by Cathy Quinn
“ Excuse me?” Helen gave her cousin an icy look. “Mark? My colleague, Mark?”
“Oh, drop the pretence. We all know you have the hots for him.”
Icy acid dripped off Helen’s voice. “Did you say hots? For Mark?” She leaned away from Sylvie, glaring as only Helen could glare. “Where did you get that absurd idea from? I don’t even like Mark! He’s too much... well, too much like...” She took a deep breath before spitting out the last word. “You!”
“We’re talking about Sylvie now.” Susie winked at Sylvie and backpedaled. Just in time. Helen seemed about to explore with outrage. “Forgot I said anything, Helen. Sylvie, tell us more about your guy and this party!”
“He’s not my guy,” she said automatically. “He’s my boss.”
“Exactly what I was saying,” Helen said. “This is bad. This is very bad. If you’d planned to date this guy, you shouldn’t have taken a job with him.”
“It’s just an office Christmas party.”
“An office party? So, it’s not a real date?”
“Yes, it’s a real date.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I asked him.”
“ You had to ask him if it were a real date?”
Sylvie ignored her mistrustful cousin. “What’s more, he’s playing Santa. He’ll be wearing a Santa suit half the evening. Not exactly romantic, is it?”
“Which brings us back to the question, is this a real date or not?” Helen said, her scowl deepening.
“He’s dressing up as Santa? Really?” Susie perked up. “He plays Santa to his staff? What a cool boss! I love a man who’s not afraid to get fat and bearded.”
Helen banged her coffee cup down and exploded into a coughing fit. “Fat and bearded?”
Sylvie snickered. “Thanks, Suz. Good to know. We’ll keep that in mind for your next blind date.”
“Fat and bearded or a day,” Susie amended. “You know what I mean! A guy who’s not afraid to dress up and be silly for a day. I’m not talking jelly belly and long white beard permanently, you know!”
“Yeah, we kind of guessed,” Helen said dryly. “And how do you fit in, Sylvie?”
“Did he hire you to come along as Mrs. Santa?” Susie asked. “Does this involve a short skirt and garters? I’ve got a Mrs. Santa costume if you need to borrow one.”
“No! I made sure to ask, just in case. No costume.” She bit her lip.
“What’s wrong?” Helen asked.
“Nothing. Only... well, it’s what you just said. Is this a real date or not?”
“You said you’d asked him.”
“Yes. Because I wasn’t sure if this was a part of my job or not. I was wondering if he wanted me to play the piano or tend the bar or do the washing up.”
“And it’s not?” Helen asked, to make sure.
“No. But what I can’t figure out, is whether he means this as a real date because he’s interested, or if he just needed a date and I was available, or if he’s just keeping me close because he had this strange idea that his daughter needs me.”
Susie finally managed to wipe the ecstatic you-have-a-date grin off her face, and settled down with a serious look. “Look – from the way you describe him, I doubt this guy can’t get a date.”
“Well, no,” Sylvie conceded. “But that still leave the other option. That this has something to do with his kid. He was so desperate to have me entertain at her party.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know why, but that kid clung to me all through that party. Maybe he wants to keep me on hold in case the kid needs me. I know it sounds absurd – but the girl, for some reason, likes me -- and he’s desperate to do anything he can to help her.”
“I see,” Helen said. “So you think he may be keeping you on a short leash, making sure you don’t skip town on his daughter.”
Sylvie rolled her eyes. “Okay. You think I’m being melodramatic.”
“Why is it so hard to believe that he may simply want to take you out on a date? You know, because he likes you? Because he’s interested?” Helen snorted. “You lack self-confidence. I told you should have started dating right after you dumped Doug. Practice is essential for these things.”
“She’s getting practice on Friday,” Susie said gleefully. “How about lunch Saturday, so we can get the scoop. No, wait.” She winked at Helen, making sure Sylvie would notice. “Let’s make it dinner. Just in case Sylvie will be unavailable for lunch...”
“Oh, come on! I don’t even want to get involved with this guy. And the last thing he’ll want is to get involved with someone. He’s got two little girls, remember, who are still hurting from losing their mother. Besides, single dads are off-limits to me, you know that.”
“Of course they are,” one cousin said, patting her hand.
“I mean it!”
“Of course you do,” the other one said, patting her other hand.
Sylvie rested her head on the table and groaned.
Nick made a formidable Santa.
The fake belly stretched the buttons on his suit, the fluffy beard was big enough to hide a small army of mice, and his ho-ho-ho was deep enough to send vibrations through her. It was pretty much impossible to feel the least bit attracted to Santa Claus, so Sylvie felt relatively safe with him now. He’d picked her up, already dressed in that suit, and she’d convulsed into laughter as soon as she’d seen him, standing outside her door. “Oh, God. Oh, my God!”
“No. Not God. Just St. Nick,” he grumbled, and she was reminded of his nickname at the store. She was still curious about that, but she didn’t like gossip, and – despite the temptation - had refused to participate in any further chatting-about-the-boss at work.
“I’m sorry,” she said, giggling like a teenager. “It’s just... Well, you look great. Really!”
“I know what I look like,” he rumbled. “I’m overweight and having the ultimate bad hair-and-beard day. Don’t rub it in. Santa knows all too well that he should cut down on cholesterol, but I guess Mrs. Clause keeps feeding him bacon and eggs for breakfast.”
She spent the drive biting her lip to keep from bursting into laughter each time she looked at him, and consequently had to reapply her lipstick in the parking lot. She made a serious attempt to stifle the last of her giggles as they rode up in the elevator together. It wouldn’t look cool for Santa Claus to arrive with a hysterical woman at his side.
“You know, you look a bit scary in that suit,” she admitted as she caught his glance in the mirror. “I mean, it’s hilarious because I know it’s you in there, but you’re so tall, and in this suit you’re just... well, huge. Little kids would probably be a bit frightened of you. A lot of the small ones seem scared of Santa. I’ve seen a lot of tears at your store.”
The Santa beard moved, and she guessed it meant Nick had smiled. Even his voice seemed different, deeper. “Yeah. When Emily was little, she was terrified of me in the Santa suit.”
“Emily? Seriously? Emily doesn’t seem to fear anything!”
“Not anymore, but back then she was terrified of Santa. Lana, on the other hand, always recognized me. She didn’t even have to think about it. She just held out her arms and yelled “daddy”. Which should have been a hint to Emily, but she didn’t catch on.”
The elevator stopped, and they stepped out into an empty corridor. Christmas music floated to them from behind closed doors. “They still believe in Santa, don’t they?”
“Emily does. Lana pretends to.”
“Does she?” Sylvie laughed. “My friend Helen did this too. She’s very pragmatic. While Santa still brought presents, she wasn’t about to let anyone know she didn’t believe in him.”
“Lana isn’t hiding it because of the presents. And I hate it. She’s only six – well, seven now. She’d supposed to believe in Santa Claus.” Nick rubbed his forehead with his knuckle. “Do you know why she pretends to believe in Santa, Sylvie?”
She shook her head.
“It’s for me. She’s pretending f
or me. She thinks I’ll be disappointed if I find out she doesn’t believe in Santa anymore.”
Sylvie grabbed his gloved hand and squeezed it. “How do you know?”
“I suspected for a long time, but I didn’t realize why she was still pretending. Then I heard her talking to the cat about it,” he said soundlessly. “What kind of a father am I? She won’t talks to me about what’s bothering her, but she talks to that cat!”
“She’ll come around, Nick,” she told him, feeling helpless. What did she know? “And you’re a wonderful father. You’re doing everything you can for you. She’s smiling more, isn’t she? And expressing interest in things. Like the clown. Right? She’ll be fine.”
“Sorry,” Nick’s beard moved, which probably indicated a smile. “Didn’t mean to dump this on you. And yes, she’ll be fine. I know she will.” He threw the burlap bag over his shoulder and headed for a door at the end of the hall. “Now, let’s get this show on the road.”
Against her expectations, Sylvie enjoyed herself at the party. Once Nick had gotten his Santa duties out of the way, and the Santa costume off, he was charming company, even while he dragged her from group to group, introducing her as he mingled with his staff.
She got a lot of curious looks, but she didn’t mind. Grandma Alex wouldn’t have minded. Grandma Alex would have smiled broader and stood up straighter, enjoyed the envy in the women’s gaze when they saw Nick smile at her. Sylvie dragged down everything she had from her Grandma Alex genes and was determined to enjoy the evening.
“Must have been rather hot inside that costume,” Sylvie said when they retreated to a corner with their drinks, and she’d been introduced to probably every person in the room. A couple of long white Santa-beard hairs clung to his shoulder, and she reached up to pick them off. She twisted her fingers, trying to get shake the tuft of hair off, but static electricity bound it to her skin. “Damn,” she said exasperated. “Static electricity is worse than superglue, isn’t it?”
“ I know something that works.” Nick grabbed her wrist, brought her hand to his mouth and blew hard. The warm current of air slithered across her skin. The Santa hairs drifted to the ground. And Sylvie stood there, mesmerized by the warm breath against her skin, the sudden fire in his eyes. Her skin tingled, first the spot he’d blew on, then the warmth spread all over. Oh, my.
Nick broke the mood, grinned, kissed the back of her hand briefly and let it drop. He resumed conversation like nothing had happened.
And nothing had, had it?
“The worst thing is the damn itching, actually,” he said, and she blinked, finally working out he was talking about the false beard and wig. “Drives me crazy. But it’s tradition. I wear that stupid suit twice: one for my staff, and once for my children. All in all, it’s worth it.”
“Speaking of your children...” She laughed. “My cousins were sure you’d asked me here just to keep me on a short leash in case you think Lana needs me again.”
Nick laughed, as if she’d told a joke. But she noticed with trepidation that he didn’t deny it. “Your cousins?”
“You know, the comfort zone gang.”
“Oh, they’re your cousins? I thought you’d mentioned a group of friends.”
“Yeah. Helen and Susie. They’re my friends, but also my cousins. This comfort zone thing actually comes from our common grandmother. We call it the Grandma Alex pact.”
“Go on,” Nick prompted. “This sounds interesting.”
“Our grandmother died a year ago. She was the type of person who lived life to the fullest. My cousins and I felt rather inferiors in comparison. We have nice enough lives, but we stay firmly within our comfort zones. We’re missing out on all the excitement and risks that were such a big part of Grandma Alex’s life. We wanted to change that.”
“Maybe your Grandma’s comfort zone was just naturally that much bigger,” Nick pointed out. “Maybe it didn’t feel risky or frightening to her.”
“Maybe, but she worked on making it that way,” Sylvie argued. “She constantly wanted challenging herself. If she was afraid of something, she’d deliberately expose herself to that until she got over it. She was a great lady.” Sylvie sighed nostalgically. “We all miss her.”
“So that’s where it all began? In your grandmother’s memory you decided to jump in the deep end and entertain at a children’s birthday party?”
“ My friends decided that for me,” Sylvie corrected. “That was how it’s supposed to work. We need to be pushed out of our comfort zone. We won’t walk out of them voluntarily. That’s why it’s our comfort zone – because it’s a place we don’t want to leave.” She shrugged. “I thought getting into that clown suit and putting on the make-up was bad enough. Actually going to the party was worse still, but I thought I’d just be there, observing. But then Susie dumped me there and... you know the rest.”
“Yeah. And you did it. Twice. Is the pact over now that you’ve done this?”
“Absolutely not. It’s an on-going thing. For life.”
“For life?”
Sylvie shrugged. “What can I say? I’d had milk and pancakes.”
Nick stared at her. “You sound like you’re telling me you were drunk on milk and pancakes.”
“It’s a Grandma Alex thing. I was drunk on nostalgia. Easily susceptible. We all were.”
“I see. So what else do you think they’ll make you do?”
“I already told you -- karaoke,” she grumbled. “I just know it. And they know the mere idea terrifies me. I can barely think of anything scarier. Other than a group of kids on a sugar-high, of course.”
“Hey, you’re in practice now. And anytime you need to rehearse, come to my house.”
“Yeah, right.”
Nick grabbed her empty glass and traded it for another one as a waiter passed with a tray. “You should find yourself a partner. Karaoke is easier as a duet. And much more fun.”
She peered at him. “And you would know this how?”
Nick grinned. “This may be hard to believe, but I was young and foolish once. My buddy Charles has a tape. He regularly threatens me with blackmail. He got to be Travolta. I had to be Sandy.”
Sylvie blinked. Then leaned against the wall, in dire danger of collapsing in adolescent giggles again. “No. You’re kidding me?”
“Nope. It really happened.” He leaned closer and sang a pertinent line into her ear, and even though his breath against her ear had all sorts of things happening to her insides, his falsetto meant there was no way for her to avoid the giggles anymore.
“ I have got to see that tape!” she hiccupped.
He grinned at her. “You’d have to meet Charles first. Fortunately for me, he’s in Australia right now.”
“Damn.”
“But you see, when it comes to karaoke, I’ve sunk as low as it’s possible to sink. So if you need help...”
“Are you seriously volunteering to be my karaoke partner?”
“Sure. Anytime.”
“Wow. You’re a brave man.”
“Nah. It’s not bravery. Just ask my other. She’ll tell you it’s just that I never grew up. It’s a condition often confused with bravery. Of course, if you want to talk brave – throwing children’s birthday parties should qualify. The girls were on edge for days before the party, and it took days for them to settle down afterwards.”
“It’s an inconvenient time for a birthday,” she said. “Just before Christmas. For a kid in today’s world, I mean. I suppose Jesus was fine with it. Of course, they didn’t have Christmas Stress Disorder back then.”
Whoa. She was babbling seriously, wasn’t she? And she suddenly remembered she was talking to her boss and the thought sobered her up. She grimaced, and tried to hide behind her champagne glass, but it wasn’t quite big enough. This was an additional reason dating the boss was not a good idea. At this rate she’d be lucky if he entrusted her to shelve the finger paints.
“We take it pretty easy,” Nick said. “Not much Chris
tmas stress in our house.” A teasing grin bloomed on her face, and she forgot he was her boss. “Maybe it’s because we don’t have a Mom in the house. Sometimes I suspect Christmas stress is women’s invention. What’s with wanting to clean every square inch of the house anyway?”
“ Well, it is Christmas...”
He shook his head. “My mother spent most of the weekend vacuuming the attic!”
“That may be taking things a bit far,” she conceded. “I’d wait with the attic – if I had one – until the spring. But a clean house is a part of Christmas, isn’t it?”
“ Why? It’s the darkest time of the year anyway. Nobody’s going to notice a little dust.” He shook his head decisively. “All we worry about in my household, is having a big enough tree, and enough presents for everybody. But then we don’t have a woman around to make us concentrate on dust and stains instead of Santa and pink wrapping paper.”
She snickered. “You’re hoping to get me all riled up, aren’t you?”
Nick nodded. “Is it working?”
“No. I don’t take it personally. You’re forgetting -- I live alone. No kids. No husband. No particular obsession with cleaning, and no-one to clean after except myself and Lazarus. I’m completely free of Christmas stress, except over whether to feed my cat tuna or shrimp for his Christmas meal.”
“Where will you be on Christmas day?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. I might go home to Mom and Dad. My father has a milestone birthday coming up. Or I might stay with friends. And then I could get a freelance job, at a restaurant or something. It should be well paid this time of year.”
