Poles Apart (3 page)

After
Sarah collected her luggage at Rovaniemi airport, she hurried to car rentals,
eager to pick up her vehicle and head for that cabin in the forest. She’d spent
much time in thought during her flights and layovers, and used every
opportunity to jot down ideas.
I can’t wait to start writing. But—

She gazed down at the bright red leather
journal that hadn’t left her side all the way from Cape Town. Her thumb moved across
the cover with its embossed floral pattern. What if her ideas didn’t work? What
if she’d travelled all this way and hit the same blank canvas she’d faced at
Hannah’s?

Her fingers tightened around the
journal.
I refuse to accept that. I’m in Lapland—storyworld of my new
manuscript...title unknown.
Maybe ‘Falling for Santa’? That would be good
for a romance.

Groan. How could her heroine fall for
Santa? He was old.

‘Mary Christmas’ perhaps?

Ugh. She’d worry about a title after
she’d written the story.

As Sarah stepped inside the car rental
office, she spotted some local brochures. Stuffing the journal into her
handbag, she picked up a few and scanned the first one. An ad in the top
right-hand corner caught her attention. Santa’s Village.
Just the place I
need to be. Should get some good research done there.

She walked up to the desk and pointed to
the advert, speaking slower with gestures. “Santa’s Village… How far?”

The fair-haired young rental clerk
looked up from the brochure to Sarah. “Not far. Not even five minutes down the
road.” Although accented, he spoke perfect English. He pushed a small map her
way. “We are here. Follow the road marked 951 until you get E75. Turn left.
It’s only a little way up the road, on your right.” He smiled. “Do you have a
reservation?”

“Yes. Jones. Sarah Jones.”

Tapping on the keyboard, he checked the
screen in front of him.

Sarah picked up the map. She’d need
that.

“Ah, yes. Miss Jones. I see you have
requested satellite navigation in your car—in English—so you should have no
problem getting around.”

Of course. She’d forgotten.

The printer beside the clerk hummed.
When it silenced, he picked up the paperwork and pushed the rental agreement
toward Sarah, which she signed. After telling her where she’d find the blue
Nissan Micra, he handed over the keys.

She turned to go, and then stopped. “Toivonen’s
cabins? Do you know where they are?”

“A little farther up the same road. A
few kilometers past Santa’s Village.”

“Thanks. You’ve been most helpful.”

He tipped his head and smiled. “You’re
welcome.”

As Sarah pushed open the door, his voice
followed. “Don’t forget to drive on the right side of the road.”

Right. This would be fun. She was used
to driving on the left.

Sarah crossed the snow-covered parking
lot, thankful for her new fur-lined boots. Red—her color. Dad’s caution on the
phone Thursday night came to mind. “Always make sure you can see the white line
if you look out the driver’s side window.”

She swallowed hard as she looked around.
How was she supposed to do that when the roads were the same color as the line
she was meant to keep in sight? She’d drive slow, concentrate hard.

Sarah flicked on the right indicator as
she approached the tourist attraction. She’d make a quick stop and meet Mr.
Claus. It would be wise to get a feel for the ‘real’ Santa before she put her
fingers to the keyboard again. This journey had been all about doing things on
the spur of the moment
—
why
stop now?

Several large busses stood parked
beneath streetlamps that cast an eerie glow across their rectangular forms. The
dull light spread over the snowy surrounds. What kind of place was this where
night descended before two-thirty in the afternoon? Not that she’d bemoan the
long nights and short days—she wrote better when it was dark. Perhaps that had
been her problem back home...summer days stretching until way past eight in the
evening.

She switched off the engine and gave
herself a mental high-five. She’d made it from the airport to Santa’s Village.
In the snow. In the dark.
Less than five minutes down the road... Pfft, more
like five hours.
She glanced down at the odometer. No way. Two kilometers?
From the airport to here? Goodness, it felt much farther. Hopefully those
cabins were close by.

Armed with her camera, Sarah headed
toward the main building that housed Santa’s office, snapping photographs as
she walked. People bustled about, having fun. Huge snowmen. Christmas lights. Children
sliding down icy ramps.

Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky,
adding to the ambiance. Head back, face up, Sarah stretched out her arms and
twirled, trying like a child to catch the flakes on her tongue. As she licked
the icy specks from her lips, a giggle spilled from her mouth. She might not
have had much to do with Christmas for years, but she was no Scrooge—it would
take a fool not to admit that this magical place screamed Christmas. What a
good decision to come here, even though she’d had to travel almost from one
pole to the other.

Her muse was happy. Very happy.

The wind swirled, and Sarah’s gloved
hands tugged the snow jacket tighter. She smiled, thankful she’d bought it. The
milky color would serve her well, too, allowing her to blend into her
surroundings, unnoticed. She pulled the matching hat lower over her ears and
snapped another photo as she passed a sign that read ‘Arctic Circle.’ Had she
just crossed over, stepped to the other side of that invisible line
circumventing the globe?

Shaking the snow from her boots, Sarah
stepped inside the building. So this was where Santa lived.
Well, Mr. Santa,
here I am. And all I want for Christmas is a good love story.

Snow plopped onto the wooden floor as she
pulled the hat from her head. Had she been outside that long? She checked her
camera. Ninety-eight photos, and only a handful taken on the journey over.
Storyworld
note to self: One can get lost in time in Santa’s world.

To her left, a sign pointed up a long,
curved flight of stairs. An equally long line of people waited on those stairs
to see the old man. Mothers, fathers, children, and grandparents—from all over
the world.

Sarah climbed the first three steps and
joined the queue. She’d barely smiled at the woman in front of her when a
teenage girl, dressed as an elf, hurried to rope off the staircase.

Sarah turned to the red-clad ‘elf’. “Is
the queue always this long?”

“It’s a little busier than usual—there
are still twelve days before Christmas—but word is out that Santa has his
golden retrievers here again. Third day in a row. Everyone wants to get a look
at Santa’s best friends. Especially as they’ll soon have puppies.”

“I see you’ve closed the queue behind
me. Does this mean it will take—”

“Over two hours to get to the top?
Probably. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get to see Santa and give him
your Christmas wish list.” The girl smiled.

Sarah worked her jaw. She didn’t want to
give Santa a shopping list. She needed an interview. Maybe it was a good thing
she was last. But over a two hour wait?

“Perhaps I should come back tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s been rather crazy here
since Thursday and getting worse every day. If Santa has his best friends with
him again tomorrow, you’ll wait even longer, guaranteed.”

Sarah gazed up the staircase, carpeted
with young and old, and released a sigh as she pulled out her red journal.
According to the sign in front of her, she couldn’t take photos, but she could
use the time to sketch what she saw—in both words and drawings.

Pencil in hand, she drew the large red
wheel to her side...a bobbin on steroids with paper messages wound around the
center instead of thread. The framed Guinness World Record certificate beside
it testified to the longest wish list Santa had ever received—75954 wishes.
Impressive.
And they were all there in front of her.

Character sketch—Santa: Well liked.
Popular.
She’d add more to the list, including his physical
attributes, after her visit. Perhaps she could sketch Santa, and then imagine
him as a young man. With those changes, maybe he’d make a suitable hero for her
novel.

Behind the wheel swung a large wooden
pendulum, at least one story high. Sarah’s gaze followed the pendulum to an
enormous wooden cog hanging in the roof like a UFO. An oversized wooden gear
ground its teeth into the cog, moving it around.

“Santa’s time clock,” the woman next in
line explained as she reined in her energetic preschooler.

The child shied away when Sarah looked
at him, attaching himself to his mother’s leg. She wasn’t that scary to kids,
was she? Jonathan and Matthew loved her.

An ache formed in her chest at the
thought of her nephews. It would’ve been great to show them this place.

“Santa stops this clock on Christmas Eve
so he can deliver all the presents in time,” the woman continued.

“Interesting. Thanks.” Sarah jotted down
more notes then set about sketching the enormous timepiece. By the time she
finally reached the top of the staircase, only her friendly neighbor and son
separating her from Saint Nick, Sarah had sketched several views of Santa’s
timepiece.

Saint Nick. She liked that.

She scribbled again in her journal.
Heroes
name—Nick.
With a few minutes to spare, Sarah Googled the meaning on her
phone.
Victory of the people.
Nice.
Now be my victor and come
to my rescue with a love story. Please.

“Hello. Are you ready to meet Santa?”

Sarah started at the elderly ‘elf’
standing at the entrance to Santa’s domain. She’d seen him ushering the last
ten families in, chatting to them at the doorway.

She nodded and opened her bag to tuck
her journal inside. Having a change of mind, she zipped the bag closed. She’d
need to write down the answers to her myriad of questions. Sarah opened the
journal and slid her pen in at the page where she’d penned a long list of questions
for Santa, if he indulged her the time.

Ignoring the elf’s questions about where
she came from and what her name was, she followed him inside. She’d be the one
asking questions this evening, thank you.

“Miss No Name from Nowhere,” he
announced as Sarah entered.

On a raised platform, an enormous
high-backed chair engulfed the bearded old man. Two gorgeous golden retrievers
lay stretched out on the floor beside him. Without lifting their heads, they
raised their eyes to Sarah, and then closed them again. It had obviously been
another long day for the pooches. The female being heavily pregnant to boot,
Sarah could only think how difficult it must be for the poor animal.

Santa gazed at her and smiled. Not that
she could see his smile. White fuzz covered his face except for his eyes, nose
and the tops of his cheeks. And even some of those features where partially
hidden by the spectacles propped low on his nose and resting on his cheeks.
Rather, he smiled with his eyes.

“Miss No Name from Nowhere? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,
that is a first.”

Ha-ha-ha? What happened to Ho-ho-ho?

“Come sit, Miss Name.” He patted the
stool beside him. “Or should I call you No? Ha-ha-ha.”

“No.”
Really?

Eyes wide, Sarah walked across the
wooden floor, taking mental notes.
Large puffy slippers. Red hat and shirt.
White apron. Likes to cook? Long hair—hippie? Hip? Mega-beard. Last
shaved—1920?
She drew a smiley face in her head.

“Sit down, No. I don’t bite. I promise.”

She slipped onto the stool, heart
pounding like one of those teambuilding drumming sessions she’d attended when
she still worked in the corporate world—the days before her first bestseller
that launched her writing career.

Santa was nothing like she’d expected.
On outward appearances he was, but she had never imagined he’d be this young. And
nothing could’ve prepared her for those piercing blue eyes that stared right
through her, lighting up with his smile.

Sarah glanced at his hand holding onto
the armrest. Dead giveaway. Beneath all the red and white trimmings, overgrown
mustache and beard, and bushy eyebrows, Saint Nick wasn’t much older than
herself.