1. Cole

1

COLE

25 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS…

“ Ta-da! ” Margot squeals, holding a mirror in front of me. “What do you think?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The man in the mirror is not me. This is some Twilight Zone, alternate-reality version of me. A man who has clearly made a string of bad choices, culminating in him agreeing to let his sister transform him into Santa Claus.

My usual salt-and-pepper beard is pure salt. It’s white as snow and my—“Jesus, Margot. You said you were only plucking them.”

I swipe the mirror, waggling my eyebrows as I watch the two thick berms of snow jump.

“Teasing them,” she says before sucking in her lips. “But I had to dye them to match the beard. It wouldn’t look right. I have to hand it to the reviews. This toner worked way better than I expected.”

She hums. I swallow. Dye? …Toner?

“It washes out, right?”

I set the mirror down, looking at her. She’s biting her lip, cheeks as rosy as Rudolph’s nose. I knew this was taking longer than usual. Forest was in and out in under five minutes last year. Ethan had a fake beard the year before that. This… This isn’t right.

“Margot,” I rasp before glancing at the mirror again. I tug at my beard and then rub my eyebrows. “Tell me it washes out.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

My sister laughs like a mad woman, toppling over on my bed as the bells on her elf slippers jingle menacingly at me. There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and then I hear my brothers’ muffled shouts.

“ Let’s see it!”

“Come on out, Santa!”

“I want to be the first to sit on your lap!”

“Santa, Santa, Santa!” They all chant in unison.

My jaw twitches. Every muscle in my body tightens as I stare at my reflection. This is going to be the longest winter of my life.

“It will wash out,” Margot says after finally catching her breath. She squeezes my shoulder. “In a few months or so. Maybe.”

“Great,” I mutter, accepting my new reality.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. Playing Santa Claus is inevitable in this family, a tradition long before my time. Each year, one of the men in the family dresses up as Santa Claus and plays the role for all the children of Whispering Winds who come to our Christmas tree lot. It’s expanded over the years, so each weekend we set up Santa’s workshop at the park next to the town’s Christmas tree.

This year I drew the short candy cane, after years of rigging it in my favor, and my brothers couldn’t be happier for a reprieve.

“Are they singing?” Margot asks, adjusting her faux elf ears.

I sigh. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Again, Margot is holding back another fit of laughter, and again, my muscles clench.

“Don’t forget the suit,” she says, nodding to the bright red bundle on the bed.

I stare at my reflection, the jingling of Margot’s shoes barely registering as she pads toward the door, cradling the small bottles that massacred my beard and brows.

“I’ll see you at the park,” she says.

She opens the door and in bursts the hairiest, bulkiest, most flannel-clad, and out-of-tune carolers the world has ever seen.

“He sees you when you’re sleep— oh my god!” Forest says, eyes flaring when he spots me.

“I don’t think anyone wants this Santa to watch them sleep. Those brows! You could marshall an airplane with those suckers,” Ethan says.

“Guide a sleigh with those high beams is more like it. He’ll put Rudolph out of business,” Sully says, right before he slides onto my lap, wrapping his arm around my neck and whispering, “I’ve been a very good boy, Santa. Why don’t you?—”

I shove him away and then jump to my feet, snagging the rest of my costume from my bed. “Laugh it up.”

And they do. All of them. And I don’t blame them. Each year we give the new Santa a good ribbing. This is my first year on the receiving end.

“Alright,” my mother says, joining the gaggle. And when none of them respond, she busts out her “Mom” voice. “ Enough.”

Haven’t heard that one in years but I think it’s even more effective with age. Everyone stops, eyes on her as she wades through my brothers.

“Another word to Cole, and I’ll make sure you’re all at the lot dressed up as Santa’s little elves.”

“Not so lit—” Forest swallows the rest of his sentence as my mother silences with a look.

“I’m sure you have trees to sell. Customers to attend to.”

They all nod in unison, making the smart decision not to open their mouths again. They all file out, kissing her head as they leave.

“Sugar cookies are cooling. Take a gingerbread man on your way out. Now,” my mother says, turning her attention to me. “Come here and give me a hug.”

I can’t help but smile. She’s always been able to lift my grumpiest of moods.

“You’ll be great this year,” she says, squeezing me tighter. “Dad would be so proud.”

A lump forms in my throat but I swallow it. “Thanks,” I say.

“Shit!” Sully shouts from the kitchen. “These suckers are molten.”

Mom laughs. “He’s always been a little thick-headed. Touched the wood stove the most out of any of you.” She smiles, looking me over, “Margot did a great job.”

“That’s a word for it,” I say, sighing. “You’re not the one who’s going to have to live with a white beard and eyebrows for the next couple of months. Might shave it all off Christmas day.”

“Brows too?”

“First to go.”

“I think you’ll come around. I always thought you’d be the best Santa. Dad too.”

I exhale slowly. She always knows how to tug at my heartstrings. “Five years,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Her eyes are glassy for a moment, but then she blinks. “Five long years,” she whispers.

I pull her into one last hug.

“Ma, you coming?” Sully calls from the living room.

“Don’t shout at me,” she shouts back. “And don’t call me Ma.”

“Hard-headed,” I mutter.

She sighs. “All of you are. In your own way.”

“And I think you like that.”

“Wouldn’t change a thing.” She pats the red, velvety bundle in my arms. “I’ll see you at the park, okay? And remember to smile. I don’t want another grumpy Santa Claus this year.”

“I’ll do my best.”

But I can’t make any promises.

Two more days until Christmas…

“The usual?” Quinn asks as I stroll to the counter of Windy Brews, a spring in my step. Not even Mariah Carey can dampen my mood today.

“The usual,” I rasp, leaning on the counter, the bells on my belt jangling.

“You’re rather chipper today,” she says, inputting my order.

“It’s a great day, Quinn. A wonderful day.”

Everything looks a little brighter. A whole lot merrier. I’m feeling the joy.

She pauses mid-order, raising a brow. “Dare I ask why?”

“It’s almost Christmas.” I tap my nose, and I swear there’s a twinkle in my eye.

Her eyes narrow before glancing at my sash. “Is there a flask hidden somewhere in that suit?”

I shake my head. “No, but I’ll have to remember that for next year.”

Quinn looks back at the register, finishing the order and grabbing my black coffee. She slides the cup to me, but when I reach for it, she pulls it back.

“You hate Christmas.”

“But I love watching it go.”

She groans, sliding my coffee back to me. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

I tip my cap, another twinkle in my eye as I collect my drink and head out the door. Today is my last day as Santa Claus. Today is the last day I’ll have to look at this beard. I’ve had a beard for damn near my entire life, but I’m cutting it off the moment I get back to my cabin.

Today is going to be a good day. Not even the over-the-top decorations of Whispering Winds annoy me. The sounds of Christmas carols from strategically hidden speakers along Main Street are damn near invisible to my ears as I sip my coffee, bracing myself against the stiff wind and light snow.

“Santa!” A kid screams, and I shout Ho Ho Ho! right back at him without skipping a beat. After nearly a month of playing the role of Ol’ Saint Nick, I’m getting the hang of it. Be nice. Don’t growl at kids. And especially, don’t glare when they tug at your sleeves for attention. I learned that one the hard way when I unintentionally made a toddler cry the first day on the job.

The Christmas lot is closed for the season, so today I’ll be wishing kids a Merry Christmas next to the old-growth spruce that has been around longer than this city’s founding. It’s a beauty. A shame that it gets defiled each year with oversized ornaments, lights, and tinsel.

It’s a ten-minute walk from Main Street to the park, so by the time I make it there, I’m done with my coffee and the roasted chestnuts I picked up from a pop-up stand.

The brisk wind smells like cinnamon. It’s usually cloying but I don’t mind. Most of the things about this town that I’ve found annoying this time of year roll off of me. The roaming caroling troupes. The cars, cats, and dogs dressed up as reindeer. Hideous sweaters and twinkling lights. 24/7 Mariah Carey. The general merriment of the season.

There’s not much that I’ve found joyful or cheerful until now. This will be the last time I make this journey. The last time I have kids sitting on my lap, coughing and sneezing and wiping snot all over me. After this, it’s all over. Next year, I’ll rig the candy cane draw so someone else can endure this hell.

I pass by the ice skating rink for the last time and head for Santa’s workshop. I pause at the entrance, taking in the beauty of the old-growth tree, ignoring the decorations as best I can.

Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll both be free of this soon enough.

“Can I get you anything?” Margot asks as she helps another kid on my lap.

“Eggnog? Whiskey? Both? Ho, ho, ho! ” I bellow at the kid on my lap, snot dripping from both nostrils.

“What’s whiskey?” the kid asks, swiping the back of his hand against his nose before sneezing in my face.

The second one today. It will be a Christmas miracle if I make it through next week without coming down with some new contagion.

“Nothing,” my sister coos before shifting into a voice that gives our mother’s a run for its money. “I’m not going to let Santa get drunk on his last day,” she whisper-shouts.

“Can I get drunk?” the kid asks.

“No, but you can get a nice bike. Would you like that? Ho, ho, ho. ” I turn back to my sister, whispering. “I’m not drinking it. I’m going to bathe in it to kill whatever germ soup is now growing on my face.”

“I had soup for lunch,” the kid says.

“Chicken noodle, right?” I rasp, the lingering smell clinging to my beard.

“Wow,” he gasps. “You really are Santa.”

I pat him on his head. “How about you grab a candy cane from one of Santa’s little helpers, and I’ll work on that bike for you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want a bike. I want whiskey like Santa Claus.”

Another sneeze. Another cringe. Jesus, my spirits were high but now I’m counting down the minutes until— fuuuuuuck.

I lock eyes with a damn angel on the ice rink. It’s brief but it’s enough to knock the wind out of my lungs. “Off my lap, kid.”

Jesus. I’m growling. I’m not the jolly Santa I set out to be on my last day.

“But you aren’t getting me what I want,” he moans.

“Whiskey,” I mutter, “You’ve got it.”

I can’t lose sight of her. I need to get to her. There’s something about her that’s setting off a chain reaction like I’ve never experienced before.

My sister thumps me on the shoulder. “Cole!” Turning to the kid, she says, “Here’s a candy cane. Have three! Just don’t tell your mom what Santa said. He was kidding. Tell him you were kidding.”

I stare at the kid. “Get off my lap, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

The kid grabs his candy canes and hops off my lap, skipping to his mother as I rush to my girl. Shit. She’s on the other side of the rink.

“Where’s Santa going?” a kid mutters, followed by incoherent murmuring.

None of it registers as I calculate the quickest route. Straight. Down. The middle. I charge, arms pumping as I make my way to the edge of the rink, grab the wall, and leap over it in a single bound. My feet hit the ice, followed swiftly by my back, head, and complete darkness.