“Ho Ho Ouch!” Santa rubbed his shoulder.
“Sorry!” Jacob made sure the guy was steady. His firm shoulder and thin frame under the padding gave away his age and had Jacob looking past the beard. This Santa was in his 20s. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. But you look like you could use a Merry Christmas,” Santa replied goodnaturedly.
“I was distracted.”
“Ah! That usually means there’s a woman involved.” Santa touched the side of his nose.
Jacob laughed. “I was thinking about a wedding on the church steps.” He pointed down Main Street.
“Well–that’s a Christmas wish if I’ve ever heard one.”
Jacob waved his hands frantically. “No. No. No. I’m not dating anyone. I knew this girl once–she wanted to be married there.”
Santa cocked his head to the side, waiting for him to clarify that statement.
“I, uh, we.” Jacob cut off. “It’s a long story.”
“Well,” Santa stroked his fake beard. “If you had a Christmas wish, what would it be?”
Jacob thought about it for point-three seconds. There wasn’t much to think about because the answer had been with him since he’d lost Lauren’s friendship and the future he’d assumed they’d had together.
He’d learned not to assume things with women but lost her anyway.
“I wish we had a second chance,” he said so quietly he wasn’t sure Santa heard him.
Santa patted his back. “Christmas is magical.”
A chill raced over Jacob’s skin, and he shivered. The hair on his arms stood up, even though he didn’t feel cold. In fact, he felt as if he stood next to a fire. “What did you say?”
Santa dropped his hand, and a burst of icy wind smacked Jacob in the face and howled in his ears. “Believe in Christmas, my friend.” He tapped the side of his nose again and then turned to smile at a woman who dropped a twenty in the collection tin.
Jacob stepped away, feeling like he was pulling himself out of glue. Every movement grew more manageable, and by the time he touched the frigid door handle to the Civic Center, he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. He turned back, and Santa was gone. The street silent.
Weird.
CHAPTER3
Lauren limped along behind her parents as they neared the civic center on Main Street. How did the sidewalk shoot cold right through the soles of her shoes like a nail gun? Frozen feet were not the same thing as numb feet.
She looked down the street at the old, now abandoned church, and her heart felt sad. The building was a classic with its white exterior and green shutters. Stained glass windows depicting the Tree of Life and Garden of Eden were dark. If she got closer, she could verify that they were boarded up to protect them from vandals and storms, while now she only suspected as much. Once upon a little girl’s daydream, she’d wanted to be married there with the bells ringing wildly above her head to pronounce to all the world that she’d married her true love. If only he’d had the same dream.
“Oh! They’re still allowing votes for the gingerbread contest.” Mom clapped her hands together as she whirled on Lauren. “I’m not going to tell you which house is mine. I want you to go in there and vote according to your conscience.” She all but tore the wagon out of Lauren’s hands and pushed her toward the glass doors. “Hurry!”
“I’m going!” Lauren didn’t have to be told twice; going inside meant thawing out. She stepped into the building and drew in the scent of disinfectant–they were constantly trying to salvage the tile flooring.
At one point in history, it was white tile with white grout. Now, it was a sad gray with black grout. They should just try to convince everyone in town that it was supposed to be gray and black, and the hometown revival committee would quit dousing the floor with Clorox. Sometimes, you had to accept that things would never be how you wanted them to be and move on.
Pulling off her gloves, she flexed her fingers to get the blood flowing again. Her shoulders relaxed, and her lungs expanded. She’d forgotten what it was like to spend an hour outside in the winter. How did she survive sledding? Ice skating? And the invariable snowball fights with–nope! She was not thinking about that person, not even going to spell his name.
Just beyond the tile entry was another set of doors to the gathering hall. They were thrown open wide. A chalkboard sign that had Mrs. Morris’s artistic skills all over it welcomed one and all to the gingerbread house contest.
Homemade gingerbread only–thank you very much.
She smiled fondly at the lettering that had graced so many of her school posters. Inside the door was a table with ballots and a cup full of freshly sharpened pencils.
Alongside the name of each entry was a blank spot. The instructions specified that she should pick her three favorites and mark them. The votes would be tallied, and the house with the most votes would win. The mayor would announce the winner at the sing-along that night.
