14. Scarlett
CHAPTER 14
Scarlett
R yan’s scratchy beard tickles across my shoulders, rousing me from a deep, blissful sleep. I stretch my arms above my head, arching my back, my body deliciously sore from last night.
‘What time is it?’ A yawn escapes, and I cover my mouth with my hand to smother it. Rolling over, I come face-to-face with a sexy, sleepy face. ‘Good morning.’
‘It’s early.’ He plants a kiss on my nose.
It’s the sweetest thing. His aftershave of sandalwood and musk and the washing detergent from his fresh scrubs tickle my nose. It’s heady and fast becoming my favourite smell—even better than Mum’s Christmas pudding or honey biscuits. There’s nothing I want more than to bring him on top of me and resume what we were doing last night.
‘I start at seven for day shift.’ His grumbly, gravelly morning voice does nothing to quell the need.
‘Urgh.’ There goes that plan.
‘Go back to sleep. I’ll catch you later.’
‘Later, as in for the Lighting of the Jetty?’ There’s been a shift from his grinchiness over the last day or so, which seems relatively quick, and I’m yet to work out why. I really hope he can put some of his past anxieties and bad experiences behind him and see how the community rallies around.
‘Possibly.’ He nuzzles my neck, sending a pulse straight to my core. ‘I have a couple of errands to run after my shift.’
‘Hmmm, okay. Come find me. I’ll be around the markets with my petition or with the choir or eating Conway’s butterscotch ice cream, hot doughnuts or barbeque sausages.’
Before I can roll over and go back to sleep, his lips are pressed to mine, searing and quick, enough to leave me breathless and tingling down below.
‘Gotta go or I’ll be late.’ He presses his forehead against mine. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For making me see a different side to Christmas. For making me realise there’s more to it than my shitty childhood. That it’s time to leave the past in the past. That I can make a difference.’ He peppers kisses down my nose. ‘And it’s all because of you.’
My heart constricts so intensely, like it’s trapped in a vice. ‘It’s all you, Ryan. All I did was shove my Christmas cheer in your face and accuse you of the petty crime of not being my pen pal when we were seventeen.’
‘No, you showed me there’s more to Christmas than a family who doesn’t make it special. You made me open my eyes and look around at how others celebrate, how the community celebrates … how it’s bigger than me.’
There’s such an earnest look in his eyes. A look of rediscovery, anticipation. Of possibility.
‘Ryan, this might be a bit forward, but I hope we have more Christmases together and?—’
‘I do too.’ His entire face lights up like a twinkling star on top of the tree. ‘But if I don’t go, I might be the one out of a job.’
‘Okay.’ I give him a gentle push against his chest, and he reluctantly climbs off. ‘Catch you later.’
By three in the afternoon, even though I can’t wipe the smile off my face, and I have a spring in my step, I’m ready for a nanna nap. From my Christmas Eve to-do list, I’ve ticked off: choir at the supermarket, discussion with two councillors, emailing Hanna Charlton, erecting marquees in the foreshore car park for the markets, clean the footy club barbeque and taste test the Lions Club hot doughnuts. I’ve also dropped in on Lilac at the hospital, shared the good news and put a plan in place to get her home ASAP. Over a cuppa, she told me about a TV show she was watching called Old People’s Home for 4 Year Olds and jokingly said we should set that up at her house with the family day care kids. The idea isn’t as silly as it sounds.
The library guy dropped off a clipboard with the petition sheets at the IGA when we were singing, and everyone I spoke with, passed in the street or came within twenty metres of were willing listeners and most signed. Some offered to discuss my plan with the councillors, too, which could be a huge help.
Thankfully, the weather gods are looking upon the town, and the hot, windy, dry, stormy weather has blown away, replaced with blue skies and a lovely salty sea breeze.
The market is alive with activity as the vendors hang festive-coloured bunting and meticulously arrange their tables, showcasing an assortment of homemade crafts, freshly baked treats, fragrant candles, delicate jewellery and crafted woodwork. The lovely folk from Streaky Bay Distillers are setting up a gin and vodka tasting stand, and there are fresh crayfish and prawns available, too—the crayfish reminding me of last night, of Ryan and his arms wrapped tightly around me.
A grassed area under the trees has been layered with picnic rugs for the children to gather on when Santa arrives, who is usually Larry. But I’ve heard on the grapevine that he and Marge are laid up with the flu and that someone else has been organised. So long as the kids are looked after, that’s all that counts.
As the town converges on the foreshore car park, the PA system plays Christmas hits from Wham! and Mariah Carey. Dad and a couple of the other locals string the last of the fairy lights between the light poles on the jetty. That tingling, exciting, magical feeling radiates through my body. Families find spaces on the lawn to spread their picnic rugs out, laughing children dance around and watch the sky for Santa, and tins from local breweries and food for platters come out of an assortment of Eskys and food coolers.
At the far end of the car park, away from the market stalls and festivities, there’s a small group of people gathered around a vehicle. A couple hug and shake hands with a guy before walking away with a cardboard box in each hand. Then another couple, and another, until the group separates, and next to his station wagon stands Ryan, handing over a fishing rod and tackle box to a man with a small boy.
Ryan’s bought food and gifts for those families doing it tough. That must’ve been what he was doing yesterday when he said he had some things to do.
Witnessing the tender moment when the boy hugs Ryan, my emotions overwhelm me, causing tears to well up and slowly make their way down my face. A solid lump forms in my throat, and I curse myself for not having a bottle of water with me.
I make my way over to Ryan as the last people leave, but he jumps into his car and heads up the hill towards the main street. I get him leaving, not wanting to be in the jubilant, festive crowd and getting attention from everyone. The good-souled man just wanted to help outside the prying eyes of a gossipy community, and I understand that.
As I swipe at my eyes, my feet remain rooted to the asphalt, and I contemplate the selfless, random act of kindness Ryan just delivered. This man who hates Christmas has a heart of gold.
I let out a deep sigh as my name is called over the PA system. Time to rally the choir.
The one thing I definitely didn’t expect is getting a standing ovation. But if I’m being perfectly honest, we did sound pretty good. The harmonies were on point, and the deep baritones by Graham were the best I’ve heard him sing.
The crowd chants, ‘More, more, more.’
As I glance towards the side of the stage, I notice Lilac there with Nurse Barb. Together, we guide her to a chair on the stage, where she takes hold of a microphone and leads the choir in a rousing performance of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’.
When we finish, I suck in some deep breaths to calm my breathing and quickly scan the running sheet before clicking the microphone back into its stand.
‘Thank you, everyone.’ The crowd roars again, lifting their drinks and tinsel-adorned wands. There’s a real buzz amongst the crowd that’s spread across the sand and lawned areas. Kids holding glow sticks aloft are dodging people sitting in deck chairs. ‘Please keep that cheer going for the amazing Point Perry Choir and its fearless leader … Aunt Lilac.’ I step aside and gesture to the group who are grinning with their arms around each other.
I step up to the microphone again. The crowd settles, and a hush falls over the gathering. ‘I also want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who’s signed the petition to support a childcare centre here in Point Perry.’
Applause runs through the crowd. There are even wolf whistles, and someone yells, ‘About bloody time.’
‘I’ll be continuing discussions with Mayor Hodgson and Councillor Giles in the new year. If you feel strongly about this cause, I’d encourage you to speak with the sitting councillors and share your thoughts about how it will benefit the community. In the interim, I’ll be setting up some much-needed day care options once I get sorted.’
The crowd shouts cheers of ‘thank you’ and ‘can’t wait’.
‘Now, I have it on good authority that a certain special someone is on his way, so can all the children gather under the tree where the big red chair is.’
A massive commotion ensues as children, large and small, sprint, skip and dawdle to where a large, wooden gingerbread house has been erected behind a big red chair. Local photographer Beccy has her tripod set up and is ready to capture the sweet—or not-so-sweet—moments between the children and Santa.
As I search the bustling crowd, my eyes darting from face to face, Ryan is nowhere to be seen. Some small part of me thought … hoped he might’ve returned to join the festivities or at least watch the choir.
Out on the water, the distinct hum of a motor becomes louder, signalling the approach of something or someone. Instead of sitting and waiting, the children eagerly sprint towards the water’s edge as a Santa-clad Jet Ski rider zooms towards the beach.
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Santa pulls the ski to a stop on the shoreline and cuts the engine. ‘Who wants some presents?’
Santa readjusts his stomach padding and reaches behind the seat to pull out a large sack. As he does so, his white beard slips, revealing a dark beard underneath. That familiar dark beard left a rash on my breast last night; was between my legs in the early hours of this morning.
When our eyes finally meet across the tops of the children’s heads, there’s no doubt they’re Ryan’s ocean-blue eyes, and there’s a happy sparkle glittering in them. A million unsaid words transpire between us. My heart skips a beat, and I have to rest my hand over my chest to calm the frantic pounding. As much as I want to push the kids aside and take Santa all for myself, pull him into my arms and tell him how proud of him I am and how brave he is, I can’t. This is about the children, and I have to wait my turn.
‘Okay, kids, go sit down and let me get through.’ Santa hoists the bag over his shoulder and makes towards the big red chair.
There’s a tug on my arm. ‘Hello, Evie.’ My niece stares at me, bottom lip quivering. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Aunty Lettie, I can’t find Mummy or Daddy and Santa scares me a little bit. Can you come with me? Can I sit with you?’ Her eyes are wide, and the usually cheeky girl slinks back behind my legs, supposedly out of sight from Santa.
Santa Ryan crouches down—bare feet and all—at eye level with Evie. ‘Hello, what’s your name?’
‘It’s Evie.’ She risks a peek around my leg, and I gently rest my hand on her shoulder.
‘Ah, Evie. I saw on my list that you’ve been very good this year. You tried really hard at school and are a good friend.’
Evie nods against my leg and cautiously steps forward.
‘And’—Santa Ryan rummages around in his sack—‘yes, here it is. A gift for you.’ He hands the small red box over, and Evie hesitantly takes it.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll leave a cookie out for you and a carrot for your reindeer.’
‘Oh, Evie, how very kind of you. I look forward to it, and my reindeer are always hungry. Thank you.’
There’s a hesitant shake of hands. When Ryan stands, we’re almost face-to-face; his rounded stomach is lumpy and lopsided, and then he winks. Winks!
‘You’re very kind, Santa.’ I can’t help but smile. ‘And now you’d better hand out the other gifts before there’s a riot.’
Forty-five minutes later, the last present is gifted, and there’s a mountain of wrapping paper under the shelter, ready for recycling. Children run around enjoying the ten-dollar-maximum gifts their parents provided for the celebration, and adults feast on grilled whiting sandwiches, barbeque meat or prepacked picnic hampers.
The day isn’t over yet; the sun is still hovering well above the horizon, and thanks to daylight savings, it won’t be setting for a while.
It’s still a while before the official Lighting of the Jetty—time enough for The Longest Cast competition. The jetty is filling with entrants and their fishing lines and this year, Dad is the judge. Let’s hope it doesn’t end with a big, tangled mess.
Lilac—having gotten a leave pass from hospital—is settled on a camp chair with some of the choir members and Greta has offered to make sure she’s okay, fed, watered, socialised and to return her to the hospital when she’s ready.
Santa Ryan squats in front of her, much like he did with Evie, and they chat quietly, intently. Lilac breaks into a wide smile before planting a kiss on his cheek.
I lip read, and she says, ‘I’m proud of you.’
Ryan squeezes her good hand and works his way around the crowd, wishing people Merry Christmas and shaking hands with farmers and townsfolk before finally arriving where I stand next to the Jet Ski to make sure none of the kids take off on it.
‘Well, Santa, you are full of surprises.’ There’s no way I can hide the big grin on my face.
‘I have one more.’ He leans in, his furry beard tickling my cheek. ‘I know a great place to watch the lights. You interested?’
I pull back and study his face. Desperate to remove the costume and see the ‘normal’ Ryan, to read his face properly, to run my hands through his hair, I nod. ‘Sure, and if it means I get to sit behind Santa on a Jet Ski, I’m all for it.’
‘Your chariot awaits.’ He settles on the seat and attaches the safety cord around his wrist while I grab a lifejacket from Curly’s boat anchored next to the ski. ‘You need a jacket?’
‘Nah.’ He pats his stomach. ‘It’s under my suit.’
I chuckle and splash through the shallow water, climb on the ski and settle behind him. My arms slip around his padded waist. As the engine starts, a couple of the bigger kids push us out from the shoreline and the remainder of the crowd waves, hoots and hollers. My cheeks hurt from grinning.
With my chin resting on his shoulder and the sea salt splashing my face, I press my lips to his ear. ‘I’m so proud of you, Ryan Black.’