Page 2 of The Santa Situation
Ididhave an old Santa costume sitting in a box up there somewhere. But …
“I haven’t worn that since you were like three years old. Pretty sure it wouldn’t fit anymore.”
Nathan snorted. “Says the forty-five-year-old who looks better now than he did at twenty-five.”
All right, I might look good for my age, but an almost six-pack wasn’t a guarantee that I’d make a good Santa. Was I reallythinking about stepping in for Jack Dawson? On top of all my other duties tomorrow? The real question was, if I didn’t, who would?
“Okay. I can cover Santa.” I glanced up at Rory. “But we’ll need a Mrs. Claus, too.”
Rory shifted from one foot to the other. “Gabe said he can drop off his mom’s costume in the morning, but I really don’t think it’ll fit anyone.” She glanced down at her chest and back up, her eyes somewhat bugged out.
Immediately, I understood her point. Marjorie Dawson was a dead ringer for Dolly Parton, right down to the incredibly tiny waist and comically oversized boobs.
“Eli says his mom can do it,” Maggie called out, her fingers moving quickly over her phone screen as she exchanged messages with her best friend. “She has a costume she wears for the wreath-making workshop every year.”
Of course Jemma Price had a costume that would work! I honestly didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it first.
Still, I wasn’t about to let our kids rope her into standing out on a boat for an hour while we sailed into the harbor. As mayor, I was obligated to pull out all the stops to see this event through to the bitter end, but that didn’t mean I needed to rope my friend into the spectacle.
“Did Eli actuallyaskJemma if she can do it, or are you two volunteering her?”
Maggie glanced up from her phone, eyes so like her mom’s meeting mine, right down to the guilt that shimmered in them. “I … uh … Ithinkhe asked her.”
I shot a look at Nathan, who had his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Well,thisis an interesting development.”
Itwasinteresting because Jemma Price wasn’t just my daughter’s best friend’s mom. She was also my high school girlfriend. Back then, a lot of folks figured we’d get marriedsomeday. When, instead, we broke up and headed off to separate colleges, those same people scratched their heads. The fact that we then went on to marry other people was even more perplexing. But themostconfusing thing for them was how, despite being exes, Jemma and I were friends, too. Good friends, in fact.
It wasn’t confusing to me—Jemma Price was one of the best damn people I’d ever met, and every day she was in my life, I was a better person for it.
If I sometimes looked at her and thoughtwhat if?, no one but me needed to know that.
“All right,” I said, standing. “Let’s swing by and ask her. Rory, don’t mention this to anyone until we hear what Jemma has to say. Nathan, I’ll text you when we have everything covered.”
Nathan nodded and pushed to his feet. “Good luck,” he said, turning to head out of my office. Rory left when he did.
Slinging my laptop bag over my shoulder, my girls and I locked up the building and made our way out to the parking garage. In the last couple of days, wreaths—courtesy of Flowers by Holly—had been affixed to the street light poles that lined Main Street. Holly had also put together beautiful garlands and swags that now hung over almost every doorway of the commercial district.
Driving out of town past the lighthouse at Holly Point to where the last neighborhood gave way to farmland, my brain was already shifting from the logistics of saving tomorrow’s event to something else entirely. The truth was, I didn’t mind having an excuse to see Jemma. I never did.
As we approached Winterberry Farm, its sign swung a little in the wind while the house’s windows glowed with light from inside. In the distance, hundreds of Christmas trees were lined up in neat, dark rows that crested a hill that would become a prime sledding spot with the first major snowfall of the season.
Once parked, we made our way up the brick path to the front porch. The light flicked on, and my heart did a stupid little thing it always did when I saw Jemma.
She opened the door wearing one of those soft hand-knitted sweaters she was so fond of. “Hey, guys. Come on in,” she said, moving aside to let us pass into the house.
Inside, I breathed in the scent of balsam and cocoa that always seemed to permeate the air here. “Hey Jem.”
I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and for half a second, the gesture transported me right back to when we were seventeen, and I was trying my damnedest to learn every inch of her. Unfortunately, these flashes kept happening with frequent regularity over the past year.
Her son, Eli, jogged in from the kitchen, grinning, and our three kids pounded up the stairs together. Normally, a dad might balk at his daughters hanging out in a handsome teenage boy’s bedroom, but Maggie and Eli had been best friends since kindergarten, and I trusted them implicitly. It also didn’t hurt that Eli had come out on his twelfth birthday.
“I heard about Jack and Marjorie,” Jemma said as we headed toward the living room where a fire blazed in the hearth. “And that you’re going to be Santa.” Her eyes twinkled with playful mischief. “Charlie Emerson, town hero.”
I plopped down onto a sectional that took up most of the room, letting out anoofas the overstuffed cushions enveloped me. This thing wasn’t called a cloud sofa for nothing.
I sank back, heat licking at my shins, and tried not to stare at Jemma and think how pretty she looked in the firelight.
“That’s me,” I agreed with a slight chuckle, lacing my fingers together over my stomach. “But you’re no better. Eli said you volunteered to be Mrs. Claus.”
