“Bridget is obsessed with the UK and Ireland,” I tell him, wanting to prove her wrong about my awkwardness. “Her dad was from Ireland, and her grandparents were too. She and her mom spent a few weeks traveling through Ireland, Scotland, England, and Wales this past spring.”
As expected, that draws the conversation completely away from me. Hugh and Bridget go back and forth, talking mainly about Scotland and Ireland—his maternal grandparents are Irish, but the rest of his family is Scottish. I listen with a mixture of interest and amusement. Bridget always loved talking about Ireland, but since she and her mom were finally able to go earlier this year, she can talk about it for hours.
When our lunch arrives, Bridget says, “So what do you do in the off season?”
“I go back to the North Pole, of course,” Hugh says as he unrolls cutlery from a napkin. “There’s much to do to prepare for the year ahead. Toys to make, naughty and nice list to keep track of, and so on.”
Bridget and I look at each other. Hugh’s earnestness gives me pause. He’s not serious. He doesn’t actually think he’s…Santa Claus?
He makes a small noise in his throat and then cracks up. Bridget’s gaze is still locked on mine, and I’m sure the relief in her eyes matches my own. “Had you going, didn’t I?” Hugh says when we both dissolve into laughter. He motions for us to dig into our food and he does the same. After a mouthful, he says, “This place is mine. I own the Village.”
I nearly choke on a bite of quesadilla. “YouownSanta’s Village?”
He nods. “Bought it four years ago. The city rents it ten months of the year for various things. Sometimes they store equipment and whatnot since it’s a huge lot and it’s on the edge of town. I’d like to use it year-round as an amusement park of sorts. Games, rides, a petting zoo, local businesses and eateries setting up shop. Similar to what it is now, minus the Christmas theme, at least for most of the year. I’ve been trying to get it going the last two years, but the city’s dragging their feet on allowing it.”
“Even though you own the land?” Bridget asks.
“Even though. There are permits and such I’d need. I think they just like the cheap deal I give them in the off-season. They haven’t renewed their contract for next year, so the land might sit empty until next November.” He shakes his head, annoyance painted on his features.
“So what do you do from January to November then?” I ask.
He chews slowly for a minute before answering. “I have a few business investments other than this one. And I do some charity work, largely with children’s literacy groups.”
Investments and charities. He owns Santa’s Village, which sits on several acres of land. He must be absolutely loaded. Knowing Bridget as well as I do, a quick glance at her tells me she’s come to the same conclusion.
The mention of children’s literacy groups jars the memory of the books given out to each child who visits Santa. My first day here, Meredith had seemed surprised I didn’t know where the books came from, and now I understand her reaction.
As if reading my mind—something Bridget does often—she says, “Ivy told me each child gets a book when they visit Santa. You’re responsible for that?”
“I’m good friends with the owner of Pied Piper’s Books, and I get the books from her shop. Each week is a different book, a new release. I work with Piper to choose authors who are just starting out or who are marginalized in some way. We also donate a box of books each week to the Bookworm program, which makes sure kids from underprivileged families get books.”
I think I might swoon.
Bridget’s wide eyes dart from Hugh to me and back again. “I think it’s some sort of serendipity the two of you met.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Hugh says, tilting his head to look at me with a small smile I can’t quite read. “But I’m curious as to your reasons for thinking so.”
“Ivy is a big book lover,” Bridget says. “Pied Piper’s is basically her second home. At least twice a year, she buys a bunch of books from there and donates them to Bookworm.” She pauses for breath, and before I can jump in, she adds, “For as long as I’ve known her, she’s talked about someday owning a bookstore and being able to have children’s programs.”
Hugh angles his body toward me so he can meet my eyes full on. “Very interesting,” he says slowly. “Why haven’t you followed this dream of yours?”
I’m tempted to start shoveling food into my mouth so I don’t have to answer. Bridget means well, but I hate talking about this. Every time I do, it reminds me I’ve had the same job for six years and I’m no closer to following my dreams now than I was the day I started at Quest. “It’s a fantasy,” I say with a casual shrug. “I’ve got a good career and I’m good at my job. Good pay, good benefits. I like how things are for me right now. Life is…”
“Good?” Hugh guesses, and Bridget hides a snicker with a delicate cough. “That’s a lot of good.”
“It is,” I say, suddenly defensive. I’m beginning to think I should have stayed home and slept off my hangover. “Besides, I spend a lot of time at the bookstore and I know how hard Piper works. She’s my age and she’s managed to build this incredible business all on her own. Indies are struggling and shutting down all across the country, and I wouldn’t want to be competition for her.”
He bobs his head and returns his attention to his lunch. “That’s noble of you.” If anyone else said that, I’d assume there was at least a hint of sarcasm behind the words, yet Hugh seems sincere. “You never know. Things might fall into place for you someday. And in the meantime, if you’d like to work with books in some capacity, we could team up. You can help me with the book ordering or deliveries to Bookworm. I usually have all the season’s books chosen ahead of time, but I’m behind this year.”
“Yeah, I could do that.” I have no ideawhen. I’m working almost twelve hours a day and he must have a busy schedule too. We’ll figure it out, I guess. Or not. Maybe he’s just being nice.
“I have tomorrow off,” he says. He checks his watch and scrunches up his face before wolfing down a few more bites of food. “We could meet up, go over some brochures. If you give me your number, I’ll text you later and we can hash out the details.” He fishes his phone from his back pocket as he speaks, unlocking it and handing it to me. Too stunned to say anything, I enter my name and number in his contacts.
When I hand back the phone, Hugh offers us an apologetic smile. “Hate to eat and run, ladies, but Santa duty calls. Lunch is on me. Make sure to order dessert.”
“Oh, we couldn’t—” I start to say, but he stands and lays a hand on my shoulder.
His moss-colored eyes are warm when they meet mine, the corners crinkling when his lips inch up in a heart-stopping smile. “I insist. Please.” To Bridget, he says, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon. Ivy, I’ll talk to you later and hopefully see you tomorrow.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads off to where our server is standing at a computer printing out a bill. He says something to her and slips a few bills into her hand, eliciting a grin and a nod from her.
