Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  “Yes. She’s just doing her hair. It takes a little time. Women don’t just wake up looking beautiful,” she said with a chuckle, trying to lighten his mood. “It takes a little effort to look this good.”

  “I can believe that of most women,” he said seriously, “but not your sister. From the first day I arrived in Too Much and on every occasion since, I’ve never seen Miss Velvet looking anything less than perfect.”

  He slowed his pacing, realizing the broader implications of the first half of his commentary.

  “Pardon me, Miss Silky. No offense intended.”

  “None taken, Mr. Delacorte.”

  He nodded, looking a bit relieved, and took another lap around the rug.

  “Mr. Delacorte, I hope you won’t mind my asking, but if you’ve admired my sister for so long, why didn’t you declare yourself until now?”

  “I would have but I was present when the first rose was delivered to her, remember? I believed that someone else had beaten my time. A woman as fine as Miss Velvet undoubtedly receives all sort of attention from gentlemen; I felt certain there was no point in pressing my suit since, obviously, she already had a beau.”

  Silky smiled. What a sweet man he was. He and Velvet would do very well together; she’d thought so from the first.

  “Mr. Delacorte, do you have any plans for Christmas Eve? If not, we’d love for you to come out to the ranch and join us for dinner.”

  Mr. Delacorte stopped in the middle of his circuit. His face lit up. “Well, no! I don’t have any plans. I’m new in town, you know. And . . . you don’t think she’d mind?”

  “I’m sure I can speak for my sister and my whole family when I say that we’d love to have you as our guest for Christmas.”

  “Well! I’d enjoy that very much. Thank you, Miss Silky! Let me ask you something . . . I’m supposed to take part in the reenactment of the battle of San Jacinto this spring. Do you think your sister might like to accompany me?”

  “That certainly sounds like the sort of thing she’d enjoy, Mr. Delacorte.” Silky got up from the sofa. “But why don’t you ask her yourself ?”

  Mr. Delacorte turned around and stared at Velvet, who stood in the doorway wearing a dress of emerald green and an expression of joy that perfectly mirrored that of her handsome, white-haired suitor. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. It was almost as if they’d forgotten to breathe.

  But when Silky, impatient for this romance to finally begin, cleared her throat, Mr. Delacorte’s shoulders jerked, as if he’d just remembered where he was and why he’d come. He walked quickly to the sofa, retrieved the bouquet of yellow roses he’d left lying there, and, with a respectful inclination of his head, presented them to Velvet, holding them out to her with both his hands, like a courtier offering a scepter to a lady of high rank.

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Velvet. These are for you.”

  Velvet accepted his gift, cradling the roses in the crook of her arm, burying her nose in the fragrant blossoms.

  “They’re lovely. So lovely,” she murmured.

  She looked up at him with a smile that washed over him like clear water, making everything new, blessing him like a benediction.

  “Thank you . . . Thaddeus. And Merry Christmas.”

  Nightmare on Elf Street

  LAURA LEVINE

  Chapter One

  You’d think after all I’ve done for my cat—the belly rubs, the back scratches, the endless cans of Fancy Feast—you’d think she could at least wear a pair of reindeer antlers for three minutes while I took her picture for my annual Christmas card. But, no, Prozac, the little drama queen, had decided that the fuzzy felt antlers I’d ordered online were emissaries from the devil and was determined to avoid them at all costs.

  “Pumpkin face,” I pleaded. “Just think how adorable you’ll look.”

  But she just glared at me balefully.

  I’m already adorable. And don’t call me pumpkin face.

  I was on my knees that late November morning, begging her for the umpteenth time to let me put the antlers on her stubborn little head when the phone rang.

  Wearily I picked it up to hear:

  “Fabulous news, Jaine! I’ve just spent the past forty-five minutes fondling the feet of a fabulously wealthy Malibu blonde.”

  No, you haven’t stumbled on a foot fetish novella. The voice on the other end of the line was my neighbor Lance Venable, who happens to fondle feet for a living as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus.

  “She wound up buying five pair of Jimmy Choos,” Lance was saying. “And guess what? It turns out her husband owns that new mall out in Santa Monica—Conspicuous Consumption Plaza.”

  Of course that wasn’t what it was really called. I’ve changed the mall’s name to protect the innocent—namely moi—from a lawsuit.

  “It seems they’re looking for someone to write their ads, and I told her all about you and your award-winning campaign for Apple computers.”

  “But Lance, I’ve never worked for Apple. My biggest client is Toiletmasters Plumbers. And the only award I’ve ever won is the Golden Plunger from the L.A. Plumbers Association.”

  “A mere technicality, honey. The bottom line is you’ve got an interview with their HR gal tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  I have to admit I was excited. How nice it would be to have something glamorous to write in between toilet bowl ads.

  “Oh, Lance. You’re an angel!”

  “Try to remember that when shopping for my Christmas present—Oops. Gotta run. Trophy Wife over by the Ferragamos. Damn. Looks like she’s got bunions.”

  I hung up the phone in a much better frame of mind than when I’d picked it up, my head spinning with visions of all that a new job could buy: A high-def TV. New slipcovers for my sofa. Maybe even a lifetime membership in the Fudge-of-the-Month Club.

  “Fabulous news, Pro!” I said, whirling around in a happy glow. “I’ve got a job interview!”

  To which she merely rolled over on her back, her paws poised daintily in the air.

  And I’ve got a belly that needs scratching. So hop to it.

  “No belly rubs for you, young lady,” I said, marching straight past her to my bedroom. “Not after your churlish behavior with those felt antlers.”

  Okay, so I didn’t march straight past her.

  I may have stopped to give her belly a teeny scratch. But I swear it wasn’t for more than two minutes. Five, tops.

  Okay, twenty, if you must know.

  Conspicuous Consumption Plaza was an upscale mall with valet parking, froufrou boutiques and stocking stuffers that cost more than my Corolla.

  To fool the Human Resources gal into thinking I actually belonged there, I showed up in my one and only Prada suit and one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks. I’d blown my mop of unruly curls reasonably smooth, and was now clacking along on the mall’s travertine marble floors on my way to the executive offices. Shiny baubles glistened in shop windows, lush garlands hung overhead, and the air was redolent with the scent of cinnamon spice and new money.

  All the glitz came to a screeching halt, however, when I walked through the door to the staff offices. Suddenly everything was linoleum and fluorescent lights.

  I found Molly Grover, the head of Human Resources, in a no frills cubicle down at the end of a corridor.

  I’d been expecting a kamikaze fashionista straight from the pages of Vogue, but instead I found a somewhat frazzled thirtysomething woman in a wrinkled pantsuit.

  She gazed up from a pile of papers, her face pale and pasty, her mousy brown hair hanging in limp clumps on her shoulders.

  “Have a seat.” She gestured vaguely to a cracked plastic visitor’s chair. Then, with a hopeful smile, she said, “I hear you’ve written for Apple.”

  Oh, gulp.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix up. I haven’t actually handled any computer accounts. Although some of the septic tanks sold by one of my top clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers, do come with
a computerized control panel.”

  “Is that so?” she said, her smile rapidly fading. “Well, let me take a look at your samples anyway.”

  I handed her my book of writing samples, and she began leafing through them. Every once in a while she paused to gaze at me intently, then back to the book.

  Finally she slammed the book shut, shooting me one last penetrating look.

  “You’re perfect!” she exclaimed.

  Wow. Talk about your dream interviews.

  I’d been there less than five minutes, and already I’d landed the job.

  “Here.” She reached down under her desk and pulled out a shopping bag. “Try it on.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your elf suit.”

  “My elf suit?”

  “Yes, one of my Santa’s elves just quit and I’m in desperate need of a replacement.”

  “But what about the writing job?”

  “Oh, that. I like your samples, very impressive. You’re definitely on the short list. But let’s just say you’d be a lot higher up on that list if you helped me out and worked as Santa’s elf for a few weeks.”

  “In other words, you’re bribing me.”

  “Not in other words. In those words. Put on the elf suit,” she commanded, suddenly tough as a marine drill sergeant, “or you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the writing gig.”

  Well! If she thought I was the kind of person who would sacrifice my dignity and self-respect just to better my chances at landing a job—she was absolutely right. It had been a long time between toilet bowl ads, and I needed the bucks.

  “So how about it?” she asked. “Are you game?”

  If I’d known what was in store for me, I would have grabbed my sample book and skedaddled straight to the food court. But I knew nothing of the disastrous events waiting in the wings. So with hope in my heart, and a pair of curly-toed shoes in my hands, I said yes.

  A mistake, I would soon learn, of monumental proportions.

  Chapter Two

  I got my first hint of how truly ghastly my days as an elf would be when I hustled off to the employees’ ladies’ room to try on my elf suit. I still shudder to think of that hideous costume. The green velvet tunic, piped in gold, wasn’t too horrible, if you didn’t mind looking like Peter Pan on estrogen. Nor was the stocking cap with the fuzzy pompom at the tip. Or the green curly-toed shoes.

  But those godawful red and green striped tights! That was truly the fashion accessory from hell. Those damn stripes added at least five extra pounds to my thighs—which had all the poundage they needed, thank you very much.

  But on the bright side, I reminded myself, I’d actually managed to squeeze into an elf costume. For those of you who don’t know me, I am not ordinarily considered the elfin type. Far from it, as my scale will be the first to assure you.

  To tell the truth, when Molly said I’d be perfect for the part, I’d actually been a tiny bit flattered. But my bubble was quickly burst when, back in Molly’s office, she looked at me and beamed, “Oh, marvelous! The costume fits you so much better than it fit Kenny.”

  “Kenny?”

  I was wearing a guy’s elf suit?

  “Yes, the elf you’re replacing. He quit to concentrate on his Weight Watchers classes.”

  I was wearing a fat guy’s elf suit?

  Ouch.

  At which point, there was a knock on Molly’s cubicle door and a truly elfin elf waltzed in. A tiny pixie of a thing with a pert little nose, enormous brown eyes and waist the size of my red and green striped thigh.

  “Hi, Molly,” she said, looking adorable in her elf costume. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Gigi. Say hi to Jaine Austen, our new elf. Jaine, this is Gigi Harris.”

  The pixie and I exchanged hellos.

  “Would you mind taking Jaine around and showing her the ropes?”

  “Not at all.”

  Gigi shot me a friendly grin. And, grabbing my sample book, I followed her tiny tush out into the hallway.

  My first shift did not officially start until the next day. So thank heavens I was allowed to change out of my elf suit before returning to the mall. As Gigi explained while I struggled out of my hideous tights in the employees’ ladies’ room, she and I were the two weekday elves, working Mondays through Fridays, taking turns with the day and night shifts. Working alongside us were two weekday Santas, while a whole other crew took over on the weekends.

  “We get minimum wage,” she said, popping a wad of gum in her mouth and sending a blast of Juicy Fruit my way. “Plus a twenty percent employee discount. Of course, the discount doesn’t help much with the ridiculous prices they charge around here. The real reason I’m working at Conspicuous Consumption is the exposure.”

  “Exposure?”

  “Sure. A lot of show business insiders shop here. A gal never knows when she’s going to get discovered.”

  “So you’re an actress?”

  “Couldn’t you tell?” she asked, batting her saucer eyes. “Practically everybody who works in Santa Land is in the biz. Or trying to break in, anyway. Scotty, one of the Santas, has done a Taco Bell commercial, and Barnaby, the other Santa, used to play Shakespeare on Broadway.”

  By now I’d changed back into my civvies, and Gigi led me to a fluorescent-lit employees’ locker room.

  “The lockers are co-ed,” she explained, “which is why we have to change into our costumes in the ladies’ room. Here’s yours.” She pointed to a rusty cubbyhole against the wall. “It’s right next to Barnaby’s. He’s a real sweetie. Scotty, on the other hand, can be a bit of a handful.”

  That, as I was about to discover, was putting it mildly.

  “Well, c’mon,” she said, popping her gum. “Time for you to see Santa Land.”

  Conspicuous Consumption’s Santa Land was an extravaganza of the highest order—the highlight of which was a ginormous Christmas tree sitting on a bed of fake snow, its boughs bedecked with glimmering baubles. Nearby a life-sized Rudolph with a blinking red nose stood watch over a sleigh piled high with ornately wrapped presents. Off to the side was a miniature cottage with a sign on the door that said “Santa’s Workshop.” And meandering through it all was a candy cane lane leading up to Santa’s chair, a rococo gold affair straight out of Versailles.

  The only thing missing from Santa Land was, in fact, Santa.

  Several kids were lined up in their Tommy Hilfiger/Ralph Lauren finest, asking the bewildered Hispanic maids who had been delegated to schlep them to the mall, “Donde esta Santa?”

  “Damn!” Gigi muttered as she surveyed the scene.

  Then she plastered on a bright smile and turned to the children waiting on line.

  “Santa must be busy wrapping presents in his workshop. I’ll go get him.”

  “Darn that Scotty,” she muttered as she stomped over to the workshop. “He’s on another bender.”

  She opened the door to Santa’s workshop, and poked her head inside.

  “Wake up, Scotty!” she hissed. “You’ve got kids waiting.”

  Peering over her shoulder, I saw a guy in a Santa suit sprawled out, clutching a bottle of tequila.

  “Tell ’em Santa’s got a hangover,” he mumbled.

  “Are you crazy?” Gigi snapped.

  “Okay, okay.” Reluctantly he got up and started to crawl out the door, his Santa’s beard dangling from his neck. Just before he pulled it up, I took a look at his face, and realized that he was one heck of a handsome Santa. Small but deep blue eyes, fabulous cheekbones, and pouty Brad Pitt lips. He had Out Of Work Actor written all over him.

  Blearily he glanced over at me.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The new elf,” Gigi said. “Kenny’s replacement.”

  “She’s supposed to be an elf?” he said, with a none too flattering glance at my thighs.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked over to his throne and muttered to Gigi, “Bring on the brats.”

 
The heart melts, n’est-ce pas?

  I watched as Gigi led a skinny little girl over to his lap.

  “Ho-ho-ho!” he boomed, practically melting the tot’s eyebrows with his tequila breath. The kid started to whimper, and Gigi quickly whisked her off Scotty’s lap and into the safety of her nanny’s arms.

  As another, much braver, kid took her place and whipped out a spread sheet printout of the gifts he expected Santa to bring him, Gigi sprinted over to my side.

  “I better stick around,” she said, “otherwise Lord knows what hell will break loose.”

  “Is he always this bad?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. Just remember. When you work with him, never loan him money. Don’t let him flirt with the pretty moms. And whatever you do, try to keep him away from his ‘hot chocolate’ thermos. It’s filled with tequila.”

  “Yikes. How come he hasn’t been fired?”

  “Because he’s dating Molly, that’s why.”

  My mind boggled at the thought of mousy little Molly with the soused Santa.

  “Well, thanks for showing me around,” I said.

  And with the sound of some poor tyke wailing on Scotty’s lap, I scooted off, about to begin My Life as a Santa’s helper.

  Or, as I’d soon come to know it, Nightmare on Elf Street.

  I headed for the Conspicuous Consumption parking lot, my elf costume in a garment bag, dreading the thought of wearing the damn thing in public. As I tossed it in the backseat of my Corolla, I prayed that somehow it would morph into a tasteful Eileen Fisher pantsuit by the time I got back to my duplex in the slums of Beverly Hills.

  (Contrary to popular belief, not every street in Beverly Hills is studded with mansions and Mercedes. There are quite a few humble pockets in town—none quite so humble as the duplex-and-Toyota lined street that I call home.)

  Driving along, I shuddered at the memory of how I’d looked in my elf suit, my thighs glowing like giant neon barber poles.