Page 1 of Wrapped Up with the Mountain Man
1
Tannon
The heating unit in the Darkmore Lodge sounds like it's dying a slow, agonizing death. I wedge myself deeper into the cramped space behind the furnace, wrench in one hand, flashlight clenched between my teeth, trying to coax life back into thirty-year-old ductwork.
"Come on, you piece of shit," I mutter around the flashlight, giving the connection another turn.
Christmas decorations mock me from every corner of the basement. Red and green garland, twinkling lights, all that relentless holiday cheer I've avoided for three years. Three years since I've celebrated Christmas, and I plan to keep it that way.
The heating unit shudders back to life with a grateful wheeze. I army-crawl backward out of the tight space, grab my tool bag, and head for the stairs. The ski lift needs work, and I've got a freezer compressor that's making ominous noises.
"Tannon?" Helen Baxter's voice echoes down the wooden stairs, sharp heels clicking. "Are you down there?"
I suppress a groan. Helen's the lodge manager, and she's got that tone that means I'm about to get volun-told into something I'll hate.
"Yeah, I'm here." I shoulder my tool bag. "Heating's fixed."
Helen appears holding a red velvet jacket like evidence in a murder trial. "We have a situation."
I eye the red velvet like it might bite me. "What kind of situation?"
"George called in sick. Food poisoning. The Christmas Eve party is tomorrow night, and you're the only man on staff who fits the Santa suit."
I take a step back. "I don't do Christmas, Helen."
"Fifty families, Tannon. All those kids..."
The mention of kids hits me in the gut. I've spent three years avoiding that particular pain, but Helen knows my weak spots.
"Find someone else."
"There is no one else." Her voice wavers. "You're it."
I want to tell her to stuff it. Want to grab my tools and disappear into the mountains where Christmas carols can't reach me. But she's holding that ridiculous suit, and those disappointed kids are all I can think about.
"I don't know how to be Santa," I say, the words tasting like defeat.
"Sit in a chair, kids sit on your lap, ask what they want for Christmas, ho-ho-ho a few times." Helen's already relaxing, sensing victory. "I'll write you a script."
"I don't want a script."
"But you'll do it?"
I stare at the red velvet, thinking about disappointed kids. About my brother Danny, who always believed in magic right up until an IED outside Kandahar proved otherwise.
"Fine. But I'm not being cheerful about it."
"You're wearing the hat too."
"Helen—"
"Non-negotiable."
I rub my face with both hands. "I'll do it. But don't expect miracles."
"You're a good man, Tannon McKenzie. Better than you think."
I grunt and head toward the stairs. Through the window, I can see snow beginning to fall again – fat flakes that promise a real storm. Maybe Mother Nature will cancel this whole disaster for me.
