Closing On Christmas (Second Glance Second Chance Book 1)

by Christine Zane

Jen shakes her head. “Actually, the photographer is waiting outside. Sorry but we are on a schedule. But I would love to hear your Missus Claus voice, though. That is, if you have one.”

  A voice? I hadn’t thought about a voice. Obviously, Santa came more prepared.

  I muster my best Granny. My best Mable. “What would you like for Christmas, deary?”

  Only after seeing Jen’s face do I only realize I must’ve sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  * * *

  JACKSON

  Jen winces. “That doesn’t sound, uh, quite right. We’ll need to work on it before any children get here. Or you could use your real voice. Whichever you prefer.”

  It seems Jen has a preference. I chuckle. If I hadn’t already known it was Eve under all that makeup, her silly grandma voice would’ve given her away. It sounded like her, only with a cackle—kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  But her attire is on the money. Eve’s dress is velvet, the same color red as mine. And she wears a white apron atop it with a reindeer over the bottom pocket. Also like me, beneath she’s got something to give her girth—but nowhere near a full body suit.

  * * *

  EVE

  In Santa’s village, beside the North Pole mail drop-off, a grizzly old photographer waits impatiently. His battered camera dangles from his neck. There’s an unlit cigarette propped between his lips. I recognize him from the high school football games and other events around town.

  “Where do you want them?” Jen asks him.

  He shrugs. The cigarette threatens to fall, almost touching his chin before he maneuvers it back into place with his yellow teeth.

  Jen must’ve seen this coming.

  “Here,” she says, “in front of the reindeer barn will do.”

  She grabs Santa by the shoulders, manhandling him into place. Her hands linger a little longer than necessary on him. Then they move down his arms—his thick arms. I realize those aren’t part of the suit. Santa’s been hitting the weights.

  “Ho ho ho,” he laughs uncomfortably.

  It’s either annoying or funny. A bit of both really.

  She doesn’t treat me the same. Instead, she points a finger to where she wants my feet. I don’t think either of us Clauses know where to put our hands. It’s a bit of a Ricky Bobby situation.

  “Missus Claus,” Jen advises, “put your hands inside the apron pocket and pose like so.” She moves her hips to the side. I guess I’m supposed to sway away from Santa for some reason. “And Santa, I need you to touch the side of your belt as if it’s jiggling—as if you’re laughing at a funny joke.”

  “What kind of joke?” Santa rumbles.

  “One about the reindeer.” Jen shrugs.

  “Oh, those rascals better not be making fun of Rudolph again. Ho ho ho.”

  Jen smirks, then steps behind the photographer. “Perfect. This looks great, you two.”

  I smile. The camera clicks two, then three times. For all intents and purposes, the photographer is done. He’s about to light his cigarette when Santa stops him.

  “Just one more for the big fella, if you will.”

  Santa turns to the side, exposing the bulk of his belly to the camera. Then he reaches for my hand and puts it on his shoulder. Instinctively, I do the same with the other. It’s just like my senior prom photo. My senior prom photo with Jackson Rimes.

  But there’s no way. He’s only in town for Christmas. Santa is always some affluent, someone who has something to gain from doing this kind of volunteer work.

  Before I know it, we’re ushered off to the float. To the very end of the parade, per tradition, behind the high school band who will be marching into town with a not-so-rocking rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

  Jen chaperones. She hands us buckets of candy canes to throw out. Then waits for the festivities to start. So much for feeling peckish.

  “So, how are you today?” Santa asks me.

  I smile, catching sight of his gray eyes. Where have I seen them before? It’s something so recent in my memory. Yet, so far away.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m happy you’re, uh, you.” Whoever you are.

  We lurch forward. The float picks up steam as we catch up to the tail end of the band. We pass barricades on the side streets before rounding onto Main Street, and the people, the many, many people, come into view. There’s so many lined up on the street ready for us. I feel sick with nerves.

  We pass the tailor’s shop and the bakery. Then the florist.

  “Ah, the scene of the crime,” Santa says. “Or the perpetrator, I guess. I’ve sworn to never use the Friendly Florist again. Ever.”

  * * *

  JACKSON

  “Wait… Jackson?” Her voice pitches in question. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad. I hope it’s good.

  “It’s me,” I say. “I thought for sure our photo pose would give it away.”

  “I was beginning to wonder.”

  I smile and throw out candy. There’s an art to peppering the front of the crowd, but I’m no artist. A handful of my candy canes hit in one spot over the heads of all the kids on the sidewalk.

  “I’m still sorry about your dress.”

  “Don’t be,” she says. “Listen. I have a Christmas confession. I wasn’t a very good prom date. I was in my head all night about that dress. I know I wasn’t very fun to be around.”

  “That’s not true.” I think if she’s in the mood for Christmas confessions, then it’s time I come clean. If I don’t do it now, I never will. “But while we’re confessing, I have one.”

  She throws her candy canes and hardly any of them make it to the sidewalk. We’re terrible at this. She cocks her head in my direction. “What is it?”

  Don’t chicken out now. My belly isn’t full of jelly. Instead, butterflies the size of reindeer swarm.

  “My Christmas confession,” I say, “is that I didn’t want to go as friends. I had a huge crush on you in high school.”

  Why did I add the caveat? In high school.

  What about now, idiot? Don’t you still have a crush on her…

  “You did?”

  I nod.

  We both forget to throw candy until Jen runs up beside us. “Are you out of candy canes?”

  I shake my head and dig into the barrel. I throw them one at a time, attempting to hit every kid I can find on my side of the float.

  “What about Ashley?” she asks.

  “Ashley?” Who’s Ashley? I wonder.

  “Ashley Adams. You dated her for like a year. Y’all broke up two weeks before prom.”

  Eve knows more about my love life than I do. “I thought it was more like a month. And I had a crush on you before I dated Ashley. Well before.”

  “It was two weeks,” Eve says confidently. “And if that’s true, then why did you go out with Ashley?”

  “Because I’m a guy.” I shrug. A stupid, stupid, guy. “She asked me. I said yes.”

  “It was that easy.”

  I can’t tell if this is a question. Or if Eve is saying that she was interested back then—and if so, it was that easy to ask me out—or maybe she’s saying that going out with Ashley was that easy for me. The answer to all three is yes.

  “But it didn’t need to be easy,” I say. “If I wasn’t such a wuss, I’d have asked you out. And I would’ve told you before prom that I wanted it to be a date.”

  “But you were a wuss.” She smirks.

  “That, I was.”

  And still am.

  * * *

  EVE

  Jackson Rimes has—correction, had—a crush on me? This feels like it shouldn’t be frontline news, he did ask me to prom after all, but it is news to me.

  I can’t help but wonder if there’s a hidden agenda behind his words. Even if that agenda is in his subconscious. You don’t just tell someone about a crush you had years ago without harboring that same crush somewhere inside you still, right? Or maybe that’s me. Maybe Jack
son is coming clean because we’re stuck on a float together without anything else to talk about aside from flying reindeer and candy canes.

  It’s the candy canes that are supposed to fly. But I can’t seem to get mine to go as far as I want, not without flinging them hard enough to put out someone’s eye.

  I hold my breath in an attempt not to give anything away. Jackson can’t know how much I want this—how much I want him.

  The timing is so not right. Maybe in another month, or year. But I’m my worst self at the moment, and I don’t want him to see that. Besides, I wonder, is he ready for a relationship? A long-distance relationship at that. I’m not sure.

  The float makes a turn into the parking lot of Methodist church. Then Jen ushers us away toward Santa’s village. There’re already dozens of kids in line to meet Santa. And there’s no time for us to talk again, unless it’s in character.

  Except we never worked on my character. I sound like “Missus Claus” in need of a house dropped on her head.

  “Think Mary Poppins,” Santa says helpfully.

  “Missus Claus isn’t from England,” I whisper. Then again, she’s not from Oz either.

  Santa shrugs.

  A little girl in a blue smock curtsies before nudging between us on the giant bench seat.

  “Oh, dear, don’t you look lovely today!”

  It turns out my British accent isn’t much of one. I don’t sound British. I sound cheery. Jackson knows his stuff.

  The line grows and grows. Jackson is a great Santa. And thanks to his help, I’m the best Mrs. Claus I can be.

  We weather the storm of children for an hour before we get our first break. Then we’re at it again. The time flies. I’m too busy to concentrate on anything else, except the moments when Jackson’s arm grazes mine. Then I’m frozen. It’s not even skin on skin and still I freeze up.

  Then the idea of skin on skin turns my brain to mush. Is there any mistletoe around? I’d do about anything to lock lips with Jackson Rimes.

  * * *

  JACKSON

  Amanda bobs in and out of the line, waving and smiling. They’re at the very end with my parents. It takes an eternity to get through everyone.

  But finally, Amanda scoots between me and Eve. Mom puts Jordan on my lap. He immediately goes to fidgeting, not wanting to look my way. He keeps his eyes trained on our elf photographer.

  “He doesn’t remember it’s you,” Amanda whispers. That explains a lot.

  I bounce him on my knee. “And what would you like from Santa this year, Jordan?”

  “Nuffin,” he says, squirming away. He doesn’t cry. But I can tell he doesn’t want Santa holding him.

  I can’t help but smile. “And how about you, little girl?” I wink.

  “I wrote Santa, the real one, a letter.” She smirks. This is the second time today she thinks she’s gotten away with something. I really want to know what’s in that letter. Luckily, it’s safe in my shirt pocket.

  The way she’s acting, I can only hope it’s not a puppy. Make it something Daddy can buy, I plead. Something that doesn’t require regular feeding and visits to the vet.

  Jordan can’t wait to get away. He’s up in Dad’s arms as soon as possible. But Amanda lingers behind.

  “Thank you, Santa.” Mom winks. “And it’s so good seeing you, Missus Claus.”

  “You know this is her doing,” I say in Eve’s ear.

  “Not all her doing,” Eve retorts. “Avery and Lana put my name in the ring.”

  “You still hang out with those two?”

  She nods. “Sort of. Sometimes. Mostly I babysit Avery’s kids. And Lana texts me when she’s drunk.”

  So, I’m not the only one who was suckered into this. This, too, explains a lot.

  It’s taking forever for my crew to leave. Once they’re gone, we’re done. I get to say bye-bye to this fat suit and costume.

  Dad waits with Jordan at the end of the village. Mom taps her foot, waiting. Amanda runs her little fingers on the candy cane factory.

  “Ow!” she screams.

  She holds up her finger, not for Mom, but for me to see. Then she runs my direction.

  There’s blood but not a whole lot. A sliver of wood juts out below her fingernail. Instinctively, I try to yank it out. But I don’t get it all. It snaps off in my gloved hand. And now it’s stained with a microscopic amount of blood.

  “Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie.” Amanda begins to cry.

  “I have tweezers and Band-Aids at the restaurant.” Eve inspects the finger. “I’ll get it out in a jiffy. All right?”

  Amanda purses her lips, listening intently to Mrs. Claus. She does her best to stop crying, only her eyes are filled, and tears trickle down her cheeks.

  “I think we’ve got this,” I tell Mom. “I’ll bring her home.”

  And by we’ve got this, I mean Eve’s got this. She takes Amanda by the hand and leads the way to Mable’s Kitchen.

  Amanda finally puts two and two together. “Eve? You’re Missus Claus?”

  Eve smiles. “Did you think I was the real thing?”

  “No.” Amanda shakes her head. “But my daddy says you’re sweet. And lovely. And you used to be friends.”

  “Amanda,” I protest. Those little ears pick up everything.

  Eve blushes. “I’ll be right back.”

  Amanda hardly makes a face when Eve pulls out the rest of the splinter, then wraps a fresh Band-Aid over the now nonexistent cut.

  We walk out together. Me, still as Santa, holding the hand of a lanky eight-year-old, and ogling a woman dressed like she’s ninety.

  At first, Amanda stares down at her finger, at the plain Band-Aid snug on her fingertip, then her eyes lift. Her head tilts as she gazes up to the decorations on this side of the door.

  “Dad,” Amanda points. “Santa, look. There’s mistletoe.”

  “Oh, right.” I peck her on the cheek, and she immediately wipes it away. The beard must’ve tickled.

  “Not me,” Amanda’s sing-song voice teases. “Santa’s supposed to kiss Missus Claus.”

  Is this happening? I wonder. Is my daughter setting me up with a kiss from Eve Halliday?

  I look to Eve for her approval or lack thereof. With a skeptical grin, she turns to Amanda, not me. “You’re sure you want me to kiss your dad?”

  “He’s Santa,” Amanda laughs. “You have to kiss him. Like that song.”

  Eve shakes her head. “But that’s a mommy in the song.”

  “Mrs. Claus could be a mommy too.”

  “Could be,” Eve agrees. She puts her hand on the back of my head, our eyes meeting and her smile getting closer and closer. She presses her lips on my bottom lip, the only thing uncovered by the beard.

  “That’s not a real kiss,” Amanda protests. “Dad—put me down. I can walk.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell both of them. “That was a great kiss.”

  I put Amanda down and the three of us move outside of the restaurant. The sidewalk before Main Street is empty. The holiday lights still glow but there are no cars, no more floats, and no more people.

  “What’s a real kiss, anyway?” Eve questions.

  “You know,” Amanda whispers, “like in the movies.”

  “Oh,” Eve purses her lips in mock surprise, “a movie kiss. I don’t know. Does your dad watch our kind of movies? He probably doesn’t know what a movie kiss is.”

  “He does!” Amanda nods energetically. “We just watched The Santa Clause 2! Santa kisses Missus Claus at the end.”

  “Spoilers,” I protest. “And I don’t remember that.”

  “He does! He does! He does!”

  Eve shrugs in my direction, her face asking if it’s okay. It is so more than okay. “Then, one movie kiss coming right up.”

  She grabs the white fluff lapel of the coat and tugs me toward her. Her eyes close this time, her lips part, and our lips interlock. Just like a movie. I allow it to last a second, then another, before I pull away, hoping that neither Eve nor Am
anda realize how much I enjoyed that kiss—how much I needed it.

  Amanda doesn’t seem to mind. In her mind, we’re Santa and Mrs. Claus, and kissing is as natural a thing for them to do as it would be in a movie.

  Eve shies away. I’m unable to get a read on her. Was the kiss okay? Do I have terrible breath? I don’t normally have this beard.

  Her car is parked on the next corner.

  “Are you going to the party?” I ask her. I assume she is. I assume we’ve made her late. She probably has a date to get to.

  “I was planning on it. But I’ve got to get this makeup off. And we’re already running late, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, am I not supposed to go like this?” I joke. “Plus, I think they’ll give us a pass for being late.”

  “Probably.” She smiles.

  She hasn’t mentioned a date.

  “Do you want to maybe go in at the same time?” I ask. “I’d hate to show up late by myself.”

  “Sure.” She nods. “Give me thirty minutes?”

  “Thirty minutes? That’s it? It’s going to take me thirty minutes to get this suit off. But I’ll see you then.”

  As I drive Amanda back to my parents’ place, it occurs to me that neither of us said those words that plagued me all night at prom. As friends. So I wonder, what it is? Are we going as friends, as Santa and Mrs. Claus, or something else?

  I’m still wrestling with that thought as I change for the party. And I find the letters I stole in my shirt pocket, only I find something bonus.

  Attached to Amanda’s sticky envelope is another. This one is address to Santa, but the handwriting is much cleaner, more adult, swoopy and feminine. And after I read through Amanda’s, I’m drawn to this one.

  I recognize the handwriting. At least I think I do. The sign to Mable’s Kitchen is drawn with that same hand—Eve’s. It has to be. My heart beats faster.

  What’s it going to hurt if I peek—it was destined for the trash anyway. The real Santa is never going to see it, but this fake one can.