Cruz pursed her lips together (collagen-injected) and watched Rebecca, waiting.
She should have seen this coming, she should have been more careful. She could have hidden the letters at home, or better yet, in Natalie’s desk. But she’d gotten overconfident and careless and now it was too late.
Those letters contained the trivial and materialistic desires of twenty-two children’s hearts. They were written in scrawling, sometimes teacher-assisted handwriting, nothing worth losing sleep over. And she could explain it to them. She could look into Pepper Buckley’s somber eyes and tell her that this was only practice for the real world. No biggie.
She could gaze upon Ethan Wilder’s open, honest face and tell him that Christmas is simply another day when the post office wasn’t open. Easy, squeezy. Yeah, Rebecca could stand up in front of her entire class and proclaim that there is no such thing as Santa Claus.
Ho-ho-ho.
Her lips grew Sahara dry, and she picked up the stack of letters, her mind made up.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rebecca pulled herself together, her shoulders thrown back in best posture position. “No. I promised the kids I would mail these letters, and I will. I will not tell them this was a simple exercise in correspondence. It’s Christmas.” Rebecca could see the lecture brewing in Cruzella’s eyes, but she was standing up on principle. She’d get the lecture over, apologize and then move forward.
However, Cruz was working herself into a late-afternoon rage. She stamped a heel on the floor. “We do not cater to the whims of fairy tales. Our teachers are grounded in fact and scientific method.”
“It’s only a letter,” answered Rebecca, moving her tone to something light and conflict-free.
“So was the Magna Carta.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows rose. “You can’t compare the two.”
“You’re fired, Miss Neumann.”
Hello? Rebecca’s mouth fell open. “What? You can’t do this.” She held tight to the desk, so tight her fingers turned white. Okay, maybe she had flouted the rules a bit, but firing her?
“I’m your employer. Of course I can.”
No, she couldn’t. Rebecca might be a mere kindergarten teacher, but she knew the law. “There’s no documentation trail.”
The headmistress’s eyes were cold and calculating. “If this had been the first time I noticed your behavior, yes, but year after year, you have ignored the principles we teach in this school. It’s all written up in your file. I’m not sorry, Miss Neumann. I don’t have a choice. Not anymore.”
“But the kids…” Rebecca trailed off, realizing the kids would be fine. Oh, yeah, they’d grow up thinking there wasn’t a Santa Claus, they’d grow up to run Enron, and cheat on their golf scores, and fudge on their charitable donations. And it’d all fall on Rebecca’s shoulders. She’d be the one responsible. Rebecca. No way. She had not yet begun to fight. “I’ll tell the papers. The media will be incensed. I have the spirit of Christmas on my side.”
Cruzella didn’t even stop to breathe. More proof of her subhumanity. “I have five hundred of the best lawyers in New York on my side, along with the heirs to three of the major networks, two of the news cable giants and three of the newspaper barons in the city. How many major networks are there, Mistress Neumann?”
“Three.” Her fighting ideals were going…
“News cable giants?”
“Two.” Going…
“New York dailies?”
“Three.” Gone.
“Have I left anyone out?”
“No,” said Rebecca, who had spent four years as a cheerleader and knew that if your team sucked, fighting wouldn’t get you squat.
“When they hear of your addiction to drugs and your scandalous doings with men, your reputation will be in tatters, and you’ll never teach kindergarteners in this town again.”
“I don’t have a drug habit,” snapped Rebecca, glancing down to make sure that her Advil was out of sight.
“I’ve seen the painkillers, Mistress Neumann. And then there’s the scandalous doings with men.”
“I don’t have doings with men.” God knows, she had given it her best shot, but somehow it never seemed to work out.
“Mr. Murphy tells otherwise.”
“I have never, ever, kissed, fondled, caressed, groped, touched, teased, flirted with, or petted Mr. Murphy. He’s lying.” Mr. Murphy was the weasely science teacher who kept asking her out, which, of course, she had refused. Rebecca had meticulous standards in men. Mr. Murphy was a reptilian dweeb.
Cruz didn’t seem to care. “Would you like to testify to that in court, Mistress Neumann? Go away. You don’t fit in here. You have never fit in here.”
There it was. The writing on the wall, in Palmer method cursive script. Rebecca swore, a particularly vile interjection, just to see Cruzella puff up in rage for one last time. Then she tucked the letters back in the Prada bag and hooked it over her shoulder. “I’ll pack up my things.”
“And don’t forget those reindeer antlers. Tacky, tasteless and made in a third-world country by sweatshop workers.”
Proudly Rebecca stuck the reindeer antlers on her head, and walked out, never looking back.
Chapter 2
Rebecca shared an apartment with two of her sorority sisters from college. Both were on their way to matrimonial glory, brandishing two-plus-carat engagement rings whenever they got the chance. The plus side of the arrangement was that they were hardly ever home, and Rebecca saved enough in rent to subsidize her fashion habit.
She stalked into her apartment and kicked off her shoes, fighting the urge to cry, scream, or both. Her feet ached, her head ached, her stomach ached, and now she had no job. There was only one cure. Rebecca took out a pint bottle of bourbon, the liter of diet soda and started to pour.
One down, then two, and she still didn’t feel any better. The phone rang, caller ID said Mom, and Rebecca didn’t answer. She couldn’t face her family. She was too ashamed.
Fired. What a miserable word. She pulled the pen from her ear and wrote it out twenty-five times on her While You Were Out Shopping…message page. She didn’t deserve this. She had worked hard for her kids. Who was going to bake them cupcakes with extra buttercream icing when she wasn’t around? No one. Who would be there to bandage bruised knees with a hug and a kiss rather than tincture of iodine? Not a soul. Give them extra candy on Valentine’s Day? Not even Natalie.
Agh.
Rebecca propped her feet up on the sofa, flexing her feet, which sent shooting pains up her calf. She deserved the pain for being stupid. But how stupid was she?
What if, in the end, Cruz was right? What if Rebecca was coddling them and they’d grow up to be spoiled adults ten steps removed from reality, just like her? What if Rebecca was the misguided one?
The phone rang again. Caller ID said Wilder. This time, Rebecca picked it up.
“Miss Neumann?” The voice was high and hesitant, even through the fiber-optic phone cable.
“Ethan?”
“Is it true? Austin’s mommy called Daniel’s mommy who called Megan’s mommy who called my mommy. They said you won’t be our teacher anymore.”
Rebecca sank into the carpet, curling up against the couch. “I think so, Ethan. But you’ll have somebody new.”
“Megan’s mommy said you had a nervy breakdown.”
Oh, no, thought Rebecca, wishing the bourbon would do its job. “I didn’t have a nervy breakdown. I told Headmistress Cruz that I believe in Santa Claus.”
“There’s no such thing as Santa. My daddy said so.”
Rebecca rubbed a palm over her eyes. “Ethan, I need to get off the phone now. You’ll be good? Don’t give the substitute heck, will you?”
“No, Miss Neumann. Please come back. My birthday is next month, and I want cupcakes, but my mother said I can’t have cupcakes because of the sugar.”
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” said Rebecca, a catch in her voice. Quickly she h
ung up the phone. She would not let her kids hear her cry. Not ever.
Not ever.
Not ever.
Because she was wasn’t going to see them again. Rebecca took the reindeer antlers off her head and threw them at the closed bedroom door.
“Hey!”
The door opened and Janine walked out, in boxer shorts, and a T-shirt with no bra. Which meant only one thing. Janine’s fiancé was here, and they’d recently been indulging in afternoon nooky.
Rebecca swore and then immediately apologized. “Sorry.”
Janine picked up the antlers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Rebecca limped to her feet, and discreetly shoved the bottle of bourbon between the box of Splenda and the green tea bags. “Nothing. Long story.” Her roommates would find out soon enough when she couldn’t make rent.
Janine, still caught in the postcoital afterglow, didn’t notice. “The UPS man delivered a package for you. It was huge.”
Rebecca managed the expected smile.
Janine pointed to the corner. “I stowed it behind the TV. Go ahead, open it. I’m dying to see what’s in it.”
It was a giant gift box, with shiny green paper and a bright red bow, all Christmasish, and if one hadn’t just been fired for said Christmas beliefs, one might have been totally excited. It was big enough, wide enough, deep enough.
Maybe…
Rebecca stared, her fingers crossed. Eventually curiosity turned into something more, and she tore off the wrapping. Then, sloooooooooooooooooooooowly, carefully, she lifted the lid.
And looked down to find…
A single sheet of paper.
Okay, not the brand-new, hot off the assembly line, homeopathic foot spa that she had coveted since her podiatrist first told her about it.
The paper was a handwritten note, with neat, tidy penmanship not seen in sixty years.
Dear Rebecca—
Because you’ve been good this year, I’m pleased to send you on a five-day holiday to the Timberline Lodge in Lake Placid, New York—all expenses paid, of course. I know what you want for Christmas, and there you’ll find it under the tree.
Santa.
Santa. Oh, that was rich. Even more pathetic, she could feel the old silliness springing up inside her. Gullible moron.
She reread the note four times, willing herself not to fall for it. This was a time-share opportunity, cleverly disguised with gleeful Christmas trimmings, probably a bad joke from Cruz.
However, she wasn’t moronic enough to dismiss it completely, either.
Her first call was to the lodge, verifying its existence and asking if time-share opportunities were available. The old woman on the other end of the line sounded insulted.
“We’re a family hotel with a long, well-documented history in the Adirondacks. No flim-flam here.”
Satisfied with the sincerity of her response, Rebecca explained the note and then the woman chuckled. “Our Santa Claus packages are very popular over the holidays. We have a strict confidentiality clause if the giver requests it.”
This time, Rebecca wasn’t so quick to defend the existence of Santa. “And what if a creepy, stalker dude is the giver? Mr. Murphy, for instance.”
“You have a creepy, stalker dude, missy?”
“No,” admitted Rebecca, because Mr. Murphy wasn’t that creative. “It wasn’t my parents, was it?” Bob and Evie Neumann weren’t the most luxury-minded of parents, but it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
The woman laughed. “Could be.”
Rebecca frowned, considering the uncharacteristic generosity. Her family had never been as flush with the green stuff as most of her friends, which perhaps, maybe, okay, probably, had influenced her more avaricious leanings. Her friends? “Natalie!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just like her. This is a singles place, isn’t it? Oh, no, no, no. Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will be. You’re confirming the reservation, then?”
“A lodge?” Rebecca still wasn’t sure. She wasn’t an over-the-river-and-through-the-woods sort of gal, but Natalie was usually spot-on, and she wanted to escape. If only for a while. If only to let the blood-letting inside her stop.
“We have a four-star restaurant, the suites have in-room whirlpool baths and fireplaces. A full spa—”
“Spa? With pedicures? And in-room foot tubs full of scented bubbles?” The world grew brighter.
“Sure. We can do that. And ice-skating, sledding, a movie theater in town—”
“Stop. You had me at the bubbles.”
It was going to be the perfect escape. The perfect way to get her head together. She’d have a nice, relaxing vacation, and then figure out a way to get her life in order. Preferably something that didn’t involve kids. Maybe retail? She would excel at retail.
“Look us up on the Web, Miss Neumann. You won’t regret it.”
“I’ll be there on Friday.”
Rebecca hung up, a bourbon-flavored smile on her face. Tomorrow she’d hurt, but right now she was happy. “Janine, I’m heading to the Adirondacks, and I’m taking the curling iron with me.”
Friday, December 20th THE SNOW WAS STARTING to fall in huge, blinding flakes, the road nearly invisible even though the wipers were moving faster than the wheels.
Eventually the road disappeared altogether, and Cory Bell swore. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and his pickup slid to a crunching halt. The last thing he needed was to be stuck with another one hundred and seventy miles to go. Hell. He hadn’t even gotten out of the States, yet, and already the never-ending Christmas music was eating at his nerves.
When Christmas came, Cory headed north, running for the French-Canadian mountains where English wasn’t the native language. He didn’t like the holiday, didn’t like being around people for it and chose to find a place where a man could disappear and nobody would care. Cory had learned early on that a disappearing act was the smartest thing he could do.
The windshield was nearly covered in white, and Cory cursed every meteorologist ever born. There wasn’t supposed to be snow yet. Two days ago, they said it was supposed to be “unseasonably warm” until the storm blew in. When the windshield was completely blanketed, he knew that global warming hadn’t kicked in here, at least not yet, and reluctantly he put the car back into Drive. There was a turnoff ahead for Lake Placid. He’d see what was there. All he needed was a restaurant, or a bar with people who saw, heard and said nothing. By the looks of the steely sky, he was going to be stuck for a few hours—at the very least.
* * *
The local cabbie picked Rebecca up from the train station and deposited her in front of a rustic snow-covered wonderland with huge firs lit up like golden Christmas trees. Timberline Lodge was an old-fashioned camping-style lodge, with two large stone support columns, towering timbers and an A-line roof that seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t the quaint bed-and-breakfast she was expecting, but warm and—Christmassy. Was it what she needed right now? She wasn’t sure.
The front door was twice her size, and she heaved it open, trudged inside, hauling her suitcase behind her.
Inside was just as cavernous as out. A stone fireplace climbed up one wall, running three stories to the roof. Rough-hewn timber columns were used to support it, so tall they must have been redwoods. Rebecca, who was used to feeling small, felt extra Lilliputian.
The furnishings weren’t new; some had that homemade look—the real deal. And there might not be eight-hundred-thread-count sheets she had hoped for, judging by the looks of things, but heck, it was a gift, so who was she to complain?
She was stamping her pink UGG boots on the mat, when the door opened and a man entered behind her, his black hair blanketed in white snow.
“You work here?”
The voice was low, more of a growl, but Rebecca had faced worse every morning before 9:00 a.m., and all less than three feet tall. She straightened her mouth into
a tight line.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he said, brushing his hair and shrugging out of his coat, tossing it onto the coatrack, and hitting it expertly.
She wanted to ignore him—she really should ignore him—but this one drew her eyes. He was a good head and shoulders taller than her, silky hair, black eyes, thick lashes that still held a few stubborn flakes of white.
The stubble-darkened jaw was square and hard, just another indicator that this man was not a cheery person, nor would he probably ever be. Such magnetic personality traits were the reasons that she kept looking, noticing the brown off-the-rack sweater. Off-the-rack had never looked so good. The blue jeans were old Levi’s, faded, molded to lean hips and long legs. He was thinner than the current style dictated, but it looked right. He was lean, mean and had never owned a Bentley in his life. What a shame. A definite “C” on the Eligibility Scale, although she gave bonus points for smoldering sexuality. If this was any indication of the man quality at Timberline, she could get on board with this new plan. So what if the kids needed her? So what if she didn’t have a job? After all, with the right husband, food and shelter wouldn’t be an issue. And the right position at a philanthropic foundation could do wonders for other kids. New kids, underprivileged, rather than overprivileged.
Rebecca took a deep breath, hung up her coat (the nonathletic way) and stepped aside right as a tiny old lady came up to greet her.
“Miss Neumann, I’m Helen Krause. We’ve been expecting you. I was worried with the weather, thinking you’d be stuck somewhere on the roads.”
Dear Santa (A Blazing Little Christmas) Page 2
