“He might not be a millionaire, but he sure seems an odd duck to me,” Molly said.
“He is different,” Betty agreed. But in a good way, she thought. Refreshing. Original. Genuine.
“So a date with Santa Claus. How does it feel?” Molly continued to tease her.
“It feels fine. He’s very interesting to talk to,” Betty said lightly. “But I don’t think having dinner there under these circumstances is really a date. At least, I’m not thinking of it that way.”
That was true, too. Betty didn’t want to jump to any conclusions.
“Glad to hear it. Don’t get me wrong. He seems very attractive and good-hearted. And he’s definitely . . . unusual. But I don’t think he’s a guy who will give you a long-term relationship. I don’t really think he’s your type,” Molly said.
Betty wasn’t sure what her “type” was anymore. And dating her “type” all these years hadn’t gotten her very far, had it? But before she could debate the point, Molly deftly changed the subject. “So, how’s it going with Alex?”
“It’s going fine. We went to the movies last night. A romantic comedy sort of thing. It was fun.”
“That sounds about right.” Molly looked up from the party ledger and smiled. “I’m glad to hear things are coming along. Did he ask you out for New Year’s Eve yet?”
“What do you mean ‘yet’?”
New Year’s Eve had become Betty’s least-favorite holiday. She rarely had a date and hated to go to parties by herself on that night. This year, she was considering lying to all her friends and saying she had an invitation out of town, then hiding out at home alone and going to bed early. Then again, Alex might ask her out. The thought did cross her mind. It certainly seemed possible, but she wasn’t going to count on it.
Molly seemed to think it was a sure thing. “Oh, he will. I just have a feeling. Trust me on this one.” She closed the ledger and put it aside. “When are you due at Nathan’s house?”
“About six.” Betty checked her watch. “I’d better get going. I need to stop off at my house first.”
Molly gave her a look but didn’t say anything. She had probably guessed that Betty was going to change her sweater and put on some makeup before heading over to Nathan’s house.
“I need to pick up a few donations there,” Betty said simply.
“Don’t stay out too late. We have a big day tomorrow,” Molly reminded her.
She sounded like an overprotective mother, Betty thought, well-meaning but not quite approving of her daughter’s date. Betty gave her a wave and headed out.
After a pit stop at home, where she quickly changed into a new black cowl-neck sweater and dressier earrings, Betty started off toward Nathan’s house. She turned onto Beach Road, in the direction of the old Warwick estate, Lilac Hall. There were some magnificent old homes on this road, just visible through the bare winter trees.
The road was dark and empty. Out here, you would hardly know Christmas was coming, Betty thought. In her neighborhood and down in the village, the decorated houses and stores heralded the season everywhere you turned. Betty knew her own Christmas spirit was still lagging, despite her efforts to be more positive. She hadn’t done any Christmas shopping yet and hadn’t even put up her tree.
“Maybe dinner with Santa will help,” she quipped to herself. “If that doesn’t do it, the condition must be serious.”
Betty saw the landmarks Nathan mentioned and looked for the turn. It was on the water side of the road, the higher-priced real estate, and she found herself steering the van through high wrought-iron gates set in a stone wall. She wondered if she had made a mistake, but the directions had been very clear and so had the number on the mailbox at the side of the road.
She drove down the long, narrow road slowly. She couldn’t even see a house, though she did spot some lights through the trees up ahead.
She and Molly had been joking, but . . . maybe it was true that this man was an eccentric millionaire. She wished Molly was with her right now. Would she be so disapproving and snippy about Nathan if she could see where he lived?
Betty drove up a long curved driveway and finally reached the house. It was an old stone mansion with a large portico and entranceway. It looked entirely dark—and spooky.
She hesitated in the van, wondering if she should get out. Why weren’t there any lights on in there? Was he trying to save on energy costs?
Her cell phone rang. She checked the number. It was Nathan. “Hi, there. I made it. I’m right out front,” she told him, glancing at the dark house again.
He laughed at her. “You can’t be, Betty. You just flew past my front door. I live in the cottage, about halfway down the entry road. You must be parked in front of the big mansion. There’s no one in there now.”
“I thought it looked sort of empty,” she admitted. “I’ll be right there,” she added, feeling foolish.
She drove back down the road, more slowly this time, and finally spotted a small cottage set off from the road in a circle of tall trees. It was such a pretty little house, she wasn’t sure how she had missed it the first time. I was too overwhelmed with the notion that he lived in some big spooky mansion, she realized. But this place was even better. Much more inviting. Much more Nathan’s style.
It looked like something out of a fairy tale with a sloping, peaked roof and gingerbread trim. Smoke rose from the brick chimney, and a thick pine wreath decorated the front door.
She pulled the van up to the front and got out. Nathan was waiting in the doorway for her, the room behind him cast in an inviting golden light, the windows glowing warmly. The smell of wood smoke and pine mingled in the frosty air.
“Come in, come in. It’s getting cold out there.” He shepherded her inside and helped her off with her coat.
While he hung up her things on an antique coatrack, Betty had a chance to look around. The cottage was even more charming inside, with a low-beamed ceiling and an open floor plan. The decor was comfortable, somewhat messy but clean, and strictly masculine with a worn leather armchair and couch and a kilim-patterned area rug in front of the fireplace. Bookshelves and piles of books were everywhere.
A beat-up rolltop desk stood in one corner by a window, piled with papers and more books. A notebook computer peeked out. On the other side of the door she spotted a dining area with a round oak table set for two. Beyond that, there was a small kitchen with two large pots on the stove.
“Something smells good in here. I would have found you once I got hungry enough.”
Nathan laughed and led her to the living room. “I hope you like Italian food? I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. I made some pasta and meat sauce. I must admit, it’s a little intimidating, cooking for a professional.”
“Don’t be intimidated by me, please. That chili the other day was really my best effort.”
“If you say so. But you’ll have to be honest about my dinner. I’m interested in an expert review.”
They sat by the fire, Betty on the couch and Nathan in the armchair. He opened a bottle of red wine and had already put out some hors d’oeuvres—olives and tangy cheese and slices of French bread.
A big brown dog came out from some hiding place and stuck its muzzle in Betty’s lap.
“Come on, Rosie. Leave Betty alone. She might not like dogs. You didn’t even ask.”
“Don’t worry, I love dogs. She’s a very pretty girl, too.” Betty took the dog’s big head in her hands and scratched her behind the ears, earning an instant look of doggy devotion.
The dog acted like a puppy, but Betty could see a little graying in her whiskers and chin. She wasn’t that young but still energetic.
“She reminds me of a brown Labrador we had when my son was little. Brian named the dog Elmo, after the character on Sesame Street. Elmo was a sweetheart.” She glanced up at Nathan and grinned. “A great consolation after the divorce.”
I got the dog, she added silently. My husband ended up with our son.
“Dogs can
be very comforting, no doubt about that. How long were you married?” he asked.
“Eleven years. Ted, my ex-husband, traveled a lot for his job. And when he was home on the weekends, I was working hard, trying to build my real estate business. I guess we just grew apart.” The yawning gap between them leaving plenty of room for another woman to swoop in, Betty was about to say. But she didn’t want to sound maudlin or even still angry at her ex. That was ancient history now. She was well over it and had realized long ago that there was blame enough to go around. The failure of their marriage hadn’t entirely been Ted’s fault.
“That was so long ago,” she said. “Time just flies by. I can hardly keep track anymore.”
“The years seem to go faster and faster as you get older,” Nathan agreed. “Inside, I don’t feel older at all. Know what I mean?”
“I do,” she said sincerely. “I’m facing a big birthday soon. ...” She was embarrassed to say the number, though she was sure he could guess. “But I don’t feel that age. I mean, what are you supposed to feel like when you’re fifty?”
Great, Betty. You finally meet a man you’re really interested in and you have to go blabbing your real age, right out of the box? What is wrong with you?
“Excuse me?” Nathan looked confused, pretending he hadn’t heard her correctly. “The big four—o? I can’t believe that. You don’t look a day over . . . twenty-nine.”
He was teasing, of course. He had heard the right number and was just trying to make her feel better. Betty felt heat flood her cheeks. He was overly flattering, to be sure. But it helped.
“Right, let’s get on to another topic, shall we?” she said. He gazed at her with gleeful blue eyes, which didn’t help much. “Were you ever married, Nathan?”
“I was. We were divorced about five years ago. It was a fairly amicable parting,” he said, though Betty noticed a look of sadness flash over his expression. “Not really messy, like some people.”
“Any kids? That’s when it gets complicated,” Betty said knowingly.
“I don’t have children,” he replied.
She found that surprising. He seemed to like kids so much and get along with them so well, she would have guessed he had some of his own. She wanted to know more about his marriage, but he didn’t seem inclined to say more.
“So, how were you able to collect a van-load of donations in such a short time?” he asked. “I’ve rounded up some stuff, but it barely fills that narrow little area behind the seat of my truck.”
Betty shrugged. “It wasn’t hard. I just made a few calls and sent out some e-mails. You’d be surprised how many people you know in town when you really sit down and think about it. There was some cash, and checks, too. I had them made out to the food pantry.”
She reached into her purse and handed him a thick envelope. Nathan tilted his head back and peeked inside. “Whoa, look at this. You really are . . . unbelievable.” He shook his head. “It was my lucky day when I ran into you, Betty Bowman. A lucky day for the pantry and everyone who depends on it.”
His admiration and gratitude made her feel wonderful. As if she had done something very special and worthwhile.
It was her lucky day when she ran into Nathan, she thought. He had given her the chance to do this good deed, to use her energy and smarts—and her business connections around town—to help a lot of families. That really was a gift. Even if nothing but friendship ever came of this relationship.
Betty downplayed the compliment. “People were very willing to give once they heard the story. I didn’t even have to say much.”
“But whatever you did say must have been brilliant,” he insisted.
“I’m a good salesperson when I need to be,” she admitted. “Let’s just say that this time, I used my superpowers for good.”
“And how very super they are,” he agreed, laughing.
Betty knew she was a good saleswoman. The talent came naturally to her, polished by years in the real estate game. But she truly felt she hadn’t done that much; it wasn’t just false modesty. But Nathan seemed so impressed. There was no talking him out of it.
Rosie had planted herself right next to Betty and leaned against her leg. She lifted her head for more petting and sighed. “Even my dog is in awe of you,” Nathan told her. “Oh . . . she looks pretty easy to impress,” Betty said. His quiet laugh warmed her inside.
They talked a little more about the donations and what more would be needed for the party, then Nathan checked the food on the stove and announced that everything was ready. He led Betty to the table and pulled out her chair with a flourish. “You sit here. I’ll be right back.”
He headed to the kitchen and soon returned with a big bowl of salad, a basket of crusty bread, and two appetizing dishes of pasta with sauce.
“This is delicious,” she said, taking a small bite. “You’ll have to give us the recipe.”
“I can give you the jar label, to be perfectly honest,” he admitted with a laugh. “But I do doctor it up my own special way. That part is a secret.”
Betty had to smile. He had a lot of secrets. He was Santa Claus, right?
They sat in silence for a few moments, just enjoying the food. Betty felt so relaxed in his company, she didn’t feel the pressure to talk. But one question still nagged at her. “So, Nathan, I’ve been wondering, how did you get started being a Rent-a-Santa? I was wondering what you do in the off-season,” she added casually. She really wanted to know what he did for a living. That couldn’t possibly be all, could it?
“People do wonder about that. Especially at this time of year. It does take up most of my time right now. And it is an odd vocation,” he agreed. “But I do have a day job, as we say in show business. I’m a freelance writer most of the time. In fact, I donned my first Santa suit doing research for an article, aptly titled, ‘Confessions of a Department Store Santa.’ And the rest, madam, is history.”
“That’s how you got started? How interesting.” Betty sat back, secretly pleased to hear that he did have a real job, one that greatly impressed her. She already knew he was smart and creative and very good with words. Then there were all the books around here. She might have guessed. “That experience must have made a big impression on you.”
“It did. I was amazed that I liked it so much. I was pretty good at it, too. I liked doing it for kids in hospitals and at charity parties. But I take some paying jobs, too,” he admitted. “I know it’s hard to believe, looking at this luxurious home, but most writers don’t make that much money.”
Betty laughed. “Maybe not, but not too many people can earn any money at all writing. You must be very talented.”
“Thanks, but . . . you haven’t read my writing yet,” he reminded her.
“I’d like to. Will you show me some? How about that Santa article? Now you’ve made me curious.”
He shook his head modestly. “You don’t have to bother. Maybe some other time, I’ll make you a copy.”
“I want to read it,” Betty insisted. “I really do. Do you have a copy around here? I’ll take it home and give it back to you.”
They had finished dinner, and Nathan was just starting to clear the table. Betty got up to help him, carrying in their dishes.
“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you sit in the living room and relax while I stack this stuff up? I’ll give you the article and you can read it now.”
“Okay.” Betty was pleased and surprised by the offer.
She followed him to the living room and he sat her in the big leather chair, adjusting the floor lamp over her shoulder. “Here you go, the chair of honor.”
Then he walked over to his desk and searched around a few minutes, moving stacks of papers and opening desk drawers. He finally reached up and pulled a big cardboard pocket folder from a top shelf. He wiped it off with a stray paper napkin from the coffee table.
“It’s a little dusty. My work is not that much in demand.”
Probably because you hide it away in this little co
ttage, Betty wanted to say.
She took the messy folder with both hands and held it in her lap. It was so worn-out, Betty hoped the whole thing wouldn’t just explode in her lap. “I’m sure there are some undiscovered masterpieces in here. Why don’t you go back to the kitchen and let me decide?”
She waited until she heard Nathan moving around the kitchen. Then she opened the folder and pulled out a thick stack of clippings. Some were from magazines and others from newspapers and some were just typed pages, yellowed on the edges.
“Confessions of a Department Store Santa” was right on the top. It had been published in the Boston Globe Sunday magazine section, about five years ago, she noticed. As she read the printed words, she heard Nathan’s voice; his style was so natural and authentic. His personality shone through in every line.
The article was not only funny and clever, but also full of insight and compassion. Nathan observed how the Christmas marketing machine brainwashes kids to want all kinds of things that look so good on TV but end up being disappointments moments after they are unwrapped. Kids had no qualms asking for every toy advertised on TV—and could even be a little greedy, he noticed as an undercover Santa. But what they truly wanted most of all were the things money can’t buy—more time with their parents, asking Santa to make someone in their family who is sick feel better again, or to stop drinking or being so angry. Or to come home.
His simple, honest observations and real-life stories touched her heart. He was a powerful writer. Betty knew that she would never look at a costumed Santa the same way again.
Betty placed the article back on the pile and gazed at the fire awhile. The logs had burned down, and the burning embers cast the room in golden shadows. She heard Nathan in the kitchen, still washing up the pots and pans, whistling a little. He was definitely an unusual man.
She leafed through the other articles in the stack of clips. Many were based on his firsthand experiences—his monthlong attempt to reproduce Henry David Thoreau’s famous year at Walden Pond, an essay about driving cross-country, a night in a homeless shelter. There were also interviews, one with the mystery writer Robert B. Parker, and another with the New England Patriots’ quarterback Tom Brady. At the very bottom she came to a short, one-page article that had been published in a parenting magazine. It was titled “Losing Leah.” Betty began to read it and soon realized it was a first-person account by a father who had lost his only child. Once again, she heard Nathan’s voice in the very personal narrative. Her breath caught in her throat, halfway down the page.
On Christmas Eve Page 14
