About Last Christmas

It’s beginning to look a lot like a crime scene. Well, a future one. While elfnapping is not on my itinerary for this evening, nothing about this night has gone as planned. All my hopes were pinned on surviving the chaos of the community Christmas parade, checking on Gran’s light display at the adjoining park, then returning home in time to give Gran her meds and hibernate on the sofa while consuming my body weight in overpriced fudge.

     I’ve earned every calorie.

     The 207th Silver Creek Christmas parade may be a tradition brimming with holiday cheer and yada yada yada, but so far, I’ve taken a Tootsie Roll to the forehead (thanks to the Sunrise Senior Center residents) and heard enough creepy renditions of "Santa Baby" to haunt my waking moments (again, thanks to the Sunrise Senior Center residents). I’m a huge supporter of our local elderly, and several of Gran and Pap’s friends live in the state-of-the-art facility, but whoever’s grand idea it was to glow up the “Ageless Angels” float with a karaoke machine and strobe light did not take into consideration the rest of Silver Creek’s population. Does family-friendly environment mean nothing anymore? To make it worse, the giant nutcracker on my “Santa’s Antique Toys” float kept toppling over in the wind and almost brained the mayor as the float passed the judging station. Nearly giving the leader of our fine town a concussion did nothing for my eligibility for the Most Festive Float Award.

     Now this.

     I never thought an elf would provoke me to a life of crime, but here we are.

Every season, Gran sponsors a turtledove light display. She pays extra to secure the area beside the street clock where Pap had proposed over sixty years ago. This year, the reservation rate spiked an additional two hundred dollars. I didn’t have the heart to tell Gran, so I forked over the extra Benjamins to make it happen. Moreover, a few weeks back, I broke a thumbnail and got my hair snagged on one of the birds' beaks while pulling the display out of storage. But instead of a pair of turtledoves with my DNA all over it gracing this snowy patch of earth … it’s an elf on a surfboard. I assess the six-foot-tall light display and declare war.

     The elf isn’t to be blamed, per se, but its sponsor—Josie Dubois. She moved Gran’s turtledoves.

     I’m generally not two heartbeats away from feral mode, but this happened last year too on account of Josie hating my guts. Her loathing must be a three-for-one package because it obviously extends to Gran and Pap. A year ago, I was the bigger person and went through the proper channels to resolve the issue. Tonight though—I adjust my Mrs. Claus hat—it’s on.

     Josie put her display and adjacent sign advertising her tanning salon here out of spite. All because her ex-boyfriend took me on a handful of dates, and then tossed me aside like used wrapping paper. Oh, and these infractions occurred in high school. Nearly a decade ago. Josie’s grudges last longer than her spray tans. So in petty revenge, she swiped my dear grandmother’s spot and placed the turtledoves—I twirl in a slow circle—by the …

     I see red. And it has nothing to do with the blinking Santa sleigh to my left.

Josie placed the turtledoves by the port-a-john. It’s a good hundred feet away, but I could recognize my grandparents’ display anywhere. My fingers twitch at my sides, even as a fire builds within me hot enough to counteract the thirty-degree temp.

     I’ve never claimed to possess main character energy. My introvert soul reads side character, at best. You know, the quirky ones in rom-coms with fun fashion sense and witty one-liners. The supporting roles never get the guy though. Such is my life. So yeah, I may not be heroine material, but at this moment, I will happily be the villain. I glare at the surfing elf, and my heart shrinks two sizes. The Greta who stole Christmas … lights. Not exactly original, but I can roll with it. I cast furtive looks to my left and right to ensure the coast is clear. It’s not. At least several hundred people are milling about, enjoying Light-Up Night.

     Most days I feel invisible—today is not that day. I’m freaking dressed like Mrs. Claus. The Christmas parade always precedes the Light-Up Night ceremony. My family’s antique shop makes a float every year. Translation: I make the float every year. I usually enjoy being crafty, but with running the store during the day and being Gran’s caregiver at night (and often into the early hours of the morning), my Christmas spirit isn’t just weak—it’s on life support. So here I stand—in a dark green velvet creation trimmed in white fur, that I whipped up over the past week—contemplating how to effectively remove an elf carcass without attracting attention.

     Determination igniting my veins, I bend low and toggle the power switch. The bright lights outlining the metal frame go dark.

     Once any risk of electrocution is removed, I plant my feet on either side of the hulking display. My boots may be appropriate for ushering small children toward Santa’s lap, but they’re a sorry match against the frozen ground. I work the two spikes from the ground, but the last one proves to be the most challenging. With a savage grunt, I tug on the elf’s torso.

     Nothing.

     Did Josie cement this thing to the earth’s core? I roll my shoulders and tilt my head from side to side, cracking my neck as if I’m entering a WWE ring instead of wrestling an inanimate object. But my hype trick works because on my next pull, the earth releases its icy hold, and the festive imp is in my clutches.

     A throat clears. “Do you—”

     I swivel toward the masculine voice. My left ankle balks at the ridiculous amount of physical activity it’s been subjected to and decides to collapse like a diva. I pitch to the side and … stab a random stranger with an elf.

     The man’s reflexes are impressive, but even his panther-like grace can’t compete with my undefeated clumsiness. I find myself on the damp ground, and the mystery man has an elf hanging from his broad chest like an appendage.

     “Oh my gosh!” I stagger to my feet. “Are you hurt? Bleeding?” My criminal activity has escalated from property theft to possible man slaughter in less than five minutes. As far as PRs go, it’s impressive. But twenty-to-life is not on my Christmas list. “Medic!” I yell and the guy chuckles.

     I blink. “Is shock setting in?” I almost stutter on the last word because I’ve allowed my gaze to take in my unintended victim. His tall, dark, and handsome contrasts with my petite, ghostly, and somewhat mediocre. Should I expect anything less on a day like today? Other women have meet-cutes. Me? Meet-kills. I’ve hit a new low.

     “I’m okay.” The man’s husky voice carries remnants of amusement. “It’s caught on my jacket.” With one smooth move, he disentangles his massive body from the stupid elf. The guy’s lopsided grin matches well with the gleam in his eyes. “See? No harm done.”

     I’m about to exhale relief, but then gasp. The confusion in my airways results in my croaky voice. “Your coat. It’s gashed.” I flutter my hand at the gaping hole.

     He glimpses the damage and shrugs. “No big deal.” His gaze roams over my outfit, then to the abandoned light display. “Is everything okay, Mrs. Claus?”

     No, I’m trying to avoid a nuero-meltdown. “It’s a long story.” It’s actually not. But I don’t want to explain myself—or my actions—to a random person, but then again, I just nearly impaled him. I guess he’s entitled to an explanation. “I’m in the process of staking my ground.” I offer a dramatic lift of my chin as if I’m some pioneer in a land run rather than a small-town antique store owner with seasonal run-ins with a high school nemesis with questionably orange skin.

     “So you’re from …” He reads the small sign I forgot to kick over. “Josie’s Tan-tasy Island.”

     I’m paler than eggnog. “Uh … no.” At his raised brow, I adopt a new strategy. “It’s just a little mix-up. My gran’s display is supposed to be here. On this spot.” I gesture toward the prostrate elf, its head near the toe of my boot as if it’s groveling. “Not that.”

     “So where’s your gran’s?”

     “I think Josie placed it over there. The turtledoves.” I wave in the general direction of the port-a-john. Fire burns my face, but I’m unsure if it’s because of my fuming anger toward Josie or because I’m avoiding discussing mobile toilets with a stranger. I should know him longer than a handful of minutes to reach this level in a relationship.

     He follows my line of sight, and I swear his lips twitch. “I see.”

     “It wouldn’t be a huge deal, except we paid to reserve this spot. This is exactly where Pap proposed to Gran. It’s special to her.” An unexpected blip of emotion coats my tone. “I’m bringing her here tomorrow night.” If she’s up to it, that is. “I’m just not too sure how many Christmases she has left. Which is why turtledove placement is my top priority.”

     His face visibly softens, all tease and humor gone. “Let me help you switch them.”

     I shouldn’t take on an accomplice. Even though we’ve rightfully claimed this spot, I’m still unsure what I’m going to do with Josie’s elf. “Thank you, but I got it.” I cringe again at the hole in his coat. “Can I give you money for a new coat?” I ask casually while I inwardly freak out. Thirty dollars and a card good for ten car washes from the local Clean & Cruise are all that’s in my wallet.

     “That’s not necessary.” He offers a kind smile.

     “Then would you let me mend it?” I slip a hand into one of my pockets and withdraw the tools of my trade. Some women are armed with lipsticks. I’m armed with stabby metal sticks of the sewing variety.

     His head tilts to the side. “Do you always carry a needle and thread?”

     I’m the first to claim I was born in the wrong era. “Wardrobe malfunctions can bring the best of us down. I’m always at the ready.” My favorite hobby is restoring and wearing vintage clothing. My little quirk makes me seem seventy-five rather than twenty-five, but I make no apology. I move closer to inspect his coat. “The tear is close to the pocket seam. Easy fix.” Only … I can’t see well. The surrounding lights provide enough illumination that I can clearly note how the man’s dark hair has a flirty curl to it beneath his black beanie. But there’s not enough light to thread a needle and stitch a straight line. While this is the kind of mending I can probably do with my eyes closed, I’ve already revealed enough of my general incompetence, I shouldn’t risk this. “We need to go where there’s more light.”

     I tug my phone from my other pocket and check the time. “It’s nearly seven. We have to hurry.” I hustle as fast as my boots let me.

     “Where to, exactly?” His long legs effortlessly keep pace with me.

I sigh, wishing this night to be over. “To the North Pole.” I lead him to the back door of the enclosed pavilion. “Santa’s on a smoke break.” Ned Gilieski is our resident St. Nick. While most Santas subsist on cookies and milk, ours survives on Marlboros. “It’s in his yearly contract.” Santa Ned is not to be confused with the legendary Silver Creek Secret Santa, our resident philanthropist who helps local families. Only a select few know his identity, me included.

     Intent on my current mission, I open the back door to the pavilion, which is kept unlocked during this event. I breeze into the winter wonderland. Well, the pretend winter wonderland. Also, let it be known I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t trap myself in an enclosed space with a man I’ve known for less than twenty minutes. The pavilion is surrounded by windows which give a clear view to passersby with hot chocolate, kids with sticky faces and fingers from the free candy canes provided by the Lions Club, and, somewhere in the vicinity, a smoking Santa. After nodding toward the fluorescent lights as an explanation, I click open my kit, opting for the needle best for wool. “Give me your coat.” I sound bossy and hate it. I get like this when flustered. “I’m sorry. I should probably ask your name before demanding you to remove your clothes.” Um. No. Try again. “I mean, I shouldn’t tell you to take anything off …” I groan, and he rubs a hand over his mouth, but not before I catch a glimpse of his smile. “I had a rough day. Clearly, the English language is against me.” I stick out my hand, the one not currently holding a needle. “I’m Greta.”

     His gloved fingers engulf mine. “Leo.”

     I can’t control the wrinkling of my nose. “Sorry. That one’s taken. Pick another.”

     “Name, you mean?” He huffs a laugh. “You want me to pick another name?”

     “My Leo quota is full.” It’s like how mothers reject baby names because they know someone who’s already ruined it. My brain won’t allow the distinction between the Leo of this evening with the other I’ve known since forever.

     Both dark brows rise, disappearing beneath his beanie. “Ah, an ex-boyfriend?”

     I snort. “Not even close. He’s one of the Mavericks.”

     “The basketball team?”

     “Ha! No, the card players of Silver Creek. He’s pushing eighty-five, and let’s just say, if ear hair is a mark of intelligence, Leonard Faulk would rule the world.” Someone as attractive as the man before me can’t share the same name as the one who smells like Menthol and introduces himself to strangers by handing them a copy of his obituary, which he’s constantly amending. Leonard refuses to die until he has the legendary account of his life perfected. His words. Though I confess, Leonard is probably my fifth favorite person in existence.

     His hands halt on the last button as he glances up at me. “My name’s not short for Leonard.”

     “Leopold?”

     “No.” He shrugs out of his coat but hesitates. “You really don’t have to fix this. I have other coats.”

     “It’s the least I can do.” I gently tug the coat from his grasp. “This should only take a minute or two.” It’s Saturday night. He probably has somewhere to be. I angle toward the light and work swiftly as if Leo the Luring—that’s how he’s known in my head now—is holding a stopwatch.

     “Are you from around here?” He casually asks as he inspects the row of gingerbread houses on display from the local elementary school.

     “I grew up here.” That’s all the information I offer. I deliberately don’t reveal my last name in case Leo the Luring is actually Leo the Lurker. I don’t feel I’m interesting enough to attract a stalker, but one can never be too careful. “You?”

     “In a way.” I hear his voice behind me. He’s no doubt checking out the selfie station. Those too old to sit on Santa’s lap can pose behind a massive plastic orb, giving the appearance that they’re inside a snow globe. “I’ve lived in Silver Creek off and on until recently.” His voice fades, and I glance over my shoulder to find him emerging from the storage closet. Hmm, I wouldn’t peg him as the nosy kind.

     After the final stitch, I knot the thread and break it off. “Here you go, Leo,” I say his name, which makes his lips curve in an attractive smile. “You are presentable for society once again.”

     He retrieves the coat and examines my work with a nod of approval. “Can barely tell it was ever torn. Thank you.” He smoothly puts the coat back on, even as I move toward the exit. “Next time I get pummeled by Christmas lights, I’m coming to you.”

     I laugh. “I hope we can meet again on less violent terms.” I was joining in on his joke, but then realize how forward I sound. Before I can sputter out something that would probably make me sound more awkward, movement outside snags my focus. “Oh no.”

     “What?” He follows me out the exit, and I quietly shut the door.

     “Look. There’s Josie. She found her dead elf.” I’m not in the mood for confrontation. A half hour ago? Yes. Why didn’t Josie stumble upon me when I was full of righteous fury?

     Josie’s stomping her feet like she’s three. “Greta!”

     A sigh pushes through my lips. “Might as well hash it out with her.”

     He places a hand on my elbow. “Let me.”

     “Uh, I’m not sure—”

     But he’s already striding toward a fuming Josie.

     I slyly get closer, ducking behind one of the pine trees for some covert eavesdropping.

     “Are you Josie from Tan-tasy Island?” His masculine voice silences Josie’s banshee yell—something about me and my imminent demise.

     “Yes.” Her tone is suspiciously hesitant.

     “I’m sorry about your display,” Leo says. “I noticed a light was broken and intended to repair it for you.”

     What? I peek between the branches, and sure enough, he holds out a bulb. I remember he wandered into the storage closet in the pavilion, but had no idea he swiped a replacement light. How did he know where to find those? Also is the elf really broken? Did I do that in my accidental stabbing?

     Josie seems just as baffled. “So, this”—she points at her elf—“has nothing to do with Greta?” Then, before he can answer, she says, “Oh, do you work for the city?”

     “You can say that.”

     I nearly slap a hand to my forehead. He works for the city. He no doubt approached me to begin with to question my actions. I feel super dumb. By this time, Josie realizes the caliber of man standing before her, and her lips shift from scowling to impressively pouty.

“I appreciate you coming to my rescue.” Her mouth slowly spreads into a coy smile while her gaze holds intense eye contact. It’s impressive, really. As much as I hate to admit it, I should be taking notes. Despite her teeth nearly glowing from her skin being so orange, she has a strong flirt game.

     I watch like some weird creeper as Leo fixes a bulb on the elf’s foot. The exact spot I hit him earlier.

     “There.” He dusts his hands together. “Can I offer you a suggestion?”

     She dips her chin and peers up at him. “You can offer me anything.”

     I snort, then realize it was loud enough to nearly shake the pine boughs and duck.

     Both heads whip in my direction, but somewhere in the distance, a man shouts a slew of obscene words, drawing their focus off me. It sounded suspiciously like Santa Ned, but I can’t be certain.

     Leo claims Josie’s attention. “I see that your elf’s on a surfboard.”

     “Uh huh. It gives a beachy feel that matches my tanning salon.”

     “Right. So what if you place this guy”—he hoists up the elf—“over by the fountain? There’s an open spot right behind it. When the water shoots up, it will give the illusion that he’s riding a wave to those who pass the fountain. I think it will be a crowd favorite.”

     I’m now so low to the ground I can smell the wet earth, but I can see Josie teetering. Like there’s a war between her grudgy soul and her sound logic. She loves to be the center of attention, and the elf’s placement there certainly makes sense.

     He leans in and seals the deal. “It’ll match your beach vibe.”

     Oh he’s good. He just threw back her words and made her sound brilliant.

Josie beams at him. Really her teeth are super white. It’s kinda freaky. “That’s a good idea. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before.”

     Gee, I wonder …

     “Can I move it for you?” Leo is already holding the elf like some festively-shaped football under his arm.

     “That would be amazing!” Josie practically glues herself to his free arm.

Leo glances over his shoulder, knowing exactly where I’m hiding, and gives a subtle nod. Like we’re in on some covert operation. But I immediately understand his signal and move toward the turtledoves. It’s not as large as Josie’s, so hauling it back to the park bench is simple. Once secured into the ground, I plug it in and flick the “On” switch.

     I pat one of the lighted birds. Everything’s set for Gran’s visit tomorrow. I glance at my watch and then the direction Leo went, only to find him approaching. Gran needs her nightly meds in a little over an hour, but maybe I don’t have to return home so quickly.