Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  Barb blinked back stinging tears as she imagined the reunion between father and sons. And how had Mae felt about the return of her embezzling husband? She’d said she still loved him, but what a bittersweet reunion that must have been. How much had she given up in the way of independence and trust to have her family whole again?

  “That’s a better gift than a bicycle, isn’t it, niño?” Elena squeezed Carlo’s hand.

  The boy nodded. “I guess so.”

  “That was a beautiful story, Mae,” Barb said. “Thank you for sharing it with us.”

  “It’s good to remember things sometimes, at Christmas. And to think about how, even the things we don’t wish for can turn out for good.” She stood. “I think you all have the tree decorating in hand now. Pearl and I are going to go back to the house. I’ve got work to do. Maybe even a few presents to wrap.”

  “I’d better go, too.” Barb stood also. “And see what Jimmy is up to.”

  “I still hope Santa brings me a bicycle,” Carlo said as Barb followed Mae out the door.

  She fell into step beside the landlady. “Were you as happy to see your husband as the children were?” she asked.

  “What makes you think I was talking about my husband? It was just a story.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type to make up stories.”

  “What do you know? I might surprise you.”

  Barb said nothing, but kept pace with Mae.

  “I was glad I didn’t have to be both mother and father to the boys,” Mae said after a moment. “And I wanted my husband back, but what I really wanted was the way our life had been before, and that wasn’t possible. So we reached a kind of truce. It wasn’t perfect, but it had its moments.”

  They stopped at the door to Mae’s house. “I know people wonder about me, living here all alone,” Mae said. “But I’ve never minded my own company. And there are worse things than being all alone. And worse ways to live than in the present, playing the hand life has dealt you. Regrets will kill you as fast as any cancer. And that’s my two cents worth of advice for the day. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mae.”

  Barb walked slowly back to her cabin, snow squeaking beneath her feet, wind rattling the chain on the empty flag pole by the gas pumps. She wasn’t a person prone to regrets, except sometimes when she wished she’d done more with her life. If she lost everything, like Mae, would she have anything left to carry her through? She never wanted to find out the answer to that question, but it was worth examining. Especially at Christmas, when anything seemed possible, and the world felt poised for a miracle, whether that was bringing a man home to his family, or uncovering the thing Barb Stanowski was meant to contribute to the world.

  Despite his job as a desk jockey, Jimmy was good with his hands. He liked creating things, like that ball washer he and Michael had spent hours fussing with in the garage. When Barb came back to the cabin later that afternoon, he was polishing rust off the handle of the new scooter. Though built from scraps, he’d managed to give the piece a hip, retro look. “The boys are going to love it.” She smoothed the plastic streamers he’d fastened to the handlebars. “Where did you learn how to do this—make stuff?”

  “I was always messing with things around the house when I was a kid. I wanted to be an engineer, but my dad convinced me to be an accountant instead, so I could take over that position at the company.”

  “You never told me you wanted to be an engineer.” Twenty-one years of marriage and the man still had secrets. The idea dismayed her.

  He shrugged. “I liked being an accountant okay, but inventing things is more satisfying than adding up columns of numbers.” He stepped back to admire the scooter. “Tomorrow night I’ll take it over to the cabin after they’re asleep.”

  Despite the fact that their holiday plans had been derailed, he looked happier and more relaxed than she’d seen him in years. Maybe his job had caused more stress than she’d realized. “Do you really think you can support us by recycling golf balls?” she asked.

  “I know I can.” He glanced at her. “Whether it will always be in the style to which you’re accustomed, that’s another story.”

  She thought of the weekly appointments with her manicurist, and the quarterly visits to the plastic surgeon for Botox touch-ups, the closet full of designer clothing and shoes and the twice-weekly sessions with her personal trainer. She’d often joked that it cost a lot of money to look like a trophy wife past age forty, but she was only telling the truth.

  “If you want me to cut back on expenses, I will,” she said. “It’s not as if I don’t know how to cut corners.” When she and Jimmy had met, she’d been Barbie Sue Brown from Beaumont, former night shift waitress at Denny’s.

  “I don’t want you to cut corners.” He patted her hand. “And I don’t want you to worry about money. We’ll be fine.”

  Spoken like a man who came from money. Jimmy’s family had made a fortune first from cattle, then cotton and oil. Now they leased their many acres for gas wells and wind turbines and fields full of solar panels, taking advantage of the demand for clean energy. The truth was, Jimmy could probably afford to tinker with inventions and play golf as much as he wanted.

  And just like everyone else in his family, he’d make loads of money doing it. Barb really didn’t have to worry. She didn’t have to do anything—a realization which bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  “I’m not some child you have to take care of,” she said. “Marriage is supposed to be a partnership.”

  He laid aside his screw driver and looked at her. “You’re still upset because I didn’t tell you about quitting my job, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m upset. You can’t decide all by yourself to do something that turns both our lives upside down.”

  “My intention wasn’t to turn your life upside down at all. You shouldn’t notice much difference, except now I’ll be home more—and our son will be gainfully employed. Those two things ought to make you happy.”

  Clearly, he just didn’t get it. “This isn’t about whether or not there’ll be changes. It’s about your not thinking my opinion on the matter was important.”

  “Of course I care what you think, but when I took the job you said the decision was up to me. I thought leaving should be my decision, too.”

  “When you took the job we weren’t even married yet.” She pulled out the chair next to him and sat. “I don’t like you shutting me out of your life,” she said. “I married you to be a part of your life, not just an accessory or a dependent.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not an accessory, and I like looking after you. I still can’t believe a geek like me ended up with a beauty queen like you.”

  “I was going for the quarterback, you know.”

  “I know.” He grinned. “Good thing he was a jerk.”

  It was a familiar exchange; the routine of it made her feel a little better. Southern Methodist University freshman Barbie Sue Brown had set her sights on the college’s star quarterback, who was already being recruited by the NFL. She’d dazzled and charmed him into asking her on a date, but he’d gotten wasted at the frat party they attended and his roommate—a geeky accounting major named Jimmy Stanowski—had ended up rescuing Barb from what was turning out to be the date from hell. He’d taken her back to her dorm and they’d ended up talking all night about life, dreams, and everything. She felt he was the first man—maybe the first person, even—who’d really listened to her, who saw her as more than a beautiful doll.

  Did he still think that?

  “Maybe I could help you and Michael with the business,” she said.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I don’t know. What do you need?”

  “I’m handling the financing, Michael’s doing the marketing and procurement, and we’re both working on design and manufacturing. I think we’re covered.”

  “Maybe instead of spending all that time at the g
ym and beauty parlor, I should have learned a useful skill.”

  “I love you just the way you are.” He turned his attention back to the scooter.

  “Everyone is doing something to make Christmas for those little boys and I can’t think of anything.”

  “We’ll make the scooter from both of us. You can wrap it. You’re good at making things look nice.”

  “When the zombie apocalypse comes, I’m sure decorators and party hostesses will be in high demand.”

  “What?”

  “Michael was telling me about a movie he saw. Zombies take over the world and only people with survival skills can make it. Everyone else is expendable.”

  “You’re not expendable. I’m getting hungry. Why don’t you see what you can find for supper?”

  She could have told him he was being a chauvinist to assume she should be the one to cook dinner, but if she’d done that, he’d have gotten up and opened the cans himself. Jimmy wasn’t a fighter—but then, he’d never had to be.

  Dinner was canned soup that had expired three months before. “At least we can have wine,” she said, setting the bottle and two jam jar glasses on the table.

  “If you can find a corkscrew.”

  “If you can make a scooter out of an old skateboard and skis, surely you can fashion a corkscrew.”

  He shook his head. “Not before the soup gets cold.”

  So soup it was. As Barb chased alphabet noodles around the bowl, she longed for crusty bread, wine and cheese, and a very large bar of chocolate. The thought of the dinner she could have been eating in The Last Dollar in Eureka made her want to whimper.

  After washing the dishes, she lounged in bed, trying to lose herself in the romance novel she’d brought along. The baseboard heaters ticked and rattled, wind howled around the corners of the cabin, and Jimmy muttered to himself as he turned pages in his own book—all noises that reminded her she wasn’t in her familiar surroundings, or any place else she wanted to be.

  She had dozed off when the sound of singing awoke her—singing and banging on pots and pans and loud laughter. “What in the world!” Jimmy was already out of his chair, headed for the door. Barb followed, and reached him just in time to greet the boys and their parents. Carlo, a red T-shirt draped over his head and hanging down the back, stared up at her solemnly. “We have come to ask if you have room for us at the inn,” he said solemnly.

  Chapter Seven

  “Room at the inn . . .” Something about the solemn pronouncement clicked in Barb’s head, and she took in their attempts at costumes—Elena with a shawl draped over her head and a pillow stuffed under her blouse, next to Carlo, as a pint-sized Joseph with his T-shirt headdress and a stick for a staff. Beside him, Roberto had a similar headdress and staff, while Ernesto and Reuben hovered in the background, each carrying a lit candle. Were they shepherds or wise men or possibly angels?

  She held the door open wider to welcome them in, but Elena put up a hand to stop her. “They have no room at the inn for us either. We must move on.”

  Carlo and Roberto drooped, the picture of weariness, though Roberto’s grin as he peeked up at Barb to gauge the effectiveness of his performance gave him away. Barb hid her smile. “Good luck in your journey,” she said as the group turned away.

  Reuben stopped in front of them. “Now you’re supposed to put on your coats and join the procession. We’re headed to Mae’s house.”

  They hurried into their coats, and Reuben handed them each a candle, and lit it from his, and they fell into step behind the others, who had waited at the end of the walkway. The Rodriguez family began singing again, in Spanish, so Barb didn’t understand a word, though the children’s and adults voices blended in a beautiful melody that filled the still night and brought a tightness to her throat.

  They moved slowly across the parking lot, toward the main house, where one window showed a faint light. How would Mae react to this new development? It wasn’t that late, but possibly she was already dressed for bed. Maybe she’d had enough of them today, what with decorating the tree and all.

  The air was so cold breathing it in was a shock to the system, yet invigorating. Barb huddled into her coat and tilted her head back to take in the night sky. She gasped, and stopped walking. “I’ve never seen so many stars in my life,” she whispered, as if speaking out loud would break the spell. Against the blackness of the sky, millions of stars glowed, like glitter scattered by a child’s hand.

  “No light pollution here,” Jimmy whispered in return.

  Starlight bathed the snow-covered landscape in a wash of silver. The firs and pines clustered around the cabins looked like black feathers against the paleness of snow and sky. The snow crunched and squeaked beneath their feet, providing a counter-rhythm to the family’s sweet voices.

  The procession stopped in a huddle in front of Mae’s door, and Ernesto knocked. Immediately, Pearl responded with loud barking. The older woman must have heard their approach, because she opened the door right away, and frowned out at them. “What is it now?” she asked.

  “We are celebrating Las Posadas,” Elena said. “A reenactment of the holy family’s journey to Jerusalem for the birth of Jesus. We go from house to house seeking shelter. You are the last house.”

  Roberto stepped forward, shoulders straight, standing tall. “We have come to ask if you have room for us at the inn,” he said clearly.

  Mae looked at Elena. “How am I supposed to answer that?”

  “You are the last house, so your answer is yes.”

  “So you all just come over and invite yourself in,” Mae said.

  “Yes. It is tradition.”

  Barb held her breath, afraid Mae might tell the young woman exactly what she thought of her tradition. She certainly had the right to guard her privacy, to refuse to participate in a tradition that wasn’t her own. She looked out at all of them, with their candles and their breath freezing in front of their faces, these pilgrims who had sought refuge at her inn. She’d given them shelter, but did she want to welcome them into her life?

  She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in, but I wasn’t expecting company.”

  They crowded into the welcome warmth of the room, which was lit only by the television that flickered in front of the recliner. The remains of Mae’s dinner—a bowl of soup and a packet of crackers—sat on the table beside the chair. Roberto’s eyes widened at the sight of the television, and he headed toward it like a moth to a flame, but his mother took him by the shoulder and steered him away.

  “Thank you for inviting us in,” Elena said. “Are you familiar with Las Posadas?”

  “Can’t say as I am.” She switched on a lamp and punched a button on the remote to shut off the television. “Don’t just stand around like a bunch of milling cattle. Sit down. I’m guessing refreshments are traditional, too.”

  “Hot chocolate,” Roberto said, and grinned.

  “Niño, do not be rude,” Elena scolded. “We didn’t come to impose,” she said. “We only wanted to share our tradition with you.”

  “Let me see what I can find in the kitchen, then you can tell me about it.”

  “I’ll help.” Barb shed her coat and followed Mae to the kitchen. “I’m sure you didn’t plan on feeding all of us,” she said as Mae opened cupboards and took down cups and boxes.

  “There’s cocoa in the pantry there, and sugar. Being so far from the grocery store, I tend to keep things on hand, though I can’t say I have a lot of variety. No cookies or chips or things children are likely to enjoy.”

  “The cocoa will be good.” Her own mouth watered at the thought of chocolate in any form.

  “I have plenty of bread and butter and cinnamon. I’ll make cinnamon toast.”

  Again the tightness rose in Barb’s throat. “My mother used to make cinnamon toast,” she said. “For a treat when we got home from school.” Had she ever made that simple snack for Michael? Probably not—he had access to all manner of pre-packaged snacks and mic
rowave meals.

  Ten minutes later, Barb filled mugs with hot cocoa while Mae sprinkled cinnamon and sugar on slices of buttered toast. She cut the toast into triangles and arranged them on a platter. Barb carried the cups on a tray into the living room, where someone had arranged the candles in a saucer in the center of the coffee table. The boys and Reuben sat cross-legged on the floor, while the adults filled the chairs and sofa. Jimmy rose and gave Barb his seat; they had left Mae’s recliner open for her.

  “I smell cinnamon,” Carlo said.

  “Cinnamon toast.” Mae offered him the plate and he shyly took one triangle. “Take two,” Mae said. “They’re small. And have a cup of cocoa.”

  She settled into her chair with cocoa of her own. “Now. Tell me about this Posadas,” she said.

  “Las Posadas is a procession that takes place for the nine nights before Christmas, ending on Christmas Eve,” Elena said. “It is done in memory of the holy family’s journey to Jerusalem, and their search for a place for Mary to give birth to Jesus. The procession goes from house to house in the neighborhood, singing and praying. At each door they ask for shelter, but are turned away. At the last house, they’re welcomed in for more songs and praying and food and fellowship.”

  “And the last night—Christmas Eve—there’s a party,” Roberto said. “With a piñata and presents and everything.”

  “No party this year, niño,” Elena said. “And we don’t have nine nights to celebrate, but the boys were bored and I thought this was a good way to take their mind off Santa Claus and onto the real reason for the holiday, at least for a little while.”

  Mae nodded. “So sing me a song.”

  The boys looked to their mother, who nodded. “Sing for us, niños. You know the words.”

  “En nombre de cielo, os pido posada . . .” Carlos began, and Roberto joined in, the boys’ clear, sweet voices filling the still night. Elena harmonized in a gentle alto, while Ernesto added a surprisingly clear tenor.