“Oh,” I said as I looked at the box, trying to gauge what exactly those holes poking through the wrapping could be for. My arms didn’t move. “Oh, Ian. You shouldn’t have.”
He practically kicked the aisle floor with his elf shoe in his bashful excitement. “If you’re worrying about not having a gift for me yet, don’t. You’ll have plenty of time to find something for me by Christmas too.” He winked. “Partner.”
My hands were glued to my book. It wasn’t that Ididn’twant to move to take the box. It was just that I was temporarily paralyzed. “What”—I felt my back pressing against the armrest—“is it?”
He waggled a finger at me. “Now, now, MissFairbanks. You know the rules. You have to open it yourself.”
He looked so earnest, so innocent, that, with great effort, I managed to set my book down. I sealed my fate and took the box from him. It was heavy. Python-curled-in-the-center-of-the-box heavy. Carefully, I avoided touching any of the open air holes. “Is it... alive?”
At this point Clarence rounded out of a dead sleep and said, as if he’d been a part of the conversation all along, “Elf, where are you supposed to be at sixteen hundred?”
Ian stood immediately upright. “Working, sir. Here, sir.”
“Is it true that you are partaking in unholiday behavior by displaying favoritism in gift giving while everyone else is left to be mere onlookers?”
Ian checked over both shoulders, suddenly self-conscious. Nobody was watching us. “No, sir. Well, yes, sir. It’s just that, sir—”
Clarence leveled his gaze at him, and his bushy brows nearly covered his eyes. “And Iknowyou wouldn’t be soliciting the interests of single young ladies while in uniform. Becausecertainly you recall Section 22B of the contract referring to the imperative of staying in character.”
“Oh, ye-ye-yes, sir.” Ian looked down at his elf costume.
“And I would absolutely hate for us to lose such a fine employee as yourself due to lack of compliance with said contract.”
At that, Ian snatched the package from my hands.
There was a long moment of silence, Ian looking absolutely terrified, Clarence gazing at him like a father trying to decide in a moment of discipline if he had sufficiently gotten across his point. At last he dismissed him. “I believe they need a hand with the caroling karaoke contest in the Mistletoe Room.”
After Ian had zipped out, I turned to Clarence. “Do you really have a line about staying in character in your contract?”
“The question is”—Clarence tapped his cane to his temple—“will he be brave enough to come back and point that out?”
As it turns out, Ian wasn’t brave enough.
In fact, had I not eventually given myself enough of a pep talk to seek him out and tell him the reality of the situation from my end—that I was sorry, but we just didn’t seem like a good fit together—I don’t think he ever would’ve shown his face in our car again.
On the bright side, he handled it well. Remarkably well, in fact, to the point that he admitted his own glowing attraction to me had faded since the moment I’d referred to dear Chaucer as “it.” We parted on good terms.
“Your move,” Oliver says, taking my bishop with his and,sure enough, exposing his castle without qualm. “Hey, I’m going to assist with the wreath making at four. Were you planning on going?”
“Yes. I’d like to make one for my mom for Christmas.” I check my watch and start to rise. “Which actually means I’d better go get changed now for tonight’s activity. I’ll see you there.”
“I’ll save you a ‘properly working’ glue gun.” Oliver winks at me, and for my part, I can’t help but feel my cheeks flush.
The next few hours pass in peace. By the time the wreath-making activity is over, my hands are sticky with pine sap and hot-gun glue, stray needles adorn my hair, and I’m fairly certain I’m going to smell of spruce for days. But I did manage to make a rather sweet wreath covered in both holly and silver bells, along with a little posted sign sayingMerry Christmas.I know Mom will be pleased.
The evening activity is supposed to be a night out at something calledDickens of a Christmas. I know little about the specifics aside from the fact that we’ll be located in a small town outside Glacier National Park. So I am sure to dress appropriately for the extreme weather I’ve experienced the past two days as we chugged along the northern border of North America. The previous afternoon I took part in a Christmas sweater embroidering workshop, which actually turned out so surprisingly lovely (thanks in great part to Mrs. Faris, a teacher with great insights regarding her embroidery machine), that I put it on for tonight’s event. Instead of the loud Christmas knits I’ve seen and worn a hundred timesover, this one is subtly in the spirit: a cream sweater dotted with embroidered firs and spruces in a variety of threaded shades of green, a dozen small snowflakes hanging overhead.
I’ve put on my warmest pair of wool socks (quite the treasured thrift find, a handknit pair with the wordsNoelacross the ankles) I could find under my boots, and before I step off the train, I slip on my thickest pair of mittens.
My coat swirls around my jeans where the tops of my boots meet them, and the second I step out onto the platform and feel the mascara on my eyelashes start to freeze, I remember I’ve forgotten my hat and should turn around. Only, the very same moment I have this intuition, I see something very strange.
It’s Clarence. Standing in the center of the huddled crowd of passengers clapping their sides and bouncing impatiently in their boots.
Clarence. In a Santa suit.
Clarence. Leading the group.
“Come on then, everyone! Stay close and follow me.Hohoho!” He heads in the direction of a small cluster of buildings ahead, holding to his cane, as usual, but on his other side is petite Mrs.Byrd, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist.
