The Santa Shack Up – by Susannah Erwin #2
Just then, my gaze catches a flash of red and white through the pine trees and I breathe a sigh of relief. “There he is,” I start to say. But the words die on my tongue as a tall man steps into the clearing.
It’s not Mr. Boswick.
It’s Sean.
I’m rooted to the ground. I couldn’t move my arms or legs if I try. My eyes are scratchy-dry and I realize it’s because I can’t even blink.
What the BLEEP is Sean Boswick doing on my family’s farm, wearing a red velour suit trimmed with fur? His football team is supposed to be in some far-off city, practicing for a bowl game. Did his coach give him permission to come home for Thanksgiving weekend?
Sean carries something white and fluffy, and it takes me a second to recognize he’s holding a Santa wig and beard.
“Hi!” Zuri steps forward, her hand outstretched. “We’ve met, but in case you don’t remember, I’m Zuri. I’m the photographer.”
Sean shifts the beard to shake her hand. “Sean,” he says. He still hasn’t looked at me. “Granddad has gout and can’t walk. I said I’d fill in.”
“How awful,” Zuri says. “Tell him we hope he gets well soon. We like working with him.”
“He’ll be back. This is temporary.” Sean keeps his gaze focused on Zuri while nodding in my direction. “Lizzie.”
Not that I blame him for staring at Zuri.
She’s gorgeous. But his deliberate avoidance of me starts to rankle.
The anger unthaws my limbs, and I cross my arms over my chest as much as the tunic, pulling across my back, will allow.
“Santa needs to have his wig on, his stomach stuffed and his butt in the chair. Now. Families will arrive any minute.”
He turns his head and for the first time looks in my direction.
His gaze stuns me, almost more than when he arrived.
As long as I’ve known him—so, pretty much my entire life—Sean has been confident.
Bold. Secure in himself. I floundered like a fish left gasping on a dock when I ran smack into puberty, but Sean? Never.
When his eyes meet mine, he seems…defeated.
Ashamed, even. The ground beneath my feet is shifting, as if I’m standing on one of those giant inflatable balls I’ve seen in gyms. Sean and I aren’t friends.
Not now. Not for several years. But knowing Sean was out there, sailing smoothly through life, was my rock.
The one thing in my life that makes sense and would always make sense.
If Sean Boswick feels lost, what chance do any of us have at finding firm ground?
He abruptly looks away. I can almost hear the pop as our gazes disconnect. “I know the drill.” He tugs the wig down over his ears and pulls up the beard. “See?”
“Hat,” I snap, hoping he can’t sense my disorientation. “And belly.”
Sean crosses his arms and grabs the hem of the loose red jacket, pulling it up to reveal rock hard abs that would make a Greek statue feel inadequate.
I used to snort whenever someone was described as having a six-pack in a book.
All the phrase did was make me think of beer, and doesn’t beer usually produce the opposite effect on stomachs?
But now…oh, now I get the picture. My mouth goes dry.
I force my hands to stay relaxed and by my side, because I’m dying to know if his muscles are as smooth and firm as they look.
Just out of scientific curiosity, of course. “Ready,” he states.
I blink. Is he really offering himself up for my exploration? I take a step closer, my knees threatening to dissolve, hypnotized.
Then Angie runs up with a pillow in her hand. I take a closer look and recognize the faded blue starflowers on the case. “Why do you have my--?”
She cuts me off. “Mr. Boswick tried to reach you, Sean, but you didn’t answer your phone so he called the farm.” Angie is puffing hard between words, but then she’s six months pregnant. “Said he forgot to give you the belly.” She holds out my pillow. “Here. This should do for today.”
“Hey!” I start to protest. Angie cuts me off with an eye roll so hard, I’m surprised her baby doesn’t get seasick by proximity. She holds my pillow against those sculpted abs, and for the first time in my life I’m truly jealous of my sister.
Sean lets the jacket fall and together they figure out the best way to use the belt to keep the pillow in place.
He doesn’t have as jolly of a stomach as his grandfather, but when Sean sits on the throne he’s convincing enough.
And just in time—sleigh bells jingle, announcing the opening of Sandoval Holiday Farm for the season.
Sean makes a great Santa. He puts on a low, growly voice that pleases the kids but makes me shiver with every “Ho-Ho-Ho.” He really listens to what each child has to say.
There are fewer screaming babies than usual, and I wonder if it’s because Sean handles them like he handled the football in high school: with utter confidence.
Before long, we’re working like a well-oiled machine, trading riddles and jokes—G-rated, of course—as we play our roles of Santa and Chief Elf.
But when the day is over, the easy camaraderie that had developed between us disappears. We’re back to being Sean and Lizzie. And Sean and Lizzie don’t speak. He hands back the pillow without saying a word, nods at Zuri, and walks back into the pine trees the way he came.
“That was nice of him, to fill in for his grandfather,” Zuri says, packing up her camera gear. “Especially after what happened to him at college.”
I almost don’t hear her because I’m focused on the pillow in my hands. It still holds a tiny trace of warmth from his body. “Wait. What happened?”
“You didn’t hear? He was suspended from the football team last week. He’ll miss the bowl game.” Zuri finishes putting her gear away and looks up at me. “Want any help? Have you restocked the candy canes yet?”
“Suspended?” My jaw nearly hits the ground. “For what?”
After our graduation, I couldn’t go anywhere in our small town without hearing about Sean.
His scholarship from a football powerhouse program, his potential to go pro, how proud the entire community was of him.
At first, I didn’t care…oh, let’s be real, at first I dug for information about Sean.
Hey, I, too, was about to go into the world and set the planet on fire, albeit with my brain instead of my right arm.
And while we may not have been friends, I wanted him to succeed.
I wanted both of us to succeed. And maybe, someday, when I had made something of my life and wasn’t just a walking Hot Incident of Shame…
we could be friends again. Or more. At least, that was my go-to daydream.
But then came that horrible afternoon when Dad didn’t walk through the front door with a tired but happy grin on his face.
The family got a crash course in doctor lingo, and an even swifter education in medical bills.
I turned down my scholarship, which only partially paid for my tuition and didn’t cover living expenses or books.
I stayed home. And I stopped seeking information about Sean. “What happened?” I repeated.
Zuri shrugs. “Something about breaking the team’s rules? It made ESPN.” She stands up and swings her camera bag over her shoulder. “If you don’t need me, I’m going to head home.”
“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I finish my duties, sweeping up candy wrappers and straightening out the line stanchions.
As I turn off the lights, I grab the pillow.
Yes, I have other ones on my bed. And yes, Sean wore it under a heavy velour jacket on what turned out to be a rather hot day for the end of November.
But it’s a reminder that, if only for a few hours and if only when we were playacting at being mythical holiday figures, Sean and I could laugh and joke with each other like we did when we were small.
I’ll wash the pillowcase, however. I’m not desperate enough to hold a sweaty pillow to my face and pretend it’s him. I’m nineteen, not thirteen. Or so I tell myself.
The next morning, my green glitter manicure is nearly gone by the time I make it to the Shack.
My breath catches as I wonder if Sean will continue being Mr. No Words, or if we might be able to finally break through the awkwardness of the last few years.
But when I open the door to the workshop, the man in the red velour suit isn’t Sean.
Mr. Boswick waves a cheery hello and then I learn far more than I ever need to know about gout.
He doesn’t mention Sean, and I don’t ask.
Google isn’t much more help. Zuri was right: Sean earned his suspension for breaking team rules and that’s all the internet has to say.
The days go by quickly, as they always do during the run up to Christmas.
I take parents’ money, I announce kids’ names, I hand out candy canes and refill the candy bowls.
I don’t see Sean again. Before I know it, we’re heading into Countdown Week, or the seven days before December 25.
This is our last chance to bring in the income we need to survive until Easter and our annual Easter Egg Hunt and Bunny Hop Ball (we tried to create a Valentine’s event, but the farm in mid-winter is too cold for hot romance).
Joe calls a family meeting the night before Countdown Week begins.
Two deep creases have been added to my oldest brother’s forehead since he started keeping the farm’s books on top of his law practice.
We gather around the dining room table: me, Mom, Joe, Pete, Paco and Zuri, Angie and her husband Sven.
Joe doesn’t waste time jumping with both feet into the bad news.
“We’ve all worked hard, but it’s been an unseasonably warm holiday season,” he starts.
“Visitor numbers are down, which means our receipts are down. And since the brush fire three years ago, and with Dad’s care facility bills taking most of the family savings… ” His voice trails off.
“Just spit it out,” Paco says. “What’s the bottom line?”