Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Claus-eum is not at all what I expected.
My body is so sated that I could sleep for a week but I’m too curious not to go.
So, I put on the gorgeous outfit Stetson has waiting for me in the bedroom, a pair of loose-fitting black pants and a tighter black sweater with a camel colored jacket and slip on black slippers.
Everything feels as expensive as it looks.
I thought we were going to walk right into another place in the sweet, old village where we’d be greeted by some of Santa’s Elves and be given a tour around a fifteenth century looking museum.
This place is not at all what I expect.
Stetson takes me on the sleigh to some obscure area in the valley, right up to a sheet of rock against the mountain. I stare in awe, mesmerized for a minute by the sheer beauty, and then something strange happens—
I hear child’s laughter…the sound is faint against the wind and then it’s like a thousand voices at once.
Dear Santa… can I please get that train set…
Santa, please let my parents stay together…
Will you get me the new barbie…
“Do you hear that?” I look over at Stetson in shock.
“Hear what?” his eyes are hooded as he watches me closely.
I lift my finger in the air.
“The kids voices?” I realize I might sound crazy now because his look is giving nothing away.
His eyes widen in surprise.
“Christmas wishes,” he tells me softly. “You’re hearing the children’s wishes.”
He doesn’t let me dwell on this. he grabs my hand and pulls me toward a tree and then I don’t have any time to think about the voices, instead I’m zeroed in on Santa’s high-tech village.
He places his hand on one of the trees and a panel lights up. He’s identified quickly and what I thought was mountain rock is actually some high-tech door that slides ride open, leading into a dimly lit cavern.
I look over at him.
“Is this where you dispose of the bodies?” I make what I think is a hilarious joke. Stetson doesn’t laugh. Oh shit do they really have dungeons then too? He wasn’t making that up?
Instead, he grabs my hand and pulls me along into the mountain all while mumbling under his breath.
“Just so you know, you can’t tell anyone that I took you downstairs,” he says.
“What’s downstairs?” I ask as we walk down the dark hall before it explodes into twinkling lights, exposing a giant dome museum showcasing all things Santa, from old looking sleighs, to clothing—for both dwarves and the big guy.
“Holy cow!” I exclaim as I look around.
“This is the Claus-eum,” he says.
For the next few hours we tour the museum. A few young elves show up, one group looks like they’re on some sort of school tour and I watch as they stare around the museum in awe. He takes me through the museum and patiently tells me stories about each item.
I can tell he’s proud of his ancestors.
And especially his dad.
Who freaking wouldn’t be?
Seems like his dad really modernized the role of Santa, while keeping with the traditions that we’ve all loved our whole lives.
We stop in front of a sleigh that looks like it’s ancient. There are jewels embedded in the sleigh, green emeralds and rubies the size of apples.
“This is unbelievable,” I tell him as we walk around the delicate piece.
“The first sleigh… the first Claus,” Stetson says.
“And look at the effect…” I wink at him and lightly touch the sleigh, allowing Christmas magic to sweep over me in a way I’ve never experienced. The sound of bells fills the air lightly.
“Can I put a face to the name?” I give him a flirty smile. “I’m dying to see if he was as handsome as you.”
He smiles at me and rubs his beard.
“I’ll take you down into the Hall.” He says.
“The Hall,” I reply. “Sounds serious.”
“It is serious,” he returns. “The Hall holds The North Pole Archives and everything you’d ever want to know and see regarding my ancestors. It’s our entire life story.”
I walk over to him and grab ahold of his hand.
“How much time do we have?” I squeeze it in excitement.
“Long enough.” Then why does he sound sad?
We get in an elevator that’s glass and descend a long while. Because it’s glass, we move down through a rocky cavern into what seems like the abyss.
“How far down do we go?” I ask him.
“One hundred and eleven floors,” he says. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty fast.”
He didn’t lie.
We move down so quickly that I get lightheaded and lean into Stetson for support. He, of course, is not affected at all and seems happy enough to wrap his arms around me and hold me close while I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the sweet torture to end.
We can’t get there fast enough.
The doors slide open and instead of the warm atmosphere of the museum, we’ve moved into a much more sterile part of Santa’s Village.
It almost looks like a science lab or kind of like what you’d imagine the Vatican underground library to look like.
It’s just a long hall with one round glass room after another—almost igloo like.
Each room holds shelves of books—old looking ones from this point of view and all sorts of relics and a framed oil painting of each Santa Claus.
“We’ll make our way to the first,” Stetson looks over at me. “He’s at the end.”
We pass the first room that has some books and pictures I can’t see from outside and other things—but it’s not at all filled up like the rest of them.
“Aren’t we going to start here?” I ask him.
He shakes his head.
“That’s my dad’s library,” he says. “He’s still alive… no museum yet.”
There’s something not so cool about passing what will be your dad’s living mausoleum. I lean into Stetson’s body and hold his hand even tighter. I’m sure he doesn’t like it either but I don’t really know what to say to comfort him so I do what I would want—I hold him instead.
“I can’t wait to meet your ancestors,” I smile up at him, hoping his thoughts aren’t going to some dark place about his dad. Distract as much as possible has always been my go-to.
“Happy to introduce you.” His voice is soft, gone is sex on a stick, now he’s showing me something more personal, more intimate.
He’s also more guarded like I’m going to take one look and bolt or maybe expose him?
I would never do either of those things, but this might all be new to him too—showing me things he’s never allowed others to see.
That can be terrifying, opening up not just yourself but the people you’ve loved, the legacy you’ve built, to a stranger.
We went through all the St. Nick’s libraries, lingering in some, and not others.
Stetson told me anecdotes about each Santa, and I appreciated how much he loved his culture and lineage.
The pride that came over his face when he talked about the amount of joy they gave kids around the world is beautiful.
“Is this it?” I ask, sad there’s no library for the first St. Nick.
“No,” he shakes his head. “The first St. Nick’s library is kept separate. We wanted to give him something a little more special.”
The walkway under us lights up red with each step we take until we are in front of another all-glass library—except this one has a special door with intricate, ancient carvings that seems to sparkle the closer we get.
He places his palm in front of the door, and like the entrance to the Claus-eum the door slides open.
“This is seriously the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I whisper in awe.
He stays quiet as we walk through the doorway.
The first St. Nick’s library is different from the rest. The books look like they’d fall apart if you even touch them.
The room legit feels like it’s some magical gateway.
I walk around and study the ancient artifacts, staring for a long time at different books and diaries, completely entranced.
I could stay here for days just looking things over. I’m almost afraid to breathe.
Stetson does his own thing in this room, suddenly quiet.
He doesn’t give me details about the first St. Nick like he did with the others. He’s quieter and more reserved.
I walk up to a display that holds St. Nick’s clothing in a frame behind glass, carefully preserved from when he wore it.
It’s red and ornate, with gold tassels and intricate designs from that period.
There’s a crest painted in the center of the red velvet robe that has reindeer kicking in the air with a bed of gifts beneath him.
It’s not the only outfit in this case though.
The other that is framed and carefully preserved is one for a woman. Exactly like you’d picture Mrs. Claus wearing. A long red velvet dress with a high collar, fitted bodice and embroidered with gold trimming as well.
“Why don’t any of the other Santa’s have their wife’s clothes locked away with theirs?” I turn to him.
He crosses his arms, a muscle ticks in his jaw as pain briefly washes across his face, a memory maybe? Or a story? Whatever it is, the room is thick with this reverence, this sadness I can’t quite place.
“She was the first Mrs. Claus.”
Huh, okay. The first. She must be special then?
“But why don’t the other women get the same kind of fanfare?” I ask.
His mood completely shifts.
“Is it a sign of the times kind of thing?” I wonder, disappointed that Stetson and his father wouldn’t rectify this immediately. All women deserve to be honored like this.
All the wives should have the same respect. Considering the man’s working hours, I’m sure they put up with a lot. Considering the amount of cookies and secrecy in that pantry, the sexual appetite, I almost joke but I keep it to myself.
“It’s not what you think.” He says under his breath like he almost doesn’t want me to hear so I don’t ask.
“Then what is it?” I push.
“There have only been three Mrs. Clause’.”
“That math ain’t mathing, Stetson,” I point around at the obvious. “You’re living proof that’s categorically incorrect.”
“The ground will tremble with echoes of ancient past. Breath will falter. The heart will race. The stranger is no stranger. She is your face.” Stetson whispers the words solemnly as he stares into my eyes.
I feel a tingle in my spine that shoots up and rains like twinkling stars through my body.
The words sound like an oath.
“I don’t understand?” My voice is barely audible.
“There have only been three women who were the true mates of the Claus. Only true mates are allowed in the library.”
“But I didn’t see the third?” I start to say before my eyes go wide and think of Stetson’s dad.
“Your mom was the third?”
He nods.
Suddenly I feel really sorry for Santa. Losing the love of his life so young? That would be awful.
“Your poor dad… losing the love of his life,” I say in sympathy. “He must be a little lonely even though he’s surrounded by so much cheer.”
Stetson’s eyes become steel.
“His sorrow will never be mine.”