Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  Marriage left women little time for such important work. From what she’d observed, men were demanding creatures and, more often than not, unworthy of the time and regard that women lavished upon them. Especially the men of Too Much. Shiftless. All of them.

  However, now that she was in her middle sixties Miss Velvet had to admit that the prospect of spending her final years alone made her feel a little melancholy. It wasn’t that she regretted the choices she’d made. After all she had her work to keep her busy and her family, her niece Taffy and Taffy’s husband, Dutch, her great nieces Mary Dell and Lydia Dale, plus their four children to love, not to mention her sister and very best friend, Silky, for company. Still, she sometimes wondered what it would have been like to have had a man in her life, someone to talk to at the end of the day, someone to grow old with, someone who knew her likes and dislikes and secrets, who coupled her name with a private endearment that made her blush when he said it, someone who loved history and Texas and holding hands and her, not necessarily in that order. What might it have been like, she sometimes asked herself, to have had a grand romance? To have been someone’s darling? Pursued and ensnared by love? Just once . . .

  Well . . . whatever may have been had not been. At her age, romance was a ship that had sailed. But . . . it might have been nice. On the other hand, it might not. Either way, there was no point in dwelling on it. Velvet was not the sort of person who went around feeling sorry for herself.

  “For nearly forty years, I’ve been privileged to share the history of our town with you and your families,” she told her young listeners. “There are worse ways a woman could spend her life, much worse. So if you’ve heard the story of Too Much so often that you can tell it yourselves, I make no apologies for it. How many other towns in Texas were founded by women? Precious few, if any. A history as proud and unique as ours bears repeating. And I will repeat it, for as many times as it takes to pound it into those thick, adolescent skulls of yours,” she said with mock-solemnity, earning another round of laughter from the teens.

  “But Mr. Delacorte hasn’t heard the story before. He’s new in town.” Noel turned toward her teacher, a man with full head of thick white hair, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and eyes so blue and bright that they fairly twinkled.

  Miss Velvet, who had purposely avoided looking at Mr. Delacorte up to this point, now glanced in his direction.

  “Miss Velvet?” Noel asked, moving quickly to her side, as if worried that the older woman might faint. “Are you all right? Your face has gone all red.”

  “I’m fine,” Velvet assured her, gripping the edge of a table to steady herself. “Perfectly fine. It’s just too warm in here.”

  Chapter Two

  If he hadn’t been so tall and skinny, six-foot-four with a thirty-two inch waist, Thaddeus Delacorte would have been a natural stand-in for Santa Claus. In fact, he’d already been recruited to fill that post at the town’s annual Christmas Eve ball, a gala charity event organized by the Too Much Women’s Club. Marlena Benton, president of the women’s club and a member of the school board to boot, had dragooned him into service during his job interview.

  “Wilfred Owens was our Santa for years but he up and died of an aneurysm last week,” Marlena said with a cluck of her tongue, making it clear that she considered Mr. Owen’s sudden demise not only inconvenient but disloyal. “Fortunately, the Women’s Club owns the costume, so everything will be fine.”

  Sitting in the center of the panel of interviewers, she looked Mr. Delacorte up and down. “You’re awfully lanky to play Santa, but we’re desperate. We can add some padding around your middle and take down the hem of the costume. If you stay sitting most of the time, your height won’t be so noticeable. Yes,” she said with finality. “You’ll do. You’re hired.”

  And that was that. Mr. Delacorte was engaged, not just to play Santa Claus but also to serve as history teacher at the high school for the coming year, filling in while Mrs. Ryland took maternity leave. Miss Velvet, who looked upon the imparting of history to future generations as a sacred trust, was present to observe Mr. Delacorte’s interview. She was furious that he had been hired without Marlena or the other members of the panel asking him a single question about his experience or qualifications but she wasn’t really surprised.

  Earlier in the week, Velvet had attended a meeting of the city council to request one thousand dollars to fund an oral history project which would document the memories and experience of the town’s older citizens. As Miss Velvet envisioned creating a booklet of the histories which would be sold to offset much of the costs involved, the project didn’t require a great deal of seed money and she anticipated that her request would be granted without much fuss. It likely would have been, had not Marlena Benton come up to the microphone after Velvet finished her presentation and made a speech about the need for belt tightening and not wasting taxpayer money on frivolous projects. She didn’t mention Miss Velvet or the oral history project by name but her meaning was clear. Velvet’s request was defeated unanimously. After the vote was taken, Marlena, who was seated in the front row of the chamber, turned around and gave Velvet an icy smirk, reveling in her victory.

  Velvet was livid! Marlena Benton wasn’t interested in fiscal responsibility but she was deeply interested in making life as difficult as possible for anyone named Tudmore. The feud between the Tudmores and Bentons was almost as old as the town of Too Much and things had only gotten worse in the last couple of years.

  The marriage of Marlena’s only son, the worthless Jack Benny, to Velvet’s niece, Lydia Dale, had marked the beginning of a tenuous, ten-year truce between the two families. But since the couple’s ugly divorce and Marlena’s humiliation when Lydia Dale’s twin sister, Mary Dell, outflanked Marlena and bought the old Waterson’s Dry Goods building, the only commercial building in Too Much not already in Benton hands, to open her new quilt shop, Marlena was on a rampage, unleashing her fury on any Tudmore that had the misfortune of crossing her path, including Miss Velvet.

  Nobody in Too Much, the Tudmores excepting, dared to stand in the way of Marlena Benton. The Bentons were too rich to challenge, at least by Too Much standards. It wasn’t that the Bentons owned everything in Too Much, just everything that was worth owning. Even, it seemed, the high school history department.

  Things being the way they were, Miss Velvet was naturally suspicious of the new teacher. In her position, who wouldn’t be? But her suspicions waned a bit when Mr. Delacorte sought her out after the school board meeting.

  “Miss Tudmore?” he called, quickly crossing the room to catch up with her.

  “Yes?”

  Velvet turned at the sound of his voice, looked into his brilliant blue eyes and was struck by a strange and unfamiliar sensation. Her heart started to race. Little beads of perspiration popped out on her forehead. She experienced a tingling on her scalp and a sudden flush of heat that began at her breastbone and spread quickly upward to her neck and face, turning them red. She tried to speak but her voice caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and tried again.

  “Yes, Mr. Delacorte.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him but shifted her gaze to a spot over his right ear when the strange sensations returned.

  “What can I do for you?”

  He frowned, looking concerned. “Are you all right, Miss Velvet?”

  “I’m fine. It’s a little warm. Too many people packed together in too small a space. And no matter the temperature, come November, Mr. Purdy, the town custodian, turns the radiators up as high as they’ll go. If the council was truly concerned about the budget, they might start with getting Jed Purdy to turn down the heat a notch or two. That would save them a thousand dollars and then some! In any case,” she said quickly, aware that she was rambling and that this newcomer likely had no clue what she was talking about “what can I do for you, Mr. Delacorte?”

  “Well, I was thinking that there might be something I could do for you,” he said
, then cleared his throat and amended his statement. “Or rather, something I could do for the historical society. I was at the council meeting earlier in the week, sitting in the back. I thought it might help me get a better sense of the town. In your project proposal, I noticed that the bulk of the funds you requested would have gone to pay for people to conduct the interviews.”

  “Yes. I can’t close the doors to the society while I conduct the interviews so I planned to hire some history majors from the community college in Waco to do it for me.”

  “Well, I was thinking that perhaps we . . . I mean, you . . . might be able to use volunteers instead, high school students.”

  Miss Velvet gave him a doubtful look.

  “Only the seniors,” he rushed to assure her. “And only students from the honors class. It would make an interesting class project. And I would give them special training beforehand, according to your standards and requirements, of course.”

  Mr. Delacorte inclined his head just slightly as he said this last and rested his hand momentarily on his chest, almost as if he were bowing to her. Miss Velvet smiled to herself. She couldn’t fault him for lack of manners, that was certain. He was almost courtly in his demeanor, a real gentleman. Quite different from the standard grade of shiftless men one met in Too Much. And far better looking. His eyes. His smile. His hair, as white and shining as strands of new-spun silk . . .

  Velvet shook herself, wondering how such a silly thought could have popped into her head. The effects of the overheated room must still be with her. And she’d yet to have her supper. Clearly, this was having an impact on her blood sugar.

  Obviously, Velvet thought, speaking to herself in the most business-like tone she could muster, Mr. Delacorte was a well-intentioned man and kind, but she had real concerns about allowing teenagers to take on so important a project. She was about to explain this to the handsome history teacher when her sister, Silky, peeked her head around the door of the room.

  “Velvet? Are you all right? I’ve been waiting out by the curb for ten minutes.”

  Velvet jumped, startled by her sister’s sudden appearance. “I’m sorry. I was just chatting with Mr. Delacorte, the new history teacher. This is my sister, Silky.”

  Mr. Delacorte inclined his head once again. “Very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Likewise. Velvet? Are you ready? Dynasty starts in five minutes.”

  “Coming,” Velvet answered and then turned to Mr. Delacorte. “I have to run. My sister is addicted to her programs. But perhaps you’d like to call me at the historical society so we can discuss this further?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I surely would.”

  As they walked to the car, Silky asked, “Are you feeling all right, dear? You look a bit flushed.”

  “The chamber was too hot.”

  “Mr. Purdy,” Silky said with a disapproving shake of her head.

  “Exactly,” Velvet replied.

  Mr. Delacorte called her at the historical society the very next morning. They discussed his idea and worked out a specific training program that would teach the members of the honors class how to conduct a professional and scholarly oral history.

  The strange symptoms which beset Velvet during their face-to-face encounter did not re-occur during their telephone conversation, which was a relief. And, in spite of her initial doubts, Velvet became convinced that the students, with proper instruction, would be able to record the interviews. She also became convinced that Mr. Delacorte was a fine history teacher. Her suspicion toward him began to thaw.

  And now, as he turned his twinkling blue eyes in her direction and spoke in that deep voice of his with its slight Texian twang, a voice as smoky and rich as barbeque slow-roasted over mesquite, what remained of those suspicions melted entirely. Or was it her knees? Either way, when he looked at her with those beacon-blue eyes, she felt suddenly overheated and flushed, just as she had upon their earlier meeting. Unfamiliar with the chemical and physiological manifestations that accompany a physical attraction to another person, Miss Velvet made a mental note to write a memo to the mayor about Mr. Purdy and his flagrant waste of heating oil.

  “Noel is quite right,” Mr. Delacorte said in a dignified tone. “This is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to hear Miss Velvet tell the story of her celebrated ancestor. But I did have the pleasure of reading an account of it in the state historical society newsletter several years ago.”

  Miss Velvet’s eyes went wide. She felt little beads of sweat popping out around her hairline. “You read my article?”

  Mr. Delacorte nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. At least a dozen times. Impeccable research. And your writing . . . so vivid. The way you described Flagadine Tudmore, exhausted, dehydrated, and half-starved because of her husband’s ill-considered, late-season start from Arkansas to Austin, yet still a tower of strength, standing there with her feet spread and her arms crossed, informing him that it was all too much—the sun, the heat, the wind—and that she refused to budge one-inch further . . .”

  Delacorte blinked and swallowed hard, as if trying to keep his emotions in check.

  “I felt like I was standing right there myself, witnessing the whole thing. You made the story come alive for me, Miss Velvet, which is what a truly skilled historian does. But to actually hear the tale, told in your own words, has been a real pleasure.”

  Miss Velvet pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket, one she’d embroidered herself with French-knot flowers, held it briefly to her nose and then dabbed it daintily and, she hoped, nonchalantly, against her damp brow.

  “Oh. Well. You’re too kind, Mr. Delacorte. Much too kind.”

  “However,” she said, adopting a more business-like tone and quickly turning her gaze from the teacher to the gaggle of teenagers who were staring at her with more than usual interest, “I do agree with your teacher that the oral tradition is a vitally important component of the full historical record. That’s why I’m so glad you’re willing to help collect and transcribe these oral histories.”

  She walked to her desk, picked up a stack of papers, and began handing them out to the students.

  “I’m giving each of you a list of interview questions along with the names and vital information for five of our older citizens. Mrs. Murphy, the music teacher, has said she’ll lend tape recorders to anyone who needs one. Be sure you pick those up from her before the start of the Thanksgiving holiday.

  “Now, some of the folks you talk to may tend to ramble a bit. I know that will mean more work for you when you type up the transcriptions but please resist the urge to cut them off or lead them in any way. I don’t need the transcripts back until January, which leaves you all of the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays to complete the project. Also, as you look over your list of interviewees, may I suggest that you begin with the oldest first? Many of these folks are getting on in years and in the case of Vida Wynne Henderson and George Plank . . .”

  Miss Velvet looked up at the students. “Who’s got Vida Wynne and George?”

  Noel LeFavre and Buck Swanson raised their hands.

  “Well, I suggest you interview them immediately, this afternoon if you can manage it. Vida Wynne is ninety-nine and George is one hundred and two. There’s no time to waste. Oh, and Buck? When you go to Mr. Plank’s house, be sure to stop by the Tidee-Mart first and ask the butcher for a bone.”

  Buck’s forehead creased, signaling his confusion.

  “For the dog,” Miss Velvet said in as patient a tone as she could muster, even while wondering if she should entrust so important a task to a boy who was obviously slow-witted. “When you get to Mr. Plank’s gate, Buster is going to lunge and snarl at you. But if you take that bone and throw it as hard as you can across the yard, he’ll chase it. Then, while he’s busy with that, you run to the front door and get inside quick. Understand? Good. Are there any other questions?”

  Buck, who was wondering how he was supposed to make the trip from the front door back to the s
afe side of the gate after the interview without getting his leg torn off by Mr. Plank’s dog, started to raise his hand but before he could speak, Wanda Joy Cleary, Too Much’s cranky, gum-cracking postmistress, opened the door and stomped into the society’s main gallery.

  “Mail!” she bellowed.

  Miss Velvet’s mouth flattened into a line. “There’s no need to shout,” she said, walking toward Wanda Joy, holding out her hand to accept a small pile of envelopes. “I’m standing right here. Why didn’t you just leave it in the box outside?”

  “Believe me, I’d-a ruther. Two days to Thanksgiving but I’m already up to my earlobes delivering cards and packages and I don’t know what all. Gets worse every year. Last thing I have time to do right now is play Cupid’s messenger.”

  Miss Velvet frowned. “Cupid’s messenger? What are you talking about?”

  “This!” Wanda Joy barked. She pulled a white vase containing a single yellow rose out of her mailbag and plunked it unceremoniously onto the nearest table.

  “Somebody left it at the postal counter with two dollars to cover delivery and a note saying to send it to you here at the historical society. The dang thing is too tall to fit into the mailbox so I had to take the time to park the truck, haul my biscuits in here, and deliver it personal. Plus, the dang water from the dang vase spilled in my bag and smeared the ink on one of my letters so bad that I can’t tell if it’s going to one-oh-seven Republic Road or one-oh-nine. I’m going to have to guess. And if I guess wrong, then next thing you know people are calling up the post office and complaining about bad service and the price of stamps.”

  Wanda Joy chewed her gum faster and drew up her nose in disgust, as if she’d suddenly smelled something bad. “Two days to Thanksgiving and here I am, playing Cupid’s messenger. And do I get any thanks for it? No, ma’am. I do not.”