Christmas in Cactus Flats and Other Holiday Romances

by Laura Briggs

  “Hey, Colleen. Going out for lunch?” Marci the secretary for the first floor business, offered her a beaming smile over her computer monitor.

  “Actually, I’m sort of looking for someone. They came out of the elevator about five minutes ago. A woman about my age with…blonde hair?” she crossed her fingers, thinking Meg was the most likely culprit. After all, Rosalyn had mentioned a doctor’s appointment for this morning, hadn’t she? And Dawn had taken an early lunch for Christmas shopping—or so she said.

  “Let’s see…” Marci’s brow furrowed, her manicured nails tapping the desk. “I don’t remember anyone like that coming through the lobby recently. There was a young guy and a girl with red hair and an older man with a cane. There was an older lady too. Oh, and a guy in a business suit, I think.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Definitely not any of her friends, unless they had stooped to dyeing their hair for the sake of secrecy. “Thanks, anyway, Marci,” she said, pushing through the double doors to the front parking lot. Lunchtime traffic was in progress on Main Street, as she glanced up and down the road in search of—what? Certainly whoever slipped the envelope beneath her door wouldn’t still be hanging around.

  She started to turn towards the door again, when something a couple of blocks away made her pause. The blinking sign for The Hidden Pearl, the seafood place where she and the girls had drawn names for this year’s challenge over a round of clam chowder. “Think the bottom of the sea,” she murmured, repeating the hint from the clue in her hand.

  Yes, of course—dinner at The Hidden Pearl. But with whom?

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the restaurant’s number. “Hi,” she said, as the front desk employee picked up, “I have a reservation for the fourteenth at seven o’clock—”

  “Ah, yes,” said the woman, the sound of computer keys clicking in the background. “Quinn, party of eight, isn’t it?”

  Party of eight? Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widening with surprise. It definitely wasn’t a date with a party that size—unless, of course, it was a speed date with a panel of eligible bachelors. Something she wouldn’t quite put past her scheming friends, with their burning need to see her as the other half of a couple.

  “Was there a problem with the reservation?” the voice on the other end inquired. “Because our private dining rooms are quite popular this time of year, and if you need to reschedule I can’t guarantee that—”

  “What? No, sorry,” Colleen said, collecting her thoughts again. “I just couldn’t remember, well…which credit card did I use to reserve the private area?” she asked, a burst of inspiration coming to her. Thinking she could track Santa by his payment method if nothing else.

  “You reserved it with the Visa,” the woman replied, after a few more key strokes. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with?” Her tone signaling she was unwilling to reveal any other sensitive information over the phone.

  “Nothing thanks.” She flipped the phone shut, slightly deflated. A Visa wasn’t much to go on, since her friends no doubt had multiple credit cards. But it was a start, she decided, glancing back at the Santa clue. Her cell phone sprang back to life with the tune of “Jingle Bells.”

  “Hey, girl,” Rosalyn’s peppy voice greeted her. “Are you on lunch break yet? Because I’m down the street at Carson’s Coffee House if you want to share a plate of pastries—my latest pregnancy craving.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Colleen. Perfect for checking out her friend’s pocketbook, that is, for evidence of certain secret Christmas activities.

  At the café, Rosalyn was seated on the outdoor patio, her red pea coat accented with black gloves and a matching scarf.

  “Just in time,” said Rosalyn, shoving a plate with a jam pastry across the table. “How’s your morning been? Lots of people worried about saving for the new year?”

  Colleen shook her head. “It’s been pretty quiet, actually. Except for a second visit from Saint Nick.” She pulled a chunk from her pastry, her gaze scrutinizing her friend’s face for any subtle reaction to this bit of information.

  “It’s kind of impressive you’ve already gotten through your first challenge,” said Rosalyn, spreading a napkin across her protruding belly. “Your Santa must have more time than mine. Or more than I do, for that matter.” She dug into her pastry with an air of nonchalance that seemed unshakable. “By the way, I heard you picked up a new skill last weekend.”

  Her wink gave Colleen a self-conscious pang. “Yeah, well, apparently Santa is sentimental. Of course, the coach could have been better chosen, but other than that ...” She dabbed her lips with a napkin, hoping the flush on her cheeks wasn’t as visible as it felt.

  “Jack didn’t seem to think so. In fact, he said it was the most fun he’s had in ages.”

  Colleen shrugged and shifted her gaze to the café’s glass exterior. “He could have been worse. At least he kept me from falling.”

  “Did he?” Her friend quirked an eyebrow, a teasing gleam in her expression. As if to say she was in danger of more than a physical sense of falling—and that impact with the ice had been the least of her worries.

  “No bruises,” Colleen said, pretending to miss the significance behind the remark. Flagging down the waiter, she forced herself to seem casual beneath Rosalyn’s critical gaze. “Bottled, water please. Mineral, if possible.”

  Rosalyn rose from the table, tossing her crumpled napkin next to the plate. “Lucky for you, I need to make a quick phone call to Bob’s mother—she insists on weekly baby updates. But when I get back, expect this conversation to resume.” Grinning impishly, she fished a cell phone from her purse and disappeared inside the café’s double doors.

  Colleen hesitated mere seconds before snatching her friend’s designer pocket book and flipping through the plastic sleeves with a sharp eye. Every major credit except Visa appeared to be among the contents, which even included a few expired ones. With a sigh, she shoved it back inside the handbag and was innocently studying a coupon booklet from the table when the waiter arrived with her mineral water.

  “Thanks,” she said. Taking a long sip, she reconsidered her options, reminding herself that Rosalyn could have used one of her husband’s credit cards to make the arrangements. But it didn’t seem likely, and her mind came back to Meg as the most plausible suspect. Because, after all, it was her childhood friend who had the best connection with a certain attorney-turned-skating-coach. Unless…

  Wasn’t Dawn one of Jack’s clients?

  She groaned, frustrated with going in circles. Maybe she should simply ride it out, let this “Santa” do his worst and then focus on repairing the damage.

  Rosalyn slid into the seat across from her, a sense of anticipation in her ruddy features. “Sorry that took so long. And now,” she said, leaning across the table, “where were we?”

  *****

  The Hidden Pearl wasn’t the swankiest joint in town, but Colleen felt this occasion must call for something other than business casual. Western chic—her style when she wasn’t at the office—didn’t seem quite right either. She finally settled on a simple black cocktail dress with matching jacket and heels. For jewelry, she chose Truda’s amulet, thinking a lucky charm couldn’t hurt for reinforcement.

  But reinforcement for what? Nothing romantic was going to happen tonight— clearly Santa had in mind a festive holiday party or a friendly buffet of some sort. Not one of true love's candlelight dinners for two.

  A small traffic jam a block from her apartment made her five minutes late to the restaurant. Breathless, she rushed into the lobby, dark curls escaping her chignon. Her heart was pounding beneath her coat, not just from exertion but from a sense of anticipation. A sense of excitement despite the casual feelings usually reserved for the yearly Secret Santa routine.

  “Colleen Quinn, party of eight,” she said, pulling her gloves from her hands.

  The seating hostess smiled. “Right this way, Miss Quinn.” She led
Colleen through the main dining room to a section of the restaurant she’d never visited before. A long hall with separate rooms, the doors closed.

  “Here we are,” said the hostess, opening the door to a room labeled ‘The Coral Reef.’ Where they were greeted by a warm, rosy interior and a formal dining table set for eight. A poinsettia bouquet served as the center piece, its vase wreathed by a circle of flaming candles.

  “Gorgeous,” Colleen breathed, stepping tentatively inside the doorway. A jolt of electricity shot through her as a masculine hand touched her arm.

  “Merry Christmas, sis!” Her brother, Kevin seemed to appear from nowhere, followed closely by a troop of other familiar faces. All wearing goofy grins as they emerged from the space behind the open door.

  “What are you doing here?" Colleen squealed. "I can’t believe this!” Her arm twined around her brother’s shoulders as surprised tears burned her eyes. Behind him, her teary gaze darted across the faces of her family, her mother and father, Aunt Sophie and Uncle Tyler. Just behind them, Kevin’s wife Joyce cradled Colleen's infant nephew.

  “This—this is perfect,” she stammered, pulling back to greet everyone. “But how? I mean, how did this happen?” Her gaze shifted expectantly from face to face, looking for an explanation.

  “How else?” her father grinned. “Saint Nick arranged it, of course.”

  Colleen rolled her eyes, sinking into a chair at the head of the table. “Not him again. Please, please tell me which one of you did this, because I'm dying to know—”

  “Well, it’s your game,” her mother reminded her, helping Joyce settle the baby in its high chair. “All I know is we got a card in the mail with the reservation printed on it and a gift cards to cover Kevin's expenses for driving there and back."

  "I'm staying the night at the ranch, sort of a pre-Christmas break," said Kevin. "I thought you arranged the whole thing, just you being a little goofy—but I guess you're as surprised as we are."

  "Then it was just a nice present from one of your friends?" said Aunt Sophie. "They must be a good friend to go through all this trouble, covering the cost of shuttling all of us here like this."

  Before Colleen could respond, the waiter swept in with a rolling cart and began dispensing entrees. All of which seemed to consist of her family’s traditional Christmas menu: poached salmon, garlic roasted potatoes, and stuffed blue cheese mushrooms.

  “This is fantastic,” said Colleen, savoring her first bite of the gourmet fish. “It’s just like Truda’s recipe.”

  Kevin grinned at her from across the table. “It is Truda’s recipe. Apparently “Santa” is pretty good friends with the manager here. Good enough to convince them to cook a special dinner that doesn’t exist on the menu.”

  Colleen’s fork dropped against her plate with a sharp clink! “This is crazy. Who would do this—it's like one of those reality shows where they give someone a cruise or their dream vacation—"

  “Why question it?” her Aunt Sophie challenged, a teasing gleam in her eye. “Why not just enjoy the beauty of a carefully chosen gift from someone who cares?”

  “It just seems strange somehow," answered Colleen. "Like it’s not just about a gift exchange or a clever surprise. I feel like something else is going on here.” She stabbed a mushroom with her fork, her thoughts focused on the subject with intensity.

  “Like what?” said her brother. “Maybe one of your grateful clients is behind it. Maybe one of your friends wants to be generous with their holiday bonus—or won the lottery using your birthday as their lucky numbers—”

  She gave him a playful smack with her napkin, despite the glint of truth in this statement. “It’s your fault they knew I'd be alone this holiday,” she answered. “If you hadn’t gotten stuck working Christmas, we would’ve had the party at Mom and Dad’s like usual.”

  “And you would have come alone—as usual,” her mother interrupted, her fork jabbing in Colleen’s direction for emphasis. “So your brother isn’t entirely to blame for your lack of Yuletide cheer.”

  “No,” said Aunt Sophie, “that would be Truda’s fault. If she hadn’t told that silly story about that charm, then none of our girls would be so crushed by the failure to find love at first sight.”

  “It's just a silly story,” Colleen said, painfully aware the charm in question hung around her neck, like a girlhood superstition. “I only wear it for sentimental reasons, not because I expect the man of my dreams to turn up.”

  Her tone was meant to be joking but a defensive streak was tainting the edges of her voice. When the conversation shifted to other topics, like Kevin’s work at the Emergency Room, and her father’s new ideas for the ranch, she felt grateful for the shift. “We’re thinking of hosting a cattle drive for cowboy wannabes,” her father informed her over the family’s dessert, a sumptuous raspberry cheesecake.

  “Which means you’ll finally have to buy some horses,” she said. “You would wait until I’m stuck with an apartment lease to make such a dramatic move.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “It’s nothing definite, and it’s certainly not happening anytime soon. I’m thinking of it for my retirement years.”

  In Colleen's mind, she saw herself galloping across the ranch's land—but alone, on the back of a horse that resembled the pen and ink drawing of Black Beauty from her childhood copy. For some reason, her mind was compelled to conjure the image of a broad-shouldered rider on a chestnut horse galloping alongside. A familiar figure in a cowboy hat and plaid shirt.

  She shook her head faintly, banishing the thought as the dessert plates were collected and the candle wicks burning low. Colleen admired her baby nephew and listened to the proud parent’s anecdotes on all the childhood “firsts”. Kevin was digging out his cell phone to show some home video footage, when the waiter appeared and slid an envelope next to Colleen’s elbow.

  “Miss Quinn?” he said. “A fellow diner wished this delivered to you.”

  “Who?” Colleen asked, glancing frantically around as if the culprit were lurking somewhere outside the door.

  The waiter smiled apologetically. “I’m not sure, actually. It came from the table in the ‘Blue Lagoon Room’, but—”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish, hurrying from her chair towards the hallway and the so-called ‘Blue Lagoon Room'. The dining area was deserted by anyone except a waitress busy collecting empty plates and glasses onto a rolling cart.

  “Excuse me,” Colleen said, “but what party was dinning here?”

  The waitress glanced up, her hand pausing over an empty bread basket. “It was a community improvement committee,” she said. “Volunteers through the Chamber of Commerce, I think. They left several minutes ago.”

  Her heart sank with yet another dead end. All three of her friends did volunteer work through their jobs and churches; her own schedule was packed with seasonal charity events. Requesting physical descriptions of the committee members seemed too ridiculous, her courage shrinking from the task. “Sorry to bother you,” she said, retreating from the room.

  Family members waited for her in the lobby, amused grins twitching the corners of their mouths. “Santa’s left the building, huh?” said Kevin, giving her arm a playful nudge.

  She shrugged, attempting to regain some of her dignity. A grown woman chasing after a mythical figure…well, not quite a mythical figure. This generous gift giver did exist, only in the form of an elusive friend, determined to keep her guessing for the rest of the holiday.

  Much like the first visit she had from Saint Nicholas. A thought she couldn’t block out as she glimpsed her reflection in the lobby’s glass, the antique amulet aglow in the lamplight.

  *****

  The Christmas lights twinkled in blue and white as Colleen connected the plug. Midnight wasn’t her usual time for decorating trees, but she couldn’t sleep for some reason. Maybe it was the excitement of the family surprise, the lively conversation and rich foods at the restaurant. An incredibly generous surprise t
hat outweighed even the Secret Santa ski lessons she once arranged for Meg.

  Or maybe her burst of energy had something to do with the Secret Santa message that lay open by the cardboard box of ornaments, a slip of paper she re-read every few minutes.

  “The weather is perfect for some outdoor fun on the eighteenth. Take a drive down Memory Lane (literally) for a chance to recover a lost ambition. It’s never too late to chase old dreams—especially if they run on their own!

  Memory Lane—where was that? Curious, she set it aside and flipped open her laptop, keying in the search terms, Memory Lane, Denver, Colorado. An address popped up, a place twenty miles from her office district. A little back road business lane, it seemed, judging from the links for a handmade goods store and a basket weaving shop. And something else that made her heart skip a beat.

  The Last Chance Horse Ranch.

  Double clicking on the link brought up a colorful collage of horses running and playing in fenced pastureland; a beautiful black and white mare being petted by school age children. The image of a barn decorated for Christmas, cedar swags and holly branches strung above the doors and windows.

  “This is where Lost Horses Find a Place To Call Home!” Read the banner, its swirling font surrounded by horseshoe designs. The message below explained that the ranch was a rescue center for aging and abandoned horses, where professional trainers worked to socialize the animals through community programs.

  She glanced over the calendar of events, noting the words “Christmas Festival” displayed on the eighteenth. So Santa knew about her fondness for horses, a piece of trivia that didn’t exactly narrow the field of candidates. Sighing, she snapped the laptop closed and lounged in front of the tree, its sparse limbs improved by the strings of lights and multi-colored balls.

  What was wrong with her, anyway? She should just enjoy the fact that one of her friends wanted to give her a meaningful Christmas, one with the kind of presents that couldn’t be wrapped in paper or stuffed inside a gift sack. There was no reason to be suspicious and certainly no reason to ascertain their true identity like an investigator on the heels of a dangerous criminal.