“Tell me that’s not my Grandmother.” Her cheeks redden with embarrassment.
“No. That is a little old lady drill sergeant.” I snuggle her closer. “Truth is, I never sleep in this late. I must have a billion emails and texts to address but fuck um.” I kiss her head. “I’d rather be here with you being yelled at by Gran.”
“I don’t know, if you fuck all those emails and texts, will they be as sore as I am?” She winces and I laugh.
“You shouldn’t get me so riled up,” I tease. “Threatening to leave me is not a good look on you and it makes me completelyferal. We should dial back these extremes, Juliet.” I say, totally being sarcastic. “We’ll both end up broken and I’m not that young anymore. I’ve only got a few good years left.”
“Do you have all of your original teeth?” She pops her head up and looks in my mouth, also teasing.
“A full set,” I lash out and nip at her beautiful breast, latching onto the nipple.
“Oh, my God,” she squeals.
“You think we can get one more round in before the muffins turn to stone?” I whisper tickling her sweet belly, imagining it big and beautiful.
“Oh, I think we do.” She pops on top of me. “But I get to drive.”
I lean back and let her fit my cock inside of her very wet cunt. “Where are we going?”
Church, it turns out.
We go to Gran’s church after one more delightful session together before we dress and meet Gran downstairs for relatively soft, fresh baked muffins that are good. Gran was right, she isn’t the best cook or baker it turns out. She only has a few signature dishes but she does those well.
The church smells like pine needles, candle wax, and cinnamon, all comforting and holy all at once. Gran squeezes Juliet’s arm as we step inside. I linger back for a moment, taking in everything since I don’t belong. I am definitely an outsider. At the far end of the hall stands a towering Christmas tree, glittering with ornaments. But instead of baubles and tinsel,slips of paper dangle from the branches. Upon closer inspection, I realize they are wishes scrawled in children’s writing asking Santa for things like socks, heat, and a winter jacket.
I approach the tree, curious at first and pluck one of the wishes off the branch and read it.
Dear Santa, Merry Christmas. This is Cole. My sister Maria and I would like to share our wish. Our Mom needs to find a house for us to live in. We promise we will be good. We don’t need a lot of bedrooms, or anything fancy, but we hope we get one that doesn’t have cracks in the walls and windows. My sister thinks they look like spiders. Thank you Santa. I know what we are asking for is bigger than your sleigh, but Mom always says that Christmas is a magical time. I hope you can help us make magic.
I read wish after wish, only one kid asked for a television set, the rest are things no kid should have to use a Christmas wish on. One is for a cure for cancer, another is for a father to return from the army, three kids need shoes, one needs a new sweater, another would like a Barbie blanket for her cold room. I realize when I see the addresses these kids are giving Santa that they are from the demolition zone. These are the kids that live in the derelict houses and I can’t help it. My heart hurts reading each one.
“A bike,” I murmur out loud, my voice strangely hoarse. “New shoes, food for the fridge.”
Gran comes to my side and watches me as I read each and every wish. My hands start to tremble as I reach for the next, angry, sad, distraught at each one, because the shocking wishes are for the basics every child should already have.
“A stuffed bear, a toaster oven, firewood.” I look at Gran, and I am seeking guidance and help, something I’ve never asked for. “Who ... who organized this? And how? What can I do?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Juliet
Gran pats Marcel’s arm. “The church organized it, mostly. Families around here give what they can.”
Marcel nods once, brusque, but I can see it, the crack forming in his armor. He follows Gran to a woman near the choir loft.
“Char, this is Mr. Dubois, but we call him the Grinch,” Gran jumps right in as Charlese, the choir director, listens.
“Welcome, Mr. Dubois,” she says as I hang back and let Gran handle this. “How can I help you?”
“I want to know if I could speak to the children who made these wishes and their parents?” Marcel looks like he can make money appear out of thin air, he even smells rich.
Char shakes her head, then smiles mischievously. “No, not unless you’re willing to wear a Santa suit,” she says with a laugh.
And just like that, Marcel Dubois, the stone-cold tycoon is taken to the choir room behind the altar, is padded with pillows, and stuffed into a red velvet Santa suit with a fake beard. He’s a little grumbly about his outfit being itchy and hot, but the moment he sees the children gathering in the congregation, he quiets down. I do not hold back my laughter. I giggle until my sides hurt, but he doesn’t care. He sits, regal as any Santa, andthe children line up, and when they shyly rattle off the things they put on the tree, he doesn’t stop there.
He leans down and gently asks, “What didn’t you write?” And they tell him about empty pantries, broken heaters, coats that don’t fit, and mothers who are too tired to cook.
My chest aches listening to them, but Marcel pays attention to every word as if he were actually Santa Claus. He keeps his questions soft and careful. I can see the fury simmering under the red velvet, but he never lets it show on his face.
