Santa's Pet

by Rachelle Ayala

  Something is holding him back. No matter how hungry he is, or how much his body betrays him, or how tightly he holds me, there’s a barrier, an invisible line he won’t cross.

  I wonder what it is, and boy does it challenge me, like a difficult math problem or a piece of broken code.

  He lets out a breath as he draws back. The emptiness between us returns for a moment, but he again closes the gap and buries his face into my hair, breathing deeply.

  I’m catching my breath, steadying my galloping heartbeat, waiting for him to pull away. Order me into the car and tell me to run and let him go. Not that I’d obey. Nope. I’ve never run into a problem I can’t solve.

  He’s breathing hard, gulping air, but not showing his face. I won’t acknowledge his tears, if indeed he is crying. The back of his neck is smooth and damp. I tease and caress the roots of his hair and listen to his breathing along with the rustling of wind through the redwood needles.

  His mouth moves behind my ear, kissing my hairline. He nibbles on the shell of my ear, sending sparks of electricity through my body. I let out a moan and raise my head, exposing my neck.

  With a groan, he tugs on my earlobe, then licks a trail down the column of my neck, drawing shivers and goosebumps.

  My muscles turn limp, and I’m about to sag onto the floor of the storage bin, alongside yard ornaments and a leaf blower, when Ben’s muscles bunch and he keeps me from collapsing onto a pile of pink flamingos wearing Santa hats.

  “Seriously?” I wipe dust off the flamingo on top. Not only does it have a Santa hat glued to its head, its black-tipped beak is painted with a large red splotch.

  “That was my dad’s idea. College prank.” Ben’s eyes crinkle as a gleeful smile splits his face. He points to the wooden reindeer and the sleigh. “Every year, Grandpa would put out the decorations, the team of reindeer, two in a row, and string it to Santa’s sleigh. So, my father gets this bright idea. He ordered nine flamingo lawn ornaments from this plastics company and glued tiny Santa hats to them. This one’s Rudolpha, or Rue. They all have girl’s names by the way.”

  “So, the team of flamingos replaced the reindeer?”

  “Exactly, and it made the town newspaper, which was a big deal back in the seventies, before internet.” Ben picks up the flamingos one by one. “He wrote their names under their bellies. Daisy, Dani, Prancine, Vixen, Commie, Kewpie, Donna, and Brittzen.”

  “Brittzen? Did you make this up?” I scramble to take the last flamingo from him. “It says Blithe.”

  “I like Brittzen better. It rhymes with Vixen. I’m changing it.” He tucks the last flamingo under his arm. “There’s gotta be a Sharpie marker around here.”

  “You really think I’m a vixen?” I bat my eyelashes and flip my hair back.

  “You’re definitely a Brittzen, not a vixen.” He winks. “Brittzen’s are better. Sexier and sweeter. Help me find a marker or something.”

  “I still can’t believe he replaced the reindeer with flamingos.” I rummage around the lawn ornaments. “It’s like a treasure trove in here. Everything’s old.”

  “Yeah, a junk pile. Except for the flamingos. They’re classy.” He chuckles. “When I decorate the yard, I’ll put Brittzen in front.”

  A happy, light feeling flashes inside of me. He’s smiling and chuckling when just a few minutes ago he was sad about his mother and sister. Maybe the decorations can bring back happy memories instead of sad ones.

  “I dare you.” I put my hands on my hips and wiggle them.

  “Dare me to do what?” He’s still holding the plastic flamingo as if it were a blowup doll, right over his crotch area.

  “Put those flamingos in the yard and have them pull the sleigh.”

  “You mean pull all this stuff out there?”

  “Why not? It’ll be relaxing for me and help me forget my problems.” I blink at him as innocently as I can.

  “Okay, Brittzen, if we do this, we go all the way.”

  “I like the sound of that.” I wag my eyebrows up and down.

  He shakes his head and huffs, grinning. “I mean, lights, animatronics, sound effects, everything. I’m sure you remember visiting Santa’s Cottage.”

  “I do. That was when I believed in Santa.”

  “You mean you stopped?” He wags his finger and purses his lips. “You disappoint me.”

  “I always believed in your grandfather.” A sour sensation twists my stomach. “I hope he’ll forgive me.”

  “He’ll come around.” Ben is quick to reassure me. “Things have been hard for him. The pet store’s not doing well. He’s down to one employee, and ever since his heart attack, he hasn’t been able to put in any hours there.”

  “That’s awful. I always bought my bunnies and supplies there, before I ended up with a rabbit allergy. Maybe Lacy can help with a marketing campaign. She’s bored of sitting around waiting for Baby Cole to come.”

  “He won’t be able to afford a marketing campaign.” Ben picks up the stack of flamingos.

  “Hey! Maybe if we open Santa’s Cottage again, we might be able to raise some money for it.” I bounce on my heels and tap him. “I’ll speak to my parents. We can set up a few Christmas trees here and do a raffle. You can charge admission to the cottage and sell souvenirs. Maybe Grandpa will come back here again.”

  At the mention of Grandpa, Ben lowers his gaze to the ground. “Let’s leave him out of this. I don’t think his heart can take any more grief, and being here will only remind him of all he lost.”

  “You’re right.” I touch Ben’s arm, but inside, I’m thinking this is the perfect way to bring Santa back on Christmas Eve.

  ~ Ben ~

  “You holding the ladder?” Sweat ran down Ben’s face as he climbed a rickety ladder with a string of lights looped around his shoulder.

  “Just don’t lean back,” Brittney yelled from below.

  “I’ll try not to, but the eaves are jutting out.” He looped one end of the Christmas lights on a rusty nail, then unrolled it a little and moved to the next nail. When he reached toward the right, the ladder wobbled.

  “Better come down and move the ladder,” Brittney said.

  “Yeah, no wonder Dad used to leave these up all year.” Ben hooked the rest of the lights over a rung near the top, and descended carefully.

  “You never helped?”

  “Let’s just say me and ladders don’t get along. I’m too top heavy.” He landed at the foot of the ladder in front of her and clenched his arms in a strong man pose.

  “Oh, biceps.” She crooned, grabbing and feeling his arm. “So hard and hot.”

  “Comes from hard work, girl.” He covered his pleasure with gruffness and moved the ladder several feet to the right.

  It went on like this until they’d gone completely around the house. Every time he descended the ladder to move it, Brittney would feel him up and swoon over him, and he’d pretend not to care.

  She certainly was good for his ego. Not just that. She was perfect. He couldn’t find a single thing wrong with her. She was kind to animals, considerate to elders, had the brain of a rocket scientist, and the body of a super model. A jolt of panic shot through him. What if she was the ‘One?’”

  Could he take losing her?

  He finished attaching the last length of lights to the extension cord and dropped the cord down around the eaves to the electric box.

  “Shall we turn it on now?” Brittney asked when he removed the ladder.

  “Not yet. Gotta put lights over all the bushes and shrubs, plug in the sleigh and all the moving parts, not to mention the snowmen and the flamingos.”

  “Oh, that’s right, with their glowing tummies.”

  “Especially Brittzen’s glowing chest,” he teased, lowering the ladder and resting it on the ground. “I’m bushed. How about we eat some lunch. You haven’t tried that casserole I made last night.”

  Maybe they could take a nap after lunch and do a little cuddling. After all, she said he was already on
second-base, or as he preferred to call it, the fifty-yard line with her.

  “I’ll try anything,” Brittney said. “I’m not picky.”

  “Do you have any faults?” He took her hand. “Or were you born perfect?”

  “I’m far from perfect.”

  “Name one fault.” He opened the kitchen door and led her into the house.

  “I don’t write handwritten thank you notes anymore.”

  “Ohhh … that disqualifies you. Ouch.” He kissed the top of her head. “I can’t have a girlfriend who doesn’t write thank you notes.”

  “Uh, who’s trying out for the position?” She punched his abs lightly. “Are we being presumptuous?”

  “I figure I’m halfway there, second base or fifty-yard line?”

  “I can still make you fumble your football.”

  “I’m a defensive linebacker. I’ll sack you in the backfield.”

  “Oh, I’m so scared.” She stuck her tongue out, and bam! Just like that, she got him. Adrenaline shot through him, harder and faster than a wall of offensive linemen pushing him to this knees.

  The only one who was scared was Ben—the bruising linebacker with the tender heart. He’d put out a feeler, the joke about having a girlfriend and she’d shot him down. She didn’t want to be his girlfriend. That much was loud and clear. Besides, he had no time for one either. After the holidays, it would be nonstop training until the draft. No goofing around.

  “Let me put the ladder and tools away.” He wiped his hands and cleared his throat. “I’ll meet you inside.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ~ Brittney ~

  While Ben puts away his tools, I rummage around the kitchen drawers. Even though his grandfather rents this place out, it feels like a home. The guests have left notes and recipes, as well as coupons and a few photos.

  Wouldn’t Ben be surprised if I were to find his mother’s recipes? Any woman who’d alter recipes and name them after her children had to be a very creative one.

  Besides, it’ll give me something to do as I consider what Ben hinted about. Me being his girlfriend. Even though it’s an old-fashioned thing, I like it. Makes me feel warm and comfy, like I’m wrapped in a giant stadium blanket with him.

  I flip through the guest book and read the comments. Although Grandpa Powers no longer comes here, this cottage has been a happy place filled with memories for a lot of visitors. Some even put up the decorations, and of course, they’ve added to the collection over the years.

  There’s no recipe book in the drawers, so I hunt through the cookie jars. They’re the old ceramic crock ones—a beehive, a snowman, and a Mrs. Claus. I pop the top of Mrs. Claus and find a stack of index cards. The rubber band has disintegrated and falls apart when I touch it.

  Pay dirt! The cards are yellowed with age, but the writing is clear and precise. Nash Browns, Damon’s Food Cake, Jon-balaya, Gus-pacho, Sloppy Jolenes, Terri-Yaki Chicken, Cece-viche, Sally-Berry Steak, Breakfast Barry-tos, Braden-wick Stew and Eggs Bennett. There’s even a Cho-Collie Angel Cake and Colleen Greens. She must have chosen Ben’s name for his sister, Collie, for Colleen.

  The kitchen door thuds, and I look up to find Ben staring at me with a tight look. His gaze flicks to the cards in my hand.

  “Look what I found.” I take steps toward him. A chill washes over me and I’m suddenly unsure whether I should have been snooping. “Recipes.”

  His gaze intensifies and rests on the cards in my hand. “Whose are they?”

  “Your mother’s. Isn’t it a miracle how they’re still here, even with people renting this place?”

  “The guests are mostly Grandpa’s friends, so they’re pretty respectful.”

  Gulp. Is he saying I’m not respectful? I force a smile and pretend he’s happy about me finding the cards. I’ve learned long ago that being positive and assuming people are happy often results in a change of heart. Unlike, Lacy, who always thinks she’s the bad one, I simply pretend I’m good, and ten times out of ten, everyone believes it’s so.

  “Look, she even made up a cake recipe for Colleen. She called it Cho-Collie Angel Cake.”

  Ben’s face pales, and he reaches for the card. “Let me see. She couldn’t have written this. Someone’s playing a cruel joke.”

  I give him the card. “The handwriting looks the same.”

  He flips the card back and forth. “It’s newer than all the others. See how there are no stains or crinkles on it? And the card is whiter.”

  “True, but some of the other cards might be a lot older, and she used them a lot.”

  Ben licks his lips and swallows. “This has to be a fake. She already made Damon’s Food Cake for my brother. She wouldn’t make two cakes, and Angel cake? How did she know Colleen would die?”

  I touch Ben’s arm and lean my head on his shoulder. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way. Everyone calls me Angel Face. Maybe she thought of Collie as her little angel because she’d be the only girl after all the boys.”

  “Are you saying we were the little devils?”

  “Yep, Braden-wick Stew, Damon’s Food Cake, Nash Browns, and here, tada!” I extract the one for Ben. “The best one of all, Eggs Bennett. Much better than Benedict, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Bennett’s a heck of a lot sexier,” he admits, his cocky self overriding any lingering sad thoughts. He fingers the card. “You know, I’ve never seen her use these cards.”

  “That’s because you boys probably weren’t in the kitchen.”

  “True. I wonder if she wrote all of these up for Collie.” His voice grows wistful.

  “I bet she did. You know what that means?”

  “Sure.” He caresses the card for Cho-Collie Angel Cake. “It means she chose the name I wanted.”

  “Exactly. And look, she wrote to serve Collie’s cake for Christmas Eve and Damon’s on Christmas day.”

  “Mine and Nash’s are for Christmas breakfast. But she also made pancakes and waffles. She’d get up early—so early she’d say she bumped into Santa Claus.”

  “I bet she did. And Mrs. Claus too. What did your father do?”

  “Other than pull pranks on the yard decorations?” Ben chuckles. “They made him wear a big green elf outfit.”

  “Oh, that must have been so funny.” I can’t help but giggle. “I wish I could have seen all of it.”

  “What goes on at Santa’s Cottage stays at Santa’s Cottage.” Ben flips through the rest of the cards. He rubs my back and draws me into a hug. “Sorry I went all zombie on you at the restaurant.”

  “You mean, when I suggested cooking Christmas breakfast for you?”

  “Yes. I was shocked you’d want to cook Eggs Bennett for me, but I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  He’s so sweet. Of course he wasn’t rude, just dealing with feelings he’s suppressed for so long.

  “You weren’t rude.” I hug him around his waist. “I didn’t mean to offend you or the memory of your mother.”

  “No offense taken. I want you to try my mom’s recipes. I’d be honored if you did. But …” His Adam’s apple bobbles, and he looks around the kitchen. “It’s the memories. I don’t know if you remember when Grandpa stopped coming to the cabin.”

  “We used to visit, but I don’t remember. Things kind of faded once I realized he wasn’t really Santa.”

  “You mean you stopped believing?” He cocks a grin at me.

  “I remember everyone telling me Santa was fake, but I had this secret, smug knowledge that I was the only one who knew him, so I shut out all the arguments. Then one year, he didn’t go away. He showed up at our house Christmas Eve wearing jeans and a flannel shirt—not even a Santa hat.”

  “That was the year Grandma passed. He never came back here—started renting it out.”

  “Makes sense. He kept all the furniture the way it was.”

  “Yep. This is all their stuff. The furniture, the old phonograph in the great room, the records and the giant radio, what they used to call the wireless
, and my great grandmother’s Navajo rug.”

  I glance around, fascinated by all the vintage things. “You think we can play some of the old Christmas records while we heat up the food and eat?”

  “Sure! Do you even know how to work a record player?”

  “We can google it.”

  “No need. My mother showed me.” He tugs my hand and we walk to the great room to a metal card table holding the record player and other equipment, all sporting dials.

  Flipping through the record collection, I find Bing Crosby’s classic album. “This one?”

  “Definitely. You can’t have Christmas without Bing.” He turns a knob and the turntable starts to spin. “Look at this mechanism. You can stack records and they drop after each one is done.”

  “Like pancakes? Cool.” I find a few more albums. “You like Elvis?”

  “Absolutely. You have to have a Blue Christmas at least once in your life.”

  Ben seems cheerier as he stacks the albums I choose and arranges them. He unhooks the needle and drops it on the rim of the first record.

  A scratchy, hissing sound sizzles through the old, cloth covered speakers, and soon Bing is crooning about a white Christmas.

  We go back to the kitchen and heat up the enchilada casserole Ben made the night before, and as we sit side by side on the window seat, I can’t help but wish I were Ben’s girlfriend and that we could spend Christmas together every year—right here with all the memories, among his family’s heirlooms.

  ~ Ben ~

  Either Brittney loved Ben’s burnt enchilada casserole, or she was a wonderful actress. She made appreciative noises as she licked the last bit of sauce from her fork. What did he do to deserve such a sweetheart? Not only had she not brought up anything uncomfortable, like the part about being his girlfriend, she’d also apologized for offering to cook breakfast.

  “I didn’t make any dessert, but if you want to try any recipes, we can go to the store,” Ben said, wanting to prolong the good feelings of comfort and joy.