“Yes and no. But I really don’t want to talk about this.” My stomach roiled.
“That’s fine. Then we won’t.” His eyes met mine, and for a second, it felt as though he could see into my heart. “But if there comes a Christmas Eve when you need to talk to someone, I’ll be here, okay?”
He meant it. I could hear it in his voice.
My throat tightened. “Thank you,” I croaked.
He pointed to the plate on the mantelpiece. “I left you a cookie, same as last year.”
That made me smile. “Thanks. Chocolate chip this year, right?”
He grinned. “Delicious.” Then he cocked his head. “Ben stopped believing in me, didn’t he?”
I nodded, amazed as always at how he knew stuff. “But then, he doesn’t know whatIknow.” My secret brought warmth and comfort to me, especially on those days when nothing went right. Our fourth encounter was every bit as magical as the first, and I loved how… right it felt to talk with him.
“This chat will have to be shorter than the last times,” Santa confided. “I seem to have more deliveries to make than ever before.” He rose to his feet. “But I’ll be here next year.”
“Do you have to go right now?”
He frowned. “Is something wrong?”
I bit my lip, then held my arms wide. “Could… could I have a hug?”
He smiled. “Of course you can.”
I leaped to my feet, hurrying over to wrap my arms around him. He enfolded me in a tight hug, and I was surrounded by warmth. There was a scent that clung to his cloak, something I couldn’t place, but it seeped into me, calming my nerves, instilling in me a sense of optimism that things really would turn out okay.
“Have a good day tomorrow.” His voice rumbled through his chest.
“Thank you. And you, have a rest.”
He laughed as he released me. “You can be sure of that.” He clicked his fingers, and he was gone.
I stared at the spot where he’d stood.
Maybe next year I’ll be brave enough.I couldn’t find the courage to tell my parents, but maybe I could tell Santa I thought I was gay.
When I was seventeen
1984
The firelight flickered, and I stared into the heart of the flames. “Don’t you have a fire where you live?” Five years since we’d first met, and he’d never once talked about his home.
Santa smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think fires are meant to be shared.”
His words knotted my stomach.Can’t you share them with Mrs. Claus?Come to think of it, he’d never mentioned her either. Oh God. Was she nothing like she was portrayed? Was she an evil old battle-ax who kept Santa under her thumb?
I was letting my imagination run riot. Santa was nothing like I’d pictured, so it stood to reason that his wife would be unlike any images of her.
Santa held up the glass I’d placed in his hand. “This feels positively wicked.”
“I’m sure lots of people leave you a glass of whiskey,” I commented.
“Yes, they do, but I never drink it.” He pointed to the bottle that stood on the table beside him. “When I saw what you were offering, I caved. It’s my favorite.”
I beamed. “It’s my dad’s too.” That did it. No more milk for Santa. I’d make sure there was whiskey ready for him.
Santa leaned back, his glass in one hand, twirling a strand of his beard between thumb and forefinger. “This is just what I needed.”