Santa's Second Chance Part One by Margo Hoornstra

        She’d never seen a Santa suit used in quite that way. One red velvet pant leg was tied to a matching sleeve and suspended from the railing above like bed sheets knotted together for a jail break. What was more amazing, dangling spread eagle from the fur tipped end of the other sleeve was a man. A nicely-developed man.
      Against her better judgment, Stephanie strode across her living room toward the sliding glass door for a better look. He was hanging there buck naked, except for a pair of bright white skivvies, matching crew socks, and high end running shoes.  About to drop onto her third floor balcony.
      Surprise, curiosity, even amusement rippled through her. Oddly, fear was nowhere to be found. Why should it? He certainly had no place to hide a weapon. As she edged closer, a brisk blast of wind howled by. Caught unaware, legs flailing, he catapulted outward with nowhere to go but over the rail then down.
      Palms pressed to her cheeks, her mouth gaped open. For a split second Stephanie forgot to breathe.
      Eyes wide, she finally exhaled on a gasp.  “No!”
      Outside the glass, bare legs pumped wildly, tight together then apart. Like an Olympic gymnast preparing for a well-practiced dismount, on one final heave of body and limbs, he landed with a thump. Feet going in opposite directions on the ice slicked surface, he finally jolted to a stop. His death grip on the suit loosened and he let go. Firmly attached to the balcony above, bright red fabric flapped up and out on more wintery gusts. His back was to her as he stilled. Probably needing a moment to collect himself. Unable to help it, she completed a hasty one, two appraisal. Solid legs sprinkled with dark hair, a nice, tight tush. Muscled back. Broad shoulders. Well-structured arms. All turning around to face her!
      Full attention jerked up to his face, she immediately locked gazes with eyes the clear blue of a sun kissed glacier. That disturbing indigo gaze regarded her with swift recognition.
      Good God. I’m not ready for this.
      Regardless, she had to do something. Not only was the temperature well below zero, insult to injury was at play. Icy raindrops showered down in a sudden rush, hitting like tiny shards of glass. That has to be painful on bare skin. Once frostbite set in, the results could be devastating. Plus, it was Christmas. Her favorite holiday always brought out the Good Samaritan in her.
      Without a second thought, she unhooked the latch and slid open the door. “You need to get inside before you freeze.”
      “Good idea.” Sliding at first, he recovered himself to walk toward her.
      She quickly backed up so he could step inside.
      A grin flashed as he slid the door shut behind him. “Told you we’d meet again real soon.”
      Exactly what he’d said from outside her door the night before. When he tried to initiate a conversation she wanted no part of at the time. She’d hurried into the bedroom and turned the radio on to drown him out, doing her very best to ignore him.
      There was no ignoring him now. “I’ll give you that. Now that you’re here, I’d like you to leave.”
      The smile vanished. Those impressive eyes widened in surprise before his gaze dropped. “Like this?”
      His arms came out to the sides like some model on the runway giving the hard sell of a well-fitting suit. Except, there was no suit. Or clothes of any kind save the tighty whiteys. Powerless to resist, she joined him in the impromptu visual journey. The front view was definitely better than the back. Hard to believe those shoulders appeared even broader. A rock hard chest, six pack abs, cut short by the waist band of his briefs…
      “Surely you wouldn’t throw me out like this.”
      Her regard snapped back to his face. The grin had returned, along with a definite glint in those hypnotic eyes.
      “Don’t be so sure.” One hand came up to clutch together the opened collar of her red button down blouse. Taking a breath, she prayed her cheeks weren’t glowing to match.
      “I stayed with a buddy of mine last night.”
      As if she gave a rip where he’d spent the previous night. “Really.”
      “He lives in the apartment directly above this one.” Hands clasped in front of him, he shrugged. “One thing led to another, and here I am.”
      “Do say.” More irrelevant information shared. It seemed he was compelled to keep talking. Releasing her grip on the blouse, she swept her arm out toward where he’d come from. “Did your friend put you up to this?”
      He shook his head. “Totally my idea.”
      Why doesn’t that surprise me?
      “I figured arriving like this would give us a chance to talk.”
      Shifting her weight to a more solid stance, she folded both arms over her chest. “Are you serious?”
      “Absolutely.” Even white teeth flashed, the mirth of this smile just missing his eyes. “Unless you have somewhere you need to go. A date maybe?”
      “I thought I had a date for this afternoon. It got cancelled.”
      “Which means you’re available?” He took a step toward her.
      She moved an equal distance back. “Not necessarily.”
      The glimmer in that hypnotizing gaze dimmed, and he stopped short. “I swear I don’t intend to hurt you.”
      She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “That’s your opinion.”
      Face aimed toward the kitchen, he sniffed. “Something smells good.”
      She took her eyes off him long enough to glance that way. “I’m making cookies.”
      “What kind?”
      “Christmas cookies.”
      “What kind of Christmas cookies?”
      “All kinds.” Starting to give him a rundown of the varieties she took pride in baking and sharing every year, she clamped her mouth shut.
      “To take to the local nursing home.”
      “Assisted living facility.” Her lower lip came out. “Where my grandmother, the only surviving relative I have, resides.”
      Grin completely gone, gaze dark and serious, he actually winced as her words sunk in. “You got your tree up.”
      She didn’t bother to look over at the six foot artificial fir sparkling from the corner. “Last night. I couldn’t sleep.” The shrug she followed up with was meant to convince him a sleepless night didn’t bother her at all.
      “Same thing happened to me last night. Tossed and turned. When I wasn’t tossing and turning, my mind was revved up. Running a mile a minute. My buddy’s couch wasn’t all that comfortable or nearly big enough.”
      Despite her sensible side putting up a show of resistance, the rest of her, the part which contained her heart, had no trouble coming up with the picture he painted. Him stretched out, full length on his back. Right arm cocked behind his head, left resting on his stomach. Eyes focused on the ceiling.
      A head shake to dispel the image failed her. To banish it once and for all, she glanced over at the tree. Red, green, yellow and blue lights winked at her from within its snow-flocked branches.
      “Not only did I not sleep well last night. I didn’t realize how cold it was outside until I was halfway down.”
      At the sound of his voice, her gaze swung back toward him. Solid biceps flexed as he hugged his arms over a broad chest.
      Wrapped inside of them was like being home.
      Hot tears threatened, a lump edged up to the back of her throat. On a quick breath, she looked away.
      “It’s also pretty cold in here.” He actually shivered then bounced from foot to foot.
      “I might have something you can put on.” For your comfort or mine?
      With one final glance, she turned away to walk to the other side of the living room then reached behind the half opened bathroom door. Lifting the dark blue sweat pants and shirt off the hook, she drew them out then returned to hand them over.
      “Thanks.” As he reached out, their fingers brushed. Heat formed.
      She drew back first. “You’re welcome.”
      The clothes fit perfectly as he slipped into them.
      Why not? They belonged to him.

       Join me here tomorrow for Part Two of Santa's Second Chance! Also, please visit my website.
     

The Santa Tradition by Diane Burton - Part Three

 

The Santa Tradition - Part Three
by Diane Burton

   For the past twenty years, James’ dad had volunteered to play Santa for the children’s holiday party at the Civic Center. When George passed away, the guys at the firehouse asked—begged—James to take his dad’s place. He hadn’t given them his answer and the party was a week away.

   Josie and Mark were home for the semester break. We hadn’t told them about the letter. In fact, we hadn’t talked about it since we came home that devastating day three weeks ago. I was decorating the tree when the phone rang.

   Several minutes later, Mark walked into the family room with a puzzled expression. “That was Steve at the firehouse. He needs to know if Dad is taking Grandpa’s place as Santa this year.”

   “He has to,” Josie said as she handed me one of the sequined ornaments my mother-in-law made. “It’s our family tradition.”

   “Yeah, that’s what I said to Dad and he bit my head off.” Mark fisted his hands on his hips. “He said you threw out the Santa suit.”

   “What?” Josie dropped the Shrinky-Dink ornament she’d made in second grade. “Mo-ther. How could you?”

   Oh, right. Blame me. James and I were going to have that talk a lot sooner than planned. Whether he wanted to or not.

   “Your father is mistaken,” I said with extreme patience. “I had to repack the Santa suit in another box. It’s out in the garage.” Hidden among the myriad boxes and furniture from my in-laws’ house.

   Once James got motivated—his anger toward his parents had one positive effect—in three weeks we’d emptied the house, had the estate sale, hired a cleaning crew, and put the house on the market. Thanks to staging the house for Christmas, it sold yesterday.

   One of our problems solved. Now onto the next one. Getting James into the Christmas spirit. He didn’t want anything to do with it. He hid in his office watching football while I decorated our house.

Before I could warn the kids to leave their dad alone, they both rushed downstairs to his “man cave” aka his office.

   “Dad, Dad,” they hollered.

   “You can be Santa,” Josie yelled. “Mom said the Santa suit wasn’t thrown away.”

   “Yeah, Dad. The suit’s in the garage,” Mark added.

   Seconds later James tromped up the basement stairs. He went straight to the front closet and yanked out our jackets so hard the hangars clattered on the floor. The kids followed, bewilderment on their faces. When he threw my jacket at me, the two gave each other wary looks.

   “We need to talk, Megan.” He frog-marched me out to the deck, slamming the slider behind us.

   I slipped on the snow-covered deck and had to grab the railing instead of James who was already halfway down the steps. When I pulled on my jacket, I saw Josie and Mark staring through the glass door. I held up a finger and smiled. Everything’s fine. Mom will handle this.

   When I reached the bottom of the stairs, James grabbed my arm and trudged through the snow. Real considerate, my husband. He had on boots. I wore my fuzzy Yoda slippers.

   As soon as we got to the edge of the woods, he whirled me around. “I told you to throw out that damn Santa suit.”

   “Yeah? Well, I don’t have to listen to you. That suit is part of your family tradition.”

   “Obviously, not my family.”

   His sneer made me so mad all my pent up anxiety over his anger at his father exploded. I slugged him in the jaw. He reeled backward and landed in the snow.

   I shook my hand. Damn, that hurt. “You are a jerk.”

   After I pounced on him, I grabbed a handful of snow to soothe my swelling hand.

   As Josie and Mark came running outside, without coats, I had a better idea of what to do with the snow in my hand. I smushed it into James’ face.

   “Mom? Dad? What’s going on?” Josie cried.

   “This means war.” Jamie rolled me over and shoved snow down the front of my open jacket, into my V-neck Doctor Who T-shirt with a wreath on the front of the TARDIS. I never even saw him scoop up the wet stuff.

   I squealed and tried to get up. He snagged my ankle, making me fall facedown into the snow.

   Mark ran up and stood over us. “Have you two lost your mind?”

   I glanced at Jamie. A twinkle glinted in his eyes. I knew what that meant. As I scooped up some snow, he helped me to my feet. We each let go of a snowball. Our mental telepathy was dead on. He got Mark in the chest while mine hit Josie’s arm.

   Ten minutes later, we were all laughing as we tromped up the deck stairs. We probably should have gone in through the garage and shaken off the snow. Jamie took my wet jacket into the half bath and returned with a towel. Instead of throwing it at me, he gently rubbed my wet hair before making me sit at the kitchen island while he rubbed my even wetter feet.

   “What were you so mad about?” That was our Josie. No keeping things inside for her. “Dad? Why did you drag Mom outside?” Then she aimed her narrowed eyes at me. “I can’t believe you hit him.”

   That sobered everyone.

   “Your mother and I need to talk.” Jamie took my hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, then led me into our bedroom. After he closed the door, he leaned back against it. “You were right. I was being a jerk earlier. I’m sorry, but I—”

   “Don’t go spoiling a good apology by trying to justify it.” I sat on his mother’s cedar chest at the foot of our bed. “It is time we talked.”

   After crossing his arms, he pursed his lips the way he always did that meant he wasn’t going to like what I had to say but would listen.

   “I kept the Santa suit for Mark. You had no right to take that away from him. He loved your dad.” When James started to speak, I held up my hand. “George was your dad. He was Josie and Mark’s grandfather. By his actions, he proved he was a better father than you are.”

   He snapped his head up so fast it hit the door. “What the hell—”

   “You’re a great father because those children we’ve just scared half to death are your own flesh and blood. George was a great father when he didn’t have to be. He didn’t have to marry your mother. He did so because he loved her. And he loved you because you were part of her. Do not take away our children’s heritage because of your pity party.” I walked toward him. “Now please move so I can go out there and reassure Josie and Mark that we’re not getting a divorce.”

   “Divorce? Who said anything—”

   “Think about how you’ve been acting.”

   I told the kids their dad was still having a hard time losing Grandpa. And that I would call Steve at the firehouse and tell them to get someone else to play Santa this year.

   “No,” Mark said. “I want to do it. It’s our family tradition. If Dad doesn’t want to play Santa, I will.”

   On Saturday morning, I offered to help Mark with Santa’s beard, mustache, and wig.

   He gave me an odd look. “Thanks, Mom. Josie said she’d help me.”

   I was arranging the nativity set on the mantle when “Santa” came up behind me. In the mirror, I could see Josie had done a great job helping Mark with the whole shebang. But then he put his arms around me and said, “Have you been a good girl this year, little Meggie?”

   That wasn’t Mark’s voice nor Mark’s arms.

   Oh my gosh. “Jamie?”

   He shook his finger at me. “Why aren’t you dressed, Mrs. Claus?”

   “Yeah, Mom. How come you aren’t dressed?” Mark smirked. He and Josie were clad in elf costumes.

   “I don’t understand?”

   “Here, Mom.” Josie held out a red and white costume.

   Jamie clasped my shoulders. “I thought about what you said. I won’t muck up my apology this time. This was Dad’s.” He waved his hand over the Santa suit. “I thought it was time we made our own family tradition.”

That afternoon, we all rode the fire truck to the Civic Center. Mark and Josie stood on either side of us. I held Santa’s hand as he “Ho-ho-ho’d” and waved to those along the way. Jamie didn’t look the way his dad had in the Santa suit.

He looked even better.

Come back tomorrow to read Margo Hoornstra's story, Santa's Second Chance.

Diane Burton writes science fiction romance and romantic suspense. "The Santa Tradition" is her second short story since high school, *mumble* years ago. Read about Diane’s books at her website: http://www.dianeburton.com/

The Santa Tradition by Diane Burton - Part Two

The Santa Tradition - Part Two
by Diane Burton

   Of all the things James could have said, I didn’t expect that. “What do you mean George wasn’t your father?”

   He let me go. As he walked back to the sofa, I missed his warmth, his strength. He sunk into the old too-short sofa then reached for the yellow legal-size paper on the lamp table. His hand hovered over the paper as if he didn’t want to touch it. I recognized his dad’s—George’s—handwriting. He loved using a legal pad to write the newsy letters he sent to us when he and Mary went to Florida. They always began the same. “Your mother is off shopping . . .” And ended the same way four to five pages later. “Well, your mother is back . . .”

   James picked up the letter and thrust it at me. “Everything was a lie.”

Dear Jamie,

I always thought I would say this to your face. But if you’re reading this, it means I never did. Your mother couldn’t bring herself to tell you. I suppose we should have when you were young. But time flies, as they say, and then she was afraid you would be mad or worse ashamed of her. I begged her to tell you and while she was alive it was her story to tell. Not mine. Never mine.

Now that she’s gone, I guess it’s up to me. I’m not your father. I hate writing that. Worse I hate the man who is. Rather I hate what he did to your mother. Your real father took off after he found out she was pregnant. I’d always loved your mother—ever since the first day I saw her in kindergarten. My God, how long ago was that! She only saw me as her best friend.

Her folks wanted her to give up the baby. She cried on my shoulder that she didn’t want to. I knew then I wanted that baby—you—as much as I wanted her to marry me.

Somewhere in that box of cards and letters your mother kept is information about him. She wanted you to know who he was if you ever wanted to find him.

Maybe that’s why I never told you. Selfishly I couldn’t bear it if you went looking for him while I’m alive. Now . . . Well, it’s your choice.

Know this though—I’ve always thought of you as my own son. How I wish it had been so. You, Jamie, are the child of my heart.

Please forgive your mother for never telling you the truth about who you are. And if you can find it in your heart, forgive an old man for keeping silent.

Love, Dad

P.S. Without thinking, I signed this letter the way I always sign off. Maybe I should have written “Love, George.”

   Stunned by what I’d read, I dropped onto the sofa next to James and let the paper flutter to the floor. I wrapped my arm around his stiff shoulders. For several minutes we sat there in silence. What was there to say? Suddenly, I realized that nothing else mattered—not the cleaning, not the packing. James needed me more than I ever thought possible.

   “How could they keep this from me?” The anguish in his voice tore at my heart.

   “Jamie, he was your father. A father sticks around. He’s there for the good and the bad. The man whose genes you carry wasn’t really your father. George was.”

   Abruptly, James shrugged off my arm, my comfort, and stood. He whirled on me. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing Merry Sunshine? My life has been turned upside down and you give me platitudes.”

   I felt like I’d been stabbed in the heart. That fast, he’d raced through denial into the second stage of grief—anger. I couldn’t blame him. He’d been dealt a triple whammy. Job loss, George’s death, and now this. I’d spoken too soon. He wasn’t ready to hear logic. Holding onto my hurt, I let him vent.

   “I’ll clean out the damn attic. The sooner we get rid of this place the better.” He strode through the living room. When he got to the hall, he yanked so hard to pull down the folding stairs to the attic they sprang back into place with a bang.

   He needed space. I needed to know what to do to help. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I was trying to “fix” him the way he tried to fix me when Mom died. He needed to work things out for himself. That didn’t mean I was going to give up.

   I picked up George’s letter and read it again. I heard the torment he must have felt as he wrote. How I wished he had told James in person. Yet, I understood why he hadn’t. I wasn’t making excuses for him or Mary. I would have to be patient—not my strong suit—and let James find his way.

   If I’d known how hard that would be, I would’ve given him that well-deserved kick in the pants.

   A box landed on the hallway floor with a thud.

   James yelled down, “Throw that in the trash.”

   Finally, he was making decisions. When I got to the stairs, I realized how mistaken I was. Spilling out of the broken box was the Santa suit.

Come back tomorrow for the conclusion of "The Santa Tradition."