I stopped a few feet away and leaned against the table, careful not to spill anything. Up close, her skin was pale, a little freckled, and the vanilla scent of her hair cut through the musty church airand the burnt sugar stench of the cookies. There was something else, too—peppermint, maybe, and under that, sweat. Real, human, not the plastic air of the rest of the congregation.
She spoke first. “You’re new.”
I shrugged. “Santa’s always new. That’s the gig.”
She poured another cup, handed it to a kid who ran off without saying thank you, then set the ladle down. “You’re not from around here. You’ve got an accent.”
I grinned. “And you don’t?”
She looked me up and down, not bothering to hide it. “Not like yours.”
We stood there, silent, the noise of the crowd muffled by the sheer volume of empty space between us.
She said, “Thanks for helping out.” She took a deep breath, and for a second I thought she was going to ask me something personal. Instead, she just smiled, softer this time. “You did good,” she said.
“Most of them cried,” I replied.
She laughed, a low, unforced sound. “They always do. Kids know a fake when they see one.”
I couldn’t help myself. “So do you?”
She shrugged, but her cheeks colored. “I try to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
Before I could think of a comeback, the Reverend’s voice boomed from the other side of the room. “Darla, we’re ready for the children’s choir.” He was already walking toward us, tie straight and shoes shined so bright you could signal rescue planes with them. When he got close, he put a hand on Darla’s shoulder—not rough, but there was no mistaking who was in charge.
He looked at me, then at Darla, then back again. “Did our new friend introduce himself?”
Darla shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Santa,” I said, extending a hand.
He took it, squeezed. “Archie Maple. Pastor here. My daughter, Darla.”
We held the shake a fraction too long. I could feel him looking for an angle, a weakness. I didn’t give him one.
He turned to his daughter. “We’re counting on you, sweetheart. Like always.”
She nodded, face shifting to that same blank mask I’d seen in the crowd. She peeled away, headed for the makeshift stage, leaving me alone with the Reverend.
He watched her go, then leaned in just close enough that nobody else could hear.
“I appreciate what you did for the kids,” he said, voice all honey and daggers. “But I hope you understand how things work here.”
I smiled, lazy. “You mean the hierarchy?”
He almost smiled, too. “That’s one word for it.”
I let the silence stretch, then said, “Your daughter’s got a gift. The way she handles people.”
He bristled, just for a second. “She’s a good girl. Raised to serve. Raised to lead, when she has to.”
I nodded, filed it away. “You ever worry she’ll outgrow this place?”
His eyes went hard. “No. She knows her duty.”
I wanted to say something—wanted to say a hundred things—but I just nodded, gave him the beard-and-hat, and left him standing there.
I watched the choir from the back of the sanctuary, keeping one eye on the Reverend and the other on Darla. She sang, sure, but mostly she watched the other kids, making sure they got their cues, mouthing words to the ones who forgot. Every so often, she glanced at me, then looked away.
