Chapter 2
My alarm goes off with the same jingling bells from my dream. Disoriented, I smack the snooze button without thinking. When I finally come to, I’ve overslept by a solid twenty minutes.
I rocket into the Mrs. Claus red velvet dress with faux fur trim, slip on my jingle bell shoes, and cinch a shiny black belt around my waist. With my teeth—so help me, God—I rip open the package that arrived yesterday, revealing a white, synthetic wig gathered into a messy bun.
I pin up my long, auburn waves and pull the wig over my head.
Mangled ringlets fall around my face and ears, and I do my best to fluff them out.
No time for a real face, so I grab my makeup bag and go.
While trying not to swerve, I tap a circle of rouge onto the apples of my cheeks; at a stoplight, I swipe on a vibrant red lip.
In the Forest Park lot, I rummage through my purse until I find a pair of oval spectacles—and just like that, Santa’s sweetie is complete.
I grab the giant plastic-wrapped platter of cookies (the other half of the same batch I made for Ally) and bound inside.
The middle-aged receptionist greets me with a frown. Her boxy cable-knit sweater sports a name tag in giant, easy-to-read letters: MISSY.
“You’re late.” She eyes me up and down, lingering on the shortness of my dress. “And a little young.”
“I’m an old soul,” I say, swallowing an eye roll and ignoring the late part—late is the price of free labor. I glance around. “Where’s hubby?”
Missy points through an open doorway to where a crowd of old ladies giggle. I peel the wrap off my tray and offer it to Missy (she takes two cookies) before skipping off to the community living room.
It’s a rippling ocean of white hair as the ladies cling to a tall, bearded man in a cranberry-red suit like he’s Elvis. He throws his head back in laughter, hands on a pillow-stuffed belly, and the old ladies’ squeals could register on the Richter scale.
A smile spreads across my face as his gaze lifts from his admirers to meet mine.
My heart nearly falls out of my chest when I lock eyes with the most piercing blue I’ve ever seen.
I’d assumed the Santa they chose for this gig would be much older, but there’s only a light crinkling under his eyes when he smiles.
Even behind the fake snow-white beard, I can tell he has a beautiful smile.
I fear I may swoon.
“Mrs. Claus!” he booms in a deep baritone that is probably an octave lower than his natural voice. It’s charming—and goofy enough to snap me out of my hot-for-Santa haze.
“Yes, dear?” I answer without missing a beat, and I swear I catch a few disappointed glances from Santa’s aged harem. Luckily, the ice here melts fast; the glares thaw, which is great, because I haven’t been glared at over a boy since high school. Or, honestly, maybe ever.
I push toward the center of the elderly mosh pit, and he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side with surprising confidence.
Goddamn, he’s strong. Never thought I’d get manhandled by Santa Claus, but I don’t hate it. My eyes skim down his chest—ogling the outline of defined pectorals under thick red velvet.
“There she is.” He winks. “My beautiful bride, the Queen of Christmas, who doesn’t look a day over…” He leans in, squinting at me beneath my slightly lopsided, Dollar-Tree specs. “Twenty-eight.”
I’m positive my face is now redder than Rudolph’s schnozz.
The women sigh in unison, but I don’t break eye contact.
“You don’t look a day over… thirty-two yourself, Mr. Claus,” I mutter, as flustered as the senior sirens pushing and shoving to rub up against Kris Kringle.
He smirks, still holding my gaze—until an elderly woman cuts in, shattering the spell.
“You’re hogging him, toots!”
“Yeah,” another grey-haired babe pouts. “And you get to have him all year!”
I can’t help but laugh. Horny-for-Santa senior ladies were not on my bingo card for today.
Without breaking character, Santa eyes my cookies (the actual cookies, on my tray) and motions everyone toward the center of the activity room.
“How about some cookies and punch for all you good girls?”
Giggles all around. Someone stage-whispers, “Only if there’s rum!”
“From your lips to God’s ears, Grandma,” I murmur, following my holly-jolly husband and his white-haired harem to the refreshments table.
Looking around the room, it’s obvious that Forest Park didn’t have much coinage to spend on Christmas this year.
A sad strand of battery lights droops across the mantel; several bulbs are burned out.
A few plastic berries and a wilted faux-pine sprig have been haphazardly hot-glued to the garland.
A row of stockings—some festive and some, well, literal socks—hangs unevenly, seams a little frayed.
An ancient artificial tree slumps in a corner, strung with a few bulbs and beat-up handmade ornaments, likely from residents’ grandchildren.
The overall effect is less “holiday magic” and more “what we could scrounge.”
Missy comes in behind me with a cheap plastic punch bowl and catches me staring at the stockings.
“Do you fill those with bingo cards or something?” I ask.
Missy scoffs as if I’ve asked the dumbest question on earth and arranges the punch bowl on the plaid tablecloth beside my reindeer cookie tray.
From beneath the table, she produces a half-empty bottle of rum, twists off the cap, and pours it generously into the bowl.
She stirs the punch vigorously as if it’s more for her than the residents, ladles some into a small cup for her to “taste,” and then tucks the bottle back out of sight.
“We do what we can,” she says, throwing back the cup and ladling herself another.
She clocks my face, lifts a brow. “Studies show that seniors in nursing homes or palliative care benefit from a daily happy hour.”
I nod. I’d love to see that study.
I’m pro-libation, but it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning. And as far as I can tell, Missy is not an ailing senior—just an ailing member of the admin staff, which I can certainly empathize with.
She registers my shock, ladles a third helping, and heads back to the front desk.
“Time isn’t real when you’re old,” she calls over her shoulder.
Well, I can’t argue with that.
The elderly smell the rum like sharks smell blood. In a flash, both the women and the men—who have been sulking in the corner while their 85-year-old girlfriends fawn over Chippendale Santa—leap up (bad hips be damned) and shuffle toward the punch bowl. I step back to avoid the stampede.
A few old men give me the up-and-down. I hear one of them say “knockers,” and I pray to God he’s talking about my knees.
Maybe I will have some punch after all.
I scan the room to see what Hot Santa is up to and find him helping a woman in a wheelchair. He fixes her a plate and wheels her to a table before he turns to help another woman with a walker into her chair.
Santa sits, and I grip my snowman cup a little tighter.
Totally normal to go over and talk to him, right?
I mean, we're volunteering together, and I’m sure the residents want us to stay in character as husband and wife.
Also, I want a better view of those velvet red pants.
They’re lightweight—giving “gray sweatpants”—and I’m melting faster than the ice in my drink.
“Been a while, sugar?” A raspy voice cuts through my fantasy. I jolt, totally mortified.
I look down at a woman in a wheelchair. She has tightly permed white hair and a face full of personality—laugh lines, bright red lipstick bleeding just past her lip line, and mischievous green eyes that sparkle like she’s up to something.
She’s dressed to impress, in an oversized Christmas-tree sweater and dangling ornament earrings.
Even her wheelchair is wrapped in tinsel.
She grins up at me, a tiny smudge of lipstick on her teeth—adds character.
“You’ve got a little drool, honey.” The woman taps the corner of her mouth. I feel a flush rise up my neck. “Don’t feel bad, we all do. And no, it’s not because we’re missing teeth. Well, maybe for Maude. She’s had shitty dental work this year.”
“That’s… too bad,” I manage.
She breezes on, unfazed. “They bring Eben every year because he is so sweet to us old geezers and has a very big… heart.” She times the wink perfectly, and suddenly, I want to relocate to the North Pole out of secondhand embarrassment.
“Oh, you know,” is all I can muster. I take a very loud sip from my nine a.m. rum punch.
The woman extends a wrinkled hand, flashing crooked candy-cane nails. “I’m Edna.”
“I’m Mrs—” I start, but she levels me with a look. “Melody.”
“Well, Melody, get in line,” she cackles, then wheels away.
I sigh, wishing my partner were a little troll man. I feel like a dog in heat.
Eben’s table is filling fast. Ladies jockey for seats, dragging chairs over as he ho-ho-hos with these elderly (and hilarious) ho-ho-hos. I’m pretty sure I just witnessed one woman trip another with a rose-gold cane.
Thinking of Edna’s wink, my stomach tightens. Apparently, it’s so obvious that even someone with cataracts can spot it: I haven't been dicked down since RBG was alive.
My mom used to say older people know everything. I figured dementia and potent opioids would spare me from public humiliation among the older set. Still, I’m starting to think that while this crowd might not remember your name, they’ll absolutely clock if you haven't boned anyone in half a decade.
I pull myself together and shoulder my way toward the party table, where Eben dusts crumbs off a woman’s sweater.
She coos, and the woman on the other side of him deliberately drops half her cookie into her own lap.
I haven’t seen fangirling this intense since my first and only One Direction concert.
I drag a chair through the crowd and claim my rightful place beside him. I eye the plate of my homemade cookies on the table in front of him—a few have already been nibbled. I smile. “Which one do you like best?”
Eben gives a jolly, performative chuckle. “Well, Mrs. Claus, they’re all good, of course.”
Leaning in, I whisper, “I’m Melody, by the way.”
His glacier-blue gaze meets mine—unreadable. Maybe I shouldn’t have broken character; I didn’t mean to throw him off his game.
As if on cue, a bell rings, and I’m saved by it.
Missy stands in the doorway with a giant cowbell, signaling it’s time to move on to the next activity.
The men file out like a drill team; the women linger, blowing dramatic kisses at Eben.
He soaks it up, pretending to catch each one and pocket it, waiting until the room is empty to yank off his hat.
“They’re a rowdy bunch,” I say, relieved to use my normal chest voice again.
He rips off his wig and beard in one swift motion.
I nearly spray a mouthful of rum punch all over him and his plate of half-eaten cookies.
Underneath the Santa costume is the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life: ashy blonde hair, mussed from wig wearing, full lips, high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass.
A face card that would never decline—even at Saks.
Who knew those pretty blue eyes were just the cherry on top of the Sexy Santa sundae?
Then I realize that icy blue has gone glacial. He drops the beard onto the table.
“Fuck Christmas.”