Page 15 of Mistletoe Face Off

Kids squeal in delight as parents applaud, probably concerned for their ear health after my performance today.

“Are you sure about that, Mrs. Claus?” I ask.

“Sure am, Mr. Claus.”

The words toBaby, It's Cold Outsideappear on the screen, and Holly leans close enough to me that I can breathe in her intoxicating floral scent. “You do every second line, got it?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Holly delivers her line, and then I bumble mine, my voice sounding more like a dull drone than anything even close to as sweet and melodic as hers. But despite my lack of talent, the crowd seems to love it, and we ham it up, play acting the lines and having fun with it. I jostle Macy in my arms, and she even lets out a giggle.

By the end of the song, the crowd enthusiastically applauds us, and I wave at everyone. “I’m much better at delivering presents than singing,” I say, and the adults laugh. “Speaking of which, who wants a Christmas present? I’ve got a bunch over by my seat, but you’ll have to line up like kids on the Nice List to get given one.”

Kids squeal and stampede over toward my chair.

“I’d love your help with this,” I say to Macy. “And yours too, Mrs. Claus.”

“You got it,” Holly says.

“I told you Mommy was a caterpillar,” Macy says into my ear, looking so proud of her mom.

We spend the next forty-five minutes or so handing out gifts to kids and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. Finally, after I've said enough “ho ho hos” and “Merry Christmases” to last abunch of lifetimes, Holly and I find a quiet spot to sit down and enjoy a beverage, while Macy joins some other kids in coloring pictures of Santa and his reindeer.

“Thank you so much for your help. You're the best wife I've ever had,” I say.

“Oh, really? How many wives have you had exactly?” she asks.

“Well, let's see. There's you, and, well, that's it.”

I win a smile from her, and I’m itching to ask about Macy's father, but I figure that's getting a little too personal. Even if I want to know.

She takes a sip of her soda. “I would have thought a handsome man like you would have had them lining up.”

“Not everyone likes a rotund belly and a white beard, you know.”

“I do not know why.”

We lean back on the seats and take a sip of our sodas.

“See that picture up there,” she says, gesturing at the far wall where there’s a painting of a man. “That’s Harold Washington, the first African American mayor of this city. It’s a replica of the original, which hangs in City Hall.”

“You’re into history?”

“Yes, but I’m more into art.”

“An art loving journalist.”

She laughs. “I guess I am. But as you might know, I'm here covering the Blizzard’s involvement in Christmas charity events.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is if you like pro hockey players.”

“By your tone, I would say you don't like pro hockey players?” I ask, wondering what she has against us.

She shrugs. “They're fine.”

“Convincing.”

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