to go. There’s no time to lose. Judge, are you ready?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  Judge Franklin Abbott clapped him on the shoulder. “You bet I am, Scooter.”

  The Santa snowcat squad sprang into action, putting on their coats and gloves.

  Soren glanced at the velvet bag containing the rings and the picture strip, lying safe in the palm of his hand when an idea so perfect and so Christmas-complete sparked in his mind.

  “Wait!” he cried.

  “What is it?” the judge asked, buttoning up his jacket.

  Soren scanned the room. “Do any of you know how I could get into contact with Agnes and Ernie Angel, the owners of the Cupid Bakeries? They’d said they’d be here, in Kringle, visiting friends through Christmas Day. I need to speak with them before we go anywhere.”

  The Santas all grinned at him.

  “What?” he asked, not sure why they were smiling.

  “Look behind you,” Lawrence Duncan offered, then shared a knowing look with the judge.

  Soren turned just as Ernie and Agnes Angel lowered the newspapers that had hidden their faces.

  He shook his head in grateful disbelief, then checked the clock on the wall, ticking away precious time.

  If this worked, he had a fighting chance.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Angel, I have a business proposition for you. But I’m going to need your answer in the next thirty seconds.”