The Santa Society
Authors: Kristine McCord
Tags: #holiday inspiration, #Christmas love story, #secret societies, #Christmas stories, #dog stories, #holiday romance, #Christmas romance, #santa claus
The
Santa Society
by
Kristine McCord
Blue Azalea Press
Copyright © 2013 by Kristine McCord
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Any references to real people, historical events, or real locales are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts for review purposes.
First Edition, October 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9890741-2-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9890741-3-1
Library of Congress: 2013950222
Cover Design by Blue Azalea Press
Cover Images by Coka/Shutterstock (man) and
Josh Anon/Shutterstock (snow/cabin scene)
Table of Contents
To Hunter, Logan, William, and Alyssa~ I love you.
Chapter 1
I TURNED 30 YEARS OLD the day I killed my mother. It was Christmas—officially the worst day of my life. I haven’t slept much since then. My heart aches, and now I’m stuck here alone in Christmasville, where joy, peace, and yuletides pervade everything. Except me. I’m just a hollow participant—a recluse. And I hate Christmas.
End of story.
At least, I wish it could be that simple. Soon, a year will have passed. Late November has almost completed its colorful passage into the bereavement of winter. All around me, I see an artist’s pallet. Burnt orange, flaming ruby, and vivid gold adorn every tree and blade of grass like jewels.
A Milky Way wrapper tumbles across the pavement, and I kick it aside. My eyes don't care about beauty, but if they did, they would compare these garnishments to earrings and pendants worn by a proud and loving earth as she heralds the nearness of the biggest day of the year—which, of course, is Christmas, the finale of life embodied in birth, celebration, and the joy of giving.
For me, it’s the anniversary of the worst day of my life, the day I shouldn’t have been born, and the day I honored the only wish on my mother’s Christmas list: to die at home. I should have burned the list.
As I near the coffee shop, I step over a leash tied to a tree. A large dog wiggles his rear end at me, as though I’ll scratch his ears and indulge in his silky fluff of cinnamon colored fur. I stumble as he wraps his leash around my legs mid-stride.
“He loves to make new friends.” The deepest voice I’ve ever heard comes out of nowhere. “Looks like he caught you.” He laughs.
I turn to see a tall man leaning against the corner of the old building that houses the coffee shop. He wears a black cowboy hat, stands with one knee lifted just enough to rest the bottom of his shoe on the wall, and holds a large paper cup in his right hand. Wisps of steam rise out of the plastic hole in the lid, reminding me of chimney smoke. Just above his head, a hand painted message stretches across the umber bricks: Fall in Love with Mistletoe Blend. He wears the words like a second hat.
I wonder how I missed seeing him but abandon the thought as a cold wet nose nuzzles my palm. The dog gazes up at me with gigantic eyes. His nose and mouth are pink and over pronounced—like a primate. He wears an intense expression, as if he fancies himself a person and expects a proper conversation. I find it hard not to speak to him.
“Hi, there.” I bend down to scratch behind his ear.
The dog bows his head to me, a quick maneuver that mimics a formal greeting. It leaves me wondering if he did it intentionally. I blink at him.
He looks at my feet with a sharp downward cast then lifts his large head just as sharply to meet my eyes again. He waits, alert and expectant.
What a strange face for a dog.
For a moment, I begin to feel imposed upon by his intensity. I just wanted a cup of coffee, now I’m caught in a social interaction, as though this dog and I know each other, as though I’ve run into him in the aisle of a grocery store.
I squat down. Immediately, I know I’ve chosen the correct response. He leans into me and rests his head on my shoulder. From this angle, he’s taller than me.
The man laughs again. “He likes you.”
Despite myself, I relax into his fur. I haven't been in such close proximity to another living being since—I close my eyes and see my mother’s face. I feel my arms holding her, wanting to keep her with me and never let her go. Just as my chest seizes with the sorrow that haunts me, I shove her memory away with as much force as I can summon.
As I open my eyes, I sit back on my heels. The dog raises his head and looks me right in the eye. Somehow, he knows what I’ve done.
He does not turn his back on me, though. He waits.
I still haven’t spoken to the man who leans on the wall. I hear his shoe scuff the pavement and realize he’s taken a few steps closer.
I look up. “What kind of dog is this?”
“The kind who knows a lot.” For a moment, laugh lines swallow his dark eyes. When his face relaxes, curiosity shapes them round like glittering onyx. I realize he’s probably not much older than me, maybe even my age.
“No, I mean, what breed?” I clarify, trying to decide if he means to be funny or serious.
“Oh, well that’s a good question. No idea.”
I turn back to the dog and rub the sides of his face in different directions. It gives him a mushy look like play-dough in my hands. He closes his eyes.
“He looks like a mastiff. I had one once, as a kid. He’s the color of a chocolate lab, though.”
“I agree,” he says.
“Well, I better get going.” I glance at my watch and see I’ve wasted more time than I should’ve. The early bird special ends in five minutes. I give the dog one last pat on his head. He watches me rise to my feet with a confused look on his face as though he expected me to remain here on the sidewalk, petting him forever.
I nod at the man, trying to be polite. I don’t look at his eyes this time, only his chin.
He gives me another quick smile and checks his own watch. It looks like an antique—one of those manual ones with gold sides and a numbered face. It’s attached to a leather band with a knob on the side for winding. He lets go of his sleeve and the watch disappears.
“Me too.” He reaches for the front of his cowboy hat and straightens it with a sharp tug then holds his arm out in a gentlemanly fashion, allowing me to go first.
I pull my scarf tighter and step around the dog as I continue on to the door. I can see through the window that it’s empty of patrons. Not many people get up this early on a Saturday, which is exactly why I’m here in the first place.
As I reach for the door, I see the dog’s reflection in the window of the storefront. He watches me from behind as the man leans down to give him a quick pat and speaks to him in a low voice. I can’t make out what he says. Then, instead of untying his dog from the tree, he tosses his cup in the trash can and walks away—alone. He passes behind me as he heads up the street, in the direction of town square.
Before I can stop myself, I call after him. “Hey—why’re you leaving him here?”
He turns back just as he presses the crosswalk button at the corner.
“Because he doesn’t belong to me.” He gives me another one of his crinkly-eyed smiles.
“He doesn’t?”
“Nope.”
I glance around the street. It’s still empty except for the three of us. Is he kidding?
“Oh.” My voice deflates like a balloon.
“He’s been out here a while. He’s probably getting cold. Maybe you should take him home.”
“No, somebody put him here. I’m sure they’ll come back to get him soon.”
“Maybe so.” He shrugs and looks around. “And if not, you can reconsider. He seems to like you.”
“Why can’t you take him home? You were here first.” I tense as I realize he’s leaving me stuck with this dog situation, abandoned.
“I would, but I have enough animals. And I stay pretty busy.”
“Well, I need to sell my house and move. Besides, I don’t even want a dog.”
The dog looks at me with round amber eyes, and I feel guilty for the insult. Worse, I realize he’s shivering. The tag on his collar makes a soft clinking sound. A tag. That’s good. There’ll be a number on it—probably even an address. No big deal.
I hear the man approach, stepping through leaves on the sidewalk. When I turn to look, I see him dig in his back pocket. He pulls out some kind of small silver case with scroll work engraved on it. He opens it and extracts a cream colored rectangle. He offers it to me. It’s a business card.
“If you need assistance selling your home, I’d be pleased to offer my services. I specialize in hard to sell properties.”
I bet you do.
I eye him with irritation for a long moment before I accept the card. He isn’t willing to stick and help this dog, but he’s more than willing to sell my house.
“Thanks.” I shove it in my pocket without looking at it.
“You’re very welcome.” He turns to walk away again. When he reaches the crosswalk, I see it has timed perfectly for his return. It now displays a green man walking inside the black box. He calls back to me as he makes his way across the street. “And hey, don’t worry about the dog. I’m sure
he
knows what he’s doing here.”
I hear him chuckle like he said something funny, but I turn my back on both of them. I have one minute left to get a half-price coffee. I’m not wasting it.
An hour has passed. I sip the last dregs of my second overly sweetened coffee, knowing that the dog watches me as I drink. I still feel his eyes on me, even though half an hour ago I moved to another chair so my back faces him. It’s hard to indulge in hot coffee when a shivering dog stares at you from the cold side of a window.
Not a soul has entered the shop other than me. I sit here alone watching the large woman who owns the place wipe the counter above the pastry displays. She hums while she works, her hair bound in a massive bun and, like usual, it’s shrouded in a white net—an entire hair net devoted to one bun. We never speak much, but she always smiles. If I could still be a woman who valued eye contact, I would probably know more about her. As it is, I know only that three of me could fit into her apron, that she speaks with a heavy accent, and she yells in Italian at a small, skinny man who works in the back.
The dog has a tag, I remind myself. Thoughts of not being able to get in contact with the owner nag at me. I am not sure why I feel this is my problem. I didn’t put him there. I don’t even know him.
A thought suddenly occurs to me.
“Excuse me,” I call to the woman who now cleans the tables around me, even though no one’s used them since I’ve been here.
She looks up at me as though I am unexpected, a discovery she sees for the first time. She wipes at the sweat above her lip and eyes me curiously. “Yes”
“That dog outside, is he yours?”
She cranes her neck to see where I point.
“Ohhh.” She smiles and her cheeks expand at her jaw-line like rising muffin tops. “Ohhh, nooo. Not my dog. Prolly cold out there, no?”
So much for that idea. “Did you see who put him there?”
“Ohhh, nooo. I see nobody put him. I just look, and he is there.” She motions with her hands to emphasize her surprise. The washcloth dangles from her fist as she clucks her tongue and turns away. Now I’m eye level with her backside as she wipes the last table. Only mine remains. When she finishes, she shuffles away and disappears through the kitchen door.
