My own mom didn’t come to my wedding tuxedo fitting, even though I asked her to, multiple times. Instead, she told me to send her pictures and she’d text her thoughts to me. At the tailor, Patrick and I had picked out matching vibrant turquoise numbers, got measured for them, and put down our deposit, only for Mom to text me hours after we’d already gotten home with:The color washes you out too much. Try something else.
I didn’t even tell Patrick. I just slunk into our bedroom and took a depression nap.
“Let’s transition into evening wear,” Christa says. Her assistants scurry off with the rolling rack of clothes, swapping it out for one with more blazers, ties, and slacks.
“Will I be needing a lot of that?” I ask, picking up the complimentary mug of hot cider the designer set out for me on a tray beside the accordion mirror. I’m careful not to dribble any cider on these luxurious digs.
“Absolutely,” Yvonne says. “You’re stepping into a highly visible position. You are one-half of the face of this massive mission—to spread joy and cheer to the entire world. How you dress will set the tone for how our village feels about that mission for the next year.”
An exhale whips out of me. “Sounds like a lot of pressure.”
“It’s more fun than anything else,” Colleen is quick to say.
“We’re thrilled that you’re here,” Yvonne adds. “These positions often choose people who need them most.”
“Don’t you mean people who need them mostchoosethe positions?” I ask.
She shakes her head, smirking to herself. “It doesn’t quite work like that. We’re not posting on job boards or checking out LinkedIn profiles. Your circumstances may be different, but we’re certain it will all work out.”
I want to ask what she means, but Christa is back and usheringme behind the saloon-style doors of the changing room. On the hanging hook, her assistant has set up a deep brown suit with a lighter brown shirt beneath, the buttons of which look like bright red gumdrops. Upon closer inspection, theyaregumdrops. “How delightful,” I say to myself before licking the sugar off my finger.
Once I change and look at myself in the mirror, I’ve transformed into a grown gingerbread person. There are even molasses-colored spats that go over the dress shoes with gumdrop detailing. A licorice bow tie finishes the look.
“Oh, the elves willloveyou in this! Especially for when you judge the Annual Gingerbread House Competition.”
“Judging a competition? What exactly will I be doing as the Merriest Mister?” I ask.
Yvonne stands and helps herself to some candied pecans from a decorative bowl. “It’s pretty relaxed and open-ended for the most part. You’ll be expected to be a face and a host, give speeches now and then.”
I’m used to speaking in front of seven-year-olds, not a slew of adults looking to me as some beacon of holiday cheer. “Is there going to be formal training on how to do this job?”
“Don’t think of it as a job. Think of it as acalling.”
Wasn’t Patrick always saying that teaching was my calling?
I believed that, too, most of the time, yet ever since September, I’d been itching to hang up the call, cut the cord, shut down the line, whatever necessary to make the emergency ringtone stop blaring every second of every day.
Despite that, I’m going to miss doing it. Parts of it, anyway.
“No training necessary,” Colleen says. This eases my mind. “It’s intuitive. Patrick will be brought up to speed on the Santa of it all. You’ll have a daily itinerary delivered each morning over breakfast. The first half of the year will be busier than the second, but you’re mostly free to explore passions, read books, whatever your heart desires.”
“Wow,” I say, trying not to move too much as Christa workson pinning the hem of my pants. They need to be taken up half an inch so I don’t trip. I’m more torso than legs. Though I’d prefer something flowier, I don’t think it’s my place to have an opinion, so I keep my mouth shut except to say thank you when appropriate.
“I’m sure it’ll be a nice break from teaching,” Colleen says, almost as if she had been reading my mind a second ago.
“For sure. I honestly don’t think I’ve had a break like that since before I went away to college. Becoming a teacher was a lot of work and being a teacher came with workloads even over the summer. Frankly, I’m not sure I know how to relax anymore.” My mind has an average speed of a million thoughts per minute.
“Oh, it’s a quick study. Trust me,” Yvonne says, paired with a bursting laugh. “Chris and I worked in high-profile real estate before Chris became Santa. I thought I’d spend my life working sixty-to-seventy-hour weeks, chasing the rush of a sale and that hefty commission, and when we first got here, the lackadaisical pace of life jarred me, but I settled in. I learned to be present for the first time in my life at forty-three.”
“You’re never too old for that lesson,” Colleen says sagely. “Look at me. Nicholas became Claus in his sixties not long after we lost our son in a motorcycle accident.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, catching her somber eyes in the mirror.
“It was many years ago now,” she says before taking a big breath. “But something like that could’ve torn us apart. You know, ravaged our relationship with grief. Instead, it brought us closer together. Then, by chance and magic, we ended up here. Our relationship grew stronger as we adapted to our new surroundings. Bringing Christmas joy to the world helped us heal.”
“For me and Chris,” Yvonne says after giving Colleen’s story the due respect and space it deserves, “it was about slowing down. We didn’t know until we got here that Chris’s blood pressure was in dangerous territory. He was one more listing away from a heartattack. This job helped us put all that high-stress nonsense behind us.”
I consider both stories, and these kind women who have chosen to be vulnerable and open with me simply because I’m filling a role they once held. “Thanks for sharing that. I wonder what this will be for me and Patrick.”
