Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  “I didn’t say that,” Tara said. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You hinted at it,” Nadine said. “He’s not a cheater. My husband is not a cheater.”

  “I didn’t say he was.”

  “Then say it. Say ‘Phil is not a cheater.’”

  “Phil is not a cheater.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But he isn’t exactly being good to you.”

  “I’m finished!” Darren said, emerging from the tent. He patted the dog on the head, brushed sand off his hands, and winked at Tara.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” Nadine said. “I’m going to tell him you’ve noticed.”

  “What? No! Don’t do that.”

  Nadine pointed her shovel at Tara. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She stood up.

  “Now? You’re going to do it now?”

  “While the phone is fresh in his ear,” Nadine said.

  “But they’re going to judge us now,” Tara said. She turned to the judges and smiled. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Ours sucks,” Nadine said.

  “Stick out your chest,” Tara whispered. Nadine, despite being otherwise occupied, complied. The judges whistled.

  “You ladies are looking good,” one said. “Looking good.”

  “Yeah,” another agreed. “Look like winners to me.”

  “Win, win, win,” the third said. Nadine giggled nervously as he stared at her. “If I were your husband, I would throw that phone into the ocean, baby.” He mimed doing just that. “Into the ocean!” Nadine laughed some more, and her face turned as red as Tara’s suit. Darren clapped his hands.

  “Look at this baby,” he said. He whipped the makeshift tent off his sculpture. Everyone’s eyes first went up it, then down it, then up it again. A sculpture of a naked woman lay in the sand. She was wearing only a Santa cap. Several of the judges looked at the naked sculpture, then at Tara, then back at the naked sculpture. Cameras started flashing; the judges whooped and fist-bumped Darren. Nadine pointed at the naked sand-woman.

  “That is not very Christmas-like,” she said.

  “Yeah,” one of the judges agreed. “Santa’s been baaad.” The judges grabbed Darren’s arm and raised it in victory. Nadine kicked the roof of their North Pole.

  Darren hugged Tara to his body. They were both sweaty and sticky with sand. Tara’s face flooded first from desire, then from embarrassment. She pulled away. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” Darren said. “Rehearsals start early.”

  “Rehearsals?” Tara yelled after him. “What do you mean by rehearsals?” But he and his dog were already gone.

  Chapter 9

  As they neared Darren’s house, homemade road signs began appearing at the side of the road with arrows pointing the way to: THE ISLAND POLE. RATED R. Darren’s house was the last one on a dead-end drive.

  “When the village opens, cars will be lined up for miles,” Darren said, gesturing out the window. He beamed like a proud parent.

  “Don’t you have families who bring their kids despite the warning?” Tara asked.

  “That used to happen,” Darren said. “But it’s a walk-through village, not a drive through. They park in the field.” Darren pointed to the large empty plot of land next to his house. “We have a guy checking ID at the gate. It sucks to make a family turn around and go home, but it has to be done. We give ’em candy canes and send them on their way.”

  “That’s horrible,” Tara said.

  “Not at all,” Darren said. “The rest of the block goes crazy with light displays too. I was the one who kicked it off,” he said with a wink.

  “It’s nice to have a legacy,” Tara said. She was trying to be facetious, but he seemed to take it as a compliment.

  “Definitely,” Darren said. “But I was the one to persuade the rest of the block to be kid-friendly.”

  “Imagine that,” Tara said. “Kid-friendly on Christmas.”

  “It’s perfect,” Darren said. “No one is disappointed. The families with kids can still walk up and down the street and enjoy the amateurs.” Tara laughed.

  “God, I love that sound,” Darren said.

  “What?”

  “Your laugh. It’s magical.”

  “My laugh? You like my laugh?” His laugh made her want to rip off his clothes and suction herself to his muscular stomach. She kept this to herself. “Thanks,” she said instead.

  “Don’t thank me,” Darren said. “Just keep doing it.” He looked at her long and hard. Tara looked away, and brushed his comment off with a laugh. She closed her eyes and marveled at the sensations in her body. She never knew her back could mimic a grand piano, that one look from the right guy, and concertos would play up and down her spine. Everybody should have at least one secret to take to his or her grave, and this one would definitely be hers. Nobody’s ego deserved that much of a boost.

  Darren’s house was wrapped in so many Christmas lights, she couldn’t tell exactly what it looked like. She guessed it was similar to the bungalow she was staying in. A giant palm tree in the front yard was also adorned with lights. Tara bet it was something to see when it was all lit up. Next to the palm tree was a blow-up snowman.

  “Three balls,” Tara said, thinking of Nadine’s deformed sand-snowman. “That’s good.” So far she didn’t see what was R-rated—

  She stepped closer to Frosty. He was holding something in his mittens. “Is that a joint?” Tara said. In his other hand Frosty had a can of Budweiser. Tara laughed, but shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said.

  “But it made you laugh,” Darren said. “Magical.”

  “I’m laughing at a grown man acting like a frat boy,” Tara said.

  Darren shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Look down,” he said. Tara looked at the ground. Condom wrappers and crushed beer cans littered the ground. A bra was flung over Frosty’s head.

  “Nadine would go mental,” Tara said. “I can’t tell you how bad I want to clean this up.” Darren came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her neck. She turned to face him, and he kissed her full on. She forgot all about the dirty snowman.

  “That was just for Frosty,” Darren said when he finally pulled away. “He likes to watch.” Tara swatted Darren.

  “This is just wrong,” Tara said, looking at Frosty. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  “Then you’re definitely not going to want to see the rest of it,” Darren said, taking her hand. “But I’m going to show it to you anyway.”

  Darren’s expansive backyard was indeed a Christmas village. One look at it, and Tara knew he deserved a hideous electric bill. It was Frosty times twelve. Since most of the exhibits used real people, Darren narrated the scene. “That’s where hookers will sit on Santa’s lap. The elves read Penthouse and smoke Marlboro Reds.” He pointed to a model train. “That will run continuously,” he said. He started up the train. When the whistle blew, a miniature Santa popped out of the caboose, bent over, and showed them his caboose.

  “How did you get toys to do that?” Tara asked.

  “I have friends in low places,” Darren said. “Come on, I’ll show you your exhibit.” Tara followed Darren to the very back where a small patch of grass was penned off with a small wooden fence. In the middle of the pen stood a giant electronic reindeer. Darren pushed a button on its neck. The reindeer reared back. His eyes turned red. Smoke shot out of his nose. Then he opened his mouth and revealed giant fangs. Darren stuck his wrist into the open mouth and screamed. Tara stared, dumbfounded.

  “That’s all you have to do,” Darren said. “Just reenact the attack. They’re going to love it.” He jumped the fence, then rolled down a banner hanging in front of it.

  When Reindeers ATTACK

  “I quit,” Tara said. Darren just smiled. He pulled a folded-up newspaper article out of his back pocket and handed it to her.

  “Maui Mornings,” he said. “Hot off the press.”

  “That wench,” Tara said, staring at he
r picture in the newspaper. “She promised.” But there Tara stood, hands on hips, in her hideous swim dress. She didn’t even have to ask, “Does this suit make me look fat?” because the answer was yes. The hat and zinc oxide didn’t help. She looked exactly like the type of woman who would sue McDonald’s for hot coffee or scream that an innocent reindeer had tried to bite her just to finagle a free trip. There was a second picture in the article. It was Darren standing next to the mechanical reindeer. As usual, he was grinning ear-to-ear. He looked gorgeous.

  “Read it,” Darren said, tapping the first paragraph.

  LOCAL CHRISTMAS VILLAGE HOOKS UP WITH REINDEER LADY. ISLAND POLE, RATED R. DONATIONS TO BE GIVEN TO ISLAND ORPHANAGE.

  Underneath was yet another picture, of a dozen smiling children who Tara could only assume were the local orphans.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Tara said. “They aren’t even allowed into the village.”

  “True,” Darren said. “But besides giving them a large donation, I am taking them out for an afternoon on a glass bottom boat.”

  “You have a glass bottom boat?”

  “I have a second job,” Darren said. “I’m a glass bottom boat guide.”

  “Of course you are,” Tara said.

  “You should come sometime,” Darren said. Tara didn’t answer. She was still obsessing over the picture.

  “She promised,” Tara wailed.

  Darren pointed to Tara’s slathered white nose. “She thought this was reminiscent of Rudolph,” Darren said. “You can’t really blame her. It is Christmas.” Tara looked around the perverted village and then shook her head at Darren.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” she said. Darren pointed to the When Santa’s Away, Mrs. Claus Will PLAY exhibit.

  “That’s what she says,” he said.

  Tara spent the rest of the day helping put Christmas lights where Christmas lights shouldn’t go. Still, as other volunteers showed up, and silly perverted Christmas songs played through the village, Tara had to grudgingly admit she was having fun. After several hours of hard Christmas labor, she felt Darren’s hand on the small of her back. Another musical scale played up and down her spine, and when she turned around, she was half-hoping he was holding mistletoe.

  “I just ordered pizza for the gang,” he said. “But why don’t you come in and have a drink with me. Take a little break.” She didn’t argue. She wanted to check out his place.

  To her surprise, his home was neat and orderly. Bookshelves lined the wall. A blue marble globe sat on one side of a shelf, a telescope on the other. Tara imagined the two of them stargazing on the beach late at night. There’s the Big Dipper; there’s the Little Dipper; what’s that star? I don’t know, so from now own, it will be our star. Kiss, kiss, knock over telescope, fall onto beach, make love under your new star, how could you not fall in love with a man with a telescope? His furniture was masculine yet classy: a solid suede sofa, a sturdy coffee table, and a leather reclining chair. A few throw pillows would give them a welcoming feel, Tara thought as she took them in. She caught herself imagining her stuff mixed up with his stuff. They had similar tastes, and she was pretty sure her stuff and his stuff, their combined stuff, would get on like a house on fire. Whereas some people worried whether or not they would like their new love’s friends, Tara always worried whether or not she would like their stuff. If you didn’t like someone’s friend, you just had to make an excuse whenever he was around. I’m so sorry I can’t play beer pong with you and Buck tonight, but I have a sore wrist.

  But not liking someone’s stuff was much trickier. If things progressed, you would have to sit on that beer-stained Barcalounger, look at the Aliens versus Predators poster, or listen to, say, that hideous cuckoo clock chime for the rest of its natural life. And Murphy’s Law said the Barcalounger, Aliens, and cuckoo were going to outlive you by at least a thousand years. And forget about subtly trying to destroy or replace his things. You would pay for it. Every fight you had from then on would be subtly laced with—You smashed my cuckoo clock with a ball-peen hammer, and no matter what I said, I’m never going to forgive you, never. If she and Darren were live-in lovers, they wouldn’t have that problem. She had yet to see a single thing she wanted to smash with a hammer.

  She did, however, have a strange urge to touch his things, run her hands over them, as if she could soak up the sounds and scents of his life simply through her fingertips. Speaking of scent, his place smelled fresh, like lavender. And coconuts. Everywhere she went it smelled like coconuts. He had a nice flat screen television, but there was no video game system hanging off it. It was the anti-Island Pole. This was the place of a guy she wanted to date. Or fling. He’s not boyfriend material, she reminded herself. Even if he does have a telescope. His kitchen was small, a typical galley with just enough room for a stove, fridge, and sink.

  “Not a kitchen you can cook in,” Darren said. He sounded disappointed.

  “You’re wrong,” Tara said. “I can whip up a gourmet meal anywhere.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. You should see the things I’ve done with hot plates.” She stopped as he burst out in laughter.

  “Sorry,” he said, gesturing out the back window. “When you work the Island Pole enough, everything starts to sound perverted.” Tara didn’t hear what he said. She was stuck on “work the Island Pole.” She made a conscious effort not to look at his groin.

  “Anyway,” she said. “You can cook in here.”

  “Too bad I already ordered pizza,” Darren said. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. “But I have this,” he said.

  “Let them eat pizza,” Tara said. “Take me to the nearest grocery store.” They stood, grinning at each other. It felt so good to flirt. Darren took his truck keys out of his pocket and tossed them in the air.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She decided to make tilapia with mandarin oranges, garlic, and cilantro. She would also whip up a homemade cocktail sauce for peel-and-eat shrimp, and spicy green beans. Finally, broiled red potatoes and fresh bread with butter would round out the meal. Darren gave her a glass of champagne, and after being banned from helping her, left her alone to cook. He even put a Bing Crosby Christmas CD on. Tara was in heaven. She hadn’t cooked in several days, and it felt good. She tried not to think about the fact that she no longer had a job back home. Once in a while Darren would pop back in and watch her work. He’d fill up her champagne glass or ask again if she needed help. He’d stand and inhale the scents of her cooking and once whispered, “My God.” Then he looked out the window at the volunteers. They were chugging beer and munching on pizza. “Those poor bastards,” he said with a shake of his head. “If they only knew what we had going on in here.”

  A warmth spread through Tara, and it took everything she had not to ask “What exactly do we have going on in here?” She told herself to just enjoy the moment. She loved the feeling of being watched as she cooked, admired for doing what she loved best. She had her hair piled on top of her head, and when a strand fell loose, Darren was there in a flash. In one gentle move he tucked the loose strand behind her ear, and before pulling away, kissed her softly on the neck. “Hey.” he said when he pulled back. “You’re not wearing your bandage.”

  “I’m all better now,” Tara said.

  Darren gently lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed it. A shiver ran through Tara, head to toe. “No,” he said. “Now you’re all better.”

  He set his dining table with red place mats and gold-rimmed china plates. It was her turn to watch him. His dog followed him everywhere he went. It was adorable. “I don’t even know your dog’s name,” she said. The dog trotted over and stuck his nose in Tara’s crotch. She laughed and gently pushed him away. “Guess he’s not too insulted,” she said. “But I want to know it anyway.”

  “Dog.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Your dog’s name is Dog?”

  “Yep.”

&nbs
p; “Very creative.”

  “Simple,” he said. “Just like I like my life.” Tara looked around the apartment again. Santa and hookers outside, Bing Crosby and Tolstoy inside. She didn’t care what he said. She figured he was anything but simple. Dinner was amazing. As they ate, Darren wanted to hear about her work at La Fleur. Tara regaled him with tales of Y&S and Alain, stopping short of mentioning the bit about being fired. She hadn’t even told Nadine. She wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. She didn’t want her exotic vacation ruined by reality. A loud whoop rose from outside. Tara glanced out the window. She couldn’t exactly see what was going on, but it looked like Santa was getting a lap dance. Darren chuckled. Tara shook her head.

  “What?” he said.

  “I just don’t get it,” Tara admitted. “Why are you so anti-Christmas?” Darren set down his fork, took a sip of his wine, and stared into Tara’s eyes.

  “You really want to know?” he said.

  “I really do,” Tara said.

  “Follow me.” They got up from the table and went to the back window. Tara tried to ignore how close his body was to hers, as he lifted his arm and pointed out a woman standing in the middle of the yard. “Sheila,” he said. “Forty-five. Four kids. Husband was a no good accountant with girlfriends all over the globe. Left them on Christmas. Before I started up the village she couldn’t bring herself to celebrate the holiday. Now her kids get a Christmas, and she gets a little stress relief.” He pointed to a man. “John. Girlfriend left him at the altar. Allen. Goes broke buying gifts for everyone, always thinking they’ll be disappointed. Had a heart attack last year. Did you know Christmas is the deadliest day of the year?”

  “It is not,” Tara said. Darren held up his hand as if he were in court.