A Gift For Santa. Beth Carpenter
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her to Jason, the better.
“No luck, Marissa,” Becky called as she hurried toward them. When she realized who Marissa was talking to, her face lit up. “Chris!”
“Becky, how are you?” He opened his arms to hug the small, plump woman. “I thought I’d find you here. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you. So you trucked in the snow?”
“Yes. My snowplowing business isn’t doing so well this winter, so I jumped at the chance to earn a little extra hauling it down from the mountains.”
Becky stepped closer to the track. “It looks great. Where did you get the grooming equipment?”
“I borrowed it from the Nordic Ski Club. They’re not using it. So, where’s Oliver? I’d like to say hello.”
Marissa didn’t want to get into explanations. “He couldn’t make it today. He’s not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It won’t be the same without him playing Santa.”
“No. In fact...” Marissa could all but see the light bulb go on over Becky’s head as her aunt said, “We’re having a little problem.”
Marissa gave her own head a brief shake. No, no, no. The last thing she needed was to spend a whole evening with Chris. Not with their history. Even if it meant forcing Dillon into the role. In fact, she’d play Santa herself before she’d let Chris worm his way back into her life.
He glanced at her in time to see her trying to wave Becky off, and the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. Uh-oh. She knew that look.
Her aunt bumbled on, either completely missing Marissa’s signals or ignoring them. “Our substitute Santa backed out at the last minute. It looks like you’re about done with the snow. Would you be willing to fill in for Oliver?”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “You want me to play Santa?”
“Chris can’t do Santa.” Marissa tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t like children.”
He frowned at her. “That’s not true. I have nothing against kids.”
“But you said—”
He turned to Becky. “I’ll do it. Where do I get a costume?”
“We’ve got everything you need. Marissa will get you fixed up.” Becky beamed at him. “Thank you, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”
“No problem. I just have to finish this pass and send my guys home with the equipment.” He caught Marissa’s eye, and there was a challenge in his gaze. “I’ll be back.”
She met his stare without blinking. “I’ll be here.”
* * *
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Chris slouched in his chair while Marissa smeared petroleum jelly around the edges of his beard. “Is this really necessary?” he muttered.
She smirked. “Unless you want white dye all over your skin. Trust me, when I wipe it off, you’ll be glad.”
“Why can’t I just wear the fake beard, like everyone else?” Sure, Oliver had a real beard, but then his was naturally white.
“Real is better. We might as well take advantage of yours.”
“Great.” What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t dislike kids, no matter what Marissa said, although it was true he had little experience with them. But when he’d seen how much she hated the idea of him playing Santa, he couldn’t resist yanking her chain. Besides, Becky was in a bind and he was fond of her and Oliver, in spite of everything. They weren’t the ones who’d dumped him.
Marissa held a spray can near his face. “Ready?”
“I guess.”
“Keep your eyes and mouth closed.” With a hiss of aerosol, she started turning his beard white. A little tickle followed her progress. She paused to shake the can. “Hang on. It’s not easy to cover all these red whiskers.”
He scowled and looked up at her. “My beard is brown.”
A hint of amusement glinted from those green-blue eyes of hers, the exact color of the Kenai River on a sunny day. “Sure it is. Close your eyes and don’t talk, unless you want a mouthful of dye.” She took so long he wondered if she was stretching out the process on purpose, but finally, she finished.
He reached for his beard, but she slapped his hand away. “Let it dry.”
“This stuff does wash out, right?”
Marissa snickered and started smearing petroleum jelly across his forehead.
“You have to do my hair, too?”
She pushed a stray lock away from his face. “No, the wig and hat will cover that, but Santa can’t have red—excuse me, brown—eyebrows.” She used to tease him about his hair when they were together. She’d run her fingers through the thick waves and say she was jealous.
Her own hair was perfectly straight, a warm brown that glowed even under the fluorescent lights of the closet they were using as a dressing room. He knew if he reached out to stroke it, it would feel like satin ribbons under his hand. She’d changed surprisingly little in ten years. Only the easy smile, the confident optimism, was missing, but that might have more to do with the way they’d parted than the years that had passed.
She was still beautiful, no doubt about that. He’d been drawn to her from the first moment he saw her, laughing as she helped a group of schoolchildren release salmon fry into Chester Creek. He’d interrupted his hike to listen to her explain the salmon’s life cycle. Once the teacher herded the children back onto the school bus, Chris saw his chance. He’d helped Marissa pack some gear into her car, and struck up a conversation. By the time she’d closed the trunk, he was hooked.
Smart, energetic and laugh-out-loud funny when she wanted to be, Marissa had fascinated him. A year later, she’d let him put a ring on her finger. But at twenty-four, Marissa was a woman who knew what she wanted, and wasn’t about to let a little thing like love interfere with her carefully laid plans. A month before the wedding, she’d called the whole thing off.
Maybe he’d dodged a bullet. He hadn’t had a relationship since Marissa that lasted even six months. Sometimes he suspected she’d done him a favor when she broke the engagement, saving them both the agony of a bitter divorce. He wondered how those plans of hers had worked out. Last he heard, she was doing some sort of research on the Gulf Coast. A quick glance reaffirmed the absence of rings on her hands, so maybe the devoted husband and two-point-four kids hadn’t materialized. Not that it mattered to him one way or another. Their relationship was ancient history.
“Eyes closed.” Two puffs on his eyebrows and she started wiping the grease off his skin with a tissue. “Okay, that does it for the dye. So, here’s the routine. I’ll organize the kids and bring them to you one at a time. You set them on your lap, ho, ho, ho a little and ask what they want for Christmas. Then I snap your picture together, you give them a candy cane and we send them on their way.”
“Okay.” Chris nodded. “That sounds straightforward enough.”
“Be enthusiastic, but not too loud. And if they start screaming, don’t force them onto your lap.”
Was she serious? “Screaming?”
Marissa nodded and dipped a fluffy brush in a powder pot. “Imagine if somebody told you to sit on a bearded stranger’s lap. It can be scary.” She reached for his face with the brush. “Hold still.”
Chris pulled away. “Santa wears makeup?”
“Just a little powder so your nose won’t shine in the pictures. Man up.” She tickled his nose and cheeks with the powder. “There. I’ll leave you to get into your costume. The pants are waterproof.”
“I’m