Page 51 of The Art of Being Merry
“You can text her later.Afterwe’ve seen Santa.” He grabs Clementine’s wrist and pulls her out the door.
“Dax, make sure the door’s locked behind you, please,” she calls out as she’s willingly dragged along the walkway.
I double-check the lock. Satisfied we’re good to go, I pull itclosed behind me. Jace waits for me on the porch and slips his hand into mine when I’m next to him.
“Are you excited to see Santa?”
“Yep. It’s going to be amazing. No.” His head shakes from side to side, but his smile enlarges. “Magnifique.”
“I think you’re right.”
Unlike most of the country, a “mall Santa” wouldn’t cut it in Winterberry Junction. Instead, for one Sunday in December, an authentic Santa graces the gazebo in the town square—or in the case of bad weather, the elementary school—and all the children are invited to stop by to sit on his lap and discuss their lists of holiday goodies.
We’ve lucked out this year with a balmy December, and today is no exception. It’s chilly, but the wind isn’t whipping, there’s no snow in the forecast, and the sun is shining. I’d like to think a higher being worked his magic for the Powell boys to experience a true meet and greet with Santa.
There’s a short line for them to wait in. The closer we get to Santa, the edgier Atlas gets. While he’s excited, there’s a layer of anxiety spiraling through him. He’s on a mission, and don’t anyone try and stop him.
When we’re next in line, he turns and faces me and Clementine. “I need to go up by myself.”
“Oh, you need to, huh?” Clementine asks, her fists on her hips.
“Yes, I’ve got some business to discuss, kid to Santa.”
“What about Jace?”
Atlas has the decency to consider him. “He can go when I’m done. I won’t be too long. Just a few minutes.”
Clementine nibbles the skin around her thumb. “What about the people waiting in line behind us? Won’t they be mad having to wait longer?”
“It’s fine,” I hedge, hoping I’m not overstepping. In Clementine’s ear, I whisper, “The elves are there to make sure no one takes too long. He won’t argue when an elf or Santa tells him his time is up.”
“Are you sure about that?” she mutters through clenched teeth. “He’s pretty determined.”
“Guess we’ll see how it plays out.”
“Are you prepared to drag him out of here, kicking and screaming?” Her words are convincing enough for the image to appear in my head.
While I hope it doesn’t come down to that, I nod. “Sure. I can take him.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Next.”
A high school-aged elf ushers Atlas up the stairs to where Santa sits. Instead of sitting on Santa’s lap, Atlas stands in front of him, his hands crossed over his chest. Santa sits up straighter in the chair, his attention on Atlas. He doesn’t get any words in, but he listens attentively to whatever Atlas says, nodding his head, cracking a small smile, never breaking the part.
“Do you aspire to be Santa like your brother?” Clementine asks quietly enough so Jace doesn’t hear.
“No.” My answer is immediate.
It’s never been on my radar to want to be Santa. Dad had the role for about ten years after we stopped coming to this event, and Beck’s had the privilege of playing Santa in the parade the past several years, which has never made much sense to me because Santa is supposed to be old, but no one has complained he’s too young. Of course, Beck soaks it up, loving the attention he gets for the afternoon. Maybe when I’m older, it’ll be more appealing, but for now, I’m content in not donning the suit.
Clementine giggles, causing Jace to look at her. “Noted.”
It seems like Atlas is gone for a while, but I’m sure it’s no longer than three minutes. Before he finishes, Santa beckons him closer, whispering something in his ear. When he spins around to us, his smile is big, the nerves from earlier all but dissipated.
“Your turn, Jacey.” Clementine goes with Jace, who climbs right up on his lap while I usher Atlas down the stairs at the back of the gazebo to wait.
“How’d it go?”
