Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  “Assuming Mr. Delacorte is the Secret Admirer,” Silky said.

  Mary Dell clicked her camera to test the flash and made an exasperated sound.

  “For goodness’ sake! You and Lydia Dale are just too suspicious. Mr. Delacorte is obviously crazy about her. And anyway, who else could it be?”

  At that moment, as if in answer to her question, Thaddeus Delacorte came wending his way through the crowd, murmuring his apologies as he made his way to the front row of onlookers.

  “Miss Silky! I thought it was you!” he said with a grin, then inclined his head toward Mary Dell and Lydia Dale. “Ladies. Nice to see you. And . . . the rest of the Tudmores? Miss Taffy? And . . . uh . . . Miss Velvet? Will they be joining you?”

  Mary Dell tossed her sister and grandma a knowing little smile.

  “They’re here somewhere. Momma is having a little trouble with the stroller and Aunt Velvet is with her. Mr. Delacorte,” she said sweetly, “you’re so much taller than me—can you look back and see if they’re coming this way? I’d hate for them to miss the start of the pageant.”

  At the mention of Velvet’s name, Mr. Delacorte’s bright blue eyes became even brighter and bluer. He pulled himself up as tall as possible, which was very tall indeed, turned around and scanned the faces of the restless audience.

  “There she is!” he cried, the tips of his ears coloring slightly. “I mean, there they are. Toward the back on the far right side. Allow me to go get them, Miss Mary Dell. Your mother is having a hard time getting the stroller through the crowd. I’d hate for them to miss the procession.”

  “Oh, would you?” Mary Dell smiled, sincerely charmed by the older gentleman’s obvious eagerness to see her aunt and sincerely grateful that he would go out of his way to make sure that Velvet and Taffy wouldn’t miss Howard’s moment in the sun. “Thank you so much, Mr. Delacorte.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied and began elbowing his way toward the back of the audience, begging people’s pardon and waving to get Velvet’s attention.

  “What did I tell you?” Mary Dell said. “Look at him, pushing his way to the back. Oh, isn’t that sweet? He offered Aunt Velvet his arm. Such a gentleman,” she said with a satisfied sigh, then gave her sister and grandmother a challenging look.

  “Now will you both quit worrying? Of course Mr. Delacorte is the Secret Admirer. Who else could it be?”

  Silky and Lydia Dale looked at each other and shrugged, acknowledging the logic of her conclusion. Mr. Delacorte’s admiration for Velvet was obvious and sincere.

  Just then, eleven-year-old Hooty Capshaw marched to the north side of the church and tootled a not-quite-on-key fanfare on his Boy Scout bugle, signaling the arrival of the Archangel Gabriel. Gabriel, a part always played by the Methodist minister, dressed in a white supplice, topped by his most elaborate and richly embroidered liturgical stole, welcomed the audience as well as a group of young boys, Jeb among them, who appeared to be strolling by, leading a couple of sheep on ropes, and told them not to be afraid and to get themselves down to the stable in Bethlehem just as quick as they could.

  The boys replied in unison that they would and began circling toward the far side of the still-empty stable at a somewhat slower pace than they’d planned. Their progress was impeded by the largest of the sheep, who was more interested in munching grass than in making haste to Bethlehem. The boys began tugging on his tether as hard as they could but the sheep refused to budge, which brought forth a wave of laughter from the crowd.

  Another blast of the bugle marked the beginning of the Holy Family’s journey to Bethlehem. Joseph held the donkey’s tether and Mary walked alongside, holding the baby in her arms. This was, of course, not quite true to the biblical text, Mary having given birth in the stable after their arrival in Bethlehem, but the church had always done it this way. It was easier to stage and nobody felt comfortable about showing a twelve-year-old girl heavy with child, not even for the sake of scriptural accuracy.

  When they approached the stable, the girl playing the part of Mary placed Baby Howard, who was well wrapped up, not in swaddling clothes but in a quilt of his mother’s making, into the manger, then knelt down next to Joseph.

  At that point, Mary Dell, who had been fighting to keep hold of her emotions, lost the fight and burst into tears. The women of the family, including Taffy and Velvet, who had joined the rest of them shortly after the shepherds left, patted her shoulders and tried to comfort her.

  “It’s all right,” she assured them with a sniffling whisper, “I’m just so happy.”

  Silky dug a packet of tissues from her pocket, handed one to Mary Dell, then pulled out another for herself. Silky loved Christmas—the scenes, the gifts, the music, the traditions—but more than that, she loved how the season filled her with gratitude for God’s goodness, reminded her of the magnitude of the gift given to the world on that long-ago day in Bethlehem, and gave her the opportunity to share that joy with her family. They were so very fortunate in so very many ways.

  Hoping no one in the family would notice, or accuse her of becoming sentimental in her old age, Silky turned her head to one side and furtively dabbed her eyes.

  As she did so she saw Marlena Benton, staring at them with a smile on her lips and a face that could freeze ice.

  Chapter Nine

  Silky spent the next few days engaging in a bit of espionage, trying to confirm the identity of the Secret Admirer.

  She went to the Tidee-Mart in search of yellow roses, thinking that she might be able to quiz the clerks about who might have been purchasing a large number of those kinds of flowers recently, only to be told that the market didn’t sell any roses but red, and then only in February and May, for Valentine’s and Mother’s Day. If she wanted yellow roses, she was informed, she’d have to drive to the florist shop in Waco.

  Next, she tried putting Mr. Delacorte under surveillance, parking the blue LeSabre a block away from the high school and waiting for the dismissal bell to ring. When he left the building and got into his car, she followed at a discrete distance. She was excited when she realized his route was taking him right by the historical society and saw his vehicle slow to a crawl as he passed the building, but he didn’t stop. After he turned the corner, he increased his speed to a heart-pounding forty-two miles per hour so Silky had no choice but to give up the chase.

  Finally, with just two days to go until the Christmas ball and feeling more and more worried by the daily arrival of roses and her sister’s steadily-increasing happiness and anticipation as the night of the ball approached, Silky decided to take more drastic measures.

  That night, at nine-thirty, after drinking their milk and completing their usual bedtime ritual, Silky said good night to her sister and retired to her bedroom, just as she always did. But she didn’t undress or put on her nightgown. Instead, after thirty minutes, she crept into the kitchen and across the hall and laid her ear next to Velvet’s bedroom door. Hearing the soft and regular whoosh of her sister’s slumbering breathing, she crept quietly out of the house and got into the LeSabre. With the headlights off for the first block to make sure they didn’t shine through Velvet’s bedroom window and wake her, Silky drove downtown. She parked the car across and a bit down the street from the historical society, turned off the ignition, scrunched down in the seat, and waited.

  Settling down for what she supposed might be a very long and possibly pointless wait, Silky opened her big purse and pulled out her sewing, a nearly-finished needlepoint Christmas stocking, one of two she was making to commemorate her great-grandbabies’ first Christmas. The moonlight was dim and Silky’s eyesight wasn’t as sharp as it once had been, so she squinted as she worked, stitching out the word “Howard” in forest green needlepoint yarn.

  Silky never went anywhere without a bit of handwork tucked into her purse. Like so many generations of Tudmore women, she was an expert needlewoman. She made clothing, quilts, luscious needlepoint tapestries, sweet cross-stitched samplers, and delicately em
broidered handkerchiefs and pillowcases. She particularly enjoyed handwork. It helped distract her from worries and organize her thoughts. Just then, she was sorely in need of both.

  Mr. Delacorte was a lovely man. Nothing would have pleased Silky more than to know that he was, in fact, the Secret Admirer. But, in spite of Mary Dell’s assurances and the worthy gentleman’s obvious interest in Velvet, she wasn’t entirely convinced the flowers were coming from him.

  Silky had lived almost the whole of her life in Too Much and so had known Marlena Benton from childhood onward. Like Lydia Dale, she knew that Marlena was never truly happy unless she was about to make someone else miserable. Try as she might, she simply could not erase the image of Marlena Benton’s icy smile from her mind.

  There was certainly no love lost between any of the Tudmores and Bentons and Velvet had done nothing to hurt Marlena. But when Mary Dell managed to purchase the last remaining piece of commercial property not in Benton hands, it had been a huge defeat and humiliation for Marlena. It seemed entirely possible that she wanted to return the favor, doing whatever she could to harm or humiliate any Tudmore that came into her sights, even the most innocent of them.

  Velvet, bless her, truly was an innocent, more tender and timid than anyone knew, so steeped in the history, ideals, and mannerisms of an earlier time that she seemed not quite a part of the present age. Yes, innocent was the perfect word to describe her sister. Velvet was innocent in the ways of love, incapable of intentionally harming another, and far more fragile than most people realized.

  In these last few weeks, basking in the warmth of the first romance she’d ever known, Velvet had truly blossomed. She had opened like the petals of the roses she’d been showered with, becoming beautiful with every passing day, not because her beauty was something new, the product of store-bought clothes and a bottle of hair dye, but because, for the first time, Velvet had begun to believe it was true.

  Silky sincerely hoped that all those flowers had been sent by Mr. Delacorte. The two of them would make a darling couple. He seemed just as courtly, and shy, and sweetly old-fashioned as Velvet. But, if he wasn’t the one who had sent the roses and notes, if he didn’t show up at the ball with a yellow rose on his lapel, if he didn’t ask her sister for the pleasure of a dance, if someone had decided to play a cruel joke on the town spinster, Velvet’s heart would break. Withering with embarrassment and shame, she would shrink back into her shell, shed her pretty petals, and become a wallflower once again.

  For weeks, Silky had longed to sit Velvet down and talk to her about this whole situation, to caution her, to protect her from getting her hopes set quite so high, but she couldn’t do it. In spite of the daily delivery of roses, for the first time in her life, Velvet had not confided in her sister. She had not shared the contents of the notes with her or even discussed their existence, though, thanks to Marlena’s eavesdropping ears and flapping tongue, she had a pretty good idea of what they contained. And, though she’d lived her whole life in Too Much and knew how even the most inane bits of gossip can spread like wildfire in a small town, Velvet seemed truly unaware of the rumors and speculation that swirled about regarding herself and the Secret Admirer. Obviously the rose-colored glasses her sister was wearing had impaired her vision, making her unable to see or think about anything besides this secret that was anything but.

  Because of this, Silky couldn’t discuss the situation with Velvet, not unless Velvet brought it up first. If she did so, if she gave even the barest hint that she wasn’t entirely convinced that the Secret Admirer was who and what Velvet believed him to be, Silky knew her sister would be wounded, and begin to doubt herself, to worry that everyone was laughing at her. Silky couldn’t and wouldn’t do that to Velvet, not unless she was one hundred percent sure she was right.

  Even if it meant staying awake and keeping watch through the whole of the cold December night, she simply had to find out the truth!

  Silky kept her unwavering vigil but saw nothing. The streets of Too Much were dark and silent. No one walked or drove past the door of the historical society.

  As the first fingers of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Silky’s concerns mounted. The ball would take place that very night. This was her last chance to catch the Admirer in action but he had failed to appear. Unless, perhaps, he decided to leave his offering at the house as had been the case on one or two other occasions? Or maybe he’d spotted her car and been scared off?

  It was nearly five o’clock. Silky had to return home and sneak back into the house before Velvet woke up and started asking questions. Frustrated by her failure but finally admitting defeat, Silky sighed and clutched the car keys.

  She was about to turn over the ignition when, across the street, she saw movement in the branches of the crepe myrtle tree that flanked the entrance to the historical society. Silky watched, hardly daring to breathe, as a figure moved out from behind the tree.

  There was only a little light in the sky and so it was impossible for Silky to see the face or features of the man who emerged from the bushes, but Silky recognized the beat up cowboy hat and arrogant swagger, the indolent slope of the shoulders that had always been too light for heavy work, the curling lip with the ever present Marlboro hanging from it.

  Her heart sank. She had so hoped that her suspicions would turn out to be unfounded, that her surveillance would prove Mr. Delacorte to be the real Secret Admirer. Now that she knew the true identity of the pretended admirer, she wasn’t really surprised, except on one count. She’d never have guessed Jack Benny Benton was capable of rising so early in the morning.

  For a moment, Silky considered getting out of the car and confronting him, calling him every shameful name in the book but then thought better of it. Jack Benny was incapable of shame. Her words would bounce off him like rain off a rooftop. She might, by confronting him, put a stop to any further plan he and his hateful mother might have hatched to embarrass Velvet at the ball but, either way, the damage was done. And if word got around town of the Bentons’ cruel joke and Silky’s hapless attempts to stop it, she might make the situation even worse.

  If she kept silent for now, she had the advantage of surprise. Jack Benny didn’t know that she knew. That might buy her some time and give her a chance to turn the tables in their favor. Though, as she watched him slink off into the darkness, she could not honestly imagine any way in which this could be accomplished.

  As Jack Benny disappeared around the far corner of the building, Silky made a fist and pressed it to her lips.

  What could she do? How could she tell Velvet the truth without breaking her heart and wounding her pride? It seemed an impossible task, because it was. But Silky had to do it. There was no other choice.

  Chapter Ten

  When she got ready for bed on the night before the ball, Miss Velvet was more excited than she could recall feeling since she was five years old and had tried to stay awake on Christmas Eve, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus and the reindeer.

  She climbed beneath the quilts, scooted Mr. Bowie from the middle of the mattress, and closed her eyes, sure that sleep would evade her. She was wrong. The events of the previous month, the roses, the notes, the building anticipation as the day of the ball drew near, had been more taxing than she’d realized. She fell into a sound sleep only minutes after her head hit the pillow and didn’t stir until the alarm on her nightstand clock rang the next morning.

  Heedless of the cold, Velvet threw back the quilt and all but leapt from bed, humming to herself as she went into the bathroom to wash her face and fix her hair. Since her visit to the salon, the latter operation took somewhat longer than it used to but Velvet was becoming more adept in the use of curling irons, teasing combs, and hair spray, and so she was coiffed and ready to dress at five minutes before seven o’ clock.

  Mr. Bowie, who was eager for breakfast, purred and curled around her nylon-clad legs.

  “Just a minute,” she said to the hungry feline. “I’ve got to decid
e what to wear. What do you think? The blue? The pink? Or maybe the gold?”

  One by one, Velvet pushed her inventory of colorful frocks, which had continued to grow so that, by this point, there was hardly a hint of black, gray, or navy in her wardrobe, from the left to the right side of the closet rod, trying to make up her mind.

  When she came to the last dress in the row, a purchase she had made secretly and in response to a third and final note from the Admirer only two days before, she sighed happily.

  “Of course, it’ll have to wait till tonight but I wish I could put this one on right now. Mr. Delacorte . . . Thaddeus . . .”

  She blushed as she recalled their encounter at the church Nativity, the way he had sought her out in the crush of people, the little thrill that had run through her when, at his invitation, she had rested her fingers upon his strong forearm as he escorted her to the front of the crowd, the way her heart had pounded in her chest when he, responding to her thanks and best wishes for a Merry Christmas, had asked her to please call him by his first name.

  Thaddeus. Thaddeus Delacorte. Such a perfect name for such a perfect gentleman. She sighed again.

  “Thaddeus will love this color,” she informed the cat. “It’s exactly the shade he described in his note.”

  Mr. Bowie meowed impatiently, making it clear that he didn’t care what she put on as long as she did it quickly and fed him his breakfast.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, taking the gold dress from the hanger and buttoning it up quickly before stepping into a pair of brown shoes with a stylish but comfortable one-inch heel, then clipping on a pair of gold earrings. After quickly making the bed, she scooped the cat up in her arms and walked to the door. But she paused just before opening and looked at the door of her closet, which was still ajar.