The shocking seasonal juxtaposition is not lost on me.
Although it is eighty degrees outside, a quick warmup since my morning rock hunt and revelation, and the streets are packed with tourists in shorts and swimsuits eating ice cream cones and chomping fudge, my grampa and grandma are perched in the window of the bookstore wearing their Santa and Mrs. Claus costumes as if it is snowing in December.
We have our same set from the holidays in one window, while the other is flocked in faux snow and stacked with summer titles underneath our Christmas in July banner.
This was my idea decades ago, after a particularly nightmarish summer season when we had a record rainfall and cold. In fact, it seemed to rain nearly every single day, and the temperature never moved out of the fifties, which you would think would be great for a bookstore. People have nothing better to do than read, right?
The problem was, no one came.
The town was desolate. Tourism dropped by nearly half.
People want warm, people want sun, no one wants to endure a real life Wuthering Heights on vacation.
So, out of desperation, sprang this idea. I thought that if locals flock to see my grandparents during the holidays, perhaps they would do the same in the summer.
It has now become one of the town’s most beloved retail traditions.
I glance up at the rooftop of the building.
A sleigh sits atop Sleigh By the Bay, just like in the past.
A crowd begins to form in front of the bookstore. I take a few steps back, until I’m partially hidden behind a gaslight post. Within a few moments, a line is snaking down the block. I even see some media—including TV reporters and cameramen—spill from a couple of white vans.
My mind begins to put the pieces together:
Christmas in July. They think there might be a summer story here. A Santa scoop.
I pull the brim of my Santa cap down over my face and race through the alley to head into the back of the store.
It is packed. So packed, in fact, I have to navigate my way through the crowd with a sweet wave and polite ‘Excuse me’.
I head upstairs.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” I hear my grampa bellow to a little boy in a T-shirt and swim trunks. “What do you wish for Christmas in July?”
He leans down so the boy can whisper in his ear.
I can see my grampa mouth, I’ll have to ask your father if you have room for a giraffe.
Holly comes rushing up all out of breath, a Santa cap atop her head, her lips coated in a glittery, glossy green lipstick.
“Where have you been?” she asks. “It’s Christmas chaos.”
Noah sidles up wearing red-striped leggings. “Diva, you are trending more than Dolly Parton right now, and no one outdoes the queen herself.” He adjusts my Santa cap.
“By the looks and sounds of things, I think the media—and a lot of people—think there’s going to be some sort of announcement,” Holly says. “It feels like the finale of The Bachelorette.” She looks at Noah. “I did sort of tease an announcement about an hour ago on social media.”
“You did what?” I gasp.
“I just wanted to get a big crowd here to boost your summer sales. The Christmas in July posts coupled with the viral video of you literally falling head over heels into the pool with all three men trying to save you has stoked a lot of new attention and curiosity. And a lot of sales. I thought maybe you could just thank everyone for coming and thank the community for all the support.”
“In boys and books,” Noah says.
“It’s all going to be okay,” Holly says. “This will take a lot of pressure off you for sales if the weather turns early this winter.”
I look around. My grandparents started this store because they loved literature. My parents joined because they believed in the power of books. I do, too.
How did I become the main character in this story? Or has the entire plotline of my life—my love of Christmas, the loss of my parents, being raised by my grandparents, having a cast of offbeat but well-meaning friends—led to this moment?
I think of my Petoskey stone hunt and the woman. I think of Holly’s surprise announcement.
Did it all lead to this moment?
I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. Leah hands me a glass of water as if reading my mind, and Noah massages my shoulders.
I look at them.
Or is my work already done?
They have their happy endings. They found their soul mates somehow, and both were wearing Santa hats.
Maybe writing that poem so long ago and believing in it despite everything was not meant for me but for them. Perhaps I’m just the conduit, the garland that pulls it all together.
Noah leans into my ear and whispers, “Your safe word today is happiness.”
I turn, and he hugs me so tightly the world falls away for a moment.
“If everyone would gather outside, we’re about ready for our big announcement,” I hear Leah say over the intercom.
Big announcement? I mouth. Really?
She winks, walks over and whispers, “Just play along. Get ’em to buy books!”
Holly puts her hand on my back and guides me to the front door. I stop at the last second as the crowd filters outside, and, without thinking, rush over to my grampa and grandma still positioned in the window waving to the children outside.
I take a seat on Santa’s lap.
“Susan?” he asks in his Edmund Gwenn voice.
“Are you okay, honey?” my grandma asks.
I look at my grampa and try to remember what Christmas was like before...before my childhood was ripped from me, before I lost faith, before I was scared to open my heart for fear I lose someone else I loved.
I try to remember what it was like to be Susan, the girl who still believed.
My grampa’s eyes, so blue, twinkle in the bright sunlight behind his little glasses. He tilts his head, the pom-pom on the tip of the Santa cap swaying with him, leans in and whispers, “What do you wish for Christmas, Susan?”
I whisper into his ear, “All I want for Christmas is the way it used to be.”
He grabs my face with his gloved hand and stares me right in the eye.
“I can’t give that to you,” he says, his voice barely audible. “If I could give any girl any gift in the world, I would grant you that wish. But I can’t bring your parents back. No one can.”
Santa’s chin begins to tremble.
“What I can give to you, though, my beautiful girl,” he continues, “is the hope that Christmas can be the way you want it to be. It can never be the same, but it can be filled with miracles and beauty and wishes you never dreamed or expected. But you already know Santa can’t grant that to you. You know what you have to do. You’ve always known. You have to gift yourself forgiveness.”
A tear runs down my grampa’s face and into his beard, and I reach in and hug him with all my might. For a second, I am a girl again.
I am safe and loved.
The only thing any of us truly wishes for in this world.
And I realize I always have been.
I head outside and when I emerge, I have an idea of what it must be like to be a literary superstar. Cells flash, cameras go live, reporters yell questions.
“We are live from Petoskey, Michigan,” a Detroit TV anchor I recognize whispers loudly into the camera. “We’ve been promised some sort of announcement today. Might we learn who Susan Norcross, Michigan’s infamous Single Kringle—whose real-life story seems even more incredible than one of the novels in her popular bookstore, Sleigh By the Bay—has chosen? We are soon to find out. Stay tuned.”
Holly steps behind the mic on the front steps.
“Welcome, everyone, to Sleigh By the Bay’s Christmas in July celebration!”
People applaud.
“As you know, it’s been quite a year here for our own Susan Norcross, owner of our beloved local bookstore, Sleigh By the Bay.”
Many in the crowd hoot.
“And many of you already know her story. Susan’s mother and grandmother both met their future husbands while each was dressed as Santa. Susan has always believed it was her destiny to meet a man the same way. In fact, when she was in grade school, she wrote an award-winning poem called ‘The Single Kringle’ about her family’s history and established the ‘Christmas criteria’ the man she will eventually love must meet. However, the year after she wrote it, her parents were killed in a tragic drunk driving accident. Susan was taken in by her grandparents, who still dress as Mr. and Mrs. Claus every holiday season. Wave hello, Kringles!”
My grandparents wave in the window and then make their way to the front door.
“Susan’s hope and belief in Santa and the future were shattered after the loss of her parents, but her friends and family—all of you gathered here today—buoyed her with your outpouring of love and support, personally and professionally.”
Holly continues. “Last year, Susan and I signed up to race in Chicago’s Santa Run. Susan, fittingly, came dressed as Mrs. Claus. At the start of the race, Susan met a man—who I’ll call Hot Santa...”
The crowd titters.
“...and the two had an instant connection. The catch? They never knew what the other looked like or found out one another’s names. They were swept away when the race started, and Hot Santa yelled at Susan to meet him at a local bar. He never showed. That’s where we came in! Her friends, grandparents and all of you—the local community—decided to try and find him so we set up a social media post seeking the Single Kringle that went viral. Why did I step in? Why do so many care so much?”
Holly scans the crowd and then turns toward me. “Susan is my best friend. I love her more than anyone in this world.” Her voice breaks. “I’ve never met a more giving, caring person deserving of love. This has not been easy for her. And this has not been an easy year for her either. She turned forty, which is the same age her mother was when she died. As you can only imagine, she’s scared of getting hurt once more, loving and losing all over again. And yet she has taken a chance. On love. On herself. She has put her heart on the line in hopes that maybe the man she wrote about so long ago isn’t just in her imagination but that he is real, as real and as amazing a man as her grandfather is and her father was.”
Holly pauses, and I hug her.
“Before we go any further, I just wanted to read the poem Susan wrote as a little girl, so we can remember the magic of this community and the magic of Christmas, even in July.”
As Holly reads, I am a little girl again, sitting at my desk writing the stanzas in my notebook with a big, pink, glittery pen.
“Books haven’t just been there for Susan, all of you have,” Holly says after she’s finished reading. “And so have three men—Jamie, Micah and Tristan—who we found on social media. I can say that my friend is happily dating right now, and perhaps one day one of them will be her forever Santa. Until then, she’s enjoying the reindeer games.”
The crowd laughs and applauds.
“Today, during—fittingly enough, Christmas in July—Susan just wanted to thank all of you for your support,” Holly continues. “Susan?”
I move toward the microphone.
I am about to speak when I hear the TV anchor whisper too loudly into his lapel mic, “I don’t think she’s going to say anything about the guy she chose. Sorry, Marty. I had a hunch. Thought we had a scoop. Yeah, I know this sucks.”
I scan the crowd. I look at Noah and Leah. I smile at my grandparents who have now moved onto the sidewalk and are surrounded by children. I look at the TV reporter.
“I had no idea how hard growing up would be. That I would lose my parents and then all hope. And turning forty...to be the same age my mother was when she died, has shaken me to my core this year. But, somehow, this crazy experiment has not only restored my faith that there are good men out there but also my faith in the world. I cannot thank you all enough for that.”
People clap.
I see Noah’s face. He mouths, Happiness, his safe word for me today.
The TV reporter and cameraman begin to exit, noisily jostling through the crowd. Another station watches, and follows suit.
“Wait!” I suddenly yell.
I step away from the mic and whisper into Holly’s ear, “There’s something I never told you. I was wearing my mother’s angel pin when I met the mystery Santa. He commented on it. Jamie, Micah and Tristan had never seen it before.”
Holly gasps.
The crowd titters.
“You mean...?” she starts.
“None of them are the guy I met at the race. I’m so sorry. I actually called them and told them after I had a moment of clarity hunting for Petoskey stones. They were upset, but all seemed to know my heart wasn’t really in it, with any of them. I know how hard you’ve worked to make all of this happen. I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t want to let anyone down.”
She grabs my shoulders. “You aren’t.” Holly nods at the mic. “I think it’s time you wrote the ending to your own story, don’t you?”
I return to the mic, take a deep breath and continue. “I have been blessed—somehow, some way—to meet three of the most wonderful men in the world. They are good, kind men, and I can imagine having a blessed life with any of them. But when I wrote that poem, I had someone in mind, someone very specific. And at the Santa Run, I also had a secret. One that I’ve kept hidden until this very moment. One that I just shared with my friend.”
The crowd murmurs at this turn of events. TV lights flash. Cameras are pointed at me.
I hold up my mother’s angel pin, which I brought today as good luck.
“The day of the race, I was wearing this Christmas pin of my mother’s, and the man who I connected with at the run somehow knew it was hers. He understood it had a history and was a part of me. Tristan, Micah and Jamie may have been at the run, but none of them were the Santa I spoke and connected with.”
The crowd gasps.
“I’ve already talked to each of them and told them that. I also told them I’m sorry if I hurt them. It was never my intention. I think I just wanted a happy ending way too much. I’m sorry that I’m unable to give all of you the happy ending you want, too, but life is all about timing, and it’s just not Christmas for me yet.”
There is a long silence.
Finally, one person applauds, and then another, until there is a thunderous cheer, one that rolls all the way to the bay.
“But it is Christmas in July,” Holly says, moving to the mic, “and Sleigh By the Bay is loaded with beach reads!”