23
E leanor's heart stuttered as the familiar figure of Christopher Kringle materialized among the whirl of ballroom dancers. The grandeur of the cruise ship's dance floor, festooned with twinkling lights and resplendent decorations, paled against the shock that rooted her to the spot. His white beard, a beacon in the sea of revelers, bobbed as he navigated through the crowd towards her.
“May I have this dance?” Christopher asked, extending a hand.
Eleanor blinked. “Christopher Kringle,” she uttered, her voice calm and cold. “You've got some nerve showing up here.”
He stood patient before her, a nervous smile on his lips. “I know, and I owe you an explanation.”
But she held up a hand, refusing to be swayed by his contrite disposition. “You can't just waltz back into my life. Your behavior was both immature and hurtful.” Eleanor stood her ground, hoping she succeeded in hiding the whirlwind of emotions that danced through her heart.
“I know. It is inexcusable, but please let me explain. A moment of your time is all I ask.”
Eleanor hesitated, studying the lines around his eyes, the dark rings. His expression hopeful and apologetic. If she'd learned anything in all her years, it was that humans had an infinite capacity for making mistakes. Christopher had made a mistake. If she turned away now, deaf to his words, would she be committing one of her own?
If this led to nothing but closure and understanding as to why he disappeared, then that would be enough. If it opened the possibility for more? Well, who knew.
“Fine. Let’s talk.”
Watching the relief wash over him, Eleanor allowed him to guide her away from the cacophony of music and chattering guests, emerging onto the deck where they were alone save for the rhythmic lapping of waves against the ship's hull. The moon draped its silver glow over the water, casting a spell over the night, and the stars seemed to twinkle in complicity with Christopher's unexpected arrival.
Eleanor shook her head. It wasn’t fair that the setting was so romantic.
Christopher took her hand, his touch firm but she could sense a slight tremor. He's nervous , she thought.
“I've behaved very badly, and I'm sorry. My feelings for you were growing strong, and, well, I panicked. I used work as an excuse to keep my distance,” he said. “I was afraid of taking a chance, of getting hurt. The closer people get, the more there is to lose.” His voice held an undertone of vulnerability that tugged at something deep within her. “And I'm more than sorry for avoiding you. I acted like a teenager, but that's because I feel like one when I'm around you. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“Go on,” she prompted.
Christopher hesitated as if weighing each word before it passed his lips. “My work... it's not the kind you retire from easily,” he said, a wistful note threading through his admittance. “There's a reason why I'm always so busy during the holiday season. It's because I'm hiding a big secret.”
Eleanor's heart dropped. How often did secrets— big secrets —turn out to be good?
“I think we better go sit down,” Christopher said, motioning to some deck chairs.
“No. I would like to know now,” Eleanor insisted. “I'm not moving until you tell me.”
Christopher nodded. “Magic, Eleanor. Do you believe in magic?”
“Magic?” Eleanor scoffed, folding her arms defensively. “Don't be ridiculous, Christopher. Magic is for children's tales.” She felt a fortress forming around her heart, protecting her from the ridiculousness of this man. How had she been so wrong about him? “Now, if you'll excuse me, I wish to return to the dance.”
“Eleanor, please, wait. Let me prove it to you.”
She turned to walk away, but suddenly it was snowing. Snowflakes—impossibly present in the Caribbean—fluttered down, melting as they touched her skin. Maybe it wasn't snow. Maybe it was ash from a fire… or… or something, except it was cold on her skin.
“What is this?” she asked. “Some kind of elaborate joke?”
“It's magic. Santa magic.”
Eleanor turned back towards him. Her eyes narrowed, the gears of her mind grinding against the absurdity of Christopher's claim. She poked him in the ribs. “What are you saying, that you're Santa Claus? That Santa's real? You're delusional, believing that you've become the fictional character of your name. Christopher Kringle. Goodness. What were your parents thinking? I'd almost feel sorry for you if this wasn't so hurtful. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Eleanor, please. I know this is a lot to digest but think about it. Really think with an open mind. How do you think it's snowing right now? How do you think I created that dome over the town square or found that beautiful spot in the woods for dancing? How do you think I show up in Mistletoe all the time in a sleigh when I don't live there?” He paused briefly and wiped his hand over his face. “What about Martin's toy factory? How does he always have the supplies he needs? Deliveries are infrequent. Where does he sell them?”
Eleanor decided she needed to sit down after all. She walked over to a deck chair and rested her head in her hands. She had wondered about all the things he'd mentioned. Some certainly defied logic. But no, magic couldn't be real.
Could it?
She turned her face towards Christopher, who now sat across from her. “This can't be real,” she said to him, her voice barely audible.
Christopher simply smiled. “I know how it sounds, but if you could allow yourself to believe.”
“If you're Santa Claus, what are you doing on a cruise on Christmas Eve? Shouldn't this be your big night?”
“That's where the truth differs from the legend. You see, I'm not the only one. It's a family business,” he said simply. “And I've retired.”
Eleanor said nothing, instead rubbing her temples.
“There are many of us. Think of it as a business. I am the CEO. My two children, Adam and Shelly, are the VPs, and 8 of my grandkids are regional managers, spread out worldwide. We carry on the tradition, spreading joy and magic across the world.” His white beard shimmered in the moonlight, lending him an otherworldly aura.
“No. This isn't real,” she said. “Maybe I'm having a stroke.”
“You're not having a stroke,” Christopher insisted. Before she could protest further, the air around them began to shift. The night sky sparkled with glimmering lights that danced like fireflies. It was as if the stars themselves were surrounding them. Then, in a swoosh, they formed a heart in the sky before turning into fireworks.
It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Could she allow herself to awaken to the possibility of the impossible?
“Look around you, Eleanor,” Christopher urged. “This is Santa magic. Everyone in my family shares this gift.”
Eleanor gaped at the spectacle, her breath catching. The lights wove intricate patterns in the sky, and the snowflakes, which hadn't stopped falling either, hummed with a melody that resonated with the deepest parts of her soul.
“And you used your magic to join the cruise?” she questioned. “Or have you been here this entire time?”
“Yes. Magic. I was at home and realized I had made a big mistake by not telling you. Obviously, it's a secret that can't be shared easily. But after a long discussion with my daughter, I realized I was using work and my secret to push you away because I was afraid of getting hurt. Once I realized that, I had to see you. Shelly and I planned how I could board the ship,” Christopher revealed, his eyes alight with mischief. “We don't need traditional means of travel; we have our own ways. Booking a room proved more challenging.”
Despite herself, Eleanor laughed. Her gaze flitted between the magical display and the man who claimed to be the source of it all. Her rational mind warred with the evidence before her eyes—the undeniable magic that seemed intent on unraveling her disbelief.
“Tell me you can feel it, Eleanor,” Christopher implored, reaching for her hand. “The magic is real. As are my feelings for you.”
Her hand in his felt like a missing puzzle piece falling into place. The sharp edges of her doubt softened as she watched the lights dance around them, a spectacle of wonder that defied all logic.
“I want to believe you,” she whispered.
Christopher's grip on her hand tightened reassuringly. “I've been alone for a long time, Eleanor,” he said, his voice laced with a vulnerability that echoed her own. “But when I met you, something changed. I may have Santa magic, but it's nothing compared to what I feel when I'm with you.”
Eleanor's chest constricted with a surge of emotion. Was it possible? “I’m trying, but I don't understand how this can be,” she confessed.
“Sometimes, not understanding is part of the magic,” he replied, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. “And sometimes, taking a leap of faith can lead to the most extraordinary places.”
She’d trusted him when he said he could help with Moonlight Over Mistletoe, and he’d come through.
A tear escaped Eleanor's eye. It wasn't sadness that prompted the tear but a burgeoning sense of wonderment. Under the Caribbean moonlight, surrounded by the impossible snowflakes, Eleanor took that leap of faith.
“Christopher,” she began, her voice steadier, “I believe you.”
With those words, a radiant smile broke across Christopher's face, one that held the promise of new beginnings. He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, and as their lips met, a passion that had been dormant within Eleanor ignited. The kiss was more than a mere touch of lips; it was the fusion of two souls yearning for connection, each kiss a spark flying into the night.
They pulled apart slowly, the intensity of their emotions leaving them breathless. There, arm in arm under the celestial glow, Eleanor permitted herself to indulge in the feeling of being utterly and irrevocably cherished. The magic of the moment—not Santa magic—enveloped them.
“Let's stay like this for a while,” Christopher murmured, his voice a comforting baritone against the rhythm of the waves.
“Christmas under the moonlight?” Eleanor asked.
“Under the moonlight with you,” he affirmed, and they stood, two hearts intertwined, basking in the ethereal light that promised a future of hope, love, and a touch of magic.
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