He finally lets the laugh burst out and the deep, warm sound ricochets around the small room.
‘What?’ I demand.
‘Nothing. Just you, being so determined that magic doesn’t exist, but being so keen to help children believe in it.’
‘It’s nothing to do with magic. It’s just …’ That feeling tingles over me again. Every inch of me is buzzing with excitement. The overwhelming feeling from yesterday of how much I wished I could help the kids who shared their deepest secrets in those letters, and the thrill that this might be the way. It won’t change people’s lives, I know that, but it’s important for children who are lonely or struggling to feel that they’re not alone. That, somewhere out there, someone cares.
I don’t think I breathe again until Tav says, ‘I love it. I actually kind of hate myself for never thinking of this. Not that you need my permission, but you have it in full. Go for it.’
I squeal in excitement and before I realise what’s happening, he’s stepped across the pile of debris between us, and my arms are around his shoulders and his are around my middle, his hands splayed wide on my back, his whole body encasing mine. I’m not sure which one of us hugs the other first. Did he step across to hand me the letter back and I accidentally assaulted him? Did he slip on a colouring book and stumble into my arms? Did he actually mean to hug me?
‘This is a fantastic idea, Sash,’ he murmurs in my ear. At least, I think that’s what he says because I’m so lost in the warmth of his body and his voice so close that his breath stirs the hairs on the back of my neck and the way his stubble catches on my hair that I’ve forgotten my own name.
His cologne is all around me again, and I’m drifting in a haze of that Christmassy almond scent. I can’t believe I’m hugging a man this gorgeous, and my fingers curl into the knitted material of his jumper because I don’t know where else to put them.
‘I’m glad you came.’ He releases me and steps back ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that. It’s been so long since we had guests that I’ve forgotten how to act around fellow humans.’
‘I’m glad I came too.’ I deliberately ignore his apology for the hug. He has nothing to apologise for and trying to explain that is going to get awkward and rambly.
His cheeks are red and he crouches down again, continuing to gather up the stuff that’s fallen from the cupboard. ‘This won’t take a minute and then we’ll go.’
‘I’m not a kid, Tav. I can make it up the path on my own.’
‘I know.’ He looks up at me from his position on the floor. ‘Maybe I just want an excuse to hold your hand again.’
I fix him with a dubious look, but inside, every part of me starts flittering.
He looks at the ceiling and forms his hands into claws like he’s frustrated with himself. ‘Again, I’m sorry. I’ve literally forgotten how to act around people my own age. Everything I say sounds flirty and cringeworthy and wrong, and I’m just trying to be friendly and not as harsh as I was on the first night.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, because I know all about being awkward around members of the opposite sex, as evidenced by not being able to think of an even vaguely funny or flirty comeback to that. ‘I need to take some of this stuff back to the post office.’
I trail my hand along the storage shelves until I find an empty cardboard box, and as he’s putting things back, I start piling them into the box instead.
He tilts his head to the side and rests it against the cupboard, smiling as he watches me. Pieces of his hair fall forward and I once again realise he looks so tired he could fall asleep standing up. I’m pretty sure he’s been up working for most of, if not all of the night, so I take my time over selecting what to put in, just to give him a few minutes’ rest.
When the box is full, Tav lifts it out of my arms and rests it on his hip. I go to protest, but he gestures to the door for us to go. As we walk out, he grabs a few handfuls of train carriages and drops them in too.
I go to pick up the post bag, but with one flick of his wrist, it’s over his shoulder instead, along with the box under his right arm.
‘I can carry it, Tav. You don’t have to do everything.’
‘Yes, I do.’ He sounds cheerful and easy-going, but I meet his eyes, and for one flicker of a second, there’s something else there.
He looks away before I have a chance to think about it, and he’s already outside, waiting for me so he can close up.
‘Thank you,’ I say as we walk across to the path back up to the road. I’m not sure if his chivalry is gentlemanly or outdated, but there’s something old-fashioned about him in a good way. I can see why my dad likes him – he’s more like a true gent of my dad’s generation, rather than the image-obsessed men I’ve had the misfortune of meeting in recent years.
I’ve been alone for a long while. Relationships have been few and far between and rarely progressed further than a few dates. The guys I’ve met lately are immature even in their thirties and things like carrying a bag wouldn’t even cross their minds. I don’t need anyone to carry bags for me, but it’s nice when someone does.
At the top of the path, my hand feels numb with the chill when it drops out of his, and I go to take the box from him but he sidesteps easily and walks towards the post office. I’m certain he’s going in the opposite direction to collect wood for a cabin roof repair, but he won’t even let me take it for a couple of minutes.
He puts the box and bag down outside the post office door and stands back. ‘I should leave you to it.’
Why do I feel so disappointed? I have 1589 letters to be getting on with in that bag, and I don’t know what his daily to-do list looks like, but I suspect it’s longer than the neck of the world’s tallest giraffe. ‘Thank you. It was magical seeing that, even as it is now.’
‘I wish you’d seen it before.’ He bumps the toe of one black boot against the other. ‘In its heyday, the North Pole Forest would’ve made even the Grinchiest Grinch believe in sugarplum fairies.’
‘Somehow, I can believe that.’ I smile and he smiles back, his eyes reflecting the shine of the sun.
We’re lingering. There’s no reason for him to stay, and I can’t think of any excuse to keep him from his work much longer, and yet, we’re just standing in the snow, waiting for the other to say something.
Right on cue, the clock on Santa’s House chimes eleven times across the forest, and we stand there listening until the last dong.
‘Eleven o’clock. I should go.’
‘And I should get reading.’ I hold my hand out towards the bag by the door.
He nods. ‘May your—’
‘Day be merry and bright?’ I finish for him.
He grins. ‘May you find many moments that make you smile today.’
‘Are you always this cheerful?’
‘It’s Christmas,’ he says with a parting shrug, like that explains everything.
He’s singing “Let It Snow” as he walks off down the road, lines of which still reach me as he disappears into the distance and I find myself humming along as I open the post office door and haul the bag inside.
Maybe Christmas isn’t too bad after all.
Chapter 8
Dear Santa,
I am ten years old and I know the truth about you now, but I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed believing in you for the past ten years. It wouldn’t be Christmas without you.
From,
Isaac
It’s a few days later, the end of a long day that’s involved wrangling families to visit Santa Claus, taking a group on a tour of Santa’s House, and I then got to take two reindeer for a walk down the main road to meet visitors. I’ve barely seen Tav – trying to repair a hole in the roof of the Gingerbread Cabin turned into replacing the whole roof, and he’s been lugging planks of wood up and down the hill all day and there’s been a lot of sawing and banging.
I’m more knackered than I can ever remember being, and sleep should come easily, but it isn’t happening
tonight. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. An owl hoots outside, and from a distance away, another owl hoots back a reply.
I roll over and tuck the hot water bottle against my back instead, but it’s no good. I can’t sleep. My mind is racing with thoughts of my dad and how excited the kids were to see him today, and how happy he was to see them. It was the first time I’d got to see him interacting with children and spreading Christmas cheer, and it made him seem like a young man again. Jolly, happy, and full of life. Not three weeks post heart attack and unable to do most of the things he used to do. It was like he’s always belonged in his little wooden grotto.
The thought of somehow forcing him to give it up burns in my mind and I roll over and pull the duvet and blanket further over my head, but the image doesn’t go away.
The first care packages went out a couple of days ago, and I took a bag of 3290 letters to the post office this morning, but I haven’t had a chance to read any of them yet, and I actually miss doing it. I feel like I have a duty to read them, and by tomorrow there will be more. It’s probably not going to be long before it’ll be like Tim Allen receiving the naughty and nice list in The Santa Clause via a fleet of FedEx trucks.
Well, they say it’s best to get up and do something if you can’t sleep, so I pull my snow trousers – a gift from Dad – on over my pyjamas, wriggle into my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck a few times, slip my boots on, and grab my torch.
The night air bites when I step outside. It feels like the coldest night so far, and I briefly reconsider my plan in case I literally turn into a snowman before I reach the post office, but the idea of lying here staring at the ceiling for another couple of hours is arguably less appealing than freezing to death.
I glance up at the sky, consistently disappointed the Northern Lights haven’t made another appearance yet. I find myself sky-watching all the time, like if I look away for too long, I’ll miss them. And there’s a constant urge to stay up late in case I miss them while sleeping. I can sleep after Christmas – the Northern Lights are something I’m unlikely to ever see again when I go home.
I ignore the pip of darkness that thought sets off inside me. Going home is good. It’s still the plan for me and Dad. It has to be.
There’s a light on in the back of Santa’s House, and I debate going in for some company, but if it’s Dad then he’ll worry about me being up late, and if it’s Tav then he’s unlikely to want my company in the middle of the night, so I turn and carry on, sweeping my torch across the road in front of me, lest an angry wolf jump out from behind a tree.
Maybe I’m not as brave as I thought.
An angry wolf would surprise me, but not as much as opening the post office door does. So much that I have to step back outside and look up at the sign to make sure I’ve entered the right building.
Inside, it’s not the post office. I mean, it is the post office, but it’s not as it was yesterday. Instead of letters fluttering down to greet me as the door disturbs them, the floor is clear, and there are huge boxes on either side of the room, which the unread letters from years gone by have been piled into. The wooden flooring is recently polished and the whole room smells of a festive pine scent.
Even the door sounds surprised as the click of it closing behind me echoes through the newly empty room, and as I walk further in, I find another gigantic box full of the toys from the workshop. The counter – previously covered in dust and debris – is clean, polished, and empty too, and the mail organisation shelf that was in pieces has been mended.
Tav. Inexplicably, my eyes well up. He’s the kindest person. Nothing is too much trouble, even though he’s got a million things on his plate already, he still made time to do this. For me. And at least it explains where he disappeared to when he wasn’t working on the cabin earlier, and it flits across my mind that Dad’s request for my help today was to purposely get me out of the post office so Tav could do this.
Behind the counter, the shelves of packing materials have been cleaned and organised, and added to. There are now sheets of giftwrap, coloured tissue paper, and ribbons, along with flat-packed boxes and padded envelopes and reams of “North Pole Mail” stickers and stamps, a pot of Christmas pens in a variety of colours, with balls of tinsel, bells, and North Pole signs on top. It’s a stationery lover’s dream.
In the back room, the desk has been polished, the comfy chair in the corner has been cleaned and there are a couple of extra blankets and cushions on it, and down beside it is a space heater, and I’m so grateful that I want to cry again.
The shelves have been strung with Christmas lights, the dead poinsettias replaced with living ones with glittered red leaves and, like he knows what my favourite decorations are, there are a few nutcrackers staring down from the shelving too, and in the middle of the desk, there’s a tiny living Christmas tree in a festive pot, covered with lights and decorated with mini candy canes.
No one has ever done anything this thoughtful for me before and I debate walking back up to the house to thank him, but I tell myself I can thank him in the morning. I don’t need to see him now.
I switch on the space heater and leave my coat and scarf on the counter before I sink into the chair and plunge my hand into the bag of letters and lose track of time. I file the letters I read into piles. A pile for demanding lists of presents to ignore, a pile for ones that deserve a response, and a pile for ones that need something more – food parcels or clothes vouchers or something. One boy asks Santa for new shoes for him and his siblings because their toes are hurting but their parents can’t afford new ones. Another child asks Santa to make Mummy and Daddy love each other again.
I get so caught up in each letter, enraptured by these strangers’ lives, from places I’ve never even heard of, and touched by the amount of effort that goes into each letter. Children send Santa paintings and drawings they’ve done of him, they write him poems, they tell him stories. One little girl writes a monthly update and although I don’t have any of her previous letters to hand, she writes to him every month telling him about her life, her friends, what they’ve been doing at school, and includes photographs of her pet guinea pigs and a hamster.
I’m so wrapped up in her life that I jump when there’s a soft knock on the door, and Tav’s voice filters through. ‘It’s just me. Polar bears don’t knock, I promise.’
My heart pounds for an altogether different reason as he comes inside. I don’t know why I was so desperate to see him tonight, but the fact he’s come here, he’s sought me out, makes me want to throw my arms around him. I can’t stop thinking about that hug in the workshop the other day, the strength of his body and the way his arms encased me.
My face is aching from how wide I’m smiling and he beams back at me. Although if I’d have known a gorgeous man was about to walk in, I wouldn’t have got so comfortable that the chair has almost swallowed me.
He’s wearing his usual padded dark grey coat, carrying a flask, and he’s got a blanket draped over one arm. His hair looks mussed up and pillow-creased, like maybe he’s been trying to sleep and couldn’t either.
‘Tav, I—’ I go to thank him, but he holds up a finger to stop me and then slowly turns his hand and does a “come here” gesture.
I unplug the heater and cross the room, and he picks up my coat and hands it to me, and then deposits my scarf into my hands too. I shrug my way into them and his chest brushes against my body as he leans past me to pull the door open and let me out first.
‘All right, what are we doing?’ I ask as I walk down the ramp. My voice sounds like a thunderclap in the silence.
‘Look up.’ His hand touches my shoulder and pushes gently, urging me to look to the sky above the post office building.
And there they are. The Northern Lights. The entire sky has taken on a purplish hue, and there’s just one faint ribbon of green billowing through the darkness. There are more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life and they somehow look bigger than they do from the UK.
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I don’t realise I’ve grabbed Tav’s hand where it was on my shoulder until his fingers wriggle out of my grasp and I snatch my hand back in embarrassment. If I’m not fantasising about touching this man inappropriately then I’m actually touching him inappropriately. I lose the ability to think straight around him.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, wanting to look at him but unwilling to take my eyes from the sky for even a nanosecond.
‘I think it’s going to get stronger.’ His voice is a whisper. ‘I thought you’d like to see.’
‘How’d you know where to find me? Footprints to the door again?’
His laugh is warm and right above my ear where he’s still standing so close. ‘I appreciate your faith in my tracking abilities, but no.’ He nudges his elbow towards the building behind us. ‘Light’s on.’
It’s so simple that it makes me laugh out loud, and then clamp a hand over my mouth in case the noise will scare the lights away. It feels like we’re seeing real magic and it doesn’t seem right to speak in a normal voice.
Behind me, Tav moves, softly draping the blanket around my shoulders, waiting until I clutch it over my chest and hold it on, snuggling into the extra warmth gratefully. He pulls one mug and then the other from the top of the flask and he somehow manages to hold them both while unscrewing the lid. The scent of rich, decadent hot chocolate fills the air as he pours it out and nudges one of the mugs into my hand.
I wrap both my cold hands around it, the heat of the drink making the plastic flexible, and I breathe it in, letting the steam rise up and warm my nose. ‘You didn’t have to do that in there, you know.’
He knows what I’m talking about without needing to say it. ‘It’s been on my list for months. You gave me the jolt I needed to get on with it. It’s no big deal.’
‘Yes, it is, Tav. I know how busy you are but you made time to do it anyway.’ I step back into his space and look up until he meets my eyes. ‘Thank you.’
The Post Box at the North Pole: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with in 2021! Page 14
