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“We understand. Stay safe. I’ll tell our residents.” She ends the call and looks outside again. “Neely, I’ll go tell the residents the guest of honor isn’t able to make it.” She chuckles. “It’s a good thing they don’t think he’s the real deal.”
They may all be senior citizens, but some of them still like to remember the innocence of their childhood. And there are a few who. . .
“Wait.” I know someone who has a beard and a booming laugh—and he’s just down the road.
Also, he’s not afraid of storms.
On the other hand, he’s a bit of a jerk who hates Christmas, but he’s always had a soft spot for me. Would he do it as a favor? A massive, monumental favor for his best friend’s kid?
“I can get us a replacement Santa.” There's more confidence in my voice than I really feel.
She shakes her head. “Not for tonight. I need you to head home. Our original Santa was caught in the storm while driving down the coast. It’s going to get worse here within the hour. Go now.”
“For tomorrow, then.” I follow her into our office and throw on my long parka. Where are my mittens? I wind my scarf around my neck twice, loop my purse across my body, and shove my hands in my pockets. “Don’t tell them Santa can’t make it. Just tell them he’s going to loop back here after he delivers all the presents to all the kids around the world. Please?”
“You think you can make that happen?”
In my pockets, I cross my fingers. “I will do whatever it takes.”
“All right. Good luck on your mission, Christmas elf! Now go home.”
Outside, I flinch against the cold, driving snow and make a beeline for the parking lot. I’m shivering by the time I get to my car, an old beater I inherited from my brother. I unlock it and throw myself behind the steering wheel.
Our original Santa was correct to not even try to make it to the party. I really hope tomorrow is better, weather-wise—but even if it’s not, Ford could probably walk over to the retirement home.
A hot, sexy Santa—most likely grumpy, too—strolling over from his lighthouse.He won’t do it.
He did once upon a time, though.
Part of me has to believe he will again.
I put the key in the ignition to start the car. Nothing happens. I try again, horror mounting. Fuck. My car battery is dead. Why didn’t I notice the car light didn’t come on?
Because you were thinking about climbing onto Ford’s knee and whispering your filthy Christmas wishes in his ear.
With a frustrated cry, I pull out my phone and call home. No answer because they’re probably still out caroling. I can imagine my father telling my mother, “McIntoshes go caroling no matter the weather!Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night stays these carolers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds!”
I try my mom’s cell next, but there’s no answer. She probably left it at home.
Getting out of the car, I glance back at the retirement home, the lights warm and cozy in the distance. But then, my attention is drawn to the lighthouse. I’m equally close to both, and if I go see Ford, I can beg him to be my Santa Claus in person.
I text my mom to let her know my car is dead and where I'm going, then shove my phone back in my purse. My fingers already ache from the cold, so I hurry in the direction of the man I once innocently declared I would marry one day.
He just laughed and ruffled my hair.
He better not try that tonight. I’m all grown up now, and I won’t take no for an answer. One way or another, Ford Gamble is going to agree to do this favor for me. And then maybe we can also talk about why he ghosted my family last Christmas and why he was a no-show for my nineteenth birthday party, too.
Ford
A wicked storm is churning up the ocean tonight. I’ve brewed an extra-large pot of coffee to get me through to dawn because, on nights like this, my lighthouse is the difference between life and death for boats caught out to sea.
In a storm, it’s better for them to stay far from the coast, and my job is to make sure they know where that coast is. And where I am, perched high on a cliff above the Oregon coast, on the outskirts of Conception Ridge.
You don’t need to stay up.I fucking hate that voice in my head. The one that tells me the lighthouse is automated and alarms would wake me up if the system stopped working.
I could leave, too. Go to the McIntoshes’ house for their fucking sweet-as-apple-pie carol singing and board games night like I used to. Dan and his wife always included me, ever since Dan and I returned from our last tour overseas. He got married, and I signed up for this job.
You’ll spend your time alone, the posting warned.
