Christmas in Cactus Flats and Other Holiday Romances

by Laura Briggs

  “Only if you agree to a couple of rules,” she answered. “Like no break dance moves. Or stepping on your partner‘s toes.” She tried to look serious for a moment by suppressing her smile.

  “Agreed,” he said. “Rules and spontaneity can co-exist, see?” He wrapped his arm around her waist and whirled her around in a circle.

  She placed one hand on his shoulder and slid the other into his own. “Lead the way,” she said, allowing him a glimpse of the emotions shining in her eyes. As he twirled her in a slow circle in the moonlit parking lot.

  It hadn’t snowed at the North Pole for almost twenty years. A fact that didn’t surprise anyone who lived there, since most of its residents were long accustomed to building sandcastles in place of snowmen, and drinking lemonade instead of cocoa. And this December would likely be no different, with temperatures in the mid-seventies for the central Florida town that took its name from Santa’s legendary home.

  The lack of winter wonderland charm didn’t stop holiday enthusiasts from making the North Pole a top tourist stop for the Christmas season, though. Starting the week after Thanksgiving, they flooded the town, buying novelty post cards, Christmas cards, and candies. They took pictures in front of the welcome sign and bought the special snow roses grown at Miss Delia’s Garden Nursery.

  Those who didn’t come in person wrote letters. Tons and tons of letters, all addressed to Santa Claus at the North Pole in Florida. Crayons and colored markers spelled out the wishes of hopeful school children. Wishes for princess dolls and trading cards, for racing bikes and personal music players, among other far more expensive things.

  For the last eight years, the task of sorting this mail had fallen to Gavin Wincott. At thirty, Gavin was the North Pole’s honorary ‘Dead Letter Clerk’, who spent his Christmas season filing the town’s undeliverable mail.

  Gavin would have looked more at home at the local beach than the post office, though. Bronze-colored hair, a deep tan and muscular build suggested Gavin could be a surfer or running enthusiast. His sea green eyes wore a tired look as he sorted the newest round of Santa letters.

  “Think it’ll snow this year?” The same question his coworker Doug asked every December, the same cheesy grin pasted on his face as he said it.

  “Does it ever?” Gavin countered. This was less snarky than other replies offered by post office workers in previous years, such as, “Is Rudolph a mule?” or “Does Thanksgiving fall in December?” The slight roll of anyone's eyes for this question was always lost on his coworker’s chipper personality.

  “Yeah, I guess nothing ever really changes here,” Doug said. “I remember the last time it did happen though—I was about eight, and we got enough flakes to scrape together a snowman on the hood of my dad’s car.” He chuckled, then slid a sympathetic glance in Gavin’s direction. “Got any plans with the family this year?”

  Gavin shook his head. He was staring at a post card with a snowy scene from the Colorado mountains. It made him think of the places marked on the road maps shoved inside his desk drawer. He’d traced the best motorcycle routes through parts of the Midwest, New England, and Canada. Destinations hundreds of miles from “the Pole”, as locals called it, or from any place that festooned palm trees with Christmas balls, where people relied on cans of fake snow for decorating the sidewalks.

  Places he couldn’t possibly afford to visit with the salary of a small town postal clerk.

  “How come your sis isn’t coming down for the holidays?” Doug persisted.

  “Her husband’s still stationed at the base in Germany,” Gavin explained, dropping the post card into a slot for already sorted mail. “Jo doesn’t want the new baby to make the flight, so looks like it’ll be another quiet Christmas.”

  He didn’t bother to add what the rest of his family would be doing. His mother had died years ago after a long battle with cancer. As for his father…well, who knew where he was spending Christmas? An ex-pilot with a restless streak, he hadn’t spoken to his family since the day he walked out of their lives, an event that took place rather abruptly sometime after Gavin’s tenth birthday.

  “I’ll drop you a postcard when I settle somewhere,” he had promised, giving Gavin's shoulder a squeeze before he drove away, the back of his station wagon loaded with a battered suitcase and cardboard boxes. Either he never stopped traveling, or simply didn’t care, since months, then years, slipped past without a word.

  Christmas had been tough that year. The only time his mother neglected to buy a tree, or decorate the mantel. No red berry wreath for the door, no cedar swags or displays of poinsettias from the local nursery. But there had still been presents waiting Christmas morning: a dollhouse for Jo and a bicycle Gavin had coveted the whole fourth grade.

  And outside, like a fine dusting of glitter, had been the North Pole’s last snow. A milky white powder that somehow transformed their street of tumbledown houses and Mimosa trees into a scene from a vintage snow globe.

  “Crazy how many of these things we get,” Doug observed, pausing by the mound of Santa letters. “Just imagine—kids thinking Saint Nick lives in Florida.” With a final shake of the head, he left the room, flattened Priority Mail boxes tucked beneath one arm.

  *****

  Gavin had never written a letter to Santa as a kid, at least not that he could remember. His friends and classmates had done it; he even remembered helping his sister put together a request for a tree house the year he was in the sixth grade. But his own wishes had stayed hidden, his imagination never strong enough to envision a bearded gift-giver whose only ambition in life was to reward other people’s children for good behavior.

  But others had no trouble believing, judging from the bins of envelopes stacked around his work station. It was a stack that grew bigger the closer December 24th crept on the calendar, as last-minute requests poured in from children across the globe.

  Sometimes, if the envelope had a particularly interesting stamp or label, he would add it to the mural of unopened Santa letters in the post office’s lobby. People in line would marvel over these, some even taking pictures with their cell phones and cameras. They never dreamed there were thousands more crammed into the back room, and thousands more to come.

  The latest candidate for display came from somewhere in Delaware, a flying reindeer sketched in bold ink strokes across the back of the envelope. As Gavin pulled it free from the pile for a closer look, something slipped through a tear in its envelope. An object fell below, bouncing off the toe of his boot.

  Annoyed, he caught up the square of paper which had been folded tight inside, the message on the outside. Automatically skimming the first few lines, he was prepared to stuff it back in the envelope. Only something in the wording made him pause and unfold the rest of the note.

  “Dear Santa,” read the child-like handwriting, “what I want for Christmas this year is for my mom to fall in love with someone who’s nice and doesn’t mind that she already has a kid.”

  Gavin made a scoffing sound under his breath. He’d expected a request for a skate board or maybe a laptop or video game. What sort of kid asked for a real live person to appear under their tree? He quirked one eyebrow with this thought — and kept reading, strangely enough.

  “My dad left home when I was little, and later on, he died because of something to do with his job. Mom has to work all the time now and she’s really lonely. She never says it but I can tell and so can her friend Connie, since I’ve heard her say it when they were talking and didn’t know I could hear.”

  “Poor kid,” he muttered, shaking his head. Clearly this boy was looking for a holiday miracle in a world that was short on anything resembling hope and good cheer. His mother couldn’t have any idea he’d written this letter, or that he’d been eavesdropping on her grown-up conversations.

  “So please send a perfect match for my mom’s Christmas present,” the letter ended. It was signed, “Your friend, Micah Flynn.”

  “Did you say something Gavin?” Tessa,
one of the desk clerks leaned around the doorway, a coffee mug in her hand. Her crimson colored blouse seemed harsh beneath the florescent lights, along with her newly-dyed red hair.

  “Nothing,” he said, looking back to the letter in his hand. His coworker’s footsteps moved down the hall again, leaving him alone with his conscience. Torn over the easy choice and the one that wouldn’t leave him alone, his fingers clicked a pen open and closed as he debated what to do.

  Poor kid. Writing to Santa and hoping for an answer to his mom's loneliness. Would he be disappointed Christmas morning, when there wasn't a perfect stepfather waiting under the tree? Would he tell his mom and let her feel terrible that he'd done it?

  No. Probably he'd just be disappointed the rest of the day. At least, if Gavin were in his place, he would've been. Spending Christmas feeling sad, then bitter, that what he wanted most wasn't waiting for him.

  He stood there, thinking. Finally, Gavin ripped a clean sheet of paper from a notepad and began writing in jerky print.

  “Dear Micah,

  Your wish is a pretty tall order, and not that easy, even for someone like Santa Claus. Your mom sounds deserving of true love, and I’m sure someone like her is bound to find a good person who can help mend her heart.”

  Was this a mistake? His pen hovered aimlessly, as he grappled for the right thing to say to a kid whose world was coming apart. Finally, he added, “I can tell by your letter that you’re a smart kid, so I’m sure you’ll understand that a gift like this is hard to pull off on short notice. But even if your wish doesn’t come true this Christmas, I don’t want you to think it’s a lost cause.”

  Guilt poked at him. Already, it seemed like he’d given this kid too much hope, when he knew from experience that eligible father figures weren’t exactly lining the block for a chance to marry into an instant family. No doubt, the boy’s mother was far too busy for the dating scene, with a full-time job and a child to raise.

  “Hang in there Micah,” he continued, “and remember that your mom is lucky to have a son who cares so much about her happiness.”

  Feeling a little like a criminal, he signed it as Saint Nick, then sealed it inside an envelope before he could change his mind. He checked the boy's letter, copying the address carefully, omitting his own.

  He slid the letter from the boy beneath the roll of tape, planning to repair the envelope for display on the mural board. After labeling his reply with the address in Delaware and a snowflake stamp, he dropped it in the box for the outgoing mail.

  His fingers held onto the metal slot, his logical side debating whether he should retrieve the hasty message. There was the boy’s mom to consider, after all—and whether she would appreciate a total stranger advising her son on family matters. But the kid didn't deserve to be disappointed on Christmas, and at least Gavin had some idea what he must be going through. At least this way, he wouldn't have to feel sad on Christmas morning.

  The sound of his coworkers closing shop made up his mind. He let the lid close with a metal clank and moved to the back room, where lights were being flicked off and blinds drawn. His own work space was empty of anything personal besides an olive green canvas jacket, which he dragged on despite the warm temperatures outside.

  With a last look back at the mail slot, he punched his time card and pushed out the exit door.

  *****

  Piper Flynn climbed the steps to Brookstone Elementary. The wind ruffled her dark brown bangs and hair, a leather jacket cinched tight around her waist. She paused at the top step, where a small boy was drawing on a notepad.

  “Ready to go, kiddo?” She rumpled the boy’s ginger locks. They were the same shade as his father’s—but that was where the resemblance ended. Or so Piper hoped.

  Her son kept on drawing, intent on his work. “Another Christmas picture?” she asked. The picture showed a bearded figure in spectacles, their gloved hands clutching a long sheet of paper that curled on both ends.

  “Santa,” the boy explained. His pen moved in precise strokes to create a belt buckle around the figure’s portly middle.

  “Better finish it at home,” Piper said, gently taking the pen.

  Micah seldom acted out unless it was something involving his artwork. Other kids would be dragging their parents to the parking lot by now, eager for Christmas break to start. For Micah, it was the other way around.

  As they climbed inside their paint-chipped Sedan, Micah asked her, “Are we eating at home?”

  All week, they had eaten drive-thru meals. It wasn’t Piper’s favorite option, but she had been overrun with paperwork from her job as receptionist at the local clinic.

  “We’re having mac and cheese,” she answered, pulling onto the highway. “So it’s a table meal. Nice, huh?”

  She would kill for something like the recipes in her mother’s scrappy old cookbook. A spicy winter stew or steaming pot of chicken and dumplings to offset the chilly evenings. The closest she came were the slow-cooker meals she assembled whenever the market had a meat sale that fit their small budget.

  A tepid atmosphere greeted them inside the one-story rent house on Malco Avenue, the old heating unit issuing raspy breaths by the windowsill. A fake Christmas tree covered in lights and tinsel stood in the corner, a tin foil star secured crookedly to the top branch. There were no presents underneath it yet, just a small nativity from Piper’s own childhood, the figures worn and chipped from years of use.

  Dropping her coat on the sofa, Piper rummaged through the tote bag for the day’s groceries. A box of mac and cheese, a package of deli ham, a bag of rolls and prepackaged salad.

  “Wanna grab the mail for me?” she called over her shoulder. She smiled as Micah actually remembered to shed his muddy boots in front of the doorway. His fingers caught the stack of envelopes from the braided rug, flipping through them as he moved in her direction.

  There were no new messages on the answering machine, which meant the landlord hadn’t gotten back to her yet on the heating issue. It was a problem she desperately needed to resolve before the small Christmas vacation she and Micah would take to an indeterminate but not-too-expensive location. Somewhere with snow and quiet and maybe a place they could go ice skating or sleigh riding.

  She set the temperature on the stove, her mind calculating whether her holiday bonus would cover four days of even the simplest lodging, food, and entertainment. Such experiences were meant to give Micah a sense of togetherness without the noisy family gatherings most of his classmates would enjoy.

  “Did the teachers assign much homework for the break?” she asked, setting the water to boil. No answer—not even a mumble. Glancing around, she found an empty living space, her son nowhere in sight. “Micah? Where are you?”

  A stack of mail was on the table. Piper froze when she saw the envelope on top. Her former in-law’s names were printed across the address label.

  Had Micah seen it? Maybe he wouldn’t recognize their names. They sent just a handful of notes after the divorce, an event they seemed to blame on Piper, even though their son had been the one to call it quits. And after his accidental death at the construction site in Nebraska…well, things were said she would rather forget.

  Her fingers split open the envelope, expecting to find more insults or maybe a demand to see the grandchild they had previously avoided. Instead, she found a check for five hundred dollars.

  “This is a gift for Micah,” her mother-in-law’s immaculate cursive instructed inside the card. “It is meant as birthday and holiday money combined. Let him choose the gifts he wants, unless you have urgent necessities. Please send us a picture of him in return. We want to see that he’s doing well.”

  Abrupt, icy, somewhat condescending. The urge to tear it up was strong, but she settled for sliding it beneath the napkin holder on the kitchen counter. Best to keep it hidden from Micah until she decided what to do.

  Rapping against her son’s half-open door, she saw him tuck a folded piece of paper beneath his pillow. Another of
his drawings, no doubt, many of which were already tacked on his bedroom walls, along with the ribbons he’d won for them in school contests. Pictures of animals, spacemen, and friendly monsters looked down at them from various action poses.

  Micah offered her a bright smile that told her he hadn’t recognized the envelope from his grandparents. “Is it time to eat?” he asked, his brown eyes sparkling with something she couldn’t quite define. As if they hid a secret or some important bit of knowledge that only children are privy to.

  “Not quite,” she answered. “But you can help me put the cheese in the noodles if you want.”

  *****

  They sat down to a table for two, a Christmas centerpiece assembled from a wreath and plain white candles. Piper watched as her son pushed his untouched meal around the plate. A strange sight, considering mac and cheese was by far Micah’s favorite of the quick meals they threw together on weeknights.

  “I guess you’re pretty excited about Christmas,” she said after a while. “It’s only a week or so away, you know. Which means we have to pick our vacation spot.”

  She waited for him to say something. No doubt several of his classmates were spending their break with extended family members for a traditional celebration.

  “Is there some place you want to go?” she prompted. “I know one of your friends is going to Disney Land but—”

  “The North Pole,” Micah blurted. “That’s where we should go. I mean, that’s where I’d pick if it were up to me.”

  Piper almost laughed, but the expression on his face was intense. Apparently, his older classmates hadn’t shaken his belief in the most famous of mythical figures, even though the Tooth Fairy had been ruthlessly eliminated last spring by a smart-aleck ten year-old neighbor.

  “I wish we could, sweetheart,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s possible. It’s not like they show in the movies—”