Page 12 of Peppermint Bark

But Grace never ignored me, even when I tried to ignore her.

The first morning had been the worst. Dad had been elated when I strolled in, excited to introduce me to Grace. She clearly expected the warm greeting she got from my family — hell, the entire damn hospital staff fawned over her. After politely nodding, I took out my computer to work from his bedside.

She seemed disappointed, like she expected us to be friends.

But I don’t really do friends.

I used to. Between the baseball team and my college fraternity, I was always surrounded by friends and girls. Over time things shifted from, “Hey A.J., how long can you do a keg stand?” (67 seconds, beat that sucker) to “Hey Alex, you’re a lawyer now, can you get me out of this speeding ticket?” (No, I’m corporate not civil) to “Hey Alexander, you’ve got a BigLaw salary so dinner’s on you, right?” (Buy your own lobster, you mooch) to “Hey, you’re Dominic Martin’s brother, what’s happening next season on The Twelve?” (I don’t even know where my brother is filming, let alone have time to watch TV.)

When Grace said, ‘That’s what friends do,’ I heard, ‘What can you do for me?’

Now when she walks into Dad’s room, I greet her cordially — Mom would berate me if she heard I was impolite — and leave to work from the cafeteria.

Let Grace win over everyone else with those giant, innocent hazel eyes and rich, sexy voice. And how cute she is when she cocks her chin and declares, ‘I like to believe the best in people.’ And how fucking radiant her hair looks in the moonlight.

I hadn’t noticed, because I’m immune to her charms. Or I will be, if I can avoid her. No, not avoid her; I’m simply removing distractions, starting with Grace E. Alvarez, as the nameplate on her office door says.

I definitely didn’t wonder what the ‘E’ stood for.

But this time, I couldn’t escape the atrocity of her hideous Christmas costume.

Grace said the hospital’s usual Santa was delayed in a snowstorm. Dad asked if the sleigh had GPS and she cracked a grin, replying that Rudolph had a microchip installed in his nose. She slumped on the foot of his bed, explaining that the hospital staff was stretched thin, but the kids had been promised a Santa. She even asked the janitorial staff. I bet she knew all their names. I bet she baked them Christmas cookies. I bet they were fucking delicious.

When Dad started to pull himself up on his IV pole and asked where the suit was, Grace shot him a death glare. “Absolutely not. You can’t risk another heart attack lifting those patients onto your lap, I need someone big and strong …”

Both their necks swiveled reluctantly to me. Their last choice. Fuck.

I tried to evade, but Dad told me to put down the laptop and help her out, because that’s what Clarkes do in a crisis, we stick together. Like this random friend of my annoying kid sister was part of my family.

Now I glanced at my reflection, a begrudging Santa glaring back. How many other people have sweat in this suit? Could my hands catch Athlete’s Foot from these dingy polyester gloves?

As I sneered, she asked, “Do you want sterile gloves underneath?”

Hmm. It would mitigate the transfer of sweat, but leave a chalky residue, gross. “Don’t bother. Let’s get this over with.”

Her lips tightened in annoyance. I pressed my fingers into the bridge of my nose, but felt the scratchy gloves and dropped my hands. “I didn’t exactly get Santa training at Stanford Law.”

She rolled her eyes at my blatant name drop. “You think my social work degree required Mrs. Claus 101? Growing up, my father said Santa was a distraction from the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas. But there are twenty kids with heart conditions who expect a magical visitor from the North Pole, and this will break up the monotony of echocardiograms and blood tests. For some of them, this will be their last Christmas.” I winced, and she seemed gratified that her message was sinking in. “I was hoping you could put on that charming grin that makes my knees weak and force out a Ho Ho Ho,” she smacked my chest with each Ho, “but if you can’t fake it for sick kids for half an hour, you’re not as much like your dad as I hoped you were.”

Her cheeks flushed as red as her velvet cape as she glared through those ugly glasses. I didn’t expect her outburst, but apparently if you mess with a social worker’s kids, it brings out the Mama Bear.

Wait a minute. Makes her knees weak? File that away for later.

I must have scowled, because my North Pole wife threw her hands up. “Fine, if you can’t handle it, give me the jacket and I’ll do it myself.”

What? She couldn’t … I shook my head. “You can’t be Santa.”

“You don’t think Santa could be a woman? You really think a straight married white man manages the list of what every kid wants?”

Well no, obviously not, that’s why he has elves. He delegates.

Before I could protest, she held up an accusing finger. “Bet you can’t keep track of your own family. Quick: When’s Mallory’s birthday?”

“April … 12.”

“It’s May 1.”

Ha! I knew it was in the spring.

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