This is not my Christmas wish.
“You drive a Smart car?”
“I do. Fits into any parking spot in Chicago. Come on. Get in.”
I bend and contort, banging my head as I enter. I’m a tall girl, so getting into a car this small is like trying to break down a refrigerator box and stuff it into a recycling container. Moreover, I’m squeezed into a brand-new dress that Holly sent me from Chicago. It’s very short, holiday gold and a touch too low-cut for my usual standards.
You gotta show the girls while you have a chance, Holly told me.
This is my best friend Holly’s holiday wish.
Every year, I grant Holly one wish: she asks me to participate with her in Chicago’s famed Santa Run in hopes that I will find a man dressed as Kris Kringle just like my mother and grandmother. Every year is an epic failure. So much so that I have recently sworn off dating. But since this is our fortieth Christmas on earth, Holly begged for an extra wish, which I reluctantly granted: a date with Cletus Bothwhistle.
Holly worked with Cletus on a social media launch in Chicago, and he was the trademark attorney. She said he loved the holidays, had family in nearby Gaylord, Michigan, about forty-five minutes due south and inland of Petoskey. His sister had recently had a baby, and Cletus was a doting new uncle. Holly told my grandparents this tidbit, and they all saw this as a sign of a good, caring man. Not to mention, Cletus was sporting a Santa cap in a Christmas party picture that Holly sent to seal the deal. Between the good-willed—albeit constant—prodding of Holly and my grandparents, I simply gave up. Overwhelmed with the bookstore at the holidays, my willpower was shot.
“I’ve never met anyone who lives in a pink house,” Cletus says staring at my old Victorian.
“It’s historic,” I say. “Always been pink. Locals call it The Pink Lady.”
“Looks like a Barbie Dreamhouse.” Cletus leans into the door. “You’re my Barbie, and I’m your dream.”
I should not have had him pick me up at my house. I usually have my blind dates pick me up at the bookstore. It just seems safer. My grandparents and staff can suss them out first, let me know if there needs to be a “bookstore emergency.” It’s a number one rule of mine. Never let them know where you live.
“You in?” Cletus asks.
He shuts the door before I can even respond, and when I reach for my seat belt, I realize my hair is caught in the car door. I open it as he walks around the other side, and I free my long blonde hair—which I’ve just spent an hour curling—as he gets in on the other side.
His car door slams.
Well, slam would be a generous term. It sounds like the top on a new bottle of ketchup just popped.
“Surprise!”
I turn toward Cletus.
At some point between shutting the door on my hair and walking around the car, he’s put on a Santa hat. I stare at him, realizing now that his pictures on Facebook were obviously old.
Really old.
I remember now that he was wearing a Nehru collar in the photo Holly sent me.
It’s not that he’s a troll or anything, it’s just that he looks closer to sixty than forty, he doesn’t look to be an avid exerciser and it’s been years since Holly has seen him in person.
Stop it, Susan, I think. Give him a chance. You never give anyone a chance anymore.
“Everyone in town says you’re the lady who’s going to marry a Santa! Ho ho ho! Here I am!”
“My reputation precedes me,” I say.
“So, tell me about Susan Norcross,” he says as he drives.
“Well, I am a just-turned forty-year-old bookstore owner who loves books, authors and reading. I’m an avid runner. And as you mentioned, I am famous—no, strike that—infamous around my hometown of Petoskey, Michigan, for being the woman whose mother and grandmother both married men who the first time they met happened to be dressed as Santa Claus. I think everyone, including Holly, wants lightning to strike thrice.”
“I once got hit by lightning,” he says. “On the golf course. I used to caddy during the summers in Gaylord. Everyone says that’s why I’m extra bright.”
I laugh, assuming he’s kidding.
“I’m not kidding,” he says.
For some reason, when Cletus is not talking, he is sucking air through his teeth, as if he just ate a pound of ground pepper and is trying to clean them.
I just want to be struck by lightning right now.
“I can’t believe I’m on a date with the Single Kringle,” he says.
“You can call me Susan,” I say with a laugh. “It’s easier.”
“Susan it is,” he says, continuing to free something from his teeth.
“Why don’t we turn on some holiday music?” I suggest.
“Great idea!”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a surprise,” he says, his voice chipper. “Can’t give away the ending.”
My heart lifts. As a bookstore owner, I love readers who don’t walk in and jump to the end of a book.
“I agree,” I say.
He heads the car toward Traverse City. The tiny car is buffeted around as we hit the road by the bay. Gale-force winds rock us back and forth, and I grip the passenger side of the car as we occasionally fishtail on the snowy road.
You cannot have a small car in Michigan in the winter. Yes, you can drive a convertible around for a few months in the summer, but a small car can’t handle the nonstop pummeling of Michigan’s winter weather. It’s the equivalent of taking a syringe to Lake Michigan and trying to drain all the water out of it.
It just ain’t gonna get the job done.
I chitchat to distract myself, peppering him—pardon the pun—with lots of questions as I do readers who come into my bookstore.
Finally, Cletus pulls into the parking of the restaurant chain, That’s A Mice Pizza.
“Is there something wrong with your car?” I ask. This can’t be our destination.
“Surprise!”
“Surprise what?”
“We’re here! I wanted to do something unexpected for our first date.”
That’s A Mice Pizza is a pizza parlor-arcade for children. That’s actually being generous. It’s an amusement park that serves cardboard cheese.
We’re greeted by a costumed mouse who ushers us to the front.
“We have reservations,” Cletus says excitedly. “Two for Bothwhistle.”
A girl in bad goth makeup looks at me and says, “Wow, you look really nice.”
I cock my head at her compliment, my first tonight. “Thank you so much.”
“But your dress is probably going to get dirty or, like, ruined,” she says. “I mean...”
She stops and points a black fingernail into the restaurant.
It’s chaos.
Children are running around screaming, bashing each other over the head with rubber bats and stuffed animals, chucking ice at one another and sneezing as if sneezing were just invented.
I emit a single, tiny, mournful squeak, but Cletus says to the girl, “And we had a bag of tokens, too.” He looks at me. “I can’t give these to you, though, until dinner’s over.”
We are seated smack-dab in the middle of four kids’ parties. Two are birthday parties, one is a Christmas party and one Hanukkah party. It’s like being seated in the eye of a hurricane. I take a seat in a plastic chair, and I instantly feel sets of eyes on me and my dress. I take the napkin off the table and drape it over my cleavage.
“I’m a sloppy eater,” I say to Cletus.
Cletus orders two pizzas with “the works,” and he tells me all the games he’s going to play when we’re done.
When the pizza arrives, the server grates some cheese on top at Cletus’s request. When he begins to leave the table, Cletus says, “No, my man, make it rain.”
The server begins to grate cheese until both pizzas are nicely covered. When he starts to leave again, Cletus says, “Your arm’s gonna hurt by the time you’re done.”
The pizzas begin to disappear under a cloud of too-orange cheese.
“Sir, I gotta stop,” the kid says. “I got a cramp the size of Detroit.”
Cletus quickly downs a piece of pizza and starts on the second.
“Hi?”
I look up, and a little girl is standing before me holding a red balloon. “Is it your birthday, too?” she asks sweetly.
I nod and smile because I don’t want her to be scarred in the future when she recalls the vacant look in my eyes. She hands me the balloon.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
When Cletus excuses himself to go to the bathroom, I pick up my cell and text Holly.
I’m at It’s A Mice Pizza.
Three dots float and then—
What? The kids’ place?
Yes, I type. I’m wearing your dress. I feel naked in here. And he just ate so much cheese, I’m worried he has an obstruction.
NO! I’m so sorry. But he was wearing a Santa hat!
He still is. How long has it been since you saw him in person?
A few years. He doesn’t look like his pictures?
His yearbook photo was tin type.
I’m SO sorry. I keep saying that, don’t I? Maybe he’s a really nice guy. Give it a shot! Please. For me! You do this every time.
No, YOU do this every time. More later. Pray for me.
After dinner, a server brings out a cake covered in candles and decorated with an iced Santa cap. Words are written in cursive beneath it that read “Am I the One, Single Kringle?”
His brazenness—after just knowing each other for less than an hour—shakes me.
“Cletus, this is way too much,” I say. “I’m a bit taken aback.”
“Just make a wish,” Cletus says, “and blow out the candles. Please. For me.”
I shut my eyes and blow.
I wish this date were over.
“Our date has only begun!” Cletus declares.
He leads me to the arcade and hands me a bag of gold tokens. I love to play games with my family and friends, but shooting hoops and whacking moles in a dress and high heels is not my idea of a great first—or any—date.
But I am, to pardon another pun, game. My life has been rooted in hope. I’m always game. Even if a little boy has just wiped his hands on the bottom of my dress.
I feel as if I’ve just about made it to the finish line, when I hear over the intercom, “Susan Norcross! Please make your way to the animatronic stage!”
I look at Cletus. “What is going on?”
“Can’t spoil the surprise.”
We walk over to a dark stage. It’s a tiny, low-slung stage, actually, a Halloween mini Snickers version of a kids’ stage where children might perform karaoke or a costumed mouse would sing Happy Birthday and dance.
“What is going on?”
“I planned this all for you,” he says. “Get up there.”
“Cletus,” I say. “Please stop. The cake, this place, now this. I’m overwhelmed.”
“I went to a lot of effort,” he says.
I head up the steps and stand on the dark stage. Suddenly, the lights pop on, and animatronic mice—which I didn’t notice in the shadows—spring to life. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” begins to play.
Two costumed mice jump from the wings, place a Santa cap on my head, take my arms and begin to kick.
As the music swells, a crowd begins to take seats in the folding chairs before the stage. Suddenly, I feel just like I’m in a cartoon version of Mean Girls when they sing “Jingle Bell Rock” in the high school Christmas talent contest.
Over the music, I hear a little boy yell, “Mommy, why is that old woman on stage trying to dance with the Nice Mice?”
I start to laugh, because children don’t lie and play games. They’re honest. They say exactly what they’re thinking. I usually do as well. But when I’m on a date and a Santa hat is involved, I believe—despite all the pain of my past—that a miracle can happen.
I step off the stage. “I’m ready to call it a night,” I say to Cletus. “I’m tired. Long drive. Long week.”
Despite everything, Cletus hints at a second date on the drive home.
“You know,” I start, “I really don’t know much about you. What do you like to read?” I ask. “Who are some of your favorite authors?”
“Oh, I hate to read,” he says. “Total waste of time.”
My head silently explodes. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m much too busy to read,” Cletus says. “What can a book teach me that I already don’t know.”
I don’t intend to, but I shout, “Everything!”
He looks over at me.
“You sure are passionate about this.”
“I own a bookstore!”
“Yes, and I’m an attorney, but I don’t watch Law and Order all the time.”
The world around me spins. Or perhaps it’s just the car in the wind.
“Books expand our minds. They change our perspectives on the world. They allow us to escape, to hope, to dream, to mourn, to walk in someone else’s shoes.” I look at Cletus. “They save lives.”
“Last book I read was in college. Anyway, do I seem like the type of guy who needs to read?”
“Yes!”
“Well, okay, then. I’ll let you pick out a book for me, and I’ll give it a shot.”
“Drop me at my bookstore, please.”
“I thought you were tired.”
“I am,” I say.
When he pulls up to Sleigh By the Bay, I ask him to wait. His smile expands with happiness.
I rush into the store, and my grandparents—still dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus—bellow “HO! HO! HO!” That’s when they see my expression and say, “No, no, no.”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “Just wait.”
I rush through into the fiction section. “Where are you?” I ask, scanning the shelves. “Here you are!”
I rush back outside and hand Cletus a book. He looks at the cover.
“A Confederacy of Dunces?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”
“Read it,” I say. “Trust me.”
“Can I call you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “With your credit card number to pay for this. Have a good night.”
My grandparents are waiting at the door. Instead of giving them the blow by blow, I simply say, “He doesn’t read.”
They nod their heads in understanding.
My family may be destined to meet the loves of our lives dressed as Santa, but the loves of our lives must be readers.
My grandma’s eyes glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 8:15 p.m.
“Long night,” she comments.
“Join the club.”
“How many families had their pictures taken with you tonight?” I ask.
“Lost count at forty,” my grampa says.
“The store had a great night,” my grandma adds. “Sold lots of books and lots of holiday gifts.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I say. “And we do it all again tomorrow.”
“Want a Manhattan?” my grampa asks.
“No, thanks. Not with what I just had to eat.”
They look at me. You’ve never seen Santa and Mrs. Claus look so concerned.
“I’ll be okay, but I think I’m going to head home and have an Emergen-C cocktail instead.” I look around for other employees. “Where’s Noah?”
“He had a date, too,” my grandma says, before taking off her little Claus glasses, widening her eyes and adding, “Online.”
“’Tis the season,” I say. “You okay to lock up?”
“Same lock since we bought this place,” my grampa says. He looks at me. “What? I’ve only had one Manhattan.”
My grandma shoots him a look.
“Okay, two. But I’ve been nice this year.” He booms a big belly laugh, and my grandma giggles, too. Then she gives him the sweetest kiss I’ve ever seen.
My heart pings.
“See you tomorrow,” I say. “I think I’ll walk home. Can I borrow your jacket, Santa?”
Grampa takes off his big velvet jacket and drapes it around my shoulders.
“Fresh air will do you good,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
I grab the door, the bell jingling, and before I walk out, my grandma says, “He just wasn’t the right Santa, Susan.”
Don’t say it, Grandma.
“Always remember that faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to!” she calls.
I head out into the dark.
On my way home, strolling in the snow past Petoskey’s pretty shops all lit up on this December night, I think the last really good date I had was in fifth grade, the year after I’d won the poetry contest, a year after my parents died.
I stop for a moment in the cold, willing myself not to cry after this interminable evening.
Kyle Trimble asked me to McDonald’s. My grandparents were busy with the store, so my mom’s longtime friend Rita sat in a booth on the other side of the restaurant and watched as Kyle walked into McDonald’s wearing a Santa cap, bought me a Happy Meal and gave me a mood ring for Christmas. When I put it on, it immediately turned dark blue, meaning I was happy.
For the first time since I lost everything.
“I like you, Susan,” he said plainly. “I know it’s gotta be hard right now. But, if you’ll let me, I’ll be your Single Kringle.” He stopped, looked down and fidgeted with a French fry. “Maybe forever.”
And then Kyle stood up, took my hand and asked me to dance, right in the middle of McDonald’s. As we slow danced, customers walked around us and the entire world faded away. It was just the two of us.
When I look up, I realize I’m home.
That memory now seems as old and historic as The Pink Lady, which is drenched in lights and looks so delighted to see me. I’m happy someone is waiting for me, and I rush inside and immediately feel safe.
I put on my pajamas, start a fire, grab a big fluffy blanket, make an Emergen-C and lay down on the couch. I flick on the TV, head to Netflix and search for the holiday movie I always watch after a bad Santa date, the movie my family has always watched starting post-Thanksgiving.
“Ah,” I sigh, sipping my fizzy cocktail.
I talk to Miracle on 34th Street as it plays.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be named after you, Susan,” I say to young Natalie Wood’s character. “There is so much pressure.”
Though I was named for her, I am in many ways the opposite of the little girl in the movie. I was a little girl raised to believe in Santa and the miracles of Christmas.
Over time, tragedy, grief and life itself have drained me of those wonders.
I watch this movie, though, because somewhere, deep inside, as the fictitious Susan Walker finally says, “I believe, I believe, I believe.”
I still watch it as an adult because as Kris Kringle says, “Christmas isn’t just a day. It’s a frame of mind.”
My eyes wander to a wall filled with family photos. In one, I am sitting on Santa’s lap, staring at him, my eyes filled with wonder. Mrs. Claus is standing behind us, her gloved hands framing her tilted head.
My heart shatters.
I am now forty, the same age as my mom was...
I turn back to the TV.
Even at forty, I still watch Miracle on 34th Street because, as Fred Gailey and my grandma always say, “Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to.”