Make Way for Mrs. Claus: A Romantic Christmas Story
Rusty Fischer
Make Way for Mrs. Claus:
A Romantic Christmas Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
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Santas and Snowflakes
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © drubig-photo – Fotolia.com
This story was formerly released under the title “Santas and Snowflakes.”
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!
Enjoy!
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Make Way for Mrs. Claus:
A Romantic Christmas Story
I’m reaching for my elf costume when Mr. Bridges, my manager, clears his throat within striking distance.
I say “striking distance” because every time he creeps up on me like that, I want to jab my elbow into his Adam’s apple, hear it crunch and then watch him writhe in agony on the floor!
(Wow, Lily; where did that come from all of a sudden?!?)
I know, I know, it’s supposed to be the “most wonderful time of the year” but, dangit, every time Mr. Bridges skulks around it’s always to deliver bad news.
“Lily?” he asks in his extra super dignified managerial voice he uses when there are others in the Snowflake Galleria employee locker room.
“Mr. Bridges?” I reply. “Something I can help you with. I was just going to squeeze into my size small green elf tights so, unless you want an eyeful and perhaps get snapped when they finally burst at the seams, I suggest you—”
“Yes, well, about that…” he interrupts, using that honey slow, southern voice he always adopts when trying to deliver bad news in a positive way. “It appears Blake is running a little late tonight so, he asked if you wouldn’t mind stepping in for him.”
“Oh no,” I snap, fear turning my insides into pretzels of worry and self-doubt. “Mr. Bridges, please, please don’t ask me to do that!”
How could Blake do this to me?
He knows I get stage fright, he knows I hate sitting in “the big chair,” knows I’m afraid I’m going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and destroy some little kid’s Christmas.
Blake knows, in short, I have… drum roll, please… Santa Phobia!
Mr. Bridges isn’t very patient or understanding.
“Lily, when you signed on as one of Santa’s Helpers, you understood that at some point you might have to fill in for the big guy himself, now if you’ll just—”
“But I don’t know how to play Santa, Mr. Bridges,” I whine, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Of course you do, Lily; you’ve watched Blake do so six nights a week since the day after Thanksgiving! In fact, come to think of it, I can’t think of anyone better suited for the roll.”
I look around the half-empty break room at the six pairs of eyes currently shifting in their chairs to avoid the getting louder and louder holiday confrontation.
“Mr. Bridges, there are five guys in this room who are all better suited to play a man named Kris Kringle than little old me!”
Mr. Bridges quickly surveys the sampling of janitors, custodians and electricians all currently hustling to finish their sack lunches and beat a hasty retreat before they’re called into the big red suit.
“None of these men are even close to being as prepared as you are, Lily,” Mr. Bridges leans in and whispers conspiratorially, as if giving me a backhanded compliment will suddenly convince me to conquer my Santa Phobia.
Mr. Bridges is tall and lean and sharp, and his breath smells like the opposite of candy canes.
“But I’m a girl,” I hiss back, playing my trump card.
Because if it’s one thing Mr. Bridges is, he’s a traditionalist; men are always Santa, women are always elves.
Period, end of story, and it’s been that way ever since I’ve been coming to the Snowflake Galleria since I was a little girl.
Bridges frowns, like he’s just now considering that fact, then looks me up and down.
“Yes, dear, but with a little padding and that big, white beard, only a few of the kids will ever notice.”
We argue for a little while longer, but the minute I hear the words “early termination for obstinate insubordination” exit his mouth, I meekly comply and trade in the green tights for the red velvet pants.
Now, Blake is about 6-feet-tall and they’ve been tailored specifically for him, so it takes some doing to not only slide them on but roll them up enough at the top so I don’t fall fake beard over Santa cap the first time I try to take two steps.
I’d just roll them up at the bottom if these were Blake’s jeans – and don’t I wish – but since there is a fluffy white cuff at the bottom of each pants leg, only the top will do.
The suspenders that keep them up take tightening, too, and Mr. Bridges isn’t just a graceless manager but also a graceless technician; he tugs and pulls and yanks and knots until at last I can breathe again.
Of course, that’s before I don the faded pink undershirt, the three pillows it takes to fill out the front of the pants and the giant red Santa jacket featuring six brass buttons it takes me, Mr. Bridges and two electricians to finally secure.
“I feel like a Macy’s balloon in this thing,” I mutter somewhere about the third button.
“Only around the middle,” says one of the electricians helpfully. “And the rear.”
His nametag says “Ralph” and that’s appropriate, because after five straight weeks of dieting to fit into my New Year’s Eve cocktail dress, that’s what his ill-timed comment makes me want to do!
At last we’re ready for the finishing touches.
As I fiddle with the plain glass bifocals with the cheap gold finish, Mr. Bridges and his team of deputy electricians struggle to clasp the big black belt with the shiny brass buckle around my distended belly.
When at last it’s in place and the electricians have scuttled away, giggling like schoolgirls and eager to spread the word about the “new Santa in town,” Mr. Bridges unceremoniously shoves me down onto the wooden locker room bench behind me.
Thankfully Santa’s red satin pants come lined with extra shocks in back for long hours of seasonal sitting, or I’d be picking splinters out of my offended tailbone as we speak.
“Hey!” I protest, nearly losing my fake glasses; Mr. Bridges merely holds up a pair of giant, gleaming black boots in reply.
He slides them on but I can feel my toes rattling around about halfway up the giant boot fronts.
He takes them back off and stuffs a few balls of newspaper from the cluttered break room table in the goes until I can walk without tripping over my own feet.
After that, well, there’s nothing left but a grand exit through the long tunnel leading toward Santa’s Snowflake Village, aka the rickety gingerbread house front and fake snow monstrosity that dominates the Snowflake Galleria food court from just after Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day every year.
The boots squeak on the clean tiles of the hallways and I get a taste of celebrity as every cute female cashier, assistant manager and sales clerk I pass gives me bedroom eyes.
“Is it always like this?” I ask Mr. Bridges, fake bearded cheeks flushing with jealousy.
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“Oh indeed,” he says cluelessly. “Blake has quite the following. I dare say he’s the most popular Santa we’ve had in years. You’ve got quite the boots to fill, Lily; figuratively speaking and literally.”
Yes, Mr. Bridges is one of those people; specifically, one of those people who uses the term “figuratively speaking and literally” every two sentences.
No wonder Blake always gets so cocky this time of year, strutting around tiny little Snowflake, South Carolina like the cock of the walk, grinning from ear to ear.
Of course, it’s not like he’s any kind of slouch outside of the Santa suit, either.
It’s just that something about seeing Santa and knowing there’s a big, strapping hunk sitting underneath all that red satin and fake hair is a turn-on.
For some women, that is; not me, of course.
After all, I’m merely one of Santa’s (humble) Helpers!
It’s strictly forbidden for the elves to toss and turn every night, dreaming of what’s under Santa’s deliciously difficult brass buttons.
I can hear the canned Christmas carols as we approach the final barrier between the back of the mall and the front, and I
