She died in this very room without her father—the man who sits in her chair right now, defending himself and desecrating it with his presence. Sudden understanding crystallizes with the clarity of coins falling into the proper slots of a sorting machine.
I can hardly breathe. Her love for Christmas, all her fanaticism about it, what else could it have been but a pitiful act of homage to the man who thought Christmas was worth more than her? I face him again. “Get out of her chair, and get out of her house. You don’t deserve to be here.” Rage seeps from every pore of my body.
Cassius stands and puts on his hat, but he keeps his eyes on the floor. He looks a little less dignified as he walks toward the door. He tilts his face toward us as he reaches for the knob. “Ms. Sinclair, you may not see it now, but your mother was better off. You will be too. Father MacCloud, I trust you will do what needs to be done.”
I cover my eyes again and turn away. Moments later, I hear the click of the door as it closes.
Reason comes to me. I feel his arms slip over my shoulders as he pulls me to his chest. His heart beats against my cheek. “I didn’t know it was you. I’m so sorry, Er.”
Why do I keep getting those words? I squeeze my eyes shut—maybe I can hold in the tears.
Chapter 18
I CRY UNTIL I CAN NO LONGER BREATHE, until the earth beneath me feels as if it has left completely. I cry until Reason picks me up like a child and carries me to the couch, where he holds me on his lap—in his arms. He soothes me. I cry until I’m spent and have nothing left but sniffles, sheer exhaustion, and his hand stroking my hair. He removes the bobby pins, one by one, and gently unravels it. It falls around my shoulders where he buries his fingers in, holding me tighter. Thankfully, he doesn’t talk. He knows I need silence.
I’m consumed with reviewing my mother’s life, seeing more than I did before I knew any of this. And the irony that grips me? Her father, this despicable old man, has by some perverse twist of fate outlived her. This injustice seems like such an absurdity.
Words flutter in my thoughts with the weightlessness of ash rising from burning paper. Society. Sacrifice. Secrecy. I don’t really know what most of it means. I boil down the obvious into digestible parts: the Society seems really old and really big, they do things they think are vital, and Reason has chosen me over them if it comes down to it. He met me one week ago today and he has made a stand for me, regardless of the price he will pay for it. And I’m glad—I despise Cassius and his stupid Society.
I notice Reason’s breath has changed to a steady rise and fall. He’s fallen asleep, still holding me in his lap. As the ashes settle inside me, one thing still burns. It’s the most obvious question, I now realize. What could be so dire, so serious, that it requires such reverence, sacrifice, and silence? I can’t imagine anything that would possess such an excessive caliber of importance…unless it protects something or someone. But what—who?
A sudden sinking feeling washes over me. Okay, maybe it’s more than just a fraternity or a club. I think back to when Reason asked me to promise not to fear him. It included the obvious, that he will not hurt me. Dumping me to save his ties to the Society and his obvious financial entanglement with it would be understandable. Not pleasant, but understandable. He’s known them longer. But it would hurt me. It just seemed like a sweet gesture then. Now it feels more like an oath passed between us. One I didn’t fully get until now.
I’m starting to realize this man takes his promises seriously. I hold onto this thought as I drift into the oblivion of sleep.
I awake to the smell of coffee brewing. I’m still on the sofa, but Reason has slipped out from beneath me. He spent the entire night holding me while I slept in his lap. This realization touches me deeply. It also enhances the growing feeling I’m his fall from grace, the fruit that darkens and spoils his life.
He appears beside me, holding a steaming coffee mug. It says “Santa Baby” on the side with a picture of a diapered cartoon baby wearing a huge, droopy Santa hat.
I stretch and gaze up at him. As responsible as I feel for complicating his life, he’s lifted mine. Seeing him here, in the morning with a fog of sleep still hazy in my eyes, reminds me of those first few moments of a sunrise.
“Good morning." He offers me the mug.
“Good morning.” I accept it and smile, but my eyes feel puffy and swollen from crying. I’m sure I’m not a sunrise.
He comes to sit on the floor beside me. I sit up and lean on my elbow to take a sip. He watches me with a peaceful look on his face, as though nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday.
Finally, he says, “I know we have a lot to talk about, but I want to do something else first, if that’s okay.”
“Okay.”
“I want to put up a Christmas tree in here.”
This makes me pause. If we bring a tree in here, it might change everything. It will no longer be just the two of us sitting together, in the here and now. It will be us, a tree, and the memory of my mother in a hospital bed beside it. Already, I can see the lights just beyond her sleeping face.
“I don’t know. The tree reminds me of her.”
Sadness creeps into his face. “Was it a live tree?”
“No, not the night she died. She always put it over there, just behind the sofa by the window.”
“Then we can put it here, in front of the window by the chair. It'll be a different tree. We can just use lights, a fresh canvas.”
“Okay.” I look down at my clothes. We’re still dressed in our Mr. and Mrs. Claus costumes. “Let’s get changed first.”
I’m starting to think I’ll do anything for Reason MacCloud.
We choose the largest tree on the lot, and it almost touches the ceiling. We’ve strung it with lights and topped it with a folded star he made from wrapping paper. He moved the chair a little closer to the fireplace so the tree sits in the center of the front window.
He’s right. It does seem different—not the same tree, not the same year.
We’ve stuffed our bellies full with Chinese takeout, and he’s built a fire in the hearth. I know the talk is coming, but now that we’ve managed without it, I feel almost inclined to continue on. Maybe we can pretend yesterday never happened, and maybe I’ll just forget all about the man who claims to be my grandfather.
We sit on the floor with a picnic of almost empty paper plates between us.
Reason fidgets with his napkin, twisting it between two fingers. He takes a breath and lets it out in a long exhale instead of words. Finally, he rubs his hand over his jaw and clears his throat.
After another inhale, he begins. “Erin, I know all this seems crazy to you. But I’ve been in the Society all my life. I don't know anything else. My father used to hold the same Office I do. After he and my mother died, the Society took care of me. And what Cassius said is true. It’s a secluded life.”
He keeps his eyes on the flames. Light and shadows flicker over the side of his face. He looks so different in this moment: half-light and half-darkness. His gaze slides to the hearthstones.
“I always knew I’d remain in the society. They would’ve let me leave if I’d wanted, but I didn’t. Most of us descend from other members, long bloodlines who don’t know or wish for anything else. When they created Amendment 16, they wanted to discourage bringing in outsiders who might not be able to adjust to it. People that haven’t experienced it before can't really know what they’re getting into—not until after an oath is given. Which means it’s not a fully understood vow. Before Amendment 16, marriage usually happened between families. Only in rare cases did members pick their own spouses, and never without a long period of reflection and prayer. The society never intervened. But after Cassius, the Society realized the world had become a much smaller place. In order to protect what we do, we’d need to tighten down on the potential for exposure.”
I watch as he continues twisting the now crumbling napkin. Paper fibers stick to his fingers.
“I didn't
plan to feel this way about you, Erin, or about anyone really. But I met you, and now I do. There’re so many people depending on me. But I know I can’t fulfill my oath if I’m always regretting it. That’s the nature of it. It’s a duty that needs a soul behind it. Without that, it’s nothing. That’s why Cassius moved to the Council—he couldn’t do it anymore. And he knows it, even though he’ll never admit it.”
I’m trying to understand his words, but they run together in my head. I start at the beginning. “So, they took care of you. And you feel indebted. You’re following in your father’s footsteps.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I wish I could tell you all of it, Erin.” Shadows consume his face as he drops the napkin on his plate.
“Reason, I don't want to cost you something so important to you.”
“I’ll lose either way. That’s the twist. I’ve got to choose what’s right. It’s who I am. And you’re right for me. My father taught me to honor the oath—even if it challenges the laws of men. The Society has spent so long trying to carry the weight of the world that they’ve forgotten what it means to be human. Maybe they can’t do it forever. Maybe that’s just the way it’s meant to be.”
He has such a simple, uncomplicated way of looking at things and I admire him for it. I wish I could be the same, but I’m not. I’d never want to let this man down. What if I’m not worth it?
I wish that God, for once, would let me have something good without a hidden byline, the inevitable catch-22 that always comes. Here it is again. I don’t have to know what the Society really does in order to know I’m starting to fall for a man I probably can never have…because even if he tries to live without regret, by choosing me he’ll always be looking over his shoulder, remembering what he gave up to have it. Regret does dampen the soul. I should know.
Suddenly he seems so innocent, so altruistic and naive to think I’m capable of being whole, of being enough. I don't think I’m strong enough to let him go. I’m too weak to get anything right. A tear escapes from the corner of my eye, and I lower my gaze.
He looks up from the fire and watches it slide down my cheek. When it reaches my jaw, he wipes it away with a soft touch of his finger. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“It’s okay, I get this way a lot.” I try to laugh, but it sounds nervous and false. “That’s the thing about me you don’t know.”
“Life is full of that, for everybody.” He locks eyes with me.
I can’t know what he gives up unless I ask. If I know, maybe I’ll understand what I should do—if I need to do him a favor and let him go. I’m not a Society member, so he can’t have both. So how much will I cost?
“Reason, these past few days with you have been...amazing. I have so many feelings for you I can’t put them into words. But I don’t know if I can let you risk losing something so important to you. Not for me, especially when I don’t even know what it is. I kind of need to know what you’ll see every time you look at me.”
His shoulders sag. It’s not what he wants to hear, but he knows it’s logical. And that’s what I’m good at: being far too somber and complicated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Erin. Seriously.”
I study the shadows in his face, the way his eyes plead with mine, and my heart begins to quicken. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should leave it alone…but I know I can’t. I haven’t kissed him in two days. Suddenly, I need to. I need one more kiss before anything changes.
I crawl over to him and sit on my knees, facing him. I cup his face in my hands. The moisture in his reddened eyes threatens to spill over his eyelashes. I press my mouth to his and taste the salt on his lips—the taste of rain and simple goodness. Heat rises in my stomach. I melt into him as he pulls me closer, into his strong arms. I want to stay here forever. His breath catches, and it nearly sends me out of my skin to feel such a powerful man tremble at my touch...but he does.
I pull away slowly, tracing my finger across his cheek. I kiss him there, before I sit back on my knees. The air between us feels electric. It threatens to pull me in again. I’ve never in my life felt such a powerful reaction to anyone. I needed to know this, too, before I hear his answer. Now, I have a better idea of what I would lose, and if I am capable of being that strong.
“Can’t we just do that again instead?" he asks as he bites his lower lip in that irresistible way of his. It tempts me to forget all about making him answer my question.
But I can’t. “I need to know.”
He searches my eyes like he’s trying to decide if I mean it, or maybe he’s trying to memorize me before, the same way I wanted to remember his kiss. Fear tingles in my stomach as he gives me a reluctant nod.
He takes my hand in his, touches my palm with his finger, lifts it to his mouth and kisses it. His warm breath tickles and sends goose bumps across my skin. He takes my other hand and holds them both together, palms up, then he lays his hands down over them. I wanted to know the answer, but instead we look like we’re about to play patty cake.
“Close your eyes and think of something you need. It has to be pure—true in your heart.”
I look at him like he’s crazy. What kind of game is he playing with me? He gives me a serious look, so I close my eyes. But I can't think.
I peek at him.
His smile looks both sad and earnest. “It’s okay. Take your time. It’s there in your heart, just clear your mind and let it come to the forefront.”
I close my eyes again and imagine a blank movie screen. Soon, I see a cake on it, a red velvet cake—my favorite.
“Okay, got it.” I say with my eyes still closed.
“No, you don’t. Try again. That’s not what you need, that’s just random.”
“Oh, sorry.” Wait, how did he know that?
Instead of the movie screen, I imagine my thoughts sinking into my chest—merging together there in an ocean of black. I concentrate, trying hard to relax at the same time, which doesn’t seem to go together at all, because now I’m thinking about the whole thing way too hard. I settle for relaxing instead of thinking.
Soon, an image pops in my mind: a ring, one like my mother’s engagement ring, but this one is white gold, not yellow. I brush the image away. Not that. How embarrassing and desperate looking. What if he asks me what I pictured? I pull up something else: a car key. I don’t have a car, and I need one.
“Okay, Erin. Open your eyes.”
I open and blink. He keeps his intense gaze on the union between his cupped hands and mine. For a moment, I almost wonder if they suddenly feel warmer.
He slowly lifts up the heels of his palms and peers between them, like he’s stealing a peek at something.
“Oh, I get it. It’s a magic trick. Something will appear there.” I roll my eyes and try to sound bored.
He lowers his palms again as a smile creeps across his face. He really knows how to play the part.
“I’m being serious, and you’re playing games,” I chide.
“It’s not a magic trick.” He lifts his hands away.
I gasp. A diamond ring lies nestled in the cup of my palm. It glimmers in the firelight. I blink hard. It’s the same one I saw in my mind—white gold with a raised round solitaire encircled by a lower row of smaller diamonds.
My hands begin to shake. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like dry parchment. This can’t really be happening.
I look up at Reason. He glows with pleasure.
What was it he said? It had to be something I need, pure and true in my heart. Did he buy this for me? Is he proposing? He hardly knows me…and yet he knows me better than I know myself. “This is a trick. Somehow this is a trick.”
“No, Erin. It’s not a trick. I promise.”
He promises.
Even if he made a lucky guess, he couldn’t have known what it should look like. My rationality screams at me. This can’t be real. It’s. Just. Not.
But it is.
I don’t know what to do with it. I hold it between two finge
rs and examine it more closely in the light. It’s so beautiful.
“What does it mean? How did you do this? Is this what you did with Callie? And the peppermint you gave me?”
“Yes, it’s what I did with Callie. But, the candy cane was just a magic trick.”
My mind races. “So she needed groceries for her family and warm coats, something honest and pure.”
He nods, his eyes glittering. “Yes.”
I continue, “I tried to think of a car key instead. I don’t have one, and I could really use it, but—”
“You don’t really need it in your heart. It’s not pure,” he finishes for me.
“And the ring?” I stare at it.
“It’s needed, pure and honest. Sometimes we need the meaning behind whatever it is, less than the object itself. And sometimes we don’t know we need it, but we do. And it never violates free will.”
“I understand, I think.” I feel sheepish. In the past couple of minutes, I’ve shown him something very private without intending to. “What does this mean, though?”
“It means I’m the man of your dreams.” He gives me a coy smile.
“Seriously, Reason, is this what you do with the Society? I’m dying to know.”
“Yes, in a round-about way.”
“He called you Father—why? What’s your position, your role?” I don’t care if I’m interrogating. Curiosity burns me with an all-consuming fire.
He looks at me seriously again. “Father Christmas. It’s the highest office. There are others beneath me, scattered across the world. They carry the Gift too.”
“Father Christmas,” I repeat. “But, what does that mean?”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m Santa Claus.” He says it in such a rush, I wonder if I misheard him.
He waits.
I search his face for the hint of a smile to begin in his eyes, the moment he can’t keep it straight. He’ll bite his lip and laugh, and then tell me the real answer. But he doesn’t. I think he may be serious.
The Santa Society Page 13
