by Hazel Yeats
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www.ylva-publishing.com
To Kasja
Inspirator. Motivator.
CHAPTER 1
Cara knew that something was off, but it took her a second to realize what it was. The ho ho ho sure was jolly enough, but it lacked Santa’s characteristic baritone. It was more of a soprano, angelic enough to land him the lead in an all-girls choir. As Cara approached the throne on which he was sitting, she realized that this wasn’t the only thing about him that was different. He seemed a little girly. He seemed to wear a little rouge on his cheeks. He seemed unable to hide the fact that, under his clearly fake pot belly, he was quite slender and elegant.
She sighed. Just her luck. Had she not decided that the road to celibacy was the only one for her—the only right one? And was it not a little ironic that fate chose to practically throw this gorgeous Kristina Kringle in her lap only hours later? Then again, maybe it was the ultimate test. A chance to prove that she stood by her resolution. Because if she was able to resist a saint, a hot saint at that, then surely she would be rewarded by losing her sex drive and become a crocheting spinster in flannel slippers.
Doing a survey of the women she’d been involved with over the last decade had made her realize that most of them had been either narcissistic, unfaithful, emotionally confused, or teetering on the brink of an alcohol addiction. In some cases, with a considerable overlap. She’d had a call from Kelly, her girlfriend of two months, that very morning. Kelly told her, in a tearful voice, that she was going off to find herself—not in an ashram or sweat hut, as Cara had always thought she one day would, but in the arms of a straight co-worker. Or formerly straight. Or fluently straight. Or whatever.
Cara hadn’t presumed that she and Kelly were meant to last, but it stung anyway. When she’d hung up the phone, she had somehow understood that every relationship she would ever have would be doomed. Call it kismet, call it karma, call it bad luck, but the coupling thing wasn’t for her. And since all her coupling had started by noticing a woman’s angelic voice and slender elegance, she vowed to close her eyes as she handed Santa the papers.
Now, all she needed was to find a way to do so inconspicuously, which wouldn’t be easy given the fact that she was on the ground floor of De Bijenkorf and that it was one of the busiest days of the year. The luxury, upmarket department store, centrally located at Dam Square in the heart of Amsterdam, was a magnet for both locals and tourists, especially around Christmas. The striking, historic building appealed to people—its spectacular façade lighting, the extravagant window displays, the large light dome, and six floors of luxury goods. Outside the store, in the square, there was a Christmas tree soaring over twenty meters into the Amsterdam sky, decorated by four kilometers of Christmas lights.
Even Cara mellowed at the sight of so much beauty. But then she remembered that she had a job to do, and she hurried inside.
Santa’s little enclave, prominently situated among the shop-in-shops of high-end fashion brands, was enclosed by a wooden fence with a gate at the front—now open to let the children in. There were two huge Christmas trees on either side of Santa’s throne, decorated in gold and red. Scattered around the compound were three remarkably lifelike reindeer, their antlers as large as tree branches. Two children, dressed as elves, were busy moving gift-wrapped boxes from one place to the other. The floor was covered with snow blankets. From the speakers came the sound of Christmas carols.
Cara took off her gloves and unzipped her coat. It was unseasonably warm today, and there were far too many people here. About a thousand more than she was comfortable with. She lingered at a safe distance from Santa’s chair, holding on to the railing to avoid getting trampled by the crowd, and watched him, or rather her, operate for a moment. Santa seemed very comfortable in her role, despite the gender confusion. She had an electric sort of energy. She was bouncing up and down, laughing, and spreading joy. She looked as natural in her red and white getup as though she wore nothing else all year round. The children were lined up waiting to take their places on her lap, eager to tell her what they were expecting to find under the tree in three weeks’ time.
Cara watched the line grow and panicked. Was she going to stand here all day, waiting for a lull in Santa’s schedule, to hand her the envelope? Cara was new at this—in fact, Santa was her first client. She’d had instructions, sure, an official training even. She had diligently read the entire manual, but there hadn’t been anything in the rules about how to act when your first client happened to be Father Christmas. Let alone Mother Christmas.
She braced herself, pushing her elbows forward in the hope of lending her girly features a little brazenness, and cut in front of the waiting children.
“Hey!” a stout boy in a blue anorak shouted. “Wait your turn.”
Cara turned and crouched down, facing him. “Now look, you little twerp,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I’m not having a very good day here. Me and Santa have some business, okay? So just back off and give me a moment.”
The boy, startled by her aggressive tone, stepped back, almost knocking over the kid who was in line behind him, who promptly started to bawl.
Cara walked through the gate as soon as Santa’s lap was empty. She took a few steps, until she was close enough to get Santa’s attention. The chair was quite high, and she had to look up.
“Hi,” Santa said. “I appreciate your eagerness to sit on my lap, but would you mind terribly not scaring away the customers? This is a once-a-year gig, as you may know, so it’s important I keep them happy.”
Cara stared at the woman, her mouth dropping. She had some nerve!
“So, what can I do for you?” Santa looked at the envelope in Cara’s hand. “Is that your list?”
Cara shook her head.
“In that case, just tell me what you want.” She eyed Cara critically, then pointed what Cara knew to be a mocking finger at her official process server badge. “I’d suggest a shiny ornament for your lapel, but I see that’s been taken care of.”
“I’m good,” Cara said. She sighed. “That was funny, by the way.”
Santa flashed her an innocent smile. “Then perhaps someone to pull the stick out of your ass?”
Cara threw the woman an angry look and resisted, with some difficulty, the temptation to climb on the chair and smack her in the face. There was to be no physical contact, let alone violence. Not only was she here in an official capacity, but this was one Santa you didn’t want to get into a fight with.
She gave Santa a cold look. “Strong language coming from someone in your position.”
Santa smiled again. Cara noticed her perfect, white teeth. She also noticed her gorgeous, hazel eyes. Most of the rest of her face was not visible through the beard. It was funny, Cara mused, how she could see so little of Santa’s face and still somehow know that she was quite attractive. It made her want to rip the beard off to see the rest of her. She kicked herself, mentally, and pushed all thoughts of Santa’s physical appeal to the back of her mind. She cursed herself for even noticing these completely irrelevant details about someone who was obviously an asshole.
“I don’t know what it is,” Santa said, “some people just bring that out in me.”
Cara was beginning to be very aware of how she was holding up the line. It was time to wrap this up or all hell would break loose. And besides, there was no reasoning with this woman. She could stand here and argue with her all day and accomplish nothing.
“Whatever,” she said, as “O Holy Night” wafted from the shop speakers. “Are you Jude Donovan?”
“Shush!” said Santa. She pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed to the waiting children. “Don’t say that out loud.”
Cara followed her gaze. Yes, there were children, so what? She turned back and waited for an answer, that didn’t come.
“Well?” She was getting impatient. “Are you?”
Santa shook her head. “No, I’m Kris.”
Cara stared at the envelope, once again reading the name.
“Kris Kringle!” the woman said, seeing Cara’s confusion. “You know. Santa?”
“Seriously.” Cara heard the voices of protesting parents and felt a bead of sweat begin to trickle down her back. “I really need you to confirm that you’re Jude Donovan.”
“Okay,” Santa said. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I’m…” her voice became a whisper, as she leaned over to where Cara was standing “…I’m her. I’m Jude Donovan.”
Cara nodded and handed Santa the envelope, which she took with a bewildered expression.
Cara curtsied. “You have been served.”
“A guy?” Inge opened the Styrofoam box with eager fingers. “How could you think someone named Jude is a guy?”
Cara shrugged. “I just assumed. Aren’t all Judes guys? Jude the Obscure? Jude Law? The dude in Hey Jude?”
“Not sure about Jude the Obscure. I guess when you’re obscure you have more important things to worry about than your gender.”
Cara looked at her sister critically. “Do you even know what obscure means?”
“Sure,” Inge said. “Invisible, right?”
Cara nodded. “Right. Thomas Hardy spent many a sleepless night wondering if he shouldn’t have called his novel Jude the Invisible.”
“There’s no need to go all literary and intellectual on me.” Inge crumbled up a napkin and threw it at Cara. “After all, you don’t even know what sex the average Jude is.”
“Most of them are men.” Cara bent over to pick up the napkin from the floor and put in on her tray.
“Anyway,” Inge said, “tell me more about the lovely Santa.” She sank her teeth into her double cheeseburger and moaned. Cara watched her like a mother watches a child enjoying an unhealthy but much deserved treat; with that curious combination of guilt and satisfaction. She was the only person in Inge’s circle of friends and family who didn’t point blank refuse to eat at a McDonald’s, even though she hadn’t personally felt the desire to set foot in one since the age of twelve. She didn’t care for the menu, or the garish, plastic ambiance, but she didn’t have the problem with fast food that Myra and Alice had. Cara felt strongly that adults should decide for themselves what they did, or did not, want to eat. With Myra busy doing whatever it is that mothers of large families do during the day, and Alice in Milan to discuss the deeper meaning of below-the-knee hemlines, Cara had decided to indulge her beloved sibling. After all, hadn’t Inge willingly accompanied her to gay bars and Pink concerts through the years, without being particularly passionate about either? Watching her devour a Happy Meal every now and then was the least she could do to pay Inge back for her support.
“I wouldn’t call her lovely.” Cara shook her head. “And besides, I make it a rule not to look at the people I serve in that way.”
“You do, huh? So far you’ve told me about the length of her lashes, the swell of her breasts under the grubby Santa suit, and how her smile seems like the sun coming out after a long and harsh winter. How is that not that way?”
Cara frowned. “I’m positive I never said a word about any swell.”
“It was implied,” said Inge. “So what happens next?”
“With her, you mean? I don’t know. It’s got nothing to do with me. I just deliver the paperwork and that’s it.”
“So you haven’t been back to the store to see whether she’s still there?”
“Of course not.”
“Want to go down there?” Inge held the red container upside down. The last two crunchy french fries fell into her hand.
“What?” Cara said. “Now? Why?”
“To see if she’s kept her job, of course.” Inge looked to her left and right before eyeing Cara. “What if,” she whispered, bringing her face closer to her sister’s, “she has to stand trial for a horrible crime? Like murder.”
“Yes,” Cara said. She sighed. “That’s very likely. Don’t you think they’ll be checking the credentials of a person who applies for a job at a public place? A person who’ll be working with children?”
Inge shrugged. “I’m not saying she’s necessarily the one who committed the murder, am I? Maybe she was simply an innocent witness. Someone who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Like at a horrible crime scene, where she stumbled upon a barely breathing victim, lying broken in a pool of blood.”
“Ugh,” Cara said. “That’s gross.” She saw Inge eye her own french fry cup. “Aren’t you getting a little carried away here?”
“I’m just curious.” Inge reached over the table for the red container and held it up. “Are you eating these?”
Cara shook her head. “Be my guest.”
Inge emptied the box on the tray. “All I’m saying is that I’d want to know what’s going on with her if I were you. You’re obviously intrigued.”
“What if she’s not there? And I’ll be forever wondering?”
Inge shrugged. “Then I guess we owe it to her to find out what happened. It’s not unthinkable that she’s in the witness protection program.”
“Is that not, by its nature, something we’re unlikely to discover?”
“It may be for mere mortals, but you’re a government official with access to classified information, right?”
Cara shook her head. “Far from it. If anything, I’m a glorified mailman.”
“Anyway,” Inge insisted. “I just want to see Hot Santa.”
Cara looked at her sister in horror. “Please,” she moaned, “tell me you’re not going through some weird bi-curious phase. Because I really can’t deal with that right now.”
“Spare me,” said Inge. “I find it beyond imagining how you people can go through life never feeling a—“
“Whoa!” said Cara. “Please don’t finish that.”
“Don’t have to.” Inge giggled. “You know exactly what I mean. So, are you coming? If you do, I’ll spring for lunch.”
Cara shook her head. “It was your turn anyway. So I think I’ll pass. I have work to do. Those legal documents aren’t going to deliver themselves.”
Inge responded by stuffing the very last fries in her mouth.
Three days later, Cara’s curiosity got the better of her. She took an irresponsible detour between assignments, which basically meant that she was playing hooky, so there was no time to waste. She checked her watch, sighing as she realized that she was supposed to be in a housing project in Almere, trying to serve debt collection papers to the same guy for the fourth time. Every time she rang his doorbell, a dog started to bark, or rather whimper—not aggressively, more like hopelessly. She tried not to think about the possibility that her client had vacated the premises, leaving the poor animal behind. After she had failed to find him home, twice, she brought huge amounts of dog treats and kibble the third time. She dropped the food through the mailbox in hopes the dog would find it, and praying that she wasn’t just prolonging his agony. The realization that she couldn’t get him any water kept her up at night, which is why she made an extra trip there and rang the neighbor’s doorbell. A middle-aged man answered the door—drowsy, or drunk, and smelling of old sweat. He assured Cara that the dog’s owner came home regularly, walked the dog on those occasions, and left enough food and water for the animal when he ‘went on business.’ He also promised her to keep an eye on things.
As Cara walked through the revolving door into De Bijenkorf, she looked to her left and right, try
ing to be inconspicuous, as if she were about to engage in some criminal act. The thought that only minutes from now she would be face to face with the woman who’d been on her mind constantly these past days, for no apparent reason, made her heart beat in her chest.
The feeling of total disappointment when she saw, at first glance, that sexy Santa was no longer there, was so overwhelming that, for a second, her whole world went black.
The scene was exactly as it had been before. The trees were there, the elves, the kids, Vixen, Blitzen, Cupid, and, most importantly, Santa’s throne.
What was clearly very different, was the person sitting on the throne. Santa’s pot belly was real, and so was his deep voice. Jude Donovan was gone.
CHAPTER 2
On Friday, at two p.m. on the dot, they met up for lunch at Inge’s. As always, she served tons of food: sandwiches, olives, fish, meatballs, pickles, cheeses, and cold cuts.
Alice swallowed a piece of smoked salmon and grinned. “You curtsied?”
Cara nodded. “I did.”
“And you actually said, ‘you’re being served?”’ Alice was trying hard not to laugh. “Wasn’t that a little…dramatic?”
Cara reached for her glass and frowned. “I wanted to lend a bit of class to the whole thing, okay? She was quite rude. And she was my first one.” Cara paused. “Also, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The front door swung open. Bart wandered in from the street, where he was working on his car, and put a bottle of Turtle Wax on the dinner table.
“What have you always wanted to say, Sis?” He wiped his hand on an oil soaked rag. Cara smiled at her brother-in-law. Her dependable, good-natured brother-in-law. She shook her head. “Never mind. Not for you.”
“Honey,” Inge said, “could you not put your greasy car stuff on my table?”
Bart shrugged. “Is this one of those occasions where men are supposed to make themselves scarce?” He picked up the wax and eyed his wife suspiciously. “Or did you ladies honor our home with your presence because you want the male perspective on your troubles?”
