Page 37 of Spicy Nick

Then, still shaking her head and muttering about old people, Kate reaches for her brother and lifts him off the bed. “C’mon, Cole. Let’s you and me go back downstairs and see what Santa brought us.” Then she favors us both with another disapproving look. “Everyone’s already starting to arrive. So, you should probably hurry.”

“You know,” I say after the kids have departed. “Someday—hopefully not too soon—that kid’s going to make agreatparent. Assuming she can lighten up a little. Because, damn…”

I don’t think Scout’s listening, however. Face buried in her hands, she’s shaking her head and chanting repeatedly, “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

“Are you sure about that?” I have to ask.

Scout drops her hands and scowls at me. “Sure?” she demands in strangled tones. “No, Nick. I’mnotsure. I’m notsureof anything at the moment.”

“Well, I am,” I tell her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I’m still sure of you and me. Team Greco, remember?”

“Team Patterson-Greco, if you don’t mind,” she corrects, but then she smiles. “You’re right. We’ll get through this, won’t we?”

“We will.,” I assure her. “Just as soon as we figure out what ‘this’ even is. But there’s one more thing I’m sure of—and that’s scaring the crap out of me. If we don’t hurry up and get our butts downstairs STAT, I’m absolutely certain we’re gonna have the whole family barging in here, asking us why not.”

Scout nods. “Yeah. I love your family, but let’s not do that.”

“Our family,” I remind her. “They’re yours now, too. And if you think I’m gonna let you stick me with the whole lot of them all on my own? Well, you can just think again.”

“Coward,” she teases as she climbs out of bed.

“Let me at ’em, let me at ’em,” I tease right back, doing my best Cowardly Lion impression—complete with circling fists. I continue the act as I mock-chase her across the room, and into our bathroom, where I end by giving her butt a satisfying slap. Which is followed by an even more satisfying squeal from her. After that, one thing leads to another and…yeah, you get the picture.

Several minuteslater finds us both downstairs, in front of the tree, gazing in confusion at the room around us. Kate had been telling the truth—not that I really thought otherwise, of course. It’s just that I don’t like things that I can’t understand. And this is definitely one of them.

The stockings have been hung, with all due care, by person or persons unknown. They’ve been filled with goodies and, in Cole’s case, already partially decimated.

Piles of brightly wrapped presents are laid out beneath the tree. Everything looking exactly as it should, exactly as it would have looked had Scout and I not forgotten to take care of it the night before, had we kept to the plan and not gotten carried away and fallen asleep instead.

Even the gift bag and the boxes that we’d opened together in bed are here; having been removed from the bedroom and inexpertly re-wrapped, at some point. Apparently while we were asleep. And that’s not creepy at all.

“You don’t think we’ve maybe got some kind of phrogger situation on our hands, do you?” I whisper to my wife.

“Why ask me?” she replies, eyes widening, lips quirking in amusement. “You’re the cop, aren’t you? Unless you’re still talking retirement? I don’t think we ever did finish that discussion, did we?”

“No, we didn’t.” I think about that idea for about as long as it deserves. Not very long. Then I shake my head. “I think we’ll put a pin in that, as well.”

“Mm-hm,” Scout murmurs, the quirk turning into a smirk. “I thought as much. But, getting back to the Santa vs phrogger question, for a moment; do you really want to hear my inexpert opinion on the subject?”

“Honey, I’ll always want to hear your opinion, expert or not, on any given subject, bar none. Is that clear enough?”

“Fine, then. I don’t think it’s either.”

“Really? There’s a door number three? Cool! What am I missing?”

“C’mere. Look at this.” Taking hold of my arm, she turns me around so I’m facing the tree.

“What am I looking at? I don’t see any—? Oh.” There’s a new ornament hanging on the tree; an angel, flying across a starry sky, carrying a little brass bell that dangles from one hand. Scout taps the bell with one finger, eliciting the tiniest of chimes.

“Ah,” I say in response. “So that’s what you mean. You think it’s angels?”

Scout’s smile turns rueful “I do,” she says as she grabs my hand and drags us into the dining room where Christmas magic seems to have taken hold as well. It’s not anything specific. Nothing you can point to. Just a hint of sparkle in the air. An extra layer of bright-and-shiny laid over the entire room.

The floor and the furniture look a little more polished than usual. The poinsettias that grace the sideboard seem to glowmore lustrously than they had the day before. And set between them, in pride of place, sits the gingerbread house.

Okay, so maybe it is specific, after all.

When last seen, the house had been unassembled, tucked safely in boxes stacked on the table. It’s assembled now, however, and it somehow looks even more majestic (and more delicious in some indefinable fashion) than ever before. Which seems really unfair. I mean, no one likes a show-off.

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