Page 2 of Ewan

The white button down fitted dress shirt is tucked neatly inside my skirt.

I picked up both pieces at a garage sale here on Long Island a couple of months back, along with a few other things like an antique mirror and a hand-knitted shawl with matching gloves in perfect condition that the intended recipient apparently had never gotten the chance to wear.

I thought it was nice that someone had gone to all that trouble to knit a gift like that for someone else.

Along with the clothing came a stack of old books, a painting of a woman sitting in front of a mirror, and a vintage radio that still works.

My eyes move to the shoes.

The heels are too much for an evening like this, but for some reason––other than killing my feet––they make me feel extra confident.

Plus, they match the color of the pendant and my eyes.

I thought a crisp white shirt, a deep crimson skirt, and dark purple shoes would make for a nice combination, and they do.

Despite being solid, the colors add a touch of sophistication to my look, not too much to make it all about me, yet not too little to look like I don’t care.

Frantic noises precede the sharp knock on the door.

I spin around, my eyebrows lifted just as Kailey, one of my helpers, bursts into the bathroom, her cheeks aflame.

“Good. You’re here…” she says, panting, although relieved.

That can’t be good.

“What happened?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at her.

The woman with cheeks in need of a fire hose lets the door drop and closes it quickly, her arm extended, her phone squeezed in her hand.

“We have a problem,” she says, flicking her chin toward her phone. A shiver of dread moves through my bones. “Santa got himself arrested,” she drones on. “And the woman from the agency has no one available for tonight. Please, talk to her,” she says in a softer voice, which makes me suspect the woman from the agency is on the line.

I palm her phone and press it against my chest to mute the microphone before asking her under my breath. “What exactly happened to him?”

“He drove under the influence. And they also found some drugs on him,” she reports briskly.

My heckles rise.

“What??” I push out forcefully. “What?” I ask again, my jaw more relaxed this time. “I thought he was vetted thoroughly. They ran a background check on him, didn’t they?”

“They did. But these things happen. They’ll refund our money, but they can’t find a replacement so quickly. That’s what Melissa said.”

I have no idea who Melissa is, and it must show on my face since she points her forefinger to her phone.

I suck in a puff of air and talk again, this time in a contrived voice.

“Melissa, hi. Yes. This is a big problem for us.”

The woman at the other end of the phone line lives in the blazing pits of hell for the next few moments as she excuses herself profusely––although it’s not her fault––and explains to me that she has done her due diligence and something like that has never happened to her.

The more I listen to her, the more I realize we’re in deep shit. And it’s mostly me.

Where do I find a new Santa now? Only a couple of hours away from when he was supposed to meet the children?

Cold sweat turns into sticky, warm perspiration before morphing into cold sweat again as I go through every possible scenario.

Should I call someone else and offer them the job?

Who am I supposed to call? I don’t know anyone personally.

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