Brenda Harlen - Bring Me A Maverick For Christmas!

There was a brisk knock at the door. “Are you just about ready, Santa?” The scout leader poked his head in the doorway. “Wow, you look great.”

“Ho ho ho,” Bailey said, testing it out.

The scout leader grinned and gave him two thumbs-up. “The kids are getting restless.”

“Mrs. Claus isn’t here yet,” he said. Although he hadn’t originally known there was supposed to be a Mrs. Claus, he now felt at a loss on his own.

“Maybe she got caught up baking cookies at the North Pole,” the other man joked.

Whatever she was doing, wherever she was, his missus was nowhere to be found, reminding Bailey of the foolishness of depending on a spouse—even a fictional one.

“Okay, then.” He exited the makeshift dressing room and followed the scout leader backstage. Though the curtains were closed, he could hear the excited chatter of what sounded like hundreds, maybe thousands, of children. All of them there to see Santa—and getting stuck with a poor imitation instead.

He felt perspiration bead on his brow and his hands were clammy inside his white cotton gloves. The leader handed him a big sack filled with candy canes and nodded encouragingly.

It was now or never, and although Bailey would have preferred to go with the never option, he suspected his brother would never forgive him if he chickened out.

Just as he was reaching for the curtain, he heard footsteps rushing up the stage stairs behind him.

Mrs. Claus had arrived.

He didn’t have time to give her much more than a cursory glance, noting the floor-length red dress with faux fur trim at the collar and cuffs, and a white apron tied around her waist. Despite the white wig and granny glasses, he could tell that she was young. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled, her lips plump and exquisitely shaped, and her eyes were as bright and blue as the Montana sky.

“Good, I’m not late.” She was breathless, obviously having run some distance, and paused now with her hand on her heart as she drew air into her lungs.

Of course, the action succeeded in drawing his attention to her chest—and the rise and fall of nicely rounded breasts.

“Are you ready to do this?” she asked.

He nodded. Yes. Please.

She sent him a conspiratorial wink, and suddenly he felt warm all over. Or maybe it was the bulky costume and the overhead lights that were responsible for the sudden increase in his body temperature.

Then she stepped through the break in the curtains and began to speak to the children.

“Well, we ran into a little bit of rough weather on our way from the North Pole, but we finally made it,” she said.

The crowd of children cheered.

Bailey listened to her talk, enjoying the melodic tone of her voice as she set the scene for their audience. He didn’t know who she was—he hadn’t thought to ask his sister-in-law—but it was immediately apparent to Bailey that Annie had cast a better Mrs. Claus than her husband had a Santa.

“I know you’ve all been incredibly patient waiting for Santa to arrive and everyone wants to be first in line to whisper Christmas wishes in his ear, but I promise you, it doesn’t matter if you’re first or last or somewhere in the middle, everyone will have a turn.”

They had a wide armchair set up on the stage, beside a decorated Christmas tree surrounded by a pile of fake presents. All he had to do was walk through the curtain and settle into the chair. But his feet were suddenly glued to the floor.

“While Santa finishes settling the reindeer,” she said, offering another explanation for the delay of his appearance, “why don’t we sing his favorite Christmas song?” She looked out at the audience. “Who knows what Santa’s favorite Christmas song is?”

Through the narrow gap between the curtains, he could see hands immediately thrust into the air.

Mrs. Claus listened to several random guesses as the children called for “Jingle Bells,” “Let It Snow” and “All I Want for Christmas,” shaking her head after each response.

“Okay, I’m going to give you a clue,” she said. Then, in a singing voice, she asked, “Who’s got a beard that’s long and white?”

The children responded as a chorus: “Santa’s got a beard that’s long and white.”

It was an upbeat and catchy tune with call-and-response lyrics that made it easy for the kids who didn’t know the words to sing along anyway, and Bailey found his booted foot tapping against the floor along with the music.

The young audience was completely caught up in the song, and he was reluctant to interrupt. But when Mrs. Claus asked, “Who very soon will come our way?” it seemed like an appropriate time to step out from behind the curtain.

“Santa very soon will...”

The response of the chorus faded away as the singers noticed that Santa was, in fact, here now. Several clapped, others pointed and many whispered excitedly to their neighbors.

“And here he is,” Mrs. Claus said, then smiled warmly at him and gestured for him to take a seat.

Bailey nodded as he made his way to the chair. He was too nervous to smile back, although she probably couldn’t tell if he was or wasn’t smiling behind the bushy mustache that hung over his mouth anyway.

He settled into his seat as the leader announced that the young Tiger Scouts would get to visit with Santa first. There were craft tables at the far end of the room for groups waiting to be called and refreshments available.

Bailey felt his palms grow clammy again as the kids lined up, but it didn’t take him long to realize that his sister-in-law had been right: the kids knew what they were doing. In fact, most of them didn’t expect much from him beyond listening to their wishes and offering them a “Merry Christmas.”

There were a lot of requests for specific toys and new video games. A couple of requests for puppies and kittens, building blocks and board games, hockey skates or ballerina slippers. Some of the kids asked questions, wanting to know such random facts as “who’s your favorite reindeer?” or “how old is Rudolph?”

He gave vague responses, so as not to contradict anything else they might have been told by their parents, and he was careful not to make any promises, assuring each child only that he would do his best to make their wishes come true.

And if he was a little stiff and unnatural, his supposed wife was the complete opposite—warm and kind and totally believable. She did more than move the line along and hand out candy canes. She seemed to instinctively know what to say and do to put the little ones at ease.

He was about halfway through the Bear Scouts and finally starting to relax into his role when a scowling boy climbed into his lap.

Bailey, anticipating one of the usual requests, was taken aback when the boy said, “Christmas sucks.”

“Yeah,” Bailey agreed. “Sometimes it does.”

Mrs. Claus gasped and the boy’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

“You’re not s’posed to agree,” the child protested. “You’re s’posed to tell me that it’s gonna be okay.”

Since Bailey didn’t know what it was, he didn’t feel he should make any such promises. But he belatedly acknowledged that he shouldn’t have responded the way he did, either. Being called out by the child was only further proof that taking his brother’s place as Santa had been a bad idea.

“Now, Santa,” Mrs. Claus chided. “I told you not to take your grumpy mood out on the children or I’ll have to put you on the naughty list.”

This threat served to both distract and intrigue the little boy, who eyed her with rapt fascination.

“I’m sorry, Owen,” she continued, speaking directly to the child now. “Santa’s a little out of sorts today because I warned him that he has to cut down on the cookies if he wants to fit down the chimneys on Christmas Eve.”