Mrs. Claus

by Amanda Lanclos

  “Hi.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Deacon.”

  “Deacon, it’s nice to see you. Have you been a good boy this year?” Instead of giving me the standard ‘yes’ answer, the little boy shakes his head. “You haven’t?” I ask, stunned.

  “No. My mom has been with my sister, Diara, at the hospital. I didn’t clean my room the way I was supposed to,” the small boy says, whispering so only we can hear.

  “You didn’t?” I ask, dumbly, because what the hell else am I supposed to say?

  He shakes his head again, the sadness very evident in his light green eyes. “I was sad.”

  “Why were you sad?” I find myself asking, even though my gut tells me I won’t like what I hear.

  “My sister is sick and I miss her. She can’t come home from the hospital until she gets better.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Deacon,” I say, stumbling around like an idiot. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Panic starts to set in that I’m going to fuck up this child’s life forever, when I feel a presence beside me.

  “Hi, Deacon,” Noel whispers, smiling sweetly as she kneels beside us. “I hear your sister has been sick.” He nods his head, as transfixed on those magnificent blue eyes as I am. “Well, I’m sure that’s very difficult for her, your mom, and you.” Again, he nods his head. “It’s okay to be sad when someone you love is sick. That just means that you care a lot about them and want to see them healthy and well.”

  Noel reaches forward and takes the small boy’s hand. “I’ll tell you what. We’re more than willing to overlook the whole room-cleaning thing if you promise to keep loving and being there for your mom and sister. It’s not easy on anyone, but as long as you have each other, that’s all that matters. Okay?”

  Deacon’s bright green eyes shine with excitement and unshed tears. Hell, even my own throat tightens and tears burn the backs of my eyes. He nods enthusiastically, which earns another heart-stopping smile from Noel.

  “Here,” she says, handing me a wrapped gift from the bag beside me.

  Clearing my throat, I take the present and hand it to Deacon. “Mrs. Claus is right. Be sure you give your mom extra hugs, and do what you can to help her out. As long as you try, that’s all we ask.”

  “Thank you, Santa. I promise I’ll try,” he says moments before throwing both arms around my neck and squeezing. I’m stunned, but find myself wrapping my arms around the boy and returning the gesture.

  When he jumps down and returns to the older woman who brought him, a huge boulder seems to lift from my chest. There’s no time to collect my thoughts because the next kid in line is grinning from ear to ear, anxiously waiting his turn. Before he makes his way to my lap, I turn quickly to Noel.

  “Thank you.” She doesn’t answer, the smile on her face doesn’t falter, but I see the gentle rise of her eyebrow. “For helping with the kid. I didn’t know what to say, but you did.” She opens her mouth to reply, but my attention is quickly drawn away when I feel the tug of my red velvet pants.

  The next hour continues the same: child sits on my lap, asks for something completely outrageous, Noel hands me a present, and we send them on their way with a little extra holiday cheer. Most of the kids are energetic and grateful, while a few are forlorn and standoffish. Those are the ones that Noel has to help me with. I freeze in horror faster than my secretary the time I gave her a fruitcake.

  When the clock strikes two, Sheila corrals the kids over towards a big, carpeted area in front of a cushy chair. Noel heads to the front and takes her place in the chair. I’m transfixed at how at ease she appears surrounded by dozens of kids, and frankly, how beautiful she looks. She smiles effortlessly and often while she opens the book, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and starts to read.

  Every eye in the place is riveted on her glowing face, taking in the excitement of the moment, the passion in her words. Including me. I’m transfixed, my heart pounds in my chest like a snare drum. I haven’t felt this…alive since the last time she was in my arms. Christmas Eve. Five years ago.

  Sheila and another woman start to pass cookies and small cartons of milk to each child. Before I even realize I’m moving, my legs carry me towards them. With my arms loaded with white milk, I walk silently through the room and dispense the snack. When a couple of young children ask for help in opening their drinks, I fumble with the little cardboard, but eventually get them open without ripping them to shreds.

  Then, I stand in back and watch.

  Watch the way her lips move.

  Watch the way the kids react to her words.

  Watch the way she engages them with eyes that twinkle like Christmas lights.

  And there’s no way I could look away.

  I should leave. I should head into the small office where my clothes remain, and get the hell out of this place. My shift is almost done, and I’m not necessarily needed for story time with Mrs. Claus.

  But here I am, standing at the back of the room and watching her.

  Falling under her spell once again.

  I swore I’d never let another woman close, and I guess, you could say I’ve succeeded. For five years, I’ve kept them at a safe distance, while keeping my heart one hundred percent intact.

  But this isn’t another woman. This is the woman. The only woman.

  And I have no idea what to do next.

  So I stand and watch, and wait.

  For what? I’m not sure.

  And that’s the scariest part of all. Not the kids, though they scare the ever-loving bejesus out of me. No, it’s the fact that I should walk away, but can’t seem to make my legs work.

  So I continue to stare.

  And for the first time since I walked out of her door, I feel something warm blossom in my chest. It feels a hell of a lot like hope. Instead of turning and walking away, I reach out and grab that hope and hold on tight.

  Because it’s always been her.

  The Answer Is No

  I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

  It was unnerving while I read to the children, but I think I hid it well. At least, I hope I did.

  Now, I’m taking my sweet time dressing back in to my clothes, carefully hanging the Mrs. Claus outfit back on the hanger. For next Saturday. If I know Brandon as well as I think I do, he dressed unnaturally swiftly and was out the door, probably running towards his car, before I even had my door shut. Yet, I still find myself taking a little extra time redressing, just to ensure he’s long gone before I head out for the day.

  Unfortunately, that plan didn’t work.

  When I step into the hallway, Brandon’s there, leaning casually against the wall. His well-worn jeans hang low on his hips in that annoyingly delicious way that I used to crave. A snug polo shirt molds beautifully to his toned arms and his large feet are stuffed into a pair of brown leather shoes. He looks completely edible, which ruffles my garland in annoyance.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to mask the irritation.

  “Waiting on you.”

  “Why?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive gesture.

  He shrugs his shoulders casually, which just annoys me that much more. “You did great out there,” he says, taking a step away from the wall and slowly walking towards me.

  “Thanks.” I should probably return the compliment, but I don’t like him, remember? Brandon smiles a knowing grin at me, and it makes my heart beat just a little bit faster. It also makes me forget that I don’t like him.

  “Need a ride?” he offers, his scent wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It’s cozy and familiar and makes me want to snuggle in all nice and tight.

  Shaking my head, I latch onto that lingering loathing I feel for this man and give him my answer. “No. I have a car.”

  “Okay,” he says casually, shrugging those broad shoulders once more. “Thought I’d offer.”

  “Well, thank you…but no thank you.” My words are tight an
d my movements jerky. I throw my bag over my shoulder and head towards the door. There’s no need to bid him farewell, because he has already fallen in line beside me. And my chest fills with something I don’t want to dissect.

  Outside, the late November air is brisk as I make my way towards my car, Brandon still keeping pace beside me. When I get to my vehicle, I dig my keys out of my bag and unlock the driver’s door. There’s this uncomfortable silence that settles between us. I want to just jump in my car and tear from the parking spot like a NASCAR driver pulling from pit road. Am I supposed to say something?

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you next weekend,” he says, grabbing my door and opening it widely for me.

  “Yes, thanks to you,” I bite.

  He smiles down at me, one of those charming, panty-melting smiles that I long to forget. “Yes, well, I won’t apologize for that. I mean, the center is going to get a nice donation for your volunteer work.”

  “Volunteer work that I was blackmailed into doing. Again, thanks to you.” I give him my best side-eyed glare as I slip into the seat and reach for the door. But it doesn’t budge. Brandon holds it firmly in his grip, keeping me from shutting him out.

  “Again, I’m not sorry.” He turns and looks off to the right, as if he’s thinking of what to do or say. “Anyway, I’ll see you soon, No. Drive safe,” he adds. And with a gentle hand slap to the roof of my car, he lets go of my door and steps back.

  I’m left in my car, surrounded by silence, and replaying the way my old nickname rolled off his tongue. No one has ever called me No. Only Brandon. A single tear slips from my eye, unchecked, as I start my car. A blast of cold air hits me, but that’s not what chills me to the bone. Memories of what used to be, parade through my mind. Happy memories. Until it just stopped. Those memories, the happiness, were replaced with something life-changing. A deep sadness that I would carry with me for the years that followed.

  I don’t even realize that I’m still sitting there until he knocks on the window. There isn’t any time to hide the sadness, the tears, before I turn his way. But, I’m in no way prepared for the look of anguish reflected in his own eyes as he stares down at me. The pain in my chest intensifies, consumes me and drags me under the water.

  Torn between hating him and still wanting him to hold me is a horrible place to be. Part of me instructs to wipe my tears and move on, while the other part pleads with me to open the door. The anger I’ve held onto mixes with confusion, and leaves me unable to breathe.

  Brandon must sense that I’m two seconds away from cracking into a ball of woman-emotions, complete with ugly crying and hysterical blubbering, and gives me a small smile. It’s a sad smile that only intensifies my own misery.

  Instead of saying words (words that I don’t think I want to hear), he offers me a wave. Then, he takes a step back, followed by another. Before I know it, he’s walking away, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his head hanging low. It’s an image I’ve seen before. It’s burned into my memory.

  So I grab onto that memory, put my car in reverse, and head towards my place. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll forget all about that gorgeous boyish smile and those sparkling hazel eyes.

  Something tells me I’m not that fortunate.

  “And then…then he just wrapped his arms around my waist and practically pulled me back against his body. Like he just…could.” My breathing is labored, my tone terse, as I grip the string of lights in my hands like I’m strangling it.

  When my best friend since grade school, Stephanie, doesn’t answer, I turn towards the mess on my couch and to where she’s sitting.

  “What?” I ask, hands on my hips and trying to ignore the way her shocked expression makes me squirm.

  “You. Why don’t you just admit you still like him?” Steph asks, a little smile playing on the corners of her lips like she has a secret.

  “What? I don’t like him! At all. He’s arrogant and impossible and a jerk and just…mean.” My voice dips to almost inaudible on the last word.

  “Yes, Brandon Frost is all of those things.” Just when I go to say something else, she adds, “But you still love him.”

  And she sucks the wind straight out of my sails.

  The Christmas lights in my hand fall to the floor, along with my eyes. The brown carpeting in my living room apartment has seen better days, but I’ve been determined to make the best out of this new place, new job, new town. So why does my path have to cross with the one person who I despise? The one person who knows how to rip my heart out and do the Cha-cha all over the mangled pieces. Well, if Brandon knew how to Cha-cha, which he probably does and does it to professional dance standards, like everything else.

  “I do not still love him,” I defend, but it sounds weak, even to my own ears.

  “But you don’t really hate him. There’s a fine line between love and hate, sister, and you have been skating that line for years now. I’ve seen you push away perfectly suitable guys in favor of a ghost.”

  God, I hate it when she’s right. Blinking back the tears, I turn my attention her way. “I don’t want to still want him, Steph. I don’t want my stupid heart to pound in my chest and my breathing to get all choppy and breathy when he’s near. I want to remember the hurt of him walking away until my heart no longer pounds in my chest and my breathing doesn’t get all weird and remind me of an asthmatic.”

  “Maybe it’s time you really let him go. Talk to him. Tell him all the things you wanted to say back then, over the years, but haven’t had the chance. Pour your heart into it, and maybe then, you’ll finally be at peace.”

  Peace. That’s something I haven’t had since that fateful Christmas Eve. Sure, I’ve been content, but I’ve been in limbo. I finished my law degree and worked a few years for a small district attorney’s office in my tiny Illinois hometown. I’ve been so focused on not remembering the past that I haven’t been living in the present. I’ve been stuck, stranded.

  It’s a horrible place to be.

  “You think that will help?” I ask, sitting on the floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and garland.

  “It’s worth a shot. I mean, how could it not help? You’d finally get to say all of the things you’ve wanted to say to him for years. Lay it on the line, let him know how bad he hurt you, and then walk away with your head held high and the weight off your chest.”

  I could do that. God knows I’ve cursed and yelled at the man almost nightly in my dreams for years. There’s so much I want to say to him, but could it really be that simple? Just let ‘er rip and walk away?

  “Fine. I’ll see if he can spare a few minutes next Saturday after our shift. You know, since the bloodsucker blackmailed me into playing a part in his community service,” I say with a gentle shake of my head.

  “I have to admit, that’s kinda hot,” Steph surprises me by saying.

  “What? Hot?”

  “Yeah, you know, the whole Santa fantasy?” she adds, her eyes as bright and shining as the garland in her hand.

  “Uh, no. What Santa fantasy?” Knowing that this is going to be somewhat entertaining, I get up and finish stringing the extra lights. You know, because those pre-lit trees really don’t have quite enough.

  I had started to set up my tree last night, but found it hard to concentrate. Then my plan was to do it today, and even get out my grandma’s snow village, but we know how well that went; you know, with having to play Mrs. Claus all afternoon.

  “You know, the Santa fantasy. The one where Santa comes home after a long day of making toys with the elves to find Mrs. Claus in the kitchen, bent over the table. Her skirt is hiked up just enough to see a sliver of thigh, which drives the big guy insane.

  “He slides his hands between her legs and finds only bare, wet skin. Without even moving, the jolly, fat man has his cock in his hand and is sliding between her thighs. They do it hard and fast right there on the kitchen table.”

  I’m stunned silent. My mouth is gaping open, my eyes wide with shock, as I
stare at the coy little smile firmly positioned on my best friend’s face. “What? What kinda fantasy is that?”

  “Oh, come on, Noel. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a Santa fantasy. Your name means Christmas and is the biggest symbol of the holiday season, for Virgin Mary’s sake. You decorate for the holiday almost immediately after Halloween.” I go to open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “No, don’t start. You do and you know it. The only reason you didn’t this year was because of the move.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve had a Santa fantasy,” I retort lamely.

  “Even when Brandon Frost is playing Santa?” she asks, casually organizing the angel ornaments on the couch cushion.

  To be honest, I’ve pictured Brandon as the lead in just about every fantasy I’ve had since I was twenty years old, and that includes the ones where I tar and feather his perfectly sculpted naked body and string him up from my daddy’s front oak tree. But that’s because we have history, right? I mean, it’s not like I have any other real relationship experience to base my fantasies on. The first guy I was with right out of high school was… well, he was “quick.” And there has only been one guy since, and he turned out to like Santa more than Mrs. Claus.

  So of course Brandon Frost would be the highlight of my dreams. He’s impeccably tone, his skin was the perfect combination of smooth and rough, and the way he played my body, it was as if I was an instrument in his one-man band. One look from those hazel eyes could bring me to my knees and his kisses, well, let’s just say, at one time, I would have readily given up food, water, and air just for one more kiss.

  But I hate him.

  There’s no going back from the things he said and did.

  Maybe Steph is right. Maybe I really need to just tell him how I feel, how bad he hurt me, and then I can walk away. I’ll be able to finally move on with my life instead of being stuck in this funky holding pattern. It’s not like I got to tell him five years ago. It would have been difficult to voice my feelings when all I got was his back quickly hurrying away.

  Hating him was easier. Hate filled the void that remained when he left.