Make Way for Mrs. Claus: A Romantic Christmas Story Read online

unconsciously begin to slow down.

  “Lily,” Mr. Bridges says furiously. “We’re already late to Santa’s Snowflake Village. Now, quit dragging Blake’s boots!”

  Something… happens… to Mr. Bridges before we burst through the double doors leading to Santa’s Snowflake Village.

  For all his talk of being late, he takes a pause, then a deep breath, then mutters some kind of mantra, like actors do while staring into their dressing room mirrors, then he stands two inches taller, puts one hand on each of the doors and swings them open dramatically.

  Fixing a leaden smile to his rubber face, Bridges leads me forth into the maddening throngs.

  My breathing is already heavy as the crowd begins to notice the giant red figure with the bugling belly and clomping boots whose suddenly stumbled into their midst.

  “Hey,” I hear one kid scream. “It’s Santa!”

  Then another bursts, “SANTA CLAUS!!!”

  They make a mad dash for us, sneakers on waxed linoleum, as Bridges runs interference, muttering over his shoulder the whole while, “Keep that smile going, Lily; this may be the only Santa these kids get to see this year.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I murmur, earning myself a quick reproach from Bridges.

  “Silence,” he snaps. “Santa only speaks when spoken to!”

  Children start tugging and pulling, despite my own personal bodyguard’s best efforts.

  I smile through the nausea I’m feeling, and blink behind the suddenly foggy eyeglasses.

  I wave on instinct, hands muggy in their floppy white gloves as I try not to step on any of the children’s eager, dancing feet.

  Santa’s Snowflake Village looms a few yards away, a purposeful oasis of calm (for now, anyway) just outside the already bustling food court.

  It has little gingerbread storefronts that are empty in back, and a giant electric train called the Snowflake Express that runs all around the village.

  Fake snow mounds abound, piled high with shimmering red and green foil-wrapped packages as even faker snowmen wave dusty, plastic stick arms.

  The Christmas music is doubly loud here because it sits equidistant between four of the mall’s biggest speakers, all trained directly at our faces every night!

  (So help me if I hear the barking dogs’ version of “12 Days of Christmas” one more time I might just switch careers from Santa’s Helper to animal control!)

  There is a purple velvet rope and my stand-in for the night, Roberta Johnson from House wares (looking fab in a slapped together elf costume), greets me with a demure smile as she unclasps it for Mr. Bridges and me.

  “Break a leg,” she whispers, refastening the rope and sliding her arm into the handle of the red and green basket she’ll use to hand out miniature candy canes all night.

  “If only that would get me out of this,” I murmur weakly.

  Roberta gives me a sympathetic smile that is heavy with relief that it’s her out there and me in here.

  The giant, red velvet throne sits empty and waiting.

  Mr. Bridges leads me to it, milking his moment in the spotlight for every last second as kids begin lining up in throngs on the other side of Roberta’s VIP line.

  I can hear them whispering, gurgling and suddenly I feel like retching.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of Santa.

  Not just going to see him, which has always been terrifying in its own right, but… just… anything having to do with him.

  The decorations in my house are all snowmen and angels and candy canes and snowflakes, never Santa.

  I’ve even gone so far as to toss out the Santa cookie cutter that comes in the set of six I inevitably have to buy each season because I’ve lost one or two throughout the year.

  I don’t give my friends Santa gift bags and they know not to send me Santa greeting cards.

  Blake knows it, too; he’s always ribbing me about it on our frequent breaks by the pretzel stand where the perky blond coed behind the counter always gives him a free frozen lemonade because “he’s doing so much for the kids.”

  Yeah, right; if the kids only knew how their precious “Santa Blake” curses their names every time one of them steps on his toes, bites his finger or tinkles on his lap, he might not get so many adoring stares – OR frozen lemonades.

  Who am I kidding?

  Blake is charming in or out of the Santa suit.

  Me?

  Not so much.

  I’m about to crash and burn, live and in person, which actually might not be such a bad thing.

  At least after that, no one will ever ask me to play Santa again.

  The throne beckons, at last; there’s no avoiding it any longer.

  The kids are squirming, Roberta’s giving me “get on with it” death glares from the sidelines and Mr. Bridges is doing everything but literally shoving me down into the plush red seat – and don’t think he wouldn’t if there weren’t about 400 impressionable witnesses watching carefully, either.

  I take the seat only after bending my trembling knees to literally force myself to sit down, hands quivering as I grip the wide armrests tightly.

  “Remember the drill, Lily,” Mr. Bridges reminds me one last time before deserting me until my first break – in an ungodly 2 ½ hours! “One brief ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ when they sit, ask their name, nod like you’re listening, ask what they want, nod again like you’re listening, one more ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ as they leave and… lather, rinse, repeat, got it?”

  I nod nauseously, looking up with pained eyes he promptly ignores.

  He walks briskly away as I readjust myself to get comfortable and try to shove down the pillow-padding covering my lap enough so that it feels more natural.

  I watch as he shares a conspiratorial laugh with Roberta, no doubt at my expense, before giving her the signal to unleash my first visitor of the night.

  I swallow, wishing I’d brought along a bottled water like Blake always does.

  My mouth is dry and stale as a little girl of about eight strides up confidently, looking adorable in a gingham jacket with a bright red scarf.

  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” I say in my normal voice, suddenly realizing: I’m a girl!

  I quickly bellow, louder this time and deeper, much, much deeper, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”

  It sounds tight and strained and a little… scary.

  She says, as if we’ve known each other all our lives, “You sound funny, Santa.”

  “Sorry, little girl,” I grumble, giving my best Santa Blake impersonation. “What’s your name?”

  “Sylvia Collins,” she says, still skeptical as I pat my knee in the universal Santa gesture for “plant your bottom here, oh nosy one.”

  “You still sound funny,” she says inquisitively, looking up into my green eyes. “Almost like… a girl!”

  I shake my head and grumble, “That’s silly; everyone knows Santa’s a boy!”

  She looks at me funny and says, almost hopefully, “But he could be a girl, right?”

  I cock my head and smile. “It’s Santa we’re talking about here, Sylvia, remember? Anything’s possible!”

  That seems to put her mind at ease, at which point I kind of wish I’d left her feeling uncomfortable because now she feels free to list every toy she’s ever wanted, since birth, in alphabetical order.

  “Which toy do you want most?” I ask, remembering this little trick from listening to Blake six nights a week for the last month.

  “More than any other toy,” I add before Sylvia can debate any longer.

  “The Molly Madison Organic Bread Bakery!” Sylvia practically shouts, giving me the segue I need to gently nudge her off my knee and onto the red velvet lined step in front of me.

  “Sounds fun,” I say. “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

  Sylvia looks disappointed until I finally wink at her; then she winks back – it takes a little effort – and runs off to join her Mom waiting on the other side of Santa’s Snowflake Village.

  I watch as Sylvia stret
ches high on her polished black dress shoes – “Did she dress up to come see Santa?” I wonder idly – and whisper something in her mother’s ear.

  Mom looks at me with a slightly quizzical expression, then… smiles… nodding in confirmation of something, to Sylvia’s obvious relief.

  Her eyes are warm and almost… grateful.

  Word spreads quickly along the kiddy grapevine, to the point where before I’ve even uttered my second “Ho” the kids are curious to find out if Santa really IS a girl.

  The boys are skeptical, doubtful, almost… resentful.

  That is, until I growl and tickle them and then they don’t care anymore; they just want their toys.

  The girls, though, are taking this very, very seriously.

  They want to know how this works; I tell them Santa’s an equal opportunity saint.

  They want to know if the reindeer respect me; I tell them all except for that “Dancer jerk.”

  They want to know why I’m wearing a suit, not a dress; I tell them I spilled hot chocolate on my dress.

  It doesn’t take much to convince them; half the time they’ve spent so long grilling me that when Roberta shoots me her “that kid’s been on your lap too long” death glare of hers and I gently shoo them off, they disappear without even