Page 1
Chapter 1
SCARLETT
Why are you dressed like Mrs. Claus? You hate Christmas.”
On my phone screen, my oldest sister, Cleo, looks half confused, half entertained as she asks this.
“I’m Miss Claus. Still very much single,” I say as I jog up Sixth Avenue and through Midtown Manhattan’s near-empty streets in a long, maroon, ruffled, button-down dress I found online and had overnighted. “What I hate are bad guys and unnecessary violence. And people who hurt animals and that shrimp casserole Auntie Nat used to make on the Fourth of July that we pretended to like. Christmas, I’m lukewarm to.”
“There’s no in-between, Scarlett,” my middle sister, Kate, says. “You either love Christmas or you hate it.”
“I’m trying it on,” I say. “And if I don’t like it, I can return it.”
“Christmas isn’t a hat,” Cleo says as she stirs a pot of oatmeal. She’s in Nashville and is an hour behind me and Kate, who’s in Boston.
“No, it’s a sweater, and as of last week, I’ve got one with a light-up reindeer on it,” I retort, my smiling face filling the small rectangle at the bottom of our three-way video call. “Ooh! And one with Frosty the Snowman eating ice cream. It’s adorable and hand-knit and extremely cozy. I may or may not be getting you both one this year.”
Kate smirks and leans back against her couch. “You thought liking Christmas was cultish behavior.”
I mean, it’s not not cultish behavior. “Christmas has always been… too eventful.” It’s the best word I’ve got for it, and instead of trying to find a better one, I turn my camera around to show them Radio City Music Hall decked out for the season. “Look! There’s a tree. On a building! That could change anyone’s mind.” And right now, oversize ornaments and seasonal decorations are helping take my mind off desk duty, which has been the bane of my existence for the past six months. I can add trees on buildings to the plus column on my Christmas Pro and Con List.
“I see,” Cleo says. “Christmas is your distraction.”
I cut a right down Forty-Ninth Street. “A very bright and shiny one,” I confirm. “With lots of bells!” The ones on my bonnet cap jingle as I pick up my pace.
“Where are you headed dressed like that at seven in the morning? Is this a work thing?” Cleo asks. She shakes cinnamon into the pot.
“That’s classified,” I say, trying to make it sound like a joke. To pile on to the believability, I add, “I’m testing out a Christmas running group.”
Kate’s eyes widen in amusement. “How oddly specific.”
The ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center comes into view. “What’s odd is that Mrs. Claus doesn’t officially have a name,” I mumble, distracted. “Yet Santa is Kris, Nicholas… the man’s got names. Plural!”
“Is it a running group or an overthinking group?” Cleo asks. “You seem really into this.”
“It’s just—Mrs. Claus is important,” I say, “and she doesn’t have a knowable name. Apparently, she manages the household and oversees toy production. She organizes the elves and bakes cookies and has input on the toy designs. Oh! And some people think she’s responsible for the Naughty or Nice List.”
“So… she’s Santa,” Kate says.
I nod. “Pretty much.”
Cleo scoffs. “I thought that was the point of Santa. What does he do, then?”
“He gets the credit?” I offer.
Kate grunts. “He’s the face, she’s the brains. Sounds about right.”
I step up to the railing and survey the rink, where the ice is being resurfaced for the day ahead. Eager tourists drinking coffee and eating artisan doughnuts have already claimed benches and are enjoying the holiday decorations and photographing the scene.
Where the halls get decked,
This is a spot where lists get checked.
I repeat the lines from the tip that came in yesterday like it’s a Christmas song gone wrong, and one that I can’t get out of my head. Why can’t vague, threatening riddles sound more like Mariah Carey’s holiday music?
“I guess the public can’t handle the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Claus are business partners, you know?” I say, slowly making my way around the plaza. “I guess I just liked the idea of them being in love. Is it weird to think about fictional characters like that?”
Cleo scoops oatmeal into a bowl. “You were always one to make fiction a reality. I mean, look at you now. You work for the government. I guess it’s not quite like the special agents you idolized in the movies you watched growing up, but still.”
