by Diane Kelly
This whole mess with Don Geils was driving me crazy. Shooting him in the leg multiple times made me look bad, I knew. But a woman has only so much restraint, and I’d already foregone killing him. All of that repressed energy and emotion had to go somewhere. And, come on, I was only human, after all. Still …
I had to know.
Was I naughty? Or was I nice?
Only one person could tell me for sure. And that person was wearing a red suit and hat trimmed in white faux fur and sitting in a big chair forty feet away from me.
I stepped into line behind a dozen mothers with young children, some eager to see Santa Claus, some a little more timid. A smiling red-haired elf in short green overalls, tights, and fuzzy boots escorted each child to Santa’s large padded seat and helped them up to his knee. Another elf snapped photographs, which, according to the nearby sign, could be purchased for the “lo-ho-ho price of just $9.99!” Nearby, the carolers belted their way through “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “Joy to the World” before segueing into “Up on the Housetop.”
As the line inched forward, I began to feel increasingly ridiculous. A few of the mothers gave me odd looks, trying to figure out why a woman in her twenties with no child in tow was in line to see jolly old Saint Nicholas. The carolers continued their crooning, circling around the village, singing about roasting chestnuts, one-horse open sleighs, building snowmen in meadows. My favorite was “Carol of the Bells.” Too bad I couldn’t just throw my cares away like the lyrics suggested.
When I reached the front of the line, the elf greeted me with a, “Hi-ho there!” A raging blush heated my face. This was crazy. Nuts. Certifiable. Embarrassing! The guy on the decorated chair was nothing more than an actor, a worker paid to impersonate Father Christmas.
What did I really think he could offer me?
The elf motioned for me to follow her. “Right this way, please. Santa’s been waiting to see you.”
I took a couple of steps and stopped. “Um … I’ve changed my mind,” I told the elf. “Lost my mind” was more like it. I didn’t need to see Santa. I needed to see a shrink.
“Come on up!” Santa called from his seat, waving me forward.
I pointed to my chest.
“Yes, you!” he called, waving again. “It’s been a long time. Let’s catch up.”
I glanced behind me, noting the expectant faces on the children waiting in line. What would they think if I walked away from Santa? I couldn’t turn my back on him. I had no choice but to continue on my way.
The parents and children stared as I slowly made my way up to Santa. When I reached him, my eyes gave him a once-over. This guy’s beard looked real, as did his chubby belly. No pillow there. He might ought to cut down on the milk and cookies before he had a heart attack. His nose was red, like a cherry. Heck, this Santa even had dimples. How merry!
“Right here, young lady.” He patted his thigh. “Have a sit.”
Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, maybe it was the residual effects of last nights’ sake, or maybe it was the fact that I longed to once again be a young girl whose biggest problem was trying to keep her church clothes clean. Whatever the reason, I climbed up onto Santa’s lap and sat. To my surprise, my embarrassment fled and I felt a sense of comfort and security I hadn’t felt in a long time. I fought the urge to lay my head on his shoulder.
The man offered an understanding smile. “Life’s been treating you rotten lately, hasn’t it?”
“You know about that?” What was he, a psychologist? Then again, I suppose it didn’t take a genius to figure out that an adult wanting to sit on Santa’s lap was going through a rough patch.
“Of course I know. I’m Santa. Like the song says, I keep an eye on you when you’ve asleep. I watch you when you’re awake, too.”
I chuckled. This guy was good. Probably had some formal theater training.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You know, since I see you when you’re asleep, I know you don’t always sleep alone. Some nights you don’t even sleep in your own bed.”
I stiffened. Was this Santa a pervert? But when I looked in his eyes I noticed they twinkled with merriment, not lust.
I looked down at the floor, then back up at him. “Am…” My God, this was crazy. Wasn’t it? But I had to know. “Am I on your ‘naughty’ list?”
He laughed, and his belly shook like a bowlful of jelly. Or like an oversized Jell-O shot. “Don’t worry. If everyone who fooled around ended up on my ‘naughty’ list I’d be out of business.”
So Santa believed in moral relativism, huh? Good to know.
“It’s not about … that,” I said. “There was something else I did, something I’m not sure about.” If I told this guy I’d shot someone several times, would he push me off his lap and call mall security to haul me away?
He ducked his chin and gave me a knowing look. “I know all about it. Not to worry. You did what you had to do. You made my ‘nice’ list again this year.”
Relief surged through me. “I did? Are you sure?”
He laughed again. “Of course I’m sure. I made the list myself. Checked it twice. Trust me, you’re on the ‘nice’ list.”
That was just what I needed to hear. My mouth curved up in a broad smile. “Thanks, Santa.”
“There’s a name at the top of my ‘naughty’ list that I think you’d recognize, though.”
“Is it Donald Geils?”
He wagged a finger. “Now, now. Santa’s lists are confidential trade secrets.” He followed his words with an exaggerated wink that I took to convey the message I’d been right. Don Geils was on the “naughty” list.
Santa gave me a reassuring pat on the back. “Now, what would you like for Christmas?”
“How about a new job?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that one,” he said. “I’ll work on it. Now smile for the camera.”
I turned and grinned at the photographer.
When I stood, Santa gave me a pat on the shoulder and a candy cane.
I stuck the peppermint stick in the pocket of my coat. “Thanks, Santa. I’ll leave you some milk and cookies on the hearth.”
“Milk?” He made a face. “How about something stronger?”
“You got it.”
I left feeling my spirits buoyed for the first time in days. I also left with the photo. Why pass up such a lo-ho-ho price, right?
chapter fourteen
Home for the Holidays
I pulled into the drive of my parents’ ancient Victorian farmhouse early that afternoon. The old house had a lot of charm. It also had a lot of spiders, a mouse or two, drafty windows, and noisy pipes.
I tried to focus on the charm.
Mom’s decorating skills rivaled those of Cindy Allen, though where Cindy opted to decorate with lights my mother opted for garlands. The entire front porch was wrapped in greenery accented at precisely measured intervals with bright gold bows. The wreath on the front door was made from fragrant pine boughs stripped from one of the many trees that grew on the property. I had no doubt the tree itself now stood in the living room near the fireplace, covered with homemade ornaments and tinsel and topped with the glitter-covered cardboard star I’d made in second-grade Sunday school.
Mom and Dad met me in the drive, along with a small pack of friendly, tail-wagging dogs who made their home in the heated barn along with a couple of goats and Dad’s tractor. Like me, my mother was petite, with chestnut hair. Dad, on the other hand, was broad shouldered and square. While I hadn’t gotten my physique from my father, he had given me his gray-blue eyes. He’d also taught me everything he knew about guns and that I should knee a boy in the crotch if he got too handsy.
Dad gave me a peck on the cheek and grabbed my overnight bag. “Glad to have you home.”
My mother likewise gave me a peck, following it up with a tight hug that told me she’d been worrying about me. When I’d phoned my parents about the potential indictment, they’d been outraged. Justifiably so
, if you asked me. When Mom finally released me, she held me by the shoulders and ran her eyes over me. “What a gorgeous coat!”
“Nick gave it to me for Christmas.”
“Neiman’s?”
“Yep.”
“Shoo-ee,” Dad said. “That coat must have cost a fortune. If that boy is spending that kind of money on you, he’s got it bad.”
Nick was hardly a boy, but yeah, I hoped he had it bad for me. I certainly had it bad for him.
The two helped me carry in my bags and gifts. As expected, the fresh-cut tree stood in its proper place, anchoring the large room with a festive presence. The smells of roasting beef, squash casserole, and yeast rolls mingled with the scent of pine in the air. My stomach growled in reply. Rr-rowr-r.
After stashing my gifts under the tree, I headed upstairs to my old bedroom to unpack. I’d just gotten settled in when the noises of my two brothers and their families arriving filtered up the staircase. If I didn’t think I’d get caught, I would’ve slid down the banister like I’d done when I was young. Rather than risk my mother taking a wooden spoon to my hide, I settled for trotting down the steps.
My favorite niece, Jesse, stood at the bottom, dressed in her pink cowgirl boots and a green hand-me-down boys’ coat that had once belonged to her older brother and was still a size too big. Not that she’d care, being the tomboy she was. I swooped her up in my arms and covered her tiny freckled face with kisses. She giggled and squirmed all the while.
My older and more girly nieces, Emma and Olivia, each received a hug and a kiss on the forehead.
I greeted my nephew Cole by pulling him down in a headlock and ruffling his hair. “Hey, squirt.” I released him and grabbed Hayden. “Other squirt.”
My sisters-in-law garnered hugs rather than noogies, while my brothers each received the usual punch in the arm.
Once everyone had wriggled out of their coats, Mom called us all to dinner. “Wash up! It’s ready!”
The twelve of us gathered around the dining room table. We took one another’s hands as Dad led us in a quick blessing. Several sets of eyes glanced my way when my father asked the man upstairs to help me through my current trials and tribulations. The minute the prayer ended, we dropped hands like they were hot potatoes and reached instead for the real hot potatoes. I sent the squash casserole around to my right, accepting a bowl of cranberry sauce from my sister-in-law to my left.
The table was quiet for a minute or two as we dug in.
“Delicious, as always,” Dad said after he’d sampled a bite of everything on his plate.
My brothers grunted in agreement while the rest of us murmured various sentiments of appreciation.
We engaged in chitchat over the meal, the family catching me up on the local gossip and the kids’ latest escapades. Hayden had his first crush on a girl in his class, which had to be true given how adamantly he denied it after his mother spilled the beans. Olivia got to sing a solo in the school choir concert. Jesse was sent to the principal’s office for calling a boy a doo-doo head.
She crossed her little arms over her chest. “He pulled my hair first but the teacher didn’t see him.”
I reached out and tweaked her cheek. “Life isn’t always fair, little one.”
It sucked, but it was true. And the world was full of doo-doo heads.
When dinner was over, the women cleared the table, stored the leftovers in the refrigerator, and washed the dishes. The men removed the leaf from the dining room table and hauled in cut logs for the fireplace, stacking them on the hearth.
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the clock on the oven. “Church starts in twenty minutes. We better get moving.”
I rode to the church in my father’s truck, sitting between my parents just as I’d done since I was little. My brothers and their wives followed in their cars.
The church parking lot was full, and we had to park on the adjacent horse pasture. The inside of the church was just as packed, parishioners sitting butt cheek to butt cheek on the pews. Jesse sat on my lap, swinging her feet in her pink cowgirl boots and unintentionally kicking me in the shins, trying her best not to fidget but failing miserably. I’d been the same way at her age. The promise of Christmas presents was too much to bear.
When the final “amen” was spoken, we made our way to the foyer, where Mom presented our pastor with a tin of her homemade pecan pralines.
He took one bite and declared them “sinfully delicious.”
We returned to my parents’ house. While my mother poured mugs of mulled wine and cocoa in the kitchen, the children scrambled about and divvied up the gifts, piling them in front of each family member, each exclaiming when they happened upon one with their name on it.
Mom returned with a loaded tray. Everyone grabbed a mug, settled back in their spots, and waited for my dad to give the signal. “On your mark, get set.…” Dad grinned as he tortured the children by making them wait.
“Go!” Jesse hollered, refusing to wait any longer.
We tore into our gifts like rabid wolves into a fresh kill. I scored a cuckoo clock for my kitchen, a box of peanut brittle, a bottle of vanilla-scented hand lotion, and a new scratching post for my cats. Jesse had fashioned me a colorful necklace out of yarn and painted macaroni. I slipped it on over my head. “Thanks, sweetie! I’ll wear it every day.”
Jesse beamed with pride. She ripped into my gift next, squealing when she realized it was the horse she’d been begging for. She launched herself at me, arms splayed wide in a full-body hug. When she realized I’d also bought her the barn and corral, purchased before I’d been fired, of course, she gave me another hug. “You’re the best, Aunt Tara!”
When the gifts were all unwrapped and the paper had been collected and disposed of, the adults sat around the room chatting while the kids played with their new toys. My brothers and their wives talked about their kids and their jobs, carefully tiptoeing around the subject of my dismissal from the IRS. The matter was like an elephant in the room. And not just any old elephant. Like Dumbo, with giant ears, a yellow hat, and a ruffle around his neck.
I suppose I could’ve broken the ice by broaching the subject myself, but I wasn’t much in the mood to talk about my job situation anyway.
When the children began to yawn and fuss, my brothers gathered up their families and a final round of hugs and kisses were distributed. I stepped onto the porch and watched them pack up and leave, jealous of the relatively simple lives they led. Maybe I should move back to Nacogdoches, get a simple bookkeeping job somewhere in town. I’d left my hometown to find excitement and, boy, had I found it. Gotta be careful what you wish for, huh?
After everyone had gone home, Mom and I washed, dried, and stowed the mugs. We left the remaining mulled cider in the Crock-Pot to keep warm overnight. The stuff only got better the longer it simmered, and we could finish it off tomorrow.
Mom gave me a hug before heading off to her bedroom. “Night, honey.”
“Night.”
I started upstairs to my bedroom but only got halfway before turning around and going back to the kitchen. I retrieved two of Mom’s pecan pralines and put them on a plate. I ladled up a fresh mug of mulled cider from the Crock-Pot. I took them into the living room and left them on the hearth for Santa. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to serve alcohol to a man who’d be pulling an all-nighter flying a toy-filled sleigh, but surely his magical flying reindeer would make sure they stayed on course. Besides, it’s not like the FAA would pull Santa over and arrest him for sleighing under the influence.
I went up to my room. My phone, which was charging on my dresser, bore a text message from Nick. Nutty and I miss u.
I typed in a reply text. Back at ya.
After brushing my teeth and changing into my faded flannel pajamas, I lay in my childhood bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering where I’d be next Christmas Eve.
Would I be lying in this bed again? Or would I be lying on a thin mattress in a federal p
enitentiary, singing carols with my cellmate? If I was convicted, where would I end up? Would I be put in a club-fed-type low-security facility with tennis courts and art classes? Or, since the charge was excessive force, would I be considered a violent offender and thrown in the high-security clink with armed robbers and murderers?
So much for visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.
* * *
I slept fitfully and didn’t venture downstairs until ten the next morning. I padded down in my pj’s and a spare pair of ratty slippers I kept at my parents’ house. My mother’s smile and the smell of cedar logs burning in the fireplace greeted me.
“Hungry?” Mom asked, pulling out a chair for me at the dinette.
I slipped into the seat. “Hard to believe after all the pie I ate last night, but yeah.”
My parents had already eaten their breakfast, though my mother had saved me a plate. She warmed it for me now in the microwave. While I ate, she puttered around the kitchen, sweeping the floor, wiping down the windowsills, straightening the pantry.
After sitting in the pot for four hours the coffee had grown bitter, but I poured a cup and drank it anyway. When I finished eating, I rinsed my dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher, then joined my father in the family room.
I glanced over at the hearth. The plate I’d left for Santa contained only a couple of praline crumbs and the mug was empty. Huh.
My dad sat kicked back in his recliner, nursing his own mug of leftover mulled wine. I plunked down on one end of the couch and Mom brought me a mug, too. Maybe these Christmas spirits would lift my spirits.
I stretched my feet out toward the fireplace, basking in the warmth from the burning logs. Since my brothers had married, they spent the first half of Christmas day at their own houses, then ate supper at the homes of their in-laws. Christmas day was quiet, just me and my parents. I kind of liked having my mom and dad to myself. What I didn’t like was having time to think about my problems.