Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Ben
The kids arrived earlier than I expected.
I was reinforcing the corner bracing on Santa's throne when I heard the telltale squeak of hospital wheelchair wheels against the lobby floor. Then voices—high, excited, barely contained.
Damn. I'd hoped to have more time to prep Alex.
Noel appeared in the doorway first, navigating on his crutches. A canvas bag hung off one shoulder, threatening to unbalance him.
"Little help?" He jerked his chin toward the bag.
I caught it before it could pull him sideways. Heavy—felt like it was full of bricks, but when I looked inside, it was just letters. Dozens of them, addressed in crayon and marker.
"You brought the wish lists?" I set the bag on a front-row seat.
"And the wish-makers." Noel grinned as Maria—one of Charice's colleagues who always slipped the kids extra graham crackers during craft time—shepherded six kids through the door. She caught my eye and shrugged apologetically.
"Someone may have mentioned Santa was practicing tonight," she said, settling herself among the kids as they claimed seats with the territoriality of regular theatergoers.
My stomach tightened. Alex wasn't ready for this. Hell, I wasn't sure Alex had prepared himself for tomorrow's blocking rehearsal, let alone an audience of kids who'd treat him like the real deal.
I found him in the wings, half-hidden behind a flat. Mr. Sartorial's alterations had transformed the suit—it actually fit now, following the line of Alex's shoulders instead of drowning him.
Everything about his posture screamed discomfort. He kept tugging at the beard like it was choking him. Even nervous, even drowning in red velvet, he was beautiful.
"Hey." I kept my voice low, positioning myself between him and the kids' view. "You've got this."
"I feel like a fraud." His fingers twisted in the white fur trim. "Ben, I can't—"
"Don't think. Just listen to them." I wanted to touch him, steady him the way I'd steady a piece of wood that wasn't sitting true, but not here. Not with an audience. "That's all you have to do."
"What if they ask me something I don't know? What if—"
"Then you'll figure it out." I gently caught his wrist, stopping his fidgeting. "You're better at reading people than anyone I know. Trust that."
He took a breath. He didn't look convinced, but he stepped out onto the stage anyway.
The first kid who approached couldn't have been more than six. Bright purple knit cap and mittens decorated with snowflakes.
Maria helped her up the stage steps. "This is Sophie. She's been working on her letter all week, haven't you, sweetie?"
Sophie nodded solemnly and held out a folded piece of paper. Her handwriting showed through the thin notebook paper—large, careful letters that wandered across the lines.
Alex crouched without thinking about it, bringing himself down to her eye level. The movement looked natural, not staged. Good.
"Hi, Sophie." His voice had lost that careful performance quality. It sounded real. "Is that for me?"
She pressed the letter into his hands. "Santa? My mommy tries to be brave, but sometimes when she thinks I'm sleeping, I hear her cry." Her mittened hands twisted together. "Could you maybe help her remember how to smile? Like, really smile?"
I watched something crack open in Alex's expression. The armor he'd been wearing—the Broadway polish—splintered. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded her letter.
"Your mommy loves you very much." He didn't sound like he was acting anymore. "Sometimes grown-ups cry because they have so much love inside, it spills over. Like when a cup gets too full."
"Like when my hot chocolate is too full?" Sophie's face brightened.
"Exactly like that." Alex's laugh sounded genuine. Relief flooded through my chest. "Tell you what—maybe we can think of ways to make her smile together. What makes you smile?"
"Jokes! Want to hear one?"
"Absolutely."
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman?" She could barely contain her giggles. "Do you smell carrots?"
The other kids burst out laughing. Alex's shoulders dropped, losing two inches of tension. He traded increasingly ridiculous snowman jokes with Sophie, and each response came easier than the last.
Noel materialized beside me in the wings.
"See?" He kept his voice barely above a whisper. "He's not performing. He's connecting."
A boy who'd been hanging back finally stepped forward. I recognized him—Tommy Phillips, eight years old, leukemia. He'd been in and out of treatment for two years. His hospital gown showed beneath a flannel shirt someone had brought him, and his IV pole rattled against the stage floor as he walked.
His gaze was intense as he approached Alex. "You told my friend Marcus that being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means doing things even when they're scary."
Alex shot a panicked glance toward Noel. I tensed, ready to intervene, but Tommy kept speaking.
"Marcus told me that, and I've been thinking about it." He lifted his chin. "I'm still scared sometimes, but I'm here anyway."
Understanding spread across Alex's face. This wasn't about fooling anyone. These kids didn't care if he'd been Santa for decades or five minutes. They only needed someone to see them.
"Look how brave you're being right now." Alex's voice was soft and careful. "Coming up here to talk to me when you're scared? That's real courage, Tommy."
Tommy's smile could have powered the stage lights.
More kids came forward. Each one brought their own story and their carefully guarded hope. Alex met every single one exactly where they were—no performance or technique.
A boy in a Santa-red sweater carried a battered plush reindeer. "This is Dasher. He helps when it's foggy."
Alex held the reindeer up to the light, examining it with the seriousness it deserved. "Looks like he's ready for anything. You take good care of him."
When Maria finally gathered the kids to leave, Sophie hung back. She tugged at Alex's sleeve and whispered something I couldn't hear. I watched Alex blink hard. He pressed his lips together and nodded.
Noel's crutches squeaked as he made his way to Alex. "Walk with me? Well, hobble in my case."
I stayed in the wings. Their voices drifted throughout the theater.
"Stop fidgeting with the beard." Noel's tone was warm. "That's not what makes you Santa."
"Then what does?" Alex's hands dropped. "Those kids... the way they looked at me..."
"They saw Santa. Not the suit." Noel shifted his weight. "They saw someone who listened with his whole heart. That's all they need."
"But I'm not your father. I'm not—"
"Thank God." Noel laughed. "We don't need another Rudolph North. We need exactly who you're becoming."
I watched Alex's shoulders tense, then slowly release. "I don't know how to be that person."
"You already showed us tonight." Noel gestured toward where the kids had been. "When Sophie told you about her mother, were you thinking about technique? About hitting your mark?"
"No." Alex's voice dropped to a whisper. "I just... wanted to help her."
"That's it. The whole secret." Noel leaned on his crutches. "Being Santa isn't about perfection. It's about being present. Seeing each child. Really hearing them."
After Noel left, Alex remained center stage under the work light. Something had shifted in how he held himself. It was the early rumblings of new confidence.
I let my boots sound against the floorboards as I approached. "Come on. Want to show you something."
He followed me to the workshop without argument. The space smelled like it always did—fresh sawdust, furniture polish, and the beeswax I'd used on the restored trim. Home smells.
"What is this?" Alex reached toward the curved piece I'd been restoring, then hesitated, fingers hovering above the wood.
"Part of an old sleigh." I shifted it into better light. "My great-great-grandfather built it after he settled here. Look at these marks."
He leaned in close enough that I could feel his warmth along my shoulder. "They look like stars."
"Craftsman's marks." I guided his hand to the pattern and felt the slight tremor in his fingers. "See how they flow? Great-great-grandfather believed anything made for children needed magic worked into it."
"Magic?" Less skepticism in his voice than I expected.
"He carved these into everything he built for the town's Christmas celebrations. Said they helped carry joy from his hands to whoever received the piece." I kept my hand over his, steadying it. "Like a blessing worked into the grain."
His fingers lingered on a particularly intricate mark.
"More like an intention than a signature," I said. "He'd spend hours on each one."
When Alex finally turned toward me, I saw flecks of gold in his eyes I'd never noticed before. This close, I could count his heartbeats in the pulse at his throat.
"Ben..." Barely a whisper.
I didn't move. Didn't crowd him. Let him decide what he needed.
His hand slid from the sleigh to rest against my chest, palm flat over my heart. It was racing hard enough for him to feel it.
He leaned in and kissed me.
Tentative at first—a question, not a demand. I caught the faint taste of peppermint and the scent of pine from the suit. I wanted to pull him closer, but I remained still, letting him set the pace.
He pulled back slightly, breath warm against my mouth, eyes searching mine.
I still didn't move. Barely breathed. I was scared of spooking him.
When he kissed me again, it was different.
Certain. He leaned in harder, his hand gripping my shirt, and heat shot straight through me.
I touched him—one hand cradling his jaw, feeling the contrast between smooth skin and stubble, the other resting against his waist, feeling how his breathing had turned shallow and quick.
Damn, he tasted good. Better than I'd imagined, and I'd spent way too many hours speculating.
When we finally broke apart, neither of us spoke. His forehead rested against mine, both of us trying to remember how breathing worked.
"Sorry," he said eventually. "I didn't—"
"Don't apologize." My thumb brushed along his jawline. "Unless you're sorry it happened."
"I'm not." He laughed. "I'm really not."
We stood there, not quite holding each other. His hand stayed pressed against my chest, feeling my heartbeat. Mine stayed at his waist, thumb pressing lightly through the fabric of his shirt.
Finally, he turned back to the sleigh, touching the carvings again. "Show me more?"
I understood he meant more than just the woodwork. "As much as you want."
I pulled out another piece from the storage shelf—a panel with carvings along its edge, almost hidden in the grain. "This one's interesting. See how it weaves through? Great-great-grandfather said the wood told him where each mark needed to go."
Alex ran his fingers along the pattern. "It looks natural. Like it grew there."
"He wrote that this one was for hope." I covered his hand with mine again, our fingers interlocking easily.
"Said some children needed more than toys.
He experimented a lot. Tried different patterns, different meanings.
The tradition wasn't about getting it perfect the first time—just about taking time to let the meaning develop. "
"Is that your way of telling me I overthink everything?"
"Maybe." I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his knuckles. "Or maybe I'm saying you're allowed to take your time. With this and with everything."
He leaned into me, head against my shoulder. "I don't even know what this is, but I think I want to find out."
"You were incredible with those kids."
He shook his head. "I nearly panicked when Tommy talked about what I said to Marcus. Then, when Sophie told me that I gave good hugs like her grandpa..." He paused. "How do you handle that kind of trust?"
"Same way you handle any precious material." I rubbed my thumb across his knuckles. "Carefully. Respectfully. Paying attention to what it could become."
The workshop settled around us. Outside, the sky was fully dark, and the only light came from my work lamp.
"I should go." He straightened but didn't step away. "Unless..."
"Unless?"
"Unless you've got more craftsman's marks to show me." His attempt at casual interest failed. "For research. About traditions."
"Research?" I couldn't help smiling. "That's what we're calling this?"
"I need to understand local customs." He moved closer, his hand sliding up my arm. "Being temporary Santa and all."
"Temporary?"
Instead of answering, he kissed me again—steadier now. More certain. "I'm not making promises," he whispered against my jaw. "About staying. About Santa. About..."
"About this?"
"Especially this. Everything's complicated enough without..."
"Without what feels right?" I pulled him closer. "Some complications are worth it, Alex."
He rested his head against my shoulder, and we stood there wrapped in workshop smells as I thought about possible futures. Neither of us spoke. The silence said everything words would've ruined.
Finally, reluctantly, he pulled back. "Early rehearsal tomorrow."
"I know." I caught his hand and brought it to my lips again. "Thank you. For staying. For listening to them. For this."
He kissed me one more time—quick and soft. "Thank you for showing me the marks. For all of it."
I went back to the workbench and ran my hand over the craftsman's marks we'd explored together. They meant something new now. Not only connections to the past, but blueprints for whatever we were building between us.
My great-great-grandfather had understood something vital about how traditions evolve while staying true to their core. Maybe Alex was learning that too.
"Well?"
Holly's voice made me jump. She stood in the doorway, her patchwork shawl catching the lamp light, bracelets jingling as she adjusted her glasses.
"How long have you been lurking?"
"Long enough." She smiled. "Saw Alex leaving. He looked different. Lighter."
I made a show of organizing tools that were already perfectly aligned. "We were just talking about traditions. Craftsman's marks."
"Mmhmm." The look she gave me said I wasn't fooling anyone. "And did these traditions involve any practical demonstrations?"
"Holly..."
"I'm just saying, some connections are inevitable." She touched the sleigh piece gently. "Like perfectly matched wood grain. Some pieces are meant to fit together."
She left before I could respond, her laughter trailing behind her.
I stood in my workshop, surrounded by inherited tools and century-old wood, and smiled. The sleigh piece gleamed under the work light.
Yeah. Some pieces were meant to fit together.
I just hoped Alex would eventually believe it too.