Very Merry Wingmen Holiday Collection

by Prescott, Daisy

  “You done complaining, O?” John lowers the tailgate. “We’re going to set them up outside by the benches.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I stare at the trees and the spot flanking the door. “Guess that’s better than inside.”

  “Great.” Tom hoists one of the trees by its trunk and flips it over his shoulder. “We don’t have a lot of time before John needs to pick up Alene from pre-pre-school.”

  “Next thing you know she’ll be in college,” I mumble. “They grow up so quickly. Blink and they’ll be gone.”

  “Not so fast. She’s not even three.” John sets down the other tree and drops two stands to the ground with a loud clank. “I don’t want to think about her moving away.”

  “Everyone leaves the island. Except you bunch.” I pick up the end of a garland. “Where’s this going?”

  “Windows.” Tom takes it from me. “Same as last year.”

  “Maybe I’ll leave it up there until next December. Save you the effort and save some trees.” I reluctantly help him carry the long garland over to the bench.

  “Won’t that be a fire hazard?” Tom asks, eyeing the rust on the awning. “You just said the whole place is basically old, dried-up tinder.”

  “Like your old account?” John chuckles to himself.

  “Ancient history,” Tom grumbles.

  While I watch, the two of them get the garland hung and lights strung around all of the greenery, including the trees.

  John stands back and studies their work. “We should’ve brought ornaments and bows.”

  “No bows,” I snap.

  “Lookin’ good, Olaf.” June from the yarn store next door joins us on the sidewalk. “I have some extra ornaments if you want them. I made way too many this year. Decided on a woodland theme and got a little carried away with felting animals. Turns out you can have too many squirrels.”

  I don’t know what’s she’s talking about most of the time. She’s a nice person, but a little odd. Or maybe awkward is the better word. My tone softens when I speak to her. “That’s nice of you, but I like to keep things simple.”

  Not to say John and Tom aren’t good people, but I’ve never had to ban her from my bar. Or even threaten it.

  Smiling, June pats my shoulder. “Simple works. I came over to introduce you to my mom. She’s visiting for the weekend.”

  I notice the older version of June standing a little bit behind her. With similar heart-shaped faces and colorful glasses, there’s no doubt they’re related. June’s mother has her gray streaked dark hair cut to chin length. I’m guessing she’s in her late fifties—not that much younger than me. She’s a couple of inches shorter than her daughter. Both women appear to be what I like to call voluptuous, but it’s hard to tell under their padded coats and enormous scarves. They’re sporting knit hats with furry pompoms on the top. Probably handmade by June.

  Showing off their good manners, John and Tom both step forward and introduce themselves.

  “Are you sure you’re not sisters?” I ask with a flirty grin.

  “Oh, aren’t you a charmer?” June giggles. “Olaf, this is my mom, Lisa Moxee. Mom, Olaf owns the Dog House.”

  Her mother extends her hand and I reflexively wipe my palm on my shirt before touching her gloved hand. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  Behind the blue frame of her glasses, her warm, hazel eyes crinkle in the corners. She’s even prettier when she smiles. “June was right. You are a flirt.”

  Tom sputters and coughs; John slaps him on the back.

  Ignoring them, I squeeze Lisa’s hand and continue to smile at her. “John and Tom would tell you I’m more of a curmudgeon.”

  One of them snorts, but I can’t tell which one.

  June laughs. “You do have a certain reputation around town.”

  I’m still holding Lisa’s hand and give it another squeeze before releasing it. “Never you mind them. Are you enjoying your time on the island?”

  “Oh, definitely. Langley’s so festive and charming. A Christmas village come to life!” Happiness brightens her voice. “I can’t wait for the Sip ’n Stroll tomorrow.”

  The tiny spark of interest inside of me sputters out as she continues chattering with June about all the joys of the season. She could be one an honorary member of the ribbon lovers society or worse, the carolers.

  “Mom,” June interrupts. “We should let the guys get back to work.”

  “Sorry. Of course. I could talk about Christmas all year long.” She lifts a small bag in her left hand. “Before I forget, I brought you some cookies and fudge.”

  It’s possible I was too harsh in my judgment of her.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Everyone’s been so welcoming to June since she moved here. We wanted to say thank you. And in our family, we use butter and sugar as verbs in our love language.”

  I reach for the bag. Lifting it to my nose, I inhale the scent of cinnamon and sugar. “That’s very kind of you. Can I offer you a beer or hard cider as a thank you?”

  Behind me, I sense Tom and John freeze.

  “That sounds wonderful, but we need to run some more errands,” June answers for the both of them.

  “Can I have a raincheck?” Lisa touches my arm. “I’ll be sure to stop by tomorrow evening.”

  “Of course. I’ll be here.” I hold up the bag. “Thanks again for the treats.”

  Lisa pats my arm one more time. “Enjoy them.”

  With a wave, the two women cross the street.

  Peering over my shoulder, John asks, “Are you going to share your goodies?”

  “I love fudge.” Tom steps closer.

  “Back away from the cookies, gentlemen.” I tuck the bag close to my body.

  Tom chuckles. “If you share, we won’t tell everyone how you were flirting with Lisa. Didn’t know you had it in you, O.”

  John moves in front of me, his tone teasing when he speaks. “He makes a good point. Don’t want your reputation as the island’s grinch to get spoiled. Imagine if people find out you’re offering up free drinks to pretty ladies.”

  “Hey, I have an idea.”

  “Zip it, Donnely,” I practically growl at him.

  Laughing, he pulls off his beanie and shakes it. Pine needles drop to the ground around him. “You didn’t even hear what I have to say.”

  “If the idea is you two buggering off and leaving me in peace, I’m all ears. Otherwise, not interested.”

  “Ah, there’s the Olaf we know.” John picks up his tools and returns the bag to the truck’s bed.

  I grumble under my breath. “Fine. You can each have a piece of fudge as long as I get to pretend it’s a lump of coal.”

  Smug grin on his face, Tom reaches for the bag. “Nice to see the spirit of Christmas is alive and well inside of you.”

  I reluctantly release it. “One. Take one.”

  As soon as they each have their candy, I snatch the bag away. “Consider that your thank you.”

  “So what’s your brilliant idea?” Tom asks, using a weird voice I suspect is supposed to be mine. “Thanks for asking, O. Here’s my thinking. If I met a lady who was obsessed with Christmas and I wanted to impress her, I bet dressing up as Santa for the kiddos would do the trick. Why, Tom Donnely, you’re a genius! If only there was a need for someone to play Santa. You’re in luck, O! The Sip ’n Stroll is tomorrow night and Chuck Abelhammer has the flu. What a stroke of luck, Tom. I’d be thrilled to help out and you wouldn’t even need to alter the suit. You say when and I’ll bring the beard and jolly attitude.”

  “That’s bullshit. Chuck’s at least fifty pounds heavier than I am. Doesn’t even have a beard. What’s he doing playing Santa?” I bristle at the idea of him flirting with Lisa.

  “He already has the suit.” Tom bites into his chocolate and moans. “Wow. This is the best fudge I’ve ever tasted. Kind of last minute, but we’ll ask someone else. Maybe one of the Kelsos could do it.”

  “Those are your other options? Bett
er off canceling,” I huff.

  “Carter can dress up some of the goats as elves. Kids love goats,” Tom continues as if I haven’t spoken at all. “Or we can switch up tradition and have Jonah drive his vintage VW bus through town. Hmm, the dark eyebrows might be an issue.”

  “Eh, he could spray paint them white,” John suggests. “Probably wash out in a day or week or two.”

  “Santa isn’t a hipster at a music festival,” I complain. “Your generation is going to ruin Christmas.”

  Tom lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “Thought you were against all these annoying traditions.”

  “People like nostalgia.” I scratch my cheek above my beard.

  “Probably why they keep coming to your bar. Certainly not for your friendly service.”

  I shoot Tom a look.

  “Too far?” he asks.

  I continue to glare at him until he holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Think of it this way …,” John suggests. “You wouldn’t have to deal with the crowd at the bar. Santa usually arrives by boat. It’ll be just you and the captain.”

  “Out on the water there’s peace and quiet. No carolers. No Kelsos.” Tom nods a couple of times. “No adults in onesies.”

  He hits on the one thing that drives me crazier than anything else. “Walking around in public like overgrown toddlers.”

  “Kids love you.” John gets a tender look in his eyes. “Alene already calls you Olaf Claus.”

  Damnit. That little girl has us all wrapped around her finger. My heart clenches at the thought of bringing a smile to her sweet face.

  “You want me to perpetuate one of the greatest lies ever told to children?” I’m still pretending to resist. “Biggest betrayal of childhood is finding out your parents lied to you for years.”

  The two of them exchange a look.

  “It’s thirty minutes of your life. Come on, O, do it for the kids. We know you do all sorts of good deeds around here behind the scenes. This is no different. You’ll be far enough away, no one will recognize it’s you.” John makes a good argument.

  “Wait. I thought we wanted June’s mom to see him dressed as Santa so he can ask her if she’s naughty or nice.” Tom scrunches up his forehead. “What’s the point if she doesn’t know it’s him?”

  John elbows him.

  “What? Isn’t that the end game?” Tom jokes.

  “Life isn’t always about a girl,” John scolds him.

  The creases in Tom’s forehead deepen. “It’s not? Hailey’s my everything. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  He’s completely serious. Before we all stand around in a circle on the sidewalk, sharing our feelings, I need to put an end to this conversation.

  “I’m too old for this nonsense and it’s too cold to stand around out here debating something that’s never going to happen.” I glance at the pine debris on the sidewalk. “I need to get a broom and clean up this mess before people track pine sap all over my floors.”

  “You’re welcome,” John tells me.

  “Thank you for your unsolicited assistance. Feel free to come by on the twenty-sixth and take it all down.”

  “So that’s a no on Santa?” Tom’s a dog with a bone.

  Alene’s happy face flashes in my mind, along with memories of my own boys when they were little. The hope and excitement of Christmas in their eyes. The awe when they saw my ash-covered boot prints from the fireplace to the tree. Their joy while they unpacked their stockings and opened their presents. Those were happier times.

  The angel on my shoulder makes a rare appearance. If this is going to be my last Christmas at the Dog House, I should make it a memorable one. This time next year I’ll be fully retired and hopefully soaking up some winter sun in California. Dan and Jonah will have to deal with the Ladies Who Love Decorating Society and their holiday antics.

  Dreams of poolside naps filling my head, I find myself saying out loud, “Fine. What time do I need to be ready? And who’s going to watch the bar while I’m gone?”

  Tom’s mouth drops open. “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

  John fights a grin. “Who’s moved from the naughty to the nice list this year?”

  “Ha ha.” I stroke my beard for a moment. “I only trust you two, Dan, Jonah, and Ashley. No Kelsos. That’s it. Falcon’s already been hired to watch the door. If he doesn’t forget. And I want Tom to use his boat. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “We’ll handle the details. I’ll pick you up at five.” Tom holds out his hand. “Thanks, O.”

  Grumbling, I shake on our agreement. “This gets out, you’ll both be banned for life.”

  * * *

  “Santa!” a single high-pitched voice calls out from the railing at the edge of the bluff.

  “SANTA’S HERE!”

  Evidently, I’ve been spotted.

  “Santa!”

  “Santa!”

  “SANTA! SANTA! SANTA!”

  “SAAAANTAAA!”

  Wow, that last kid has a set of lungs on her. Future opera singer.

  More small bodies crowd against the metal like a tiny pack of hyenas gathering around a recent kill. Hyenas wearing padded coats and pompoms on their heads. Baby hyenas strapped into strollers and sitting in wagons. Through the openings between the rails, chubby arms extend toward the water. Adults create a line behind the smaller humans. The carolers break into a round of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

  A deep, primal fear wraps around my chest and squeezes.

  “You going to glare at them or wave?” Tom steers his boat closer to the shore. “I’d suggest waving and smiling.”

  “Who can see my smile through this thick, fake beard?” I stroke the silky material—a last minute decision to protect my identity. The round glasses don’t even have lenses in them but they add to the illusion.

  “Good point.” He slows, leaving barely a wake behind us. “Maybe shout out a few ho, ho, hoes instead. Give them what they want. You’re making memories that will last a lifetime.”

  Standing on the stern of the Master Baiter, illuminated by strings of multi-color lights and a bright spotlight, I wave my arm over my head.

  High-pitched cries of joy ring out from above us.

  I do it again and more voices join in the shouting. The crowd swells and a few people run down the stairs to the grassy area behind the seawall. Waving and running along the path, the group of kids try to keep up with our boat.

  This is what Jagger must feel like. Or the Beatles arriving at JFK to hordes of screaming fans. I know, I know, not quite the same, but let me have my moment.

  This isn’t going to become tradition.

  One and done.

  And if all goes right, I’ll escape tonight with my secret intact.

  The plan is to dock in Tom’s slip in the marina, ditch the red suit and fake beard before catching a ride up the hill in plain clothes.

  It’s not Christmas Eve. Santa’s only doing a drive-by tonight. More of a cruising the neighborhood but too busy to stop. Right now, Santa’s got too much on his plate for more than a few waves and a couple of ho, ho, hoes. I’m giving this gig too much thought as I stand on a fishing boat, waving like a fool.

  “They’re all loving it,” Tom shouts from his spot in the captain’s chair. “Should we go back around one more time?”

  Mine arm is tired and starting to ache. “Nah, they’ve got an eyeful. That’s enough. Let’s stick to the plan.”

  “Aye, aye, Santa.” Tom gives me a two-finger salute.

  Once we’re around the bluff, heading toward the harbor, I drop my arm and rub my shoulder. “Damn. How do those beauty queens keep it up for an entire parade?”

  Tom releases a snort. “For one thing, they’re a quarter of your age.”

  “Watch your math, Thomas Clifford.” I glare at him while unbuttoning the red coat.

  “Age isn’t an excuse. Queen Elizabeth is older than you. Maybe you need more practice with your technique? We co
uld sign you up as fair marshal.”

  Ignoring my glare, he maneuvers the boat around the pier.

  “Quit calling me old,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Sorry. Must be the Santa suit. Reminds me of Pop and how he used to dress up as Santa for the Donnely family party.”

  “Clifford was a good man.”

  Tom’s voice goes soft. “He was. And a helluva lot more cheerful as Santa than you.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I should get some bonus points for agreeing to your nefarious scheme.”

  “Bringing joy to dozens of small, sweet, innocent kids?” Tom steers us into his slip and cuts the engine.

  Faint Christmas music echoes off the quiet of the water. A couple of sailboats have lights strung up their masts, but here, down the hill and away from downtown, the harbor is peaceful.

  A beeping sound, like toy horn, disrupts the stillness.

  “What in the damn world is that?” I squint down the row of boat slips toward shore.

  A pair of small headlights flash over the water as a golf cart comes zooming around the corner before stopping near the end of the dock. Lights and garland drape the canopy and a red ball of light glows on the hood. Squinting, I make out a pair of antlers strapped to the sides. It’s not a golf cart, it’s a Christmas abomination.

  “Is that your ride?” I glower at Tom.

  “I suspect it might be yours.” He finishes tying off the line around a cleat near the bow.

  “Hell no. I agreed to the boat. That was it.” Forgetting I’m still in the Santa costume, I attempt to cross my arms over my padded middle and can barely touch my elbows.

  “You could stay here. Wouldn’t be the first time a man slept on the boat to avoid someone. In my case, it was usually a woman, not a crowd of happy children.”

  “I’m well aware of your days catting around this island.”

  He stares up at me from his spot on the dock. “You staying? If so, I’m going to take your ride.”