There’s something not so cool about passing what will be your dad’s living mausoleum. I lean into Stetson’s body and hold his hand even tighter. I’m sure he doesn’t like it either but I don’t really know what to say to comfort him so I do what I would want—I hold him instead.
“I can’t wait to meet your ancestors,” I smile up at him, hoping his thoughts aren’t going to some dark place about his dad. Distract as much as possible has always been my go-to.
“Happy to introduce you.” His voice is soft, gone is sex on a stick, now he’s showing me something more personal, more intimate. He’s also more guarded like I’m going to take one look and bolt or maybe expose him? I would never do either of those things, but this might all be new to him too—showing me things he’s never allowed others to see. That can be terrifying, opening up not just yourself but the people you’ve loved, the legacy you’ve built, to a stranger.
We went through all the St. Nick’s libraries, lingering in some, and not others. Stetson told me anecdotes about each Santa, and I appreciated how much he loved his culture and lineage. The pride that came over his face when he talked about the amount of joy they gave kids around the world is beautiful.
“Is this it?” I ask, sad there’s no library for the first St. Nick.
“No,” he shakes his head. “The first St. Nick’s library is kept separate. We wanted to give him something a little more special.”
The walkway under us lights up red with each step we take until we are in front of another all-glass library—except this one has a special door with intricate, ancient carvings that seems to sparkle the closer we get.
He places his palm in front of the door, and like the entrance to the Claus-eum the door slides open.
“This is seriously the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I whisper in awe.
He stays quiet as we walk through the doorway.
The first St. Nick’s library is different from the rest. The books look like they’d fall apart if you even touch them. The room legit feels like it’s some magical gateway. I walk around and study the ancient artifacts, staring for a long time atdifferent books and diaries, completely entranced. I could stay here for days just looking things over. I’m almost afraid to breathe.
Stetson does his own thing in this room, suddenly quiet.
He doesn’t give me details about the first St. Nick like he did with the others. He’s quieter and more reserved.
I walk up to a display that holds St. Nick’s clothing in a frame behind glass, carefully preserved from when he wore it. It’s red and ornate, with gold tassels and intricate designs from that period. There’s a crest painted in the center of the red velvet robe that has reindeer kicking in the air with a bed of gifts beneath him.
It’s not the only outfit in this case though.
The other that is framed and carefully preserved is one for a woman. Exactly like you’d picture Mrs. Claus wearing. A long red velvet dress with a high collar, fitted bodice and embroidered with gold trimming as well.
“Why don’t any of the other Santa’s have their wife’s clothes locked away with theirs?” I turn to him.
He crosses his arms, a muscle ticks in his jaw as pain briefly washes across his face, a memory maybe? Or a story? Whatever it is, the room is thick with this reverence, this sadness I can’t quite place.
“She was the first Mrs. Claus.”
Huh, okay. The first. She must be special then?
“But why don’t the other women get the same kind of fanfare?” I ask.
His mood completely shifts.
“Is it a sign of the times kind of thing?” I wonder, disappointed that Stetson and his father wouldn’t rectify this immediately. All women deserve to be honored like this.
All the wives should have the same respect. Considering the man’s working hours, I’m sure they put up with a lot.Considering the amount of cookies and secrecy in that pantry, the sexual appetite, I almost joke but I keep it to myself.
“It’s not what you think.” He says under his breath like he almost doesn’t want me to hear so I don’t ask.
“Then what is it?” I push.
“There have only been three Mrs. Clause’.”
“That math ain’t mathing, Stetson,” I point around at the obvious. “You’re living proof that’s categorically incorrect.”
“The ground will tremble with echoes of ancient past. Breath will falter. The heart will race. The stranger is no stranger. She is your face.”Stetson whispers the words solemnly as he stares into my eyes.
I feel a tingle in my spine that shoots up and rains like twinkling stars through my body.
