Page 6 of Sexy Claus

Despite her grimace, his former teacher gave a curt nod. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you Saturday morning at nine thirty in the high school’s main hall. You can put on the suit in the nurse’s office.”

“Okay.” Not giving her a chance to change her mind, he rinsed his mug and headed for the front door. “Thank you for the buckeyes, Mrs. Barber. Mom, tell Dad the flashing’s fixed. You shouldn’t have any more problems with it.”

Whispers followed him down the hall and finally ended when he stepped outside and shut the door.

No amount of conspiring would convince him to change his mind about women and dating.

CHAPTER THREE

Christy fiddledwith the sheaf of papers the lawyer had given her on Saturday morning and hoped the conversation with her potential client sidetracked her thoughts from the contents of the legal documents. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I graduated from college two and a half years ago with a degree in architecture, got a full-time job where I did my internship, lived in my own apartment, paid my own bills. Eleven months ago, a man’s brain aneurysm ruptured as he was driving home from work. His SUV hit my car when he ran a red light. I woke up in the hospital three weeks later with a spinal cord injury and no feeling from my waist down.” Despite Brenna’s succinct description, the sudden change in her voice told Christy the trauma still, not unexpectedly, lived on in the young woman’s mind. “The only reason I know what happened is because there were eye-witness accounts and his wife came to visit me three or four times a week while I was hospitalized. Her husband died at the scene, leaving her and their two teenage kids behind. He was only forty years old.”

Smothering her reaction took much less effort over the phone than it would have in person. It didn’t, however, prevent a surge of grief—for all the victims of that horrible tragedy.

“It’s actually fairly common to never fully regain those memories.” She forced herself to direct the discussion away from that aspect, knowing from experience and training that sympathy instead of empathy would only prolong Brenna’s tendency to define herself by the accident and her inability to walk instead of who she was. “I’ve never met an architect before. Tell me more about it. What kind of buildings do you design?”

Her redirection seemed to work when Brenna launched into an enthusiastic description of past and current projects. After several minutes of chatting about a career she obviously enjoyed, the young woman laughed. “Sorry. I can get a little carried away, talking about all the fun stuff I get to do. I’m lucky to have a great boss. She held my job for me while I was recovering and offered to let me work remotely as long as I get the job done.”

“No need to apologize. You love what you do, which is more that a lot of people can say. I’m really glad to hear your boss has allowed that flexibility.” Christy straightened the will, stuffed it back in its envelope, and slid it into her computer bag. Out of sight might not guarantee out of mind, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. “I never sleep well in hotels, so I did a little research on the occupational therapy practices in the area last night. Some names were familiar. People I’ve met at conferences, worked with at one time or another, a few from college. Since I already have connections with them, I sent several emails to see if they know of any openings or temporary positions. I’m planning to contact a few more places after our phone call. In the meantime, tell me what your goals are. What you’d like to accomplish. Where you see yourself a few months or a year from now.”

“Hmm.” At least ten seconds of silence passed, hinting that Brenna was hesitant about sharing her thoughts. As determined as she’d been to get home by herself from the basketball gamelast night, she had to have some wishes and dreams for the future.

“What’s the most important thing you want to achieve? No wrong answers, and I promise not to laugh or try to convince you to think smaller.”

“I, uh…” A noisy exhale carried through the phone. “I want to live on my own again. Either a small single-story house or a first-floor apartment with a ramp and wide hallways. Lower kitchen and bathroom counters. Everything made to work with my disability, without inconveniencing my dad in his house because he thinks he should take care of me now. I know he means well, but I’m a grownup, and I want to be treated like one. The city council voted to use this year’s annual fundraiser to help pay for renovations. You probably saw signs for it when you drove through town. Claus for a Cause. It’s next weekend. I’d like to use the money to make the necessary changes on my own place.”

“This is what I’m talking about.” A surge of pride chased away the lingering ache for all Brenna had lost.

“The only problem is finding someplace in town. The few apartment options here are mostly older homes that have been split into duplexes—upstairs-downstairs spaces. Not that there are many available. And the real estate market here is practically nonexistent. People don’t move in and out of Creekside very often.”

As the manila envelope of legal documents caught Christy’s eye a few inches away, an idea formed in her head. The solution to the stress-inducing situation of dealing with her father’s estate was simple—if she could make it work the way she wanted to. She scribbled a note to email the lawyer with the numerous questions that immediately filled her thoughts. “So, this is a good start. Make a list and think about the steps to make those things happen. It should be like a resolution list, but you can make it any time, not just for the new year.”

“Okay.” Confidence and drive came through in Brenna’s response, a sure sign she was prepared to work hard to succeed. “Oh no! This is bad. Really bad.”

Alarm bells went off, setting Christy’s nerve endings on edge. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Do you need me to call 9-1-1 or come over?”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m good, but I got an email from Mrs. Barber that she needs to go stay with her very pregnant granddaughter for a few days. Her grandson-in-law has to travel for his job or something, and the baby is due any time now.” Brenna groaned. “Crap. This completely messes up Mrs. Claus’s Cookie Kitchen on Saturday. We’ve already assigned all the volunteers to their posts and our backup Mrs. C relocated to Columbus in September. You wouldn’t happen to love making cookies, would you?”

The unstoppable urge to revert to doormat helper slammed into Christy, despite her decision to avoid interacting with the residents of her former hometown. She aimed a glare at the gallon bag of biscotti she’d made to get her through the ordeal of dredging up the past. Cookies had been her stress outlet for years—both making and eating them.

I already offered my OT services.

But… Okay, maybe I can do more to support Brenna without anyone being the wiser.

She forced the tension from her spine with a slow exhale. “Is there a costume? Like a wig and glasses?”

“Yeah, but if that’s a deal-breaker, we can probably change things up a bit. You know, modernize the Mrs. to Ms. Claus and give her a dye job and a stylish pantsuit or something.” Brenna sounded awfully desperate for a replacement. “You don’t have to do the baking part, either. You’ll help decorate cookies in the Family and Consumer Sciences lab with anybody who wants to participate. Frost a cookie. Add sprinkles. That kind of thing.Send them off to the next stop when they’re done. You just have to supervise, restock the decorating supplies on the tables, and talk to the kids.”

Surrendering to her penchant for coming to the rescue, Christy hoped she didn’t regret being part of the big community event. “Actually, I don’t mind wearing Mrs. Barber’s costume, assuming it fits.”

“That’s awesome! Thanks so much. Really.” Clicking and clacking in the background suggested the young woman was typing an email to the original Mrs. Claus. “I’ve let Mrs. Barber know I found her replacement and that she’ll need to drop off the costume to one of us.”

No backing out now.

“Oh, I should also mention you’ll hang out with Santa for a few hours after the cookie kitchen closes. The kids can sit on his lap if they want to. You hand out the goodie bags and then pose with them for pictures. It’s up to you if you want to join everybody for the chili supper in the cafeteria. You get to eat for free since you’re a volunteer, but you might be ready for a break, so don’t feel obligated. Caroling in the park is at seven, with hot chocolate and cider booths. Again, not mandatory.”

Brenna’s excitement muffled Christy’s mixed emotions. The festival had grown significantly in the twenty-seven years since she’d left Creekside—and had changed to a fundraising opportunity for residents in need of assistance. Not once in her childhood had she attended the annual event. The one time she’d asked, her father had shipped her off to her grandparents’ for the holidays early, before winter break even started.

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