Desperately Seeking Santa Read online

  But no, knowing Mack, he’d be stubborn enough to show up regardless. Stare me down sort of thing. Hang me from a lamppost by the student union if I threatened to reveal his name. Naked. By my bootlaces.

  And that should not be an erotic thought. It really shouldn’t.

  Maybe I could just… lie? Say I’d never learned who Santa was? Would that be betraying my journalistic integrity? Dear lord, was this a test of my reporter’s fortitude already?

  What kind of journalist was I going to be? Was I going to be the ambitious, hard-hitting, successful journalist who did whatever the job required, who promised his readers the truth, faced head-on and boldly? Nay, even brashly? Or was I going to be the kind of reporter who caved on stories based on sentiment?

  Damn it! It wasn’t fair to have to face this conundrum on my very first professional assignment. I wanted to knock this article out of the park. I cared about it. My professional honor was at stake.

  But at the same time, I didn’t want to piss off a guy I lo—liked? Yes. I liked Mack. I liked him a lot.

  And then I remembered. Even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t. Because Randall was going to be at the charity dinner. If I didn’t unmask Santa, he would.

  I was sweating. The office had a door onto a back deck that overlooked the lake. I shut the photo album and went out onto the deck. I leaned against the railing, head on my arms. Oh God. I was so screwed.

  Walter came out and carefully sat a mug of coffee on the railing.

  “You know who he is,” I said, my voice thin.

  “Who?”

  “Santa.”

  “Oh!” Walter sighed and sipped his coffee. “Weell, I might have an inkling. Good man. And a great guy to have around when you need lights strung.” He chuckled softly.

  Fuck. Walter had known all along. If he hadn’t teased me about the mystery Santa… but no, it wasn’t fair to hang this on Walter. He’d only been trying to help me figure out an angle for the story. And maybe he thought Mack deserved credit. He didn’t understand that Mack absolutely wouldn’t want that.

  There was only one person who could even begin to understand the depth of trouble I was in and help me find a solution. I needed to make a phone call.

  “Mama! Qué onda?”

  I called her from my car in the Elks’ parking lot. I thought I sounded perfectly normal, but my mother only paused a heartbeat before getting hysterical.

  “Oye! Gabriel, what is it?” she demanded. “Did you have an accident? Did someone die?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just calling you,” I insisted with a little hitch in my voice.

  “Mijo, it’s eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Trust me, something is wrong!”

  There was no denying it. I sighed. “I want to disappear. Or jump off a bridge. Or move to South America and change my name. I’m in a terrible spot, Mama. I have no idea what to do.”

  Her voice softened. “Ah. Okay. Is it food, money, or a boy?”

  I smiled nervously at my windshield. “A boy. And my job. And how my life is over. No big deal, though. Ha-ha-ha.”

  My hand hurt I was gripping the phone so hard, and my spare hand—luckily, I had two—had a death grip on the steering wheel. Even though I was in a parked car.

  “First, tell me about the boy,” Mi mama insisted firmly. Because of course she did.

  So I told her about Mack. About how I’d seen him wrestling when Jordan dragged me to a meet, about how famous he was and how he wanted to save the world by building dams. I told her how Jordan tried to set us up, and about how Mack had stalked off because of my article on the Elks charity dinner. I told her about how Mack was huge and prickly and lived with his dad and was altogether the most solid guy I’d ever met. In every way.

  And also? He was the mystery Santa I’d promised the entire city of Madison, Wisconsin, and my boss, I would reveal.

  Mama saw no conflict whatsoever. “So what are you even talking? Of course you don’t disclose Mack’s identity if he don’t want! Not everything has to be made into a big deal in the papers.” She tsked her tongue like I was being stupid.

  “Oye! You do remember that I’m majoring in journalism?” I reminded her.

  “So? That doesn’t mean you have to print everything you know, any more than you have to say every thought that comes into your head. Gabriel. The good Lord gave us filters for a reason!”

  I hummed doubtfully.

  “Besides, who’s gonna care? Maybe for a day it’d be a big story on campus and for the sports fans. And after that, no one will remember it. This is worth risking your relationship with Mack? De veras, mijo?”

  “Well, we don’t really have a relationship,” I muttered. At least, the ship was still in the port, though I was hopeful about it launching someday.

  “By the way, you should bring Mack home with you for Christmas!” My mother used a scolding tone as if she was reminding me to brush my teeth.

  I thunked my head on the steering wheel. “Mama! I told you, we’re not exactly dating. And if I can’t figure this out, he won’t even be speaking to me at Christmas.”

  But I had to admit, there was a little part of me that was secretly thrilled to hear her talk about Mack like he was my boyfriend already. If only I could take Mack home with me for Christmas.

  Wow. That was a fantasy worth wasting some brainpower on. I could lie on my couch and picture that for hours. But now was not the time.

  “Listen, the problem is, even if I don’t write about Mack, my boss will be at the dinner, and he’ll figure it out.”

  “So warn Mack. Tell him not to come.”

  I gritted my teeth. Was she right? I could tell Mack. Maybe I should tell Mack. “I don’t think that would stop him from coming. He wouldn’t want to disappoint the kids. And I feel like he’ll blame me even if Randall exposes him. The whole ‘mystery Santa’ was my idea in the first place. And I’ll sound like an idiot if I go to my boss and tell him ‘Oh please don’t write the story that we promised because he’s my boyfriend.’”

  “Hmmm.”

  There was silence for a while, and I knew she was really thinking about it. There were two things my mother held sacred: family and work, in that order. She was very concerned about me doing a good job at the paper. Hell, so was I. But love was the highest good, always.

  We both sat on the phone and tried to solve the puzzle.

  Could I somehow sneak Mack in and out of the dinner quickly? Distract Randall while he was there? Maybe keep him busy with interviews with some of the kids or with Sharon in the lounge? Or…?

  “You need a bigger story,” Mama said abruptly.

  “Huh?”

  “If you want the hawk to drop the mouse, offer him a rabbit.”

  “En serio? Now that’s just gross.”

  Mama tsked. “Gabriel! It’s a metaphor. You got your boss interested in this subject. So. Give him something more interesting to replace it, and that way, your feet will be out of the fire.”

  I huffed. “Like what? Blow up a boat outside the dining room window?”

  As an idea, there were technical difficulties, but it had a certain machismo appeal.

  “Well, I can’t think of everything! Now I have to get ready for church. Call me when you figure it out. And give Mack a kiss for me! Tell him I can’t wait to meet him. I love you, mi ángel!”

  “I told you, we’re not—”

  She hung up.

  Give Randall something more interesting than a mystery Santa? There was something to the idea. But what could I possibly give him?

  The Saturday night of the Elks dinner had a crystal-clear black sky, a full moon, and a cold so bitter and sharp it stole your breath away. I had plenty of time to observe just how cold it was while I waited outside in the dark for Santa Claus to arrive. The lodge parking lot was packed. The dinner had started at 6:30 p.m., and Santa was scheduled to appear at 7:30. But I had to see Mack before he went inside, so I hurried through my early interviews and photos, all under the watch
ful eye of Randall, who was seated with his wife. I was in the parking lot by 7:00.

  Shivering. And anxious as hell. I felt good about what I’d managed to pull off, but I was still worried it wouldn’t be enough, that something would go wrong, and it would all blow up in my face. Or, the real source of anxiety—that Mack would still see it as a betrayal.

  It was a relief when Mack’s little Hyundai pulled into the parking lot and rolled into a spot at the back of the lot under the shadow of some trees. I hurried toward it and was just coming up as Mack’s bulky frame emerged from the car. It was like watching an enormous Jack in the Box pop out of a tiny tin. It was so dark, I couldn’t see his expression. But his silhouette, black against the shadows, was that of a fiendish Santa.

  Or possibly that was just my nerves talking.

  “H-hey, Mack.” I stopped a few feet from him, hands playing on my parka zipper. Then I realized my hood was up. Did he even recognize me?

  I pushed the hood down. But he stood there, frozen. Damn the shadows.

  “I know you’re Santa,” I said in a rush. “I mean, I figured it out. After our, um, movie night.”

  Mack was silent.

  “So… I wanted to explain what’s going on inside.”

  “What do you mean?” Mack’s voice was flat.

  “Well. Okay. So—”

  Just then, a vehicle pulled into the parking lot, headlights swinging in an arc. I glanced at it and groaned. It was the last thing I needed right at that moment. The white van was printed in big letters: WKOW. Madison’s local TV news.

  “Seriously?” Mack’s voice was angry, and maybe hurt too. “You knew it was me, and this is how you wanna play it?”

  “No! No, listen.” My heart beat in my chest like a panicked bird in a cage. “My boss and his wife are at the dinner. He called the local news to get some video because, well…. They’re not here for you. I swear, Mack. Will you come inside? It’d be easier to show you than explain. But let’s wait until they go in.”

  Mack crossed his arms and made no attempt to leave, which I supposed was a win. When the two men and one woman from WKOW had gone inside, Mack went to the trunk of his car, opened it, and took out a big sack. He slung it over his shoulder harder than was necessary.

  “I had to come for the kids,” he said stiffly. “So do whatever you need to do.” He pushed past me without a glance.

  “You do sort of have the whole jolly and charming thing down,” I said as I trotted after him. I hoped humor would help.

  Mack gave me a glance like I was weird, but he said nothing. He headed for a side entrance, which worked for me. I didn’t want him to step into the spotlight until I could explain.

  We ended up entering the Elks Lodge through the kitchen. It was a busy place, with several older ladies in aprons putting together trays of coffee and plates of pie and cake. An older man with a luxuriant long white beard was doing dishes. They all nodded and said hello to Mack, not at all surprised to see him.

  Now that we were in the light, I could see what a spectacle Mack was. His Santa suit was quality, made of crushed red velvet with fake fur at the collar and cuffs. It did not disguise his broad chest and thick arms, and he’d added no extra padding at the gut, so the wide black belt was cinched around his trim middle. The pants fit close in the thighs and poofed out at the tops of his high black boots.

  God what a body. He could come down my chimney any time.

  “Gabe,” he barked at me sharply.

  My mouth was hanging open. I shut it.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Tell me how this is not going to be about me. Because if my name and crap about my life story and how my dad’s a criminal and all that bullshit…. If that’s plastered in the news tomorrow, it will kill my dad. He hates… he hates the idea of ‘dragging me down.’ You don’t get it.” He shook his head, looking disgusted but resigned.

  Oh, Mack. I clutched my hands together to keep from reaching for him. “I can’t promise your name won’t be mentioned, but the rest? No, it won’t be. Not from my end anyway. Come on. Just take a peek.”

  The dining hall was down a short private corridor from the kitchen. I led Mack that way and pushed open the door an inch or so. I peeked through, and Mack peeked in over my head.

  Inside, the rumble of conversation could be heard over the soft music of the string quartet. Guys in elf hats were clearing the dishes from the main meal, and most diners were sitting, talking. A few watched the WKOW news crew, which had set up near the back wall, not far from us. They had a bright light on and the female reporter was interviewing someone.

  It was Owen Nelson. He stood spread-legged with his arms crossed over his chest and his serious face on. That macho stance looked pretty hilarious in the elf hat.

  “What the hell?” Mack whispered.

  “Shhh.” I tried to catch what Owen was saying.

  “We heard about the dinner for St. Mark’s from a friend of ours. The coach likes us to do community projects a few times a year, and this sounded like a good one, especially once we heard their regular Santa couldn’t make it. We figured why not? It’s a fun evening and it’s for a great cause.”

  “It looks like the entire Badgers team is here.” The reporter was all warm smiles.

  “Pretty much, yeah. Except one guy who came down with food poisoning yesterday. And believe me, we’ll give him hell for missing out.” Owen gave her a rakish grin.

  “Holy shit,” Mack breathed. And I knew his brain had finally caught up with his eyes.

  All of the waiters were wearing elf hats, green turtlenecks, and jeans. And they were all young. In fact, they were all Wisconsin wrestlers. Their large, curved hats were green with a bell on the end and a red cuff. The hats looked ridiculous on a few of the guys, with their bushy dark beards and buff builds, but they were gamely getting on with the business of playing wait staff, not especially graceful, but mostly with good humor on their faces.

  An older lady came up behind us from the kitchen with a dessert tray. Mack and I moved out of her way, heading back toward the kitchen. He stood on one side of the hall and I stood on the other as servers passed us. It was hard to read his expression under all that fake white hair. But there was a tiny furrow of confusion on his brow and his eyes were thoughtful.

  “Nope. I don’t get it.” He shook his head. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Well…” I bit my lip and crossed my arms over my own green turtleneck shirt. “See, the entire wrestling team showed up tonight to help out for a good cause. And that way….”

  “No one will know I’ve been the Santa before,” Mack finished, his voice quiet.

  I nodded. “Correct. So there shouldn’t be any delving into your background or making a big deal out of you, specifically. I think Owen’s more than capable of stealing the show.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Total glory hound, that guy. I don’t know how Jordan puts up with him.”

  Mack stared at me, blinking. His chest rose and fell more rapidly than it should, given that he hadn’t just run a marathon. “Thank you.” His voice was rough.

  “Yeah, well….” I looked down at my shoes in a gesture of humility.

  “You won’t… when you write about it….”

  “Wrestling team.” I wagged my eyebrows. “Who strong-armed their biggest, burliest, gruffest teammate to play Santa. Maybe they tossed a coin and you lost? It’s pretty funny, when you think about it.”

  Mack glowered. “If you use the phrase ‘gentle giant,’ Gabriel Martin, I swear to God….”

  I held up my palms in surrender. “No ‘gentle giant.’ On mi abuelita’s grave.” I crossed my heart.

  His face relaxed. He rubbed at his eyes, his shoulders slumping. “God. I’ve been dreading this night. You have no idea.”

  “Me too,” I said sincerely.

  It felt like I’d just escaped a truly dreadful trap. By the skin of my teeth. But whether that trap was proving myself an asshole, losing Mack’s trust forever, or failing at my job and cl
ass wasn’t clear. Maybe all the above.

  “Hey, it’s going to be all right. Huh?” I asked, watching him hopefully. “But listen, if you really don’t want to go in there, it’s fine. Maybe I can take the suit.”

  Mack dropped his hand and looked at me in disbelief. “This suit?”

  “Yeah. Why not? I’ve watched enough Christmas movies.”

  “Ha! You’d drown in this thing.”

  The teasing tone in his voice made my heart sing with relief. “Probably. But I’m a very creative roller of hems.” I waggled my eyebrows.

  “Nah.” Mack straightened up. “I made up my mind earlier, if it came to that, I’d face the music. Whatever. I’m not gonna bail on the kids. They wouldn’t understand.”

  No. Mack would never bail. Because Mack was solid. He was a fucking dam.

  “Okay then. I should really get back and appear to be doing my reporter thing. I’ll see you in there?”

  Mack nodded, but when I turned to go, he grabbed my arm and he pulled me back to face him. “Gabe,” he said, his eyes serious.

  “Yeah?”

  He hesitated, then kissed my lips, very briefly. Then he turned around and went back into the kitchen.

  In the dining hall, the wrestling elves were serving pie and cake. There was a group of about six carolers dressed like they’d escaped from a production of A Christmas Carol, strolling around the room, Good King Wenceslasing.

  Randall was sitting next to his pretty wife, Agatha. But when he saw me, he got up and came over to where I was standing by the windows. “Gabe! Where’ve you been?”

  “I was talking to some people behind the scenes,” I said. That was true enough.

  He smirked, looking pleased. “Look, WKOW promised not to run the story ’til tomorrow’s six o’clock news. So we have the scoop. I want this in the morning edition. You can get the story to me by midnight, can’t you? Layout’s holding a spot on the front page.”