Mrs. Claus

by Amanda Lanclos

  “Ready?” Sheila asks from the other side of the door.

  Ready? Fuck no, I’m not ready. I should be at my condo right now, getting ready to watch the Fighting Illini on my seventy-inch flat screen HD TV. Instead, I’m balls deep in community service projects, thanks to a certain ADA who hates my guts. And that just brings my focus back on the blonde who stole my heart all those years ago, and is stealing my sanity in the present.

  I can’t believe she did this to me. Kids. Oh, my little hellcat brought out the big guns with this little stunt. It only goes to prove she hasn’t forgotten, and certainly hasn’t forgiven me for my wrongdoings in the past. Instead, she’s using that rage as an accelerant to fuel the fire I thought had long dissipated. But no, that fire is still very much alive and burning, smoldering beneath the surface and giving me a false sense of security. As soon as I turn my back, the fire blazes to life, catching me off guard and sending my entire life up in smoke.

  But there’s no time to think about that right now. At the moment, I have to get my Merry Ho Ho Ho on and entertain kids.

  Merry flippin’ Christmas.

  I Hate Him

  I can’t stay away.

  Not because I want to see him, mind you.

  Because I want to see him suffer.

  For a man like Brandon, dealing with kids for half the day is the worst kind of torture out there. He’s an only child, and though his mother was a part of his life, she worked her tail off, never married or had more children, so he’s never been around them.

  His father was absent. A big shot, from what I’m told, in the sports world. Brandon never even knew his father’s last name. All he ever told me was that his mom met Kent, a pro ball scout for one of the Chicago teams, who was in town for the weekend. The story goes that they had some steamy weekend love affair, and he left her a few days later to move on to the next city.

  And left a little something behind.

  Brandon.

  She tried to get ahold of him, but her calls and letters were never answered. Brandon always said he didn’t care, that he didn’t need a father, but I could tell that it cut him deeply. His mom was an amazing woman who gave everything she could so that her son could have his dream.

  And then she got sick. It was right there at the end of our time together that her cancer really started to spread. She refused to seek the treatment she needed for fear that it would put too much of a financial strain on Brandon. It ended up taking her about six months after our law school graduation.

  I went to see her one last time before she passed. He doesn’t know, at least I hope he doesn’t. I asked his mom, Cecelia, not to tell him. The pain of the breakup was still too hard, too fresh, and too raw to deal with, but I needed to see her one last time and say my goodbyes. Cecelia Frost had an extraordinary heart, full of love and joy.

  I never went to the funeral. Even though I ached to be there for him during the loss of his mother, it wasn’t my place anymore. I had said my goodbyes to her and was able to spend time laughing and crying with her while she was still able to. It was a special moment that only she and I shared, and I’ve always carried that time with her in my heart and mind.

  How can someone with such a beautiful heart have a son who could say he loves a woman one minute and shred her heart with a cheese grater the next?

  I’ve never been able to figure that one out.

  It’s just after noon and the Santa luncheon is in full swing. For the last hour, I’ve been lurking in the corner, watching Brandon to make sure he’s fulfilling every fine print detail of his probation. So far, I’ve watched one kid scream bloody murder, a pair of twins rip at the beard he must have glued to his face, and one very little girl with blonde pigtails pee on him. That was the highlight of my day.

  Towards the end of the lunch, I notice the sweet woman who’s playing Mrs. Claus get up and practically sprint out of the cafeteria. Concerned that something’s wrong, I slip out the door and make my way towards the closest bathroom. I can hear her retching before I even enter the woman’s restroom.

  Pushing the door open, I slip inside. “Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing a wad of paper towels and wetting them.

  “Uhhhh,” she groans once the vomiting has subsided. After a few minutes, the stall door opens. Mrs. Claus is as white as a ghost and beads of sweat are dotting her forehead and upper lip.

  “Was it something you ate?” I ask, handing her the wet towels.

  She places them on her forehead and leans back against the wall. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier. I think I have the flu.”

  “Oh no,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come out and have a seat in the hallway. I can call someone for you to come and pick you up. You probably shouldn’t be driving in your condition.”

  “My husband. He’s at home,” she groans, taking slow, gingerly steps towards the doorway.

  In the hallway, the afternoon session of kids are starting to arrive in the gymnasium. Keeping my hands on the sick woman, I’m able to flag down Sheila. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” she asks, dropping down to fawn over Mrs. Claus.

  “Sick,” she groans, wiping her forehead once more.

  “I was going to call her husband for a ride.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sheila adds, nodding emphatically.

  “But, I’m supposed to play Mrs. Claus again. What about the kids?”

  “Don’t you worry a second about that, sweetie. We’ll find someone else to finish out your shift, okay? You need to focus on getting healthy,” Sheila says.

  “I’m so upset that I can’t stay. This was my only weekend that I could help,” Mrs. Claus says.

  The husband arrives just a few minutes later, anxious to help get his wife home and resting. We send her off with a small pail. You know, just in case.

  “What are we going to do now?” Sheila asks absently, more to herself than to me.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I reply, watching the rest of the kids file into the auditorium. It’s starting to get loud again after all of the kids got lunch and a second wind.

  “Is something wrong?” I hear behind me. It’s that deep, husky voice that I recall from all those years ago. The reaction I have to hearing him is the same as it was then, too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver of something I don’t want to identify sweeps through my body.

  “Oh, Brandon! I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Claus has the flu. We had to send her home, which means we don’t have you a wife for the rest of today. I could possibly make a call and try to get someone to come volunteer, but I don’t think I can fill the void today on such short notice.”

  “I have an idea,” he says, that grin firmly plastered on his full, kissable lips that are framed by the white beard.

  No. Don’t think about that, Noel.

  “You do?” Sheila and I each ask at the same time. Uneasiness tingles the base of my neck and warms my cheeks. Something tells me I won’t like this.

  “Sure. Noel here loves kids. I think I recall her saying something once about winning the starring role in a high school production of Tony and Tina’s Wedding, so she has the role-playing bit down pat. Noel would make a wonderful Mrs. Claus.” Again, that cocky smirk I used to love is spread wide across his too-handsome face.

  “What?!” I exclaim quietly through my teeth.

  “Noel? You’d do it?” Sheila turns to me with so much hope in her eyes that I almost falter.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I have…things to do. I’m sure you’ll be able to find another Mrs. Claus on extremely short notice, who’s available on a Saturday afternoon,” I reason, but my point completely loses steam by the time I get to the end of it.

  “Did I tell you that I’d make a handsome donation to the community center if she agrees?” he adds, throwing the final nail in my coffin.

  That’s when I realize he has me firmly by the ornaments (that’s code for by the balls). There’s no way I could back out now. I really only have two options. One
, save my dignity and run for the hills, ripping the donation Brandon’s dangling over their heads out of their hands before they even get a hold of it. Two, play Mrs. Claus. And while that option doesn’t seem so bad in a normal situation, I’d have to stand right beside Brandon, eat lunch right beside him, and read to kids next to him. There’d be no escaping the man I’ve done everything in my power, besides hypnosis, to forget.

  Unfortunately, there’s only one answer.

  “I’ll do it today. But only if Brandon doubles the donation he was going to make,” I throw in for good measure. Mr. Hotshot Lawyer can afford to drop a little extra cash when it’s for the area kids. Besides, he’ll use it for a tax write-off anyway, so no harm, no foul.

  “Done,” he says, sharing a victorious smile behind the snowy white beard. Those hazel eyes are shining brightly with mirth and mischievousness.

  “Well, come on, Noel, let’s get you suited up. I’ve got a back-up outfit that is probably just your size,” Sheila says, leading me down the opposite hallway.

  Ten minutes later, I almost look the part of Mrs. Claus. With the other Mrs. wearing the only gray wig home, I’m stuck with my own hair. I style it back in a loose bun at the nape of my neck, a few of those radical curls already pulling away from the restraint.

  Glancing at the reflection in the mirror, I’m slightly surprised at what I see. The red dress has a fluffy trim around the hem and hits several inches above my knees. If this dress is this short on me (at a whopping five feet, four inches), can you imagine if someone with long legs were to wear it?

  Silver shimmery pantyhose lead down to sparkling red heels that are surprisingly in my size. Who would have thought they’d have a five and a half in red heels in the big bin of women’s shoes. The top of the dress is tasteful with a high neckline and long sleeves. Again, there’s white fluffy trim around the neck and wrists. To finish out my outfit, I add a sprig of holly to my bun, which doesn’t do much for the outfit, but makes me smile nonetheless.

  “Ready?” I hear on the other side of the door.

  “Yes,” I holler, reaching for my sweater and removing the Santa head pin. This is my favorite pin, the one that my grandma gave me a few years ago. I wear it as much as possible from Thanksgiving all the way to Christmas Day. Once it’s fastened securely over my heart, I head out to meet Sheila in the hallway.

  “Sweet baby Jesus in a manger,” I hear behind me as I step into the hallway, startling me. My footing in the uncomfortable and unfamiliar footwear falters, causing me to stumble in the shoes. Strong arms wrap around my waist, keeping me from going down. I don’t have to turn to see who my savior was. I can smell him. He smells exactly as I remember. It’s a clean and musky scent, the same intoxicating cologne he wore back in school, when we spent all of our free time wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Stupid memories.

  “I don’t recall you ever wearing anything this sexy back in school.” The words are seductive, erotic, against my ear, and I hate the way my body automatically responds to them. Apparently, my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we hate him.

  “Yeah, well, I was never into role-playing back then. And too bad you’ve found yourself on the naughty list with no chance of ever redeeming yourself.” There. Take that.

  His chuckle against my ear practically turns my insides to mush. “Oh, Mrs. Claus, you have no idea just how naughty I am.” And dammit, if my body doesn’t sway towards him just a little. Stupid, traitorous body!

  In desperate need of a little space, I pull myself free from his clutches and straighten my dress. Sure, I wish the hem were about four inches longer than it is, but that’s not something I can remedy right now. I’m being blackmailed into playing the part of Mrs. Claus, with the very devil himself. He’s evil, horrible, and clearly using his sexual magnetism to his advantage. It would do me good to remember that.

  “Yes, well, I hope you’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Otherwise, I’d be surprised that you get any dates at all. If I recall correctly, you had plenty of room for improvement.” Sure, it’s an immature dig at his manhood, and no man wants his masculinity challenged.

  Brandon’s face lights up with surprise at first, but transforms into humor just as quickly. His low chuckle sends heat flooding my lady-parts, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what I want to happen.

  He takes a step forward, once again invading my personal space, and whispers, “Oh, kitten, I don’t recall you having many complaints about my manhood. In fact, I distinctly recall, in glorious detail, you begging for my manhood over and over and over again.”

  A fierce blush burns my neck and settles in my cheeks. I should have known that he’d go there. Squaring my shoulders, I turn and face him. “Listen, Brandon, the only reason I’m here right now is because of you, and the only reason I didn’t walk right out that door and tell you to stick mistletoe up your ass is because of those kids in there. So, let’s just get through the next couple of hours without trying to kill each other, or talking about your…” I clear my throat, “manhood, and I think we’ll be just fine, okay? In just a few hours, we won’t ever have to see each other again.”

  Before I can stomp off, victoriously, from my little spiel, Sheila walks over and interrupts. “Wow, you look amazing. The best Mrs. Claus the center has ever had. So good, in fact, that I was hoping you would be interested in volunteering for a few more of these Saturday visits with Santa. I mean, the kids really love it when Santa and Mrs. Claus are together,” she says with a sugar-sweet smile.

  “A few more? Like one?”

  “Ummm, like…all of them.” Before I can object, she continues. “We’ve had a hard time lining up a consistent Mrs. Claus for these weekends, and I thought that, maybe, since you’re helping us out today that you’d be willing to help more?” The hopeful look on her face leaves me firmly between a rock and a hard place. On one side are the kids, which I would love to help. On the other is Brandon. Cocky, arrogant, still as good-looking and as potent as ever, Brandon, who will, undoubtedly, make this month hell.

  “I’ll triple my donation to the center. If Noel agrees to play my Mrs. through Christmas Eve.”

  Damn him. See, this is exactly why I hate him. And the fact that my heart speeds up at the prospect of spending time with him over the next four weeks, leaves me unsettled even more.

  Stupid heart.

  “Fine. I’ll do it,” I whisper, feeling defeated and played. Turning around, I come face to face with Brandon Frost. “For the kids. I’m only doing this for the kids.”

  The smile he gives me isn’t cocky and it isn’t malicious. It’s happiness and excitement and unarms me in the exact same way it used to when we were together, like he somehow finds joy in the fact that we’re stuck working together for the next several Saturdays.

  “For the kids,” he confirms before extending his white-gloved hand towards me.

  There’s no time for hesitation as I slowly reach forward and take the hand he’s offering me. I try to ignore the lust that races through me as our hands connect. I try to ignore the way my heart palpitates in my chest. I try to ignore the rush of familiarity and pleasure that sweeps through me.

  I ignore it all, the way I’ll ignore him.

  I push it all aside, steel my back, and turn towards the hallway that will lead me to the kids.

  Not today, Satan.

  Mrs. Claus is Smokin’ Hot

  I almost swallowed my tongue when she walked out of the room.

  Every fantasy I’ve ever had about Noel came rushing back in bright Technicolor, as I watched her step into the hallway. Those tone legs framed with red heels and a skirt that would be illegal at the North Pole, had me moving towards her before I even registered that my feet were walking. And I’m damn glad I did, because she almost went down in those damn heels.

  Heels that I wouldn’t mind seeing wrapped around my neck later tonight.

  No. No, Brandon, get that shit out of your head right now.

  This is No
el.

  She hates you.

  Or does she?

  I’ve seen the way she reacts, the way her body swayed in my direction, almost involuntarily.

  This is a marathon, not a sprint.

  Slow and steady will win the race.

  “Ready?” I ask, as we walk hand-in-hand down the hall, and towards the screaming bunch of kids. The afternoon session is sure to be just as busy, if not a bit more rowdy than this morning’s.

  “Yes,” she whispers as we walk together. There’s no missing the slight tremble of her hand. Giving it a gentle squeeze, we step into the auditorium and into madness.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” I holler, drawing the attention of every person in the room. There’s a moment of silence as every head in the room turns our way before chaos ensues.

  Volunteers work diligently to get the kids back into an orderly line, as the Mrs. and I make our way up to the front of the room. The beard is itching something fierce, but I ignore the discomfort, and in turn focus on something much more appealing: the gentle sway of her ass.

  Noel stands beside the chair, and there’s no hiding the glimmer of excitement in her eyes as she gazes out at the crowd. How someone can be this enthusiastic to be pawed at and surrounded by kids all day is beside me. But Noel always wanted kids, and that thought makes me pause.

  The smile on her face the day she told me.

  The tears that followed as I shattered her.

  She would be a wonderful mother, this I know, which is why it surprised me that she’s not already married with two point five kids. Why the fuck hasn’t some jackass already claimed her as his own and given her the family she so rightfully deserves?

  Maybe because it was always you who fit into that picture?

  Simmer down, brain.

  Stupid subconscious.

  I take a seat in the big chair and wait for the first child to come forward. It’s a little boy with a wide smile and no front teeth. I can’t help but grin back at him. “Hello,” I say as he climbs up on my lap.