The Lodge on Holly Road. Sheila Roberts

Casserole

       Copyright

Chapter One

      Jolly Old Saint Nicholas

      The toddler wasn’t simply crying. Oh, no. These were the kind of earsplitting screams that would make the strongest department-store Santa want to run for his sleigh. Her face was a perfect match for James Claussen’s red Santa suit, and both her eyes and her nose had the spigot turned on full blast.

      What was he doing here, sitting on this uncomfortable throne, ruling over a kingdom of fake snow, candy canes and mechanical reindeer? What had possessed him to come back to work? He didn’t want to be jolly, even imitation jolly.

      “Come on, Joy,” coaxed the little girl’s mother from her spot on the sidelines of Santa Land. “Smile for Mommy.”

      “Waaah,” Joy responded.

      I understand how you feel, James thought. “Joy, that’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. Can you give your mommy a big smile?” he coaxed.

      “Waaah,” Joy shrieked, and began kicking her feet. The black patent leather shoes turned those little feet into lethal weapons. Come tomorrow he’d have a bruise on the inside of his left thigh.

      “Ho, ho, ho,” James tried, but the shrieks only got louder.

      Okay, this was as good as the picture with Santa was going to get. He stood and handed off the child, who was still kicking and crying, barely dodging an assault to the family jewels in the process. The jewels weren’t so perfect now that he was sixty-six but they were still valuable to him and he wanted to keep them.

      Shauna Sullivan, his loyal elf, sent him a sympathetic look and ushered up the next child, a baby girl carried by her mother. Rosy-cheeked and alert, probably just awake from a nap, the baby was dolled up in a red velvet dress with white booties on her feet and a headband decorated with a red flower. She was old enough to smile and coo but not quite old enough to walk or, thank God, kick Santa where it hurt.

      This baby girl reminded him of his daughter, Brooke, when she was a baby, all smiles and dimples. Big brown eyes that looked at him in delighted wonder. Oh, those were the days, when his kids were small and Faith was still...

       Don’t go there.

      “And what would this little dumpling like for Christmas?” he asked, settling the baby on his lap.

      For a few seconds it looked as if she was actually concentrating on an answer. But then a sound anyone who’d had children could easily recognize, followed by a foul odor, told him she’d been concentrating on something else. Oh, man.

      “Smile, Santa,” Krystal, the photographer, teased, and the smelly baby on his lap gurgled happily.

      James had never been good with poopy diapers but he gave it his best effort and hoped he looked like a proper Santa.

      Finally, they were down to the last kid in line. Thank God. After this, Santa was going home to enjoy a cold beer.

      That was about the only thing he’d enjoy. Oh, he’d turn on the TV to some cop show, but he wouldn’t really watch it. Then he’d go to bed and wish the days wouldn’t keep coming, forcing him to move on.

      He especially dreaded the next day, December 24. How he wished he could skip right to New Year’s Day. Or better yet, go backward to New Year’s Day two years ago, when he and Faith were planning their European cruise.

      Stay in the moment, he told himself. Stay in character. He put on his jolliest Santa face and held out a welcoming arm to the next child.

      This one was going to be a terror; he could tell by the scowl on the kid’s freckled face as he approached. He was a big, hefty burger of a boy, wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt, and could have been anywhere between the ages of ten and thirteen. Logic ruled out the older end of the spectrum. Usually by about eight or nine, kids stopped believing.

      “And who have we got here?” James asked in his jolly I-love-kids voice.

      Normally he did love kids and he loved playing Santa, had been doing it since his children were little. He’d always had the husky build for it, although when he was younger Faith had padded him out with a pillow. No pillow necessary now. And no need for a fake beard, either. Mother Nature had turned his beard white over the past few years.

      These days he wasn’t into the role, wasn’t into Christmas, period. Santa had lost his holiday spirit and he was starting to lose his patience, too. Very un-Santa-like. He should never have agreed to fill in today, should have told Holiday Memories to find another Santa.

      His new customer didn’t answer him.

      “What’s your name, son?” he asked, trying again.

      “Richie,” said the boy, and landed on James’s leg like a ton of coal.

      “And how old are you, Richie?”

      “Too old for this. This is stupid.” The kid crossed his arms and glared at his mother.

      “So you’re twelve?” James guessed.

      “I’m ten and I know there’s no such thing as Santa. You’re a big fake.”

      Boy, he had that right.

      “And that’s fake, too,” Richie added.

      James was usually prepared for rotten-kid beard assaults, but this year his game was off and Richie got a handful of beard before James could stop him. He yanked so hard he nearly separated James’s jawbone from the rest of his skull. For a moment there he saw stars, and two Richies. As if one wasn’t bad enough.

      “Whoa there, son, that’s real,” James said, rubbing his chin, his eyes watering. “Let’s take it easy on old Santa.”

      Now Richie’s mother was glaring, too, as though it was James’s fault she’d spawned a monster.

      “Look, Richie,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re both men here. We know this is all pretend.”

       And Christmas is a crock and life sucks. So deal with it, you little fart.

      James reeled in his bad Santa before he could get loose and do any damage. Good Santa continued, “But your mom wants this picture. One last picture she can send to your relatives and brag about what a great kid you are.” Not. “Can you man-up and pose so she can have a nice picture of you for Christmas?”

      Richie scowled at him suspiciously, as if he was up to some strange trick.

      James sweetened the holiday pot. “I bet if you do, you’ll get what you want for Christmas.” Now the kid was looking less adversarial. James pressed his advantage. “Come on, kid. One smile and we can both get out of here. Whaddya say?”

      Richie grunted and managed half a smile and Krystal captured it. “But you’re still a fake,” Richie said.

      And you’re still a little fart. “Ho, ho, ho,” James replied, and rocketed the boy off his leg, sending him flying.

      “Hey, he shoved me,” Richie said to his mother, and pointed an accusing finger at James.

      “Trick leg,” James said apologetically. “Old war injury. Merry Christmas,” he called and, with a wave, abdicated his holiday throne.

      “Okay,” he said to Shauna, “I’m out of here.” Thank God today was over. He was never doing this again. He didn’t care if every Santa on the planet was home with the flu.

      “You can’t go yet,” she protested, and began looking desperately around the mall.

      After a ten-hour day? Oh, yeah, he could. “No kids, and it’s ten minutes till the end of our shift. We’ll be okay to leave.