I hadn’t known what to expect on a Christmas date. It certainly hadn’t been a ride on a jet-powered sleigh to New York City to see the tree in Times Square, followed by a cozy candlelight dinner of ham and all the trimmings next to a roaring fireplace in a romantic rooftop restaurant while an amazing instrumental quartet played a plethora of Christmas carols nearby.
A sleigh ride. For fucks sake, really?
“I thought the sleigh was only used on Christmas Eve,” I questioned. “And where are the reindeer? Another propagational lie?”
Santa, I mean Yule, had a mischievous glimmer in his eye as he lifted his shoulders into a nonchalant shrug. “The reindeer exist, but technology works a little better these days than it used to. I still use them on Christmas Eve, but other than that, they are pretty much retired. As far as using the sleigh for personal use, to be honest, you’re probably right. I still haven’t finished reading the book of rules and bylaws. This is my first year as Santa, and as was pointed out to me today, I’ve never been much for homework. Although, speaking of, I did do a little reading up on you today, and what I discovered was very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
I narrowed my eyes, and stopped my fork midway to my mouth. I set it back on my plate, opting instead for a large gulp of red wine.
“Reading up on me? Where?” I questioned, figuring he must have paid for one of those Internet background searches and berating myself for not doing the same.
Yule finished chewing and swallowed a bite of yams before answering. “Your file, of course.”
“My file?” I repeated, as my heart sank into my stomach. That sounded ominous.
“You lied to me, my little elf. Of course, it’s not really surprising. After all, you are on the naughty list.”
“Oh, will you just stop already with this naughty-list crap? And how are you really accusing me of lying? You’re the liar who won’t tell me his name!”
Yule sighed and set down his fork. “I’ve told you many times, though. You choose not to listen, my little doubting elf. My given name is Yule Christopher Claus. The night before last was my thirty-ninth birthday and, as tradition mandates, I officially took over for my father and became Santa Yule Claus. I have not lied one bit. You, on the other hand, told some whoppers last night, didn’t you? Keep that up, and the naughty list will be the least of your worries.”
I glared at him, and my hand flew to my hip. This dinner conversation had taken a sharp turn, and I was on the defense. “Oh yeah? What lies did I tell, oh jolly one?”
“Oh jolly one?” Yule choked on a laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s clever. I’ve never heard that one before.”
The sarcasm was thick and fueled my anger, but I didn’t have a quick comeback. “Whatever. Just get to the point. Tell me how I supposedly lied. Enlighten me, Oh great giver of gifts and ho-er of hos.”
This time, his laugh was hearty and genuine. “Oh, my little elf. You’re going to pay for that one.”
I rolled my eyes, and he cleared his throat. I waited.
“Last night, you told me that you had never believed in Santa, not even as a young child.” Yule’s expression was haughty and expectant.
“Yeah, so?”
“So, when I went through your file, I found not one, not two, not three, but four letters to my father, as he was Santa at the time.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and my insides twisted at the mention of the letters. There were vague memories of hand-penned notes to Santa, written under the guise of a class assignment. I could have opted out, but I hadn’t wanted to. Those letters had been a child’s test. I had written them to see for myself who was right—my mother, or the rest of the world around me. In my child’s mind, the fact that I never received the one thing I had asked for proved that my mother had been the correct one.
I shook my head to clear the memory and forced a laugh. “So? They were a class assignment. I had to do them. It didn’t mean anything.”
Yule frowned. “I suspect you are lying again, my little elf.”
“Stop calling me that! I’m not little, I’m not yours, and I’m certainly not an elf!”
“Very well, Crystal.” He said my name with an edge of sarcasm and distaste that had me yearning for the endearments I had been quick to reject. “Do you remember what you asked Santa for?”
“No,” I lied.
He didn’t call me on it this time, but his eyes bored into me with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment, and I knew he knew. He took another bite of ham and chewed slowly, then lifted his napkin from his lap and wiped his face with it before throwing it down on the table and leaning back to reach into the breast pocket of his red corduroy blazer. He hadn’t worn the Santa suit tonight, and for that I was thankful.
“Let me refresh your memory,” he said as he pulled out four yellowed pieces of paper in different sizes, each folded in half.
I played with the food on my plate, pushing it around like I didn’t care, but the truth was I had lost my appetite. My mouth was dry, my palms were damp, and it took a concentrated effort to keep my legs from shaking under the table.
Please don’t read them out loud. It was bad enough that he had read them at all, but to hear the childlike pleas spoken aloud would kill me.
I held my breath as he lifted the top sheet and unfolded it, holding it at arm’s length in front of his face.
“December third, 1993
Dear Santa,
Please bring me a daddy for Christmas.
Love,
Crystal Turner”
My face burned, but I said nothing.
Yule was playing hardball as he lifted the second note from the pile and read it.
“December fifth, 1994
Dear Santa,
I have been a very good girl this year. My teacher says I am definitely on the nice list.
I only want one thing for Christmas. A daddy of my very own, to be a husband for my mother. We had a daddy and a husband once, but he died, and I don’t remember him much.
It is the only thing I really want.
Thank you.
Love,
Crystal Turner”
I sucked in my lower lip, and tried to hold the tears at bay. “Okay, I get it. I was a dumb kid. Please don’t read any more.”
“Not dumb. Very sweet. But with an impossible request. Santa Claus is a toymaker, not a matchmaker,” Yule joked, trying to ease the tension in the room.
“Touché,” I managed. “Okay, well, you read the first two. There’s no need to keep reading. The last two are the same as the first.”
Yule frowned and picked up the third letter, scanning it as if to see if my claims were true. “They really aren’t, though,” he concluded. “Each year your request gets longer and more detailed. Sure, the gist is the same, but the letter certainly isn’t.”
I shrugged, and a tear coursed down my cheek as he read.
“November twenty-ninth, 1995
Dear Santa,
I’m writing earlier this year in case you need extra time to find me a daddy. I don’t know how much difference a week will make, but it’s the best I can do.
Mom and I are lonely. Especially around Christmas. We don’t celebrate, but if we had a daddy, I bet we would.
My friend Emily said since toys are your specialty and not daddies, I should be clearer about what I want.
I don’t care what he looks like, as long as he gives good hugs and kisses me on the cheek when he tucks me into bed at night, and a bedtime story would be nice, too, even though my mom usually has that covered.
He should be a little good-looking, though, to keep my mom happy. I’ve seen pictures of my dad, and he was a very handsome man. My mom has good taste. I’m enclosing a photo so you can see what she likes.
I want him to be nice and loving. He will like to take me out for ice cream and cuddle me on his lap while we watch cartoons together.
But, so I’m not being too unrealistic, he can be stern sometimes if he needs to be, and punish me if I’ve been naughty. I’ll try to be extra good so he doesn’t have a reason to. Emily’s daddy says daddies don’t like to punish their little girls but sometimes they must.
I’ve been so extra good this year, Santa. This is the only thing I want. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would make me so very happy to have a daddy for this Christmas and always.
Yours truly,
Crystal Angelina Turner”
The tears were falling freely now. I couldn’t have stopped them if I tried. I wept bitterly for the lost little girl who had wanted the one thing she had never received. Yule said nothing about my tears, wordlessly handing me a handkerchief from his pocket before picking up the fourth letter.
“Thanksgiving, 1996,” he read as I held my breath. This one would be short.
“Dear Santa,
This will be my last letter. If you do not bring me a daddy this year, I will know my mom is right, and you are just a myth.
I want to believe like everyone else does, Santa. Please help me.
Signed,
Crystal Angelina”
He paused, starting to look a little weepy himself. “I can’t read the last name because my father’s tears smeared the ink.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I couldn’t. “How do you know he cried?” I asked.
“I know him,” Yule stated simply. “That, and there is a little note on the bottom in his handwriting.”
The image of a big burly Santa crying over a little girl’s last letter nearly did me in.
“W-what does it say?” I stuttered.
“It says, ‘all I can do is pray.’”
I nodded, unable to speak, and fidgeted with one of the charms on my bracelet, without looking to see which one it was.
“I counted several lies, little elf.”
I shrugged, not arguing the nickname this time.
“But I’m glad I read your file,” he continued, refolding the letters and sticking them back into the pocket of his blazer.
“Why? Because now you know how broken I really am?” I scoffed. “I’ve got news for you, Santa. I’m not that little girl anymore.”
Yule’s gaze was sad as his eyes met mine before dropping to my breasts with a mischievous smirk. “No, you certainly are not,” he answered with a lascivious grin. “Let me ask you something, Crystal. Did your mother ever remarry?”
“No. She did not.”
“So you never got the daddy you so desperately longed for.”
“So? Stupid little girl dreams. My mom was more than enough.”
“One thing I have learned being Santa and watching my father over the years is that the things we yearned for as children never go away. We may move on, we may outgrow them, we may come to peace with broken dreams, but they never go away.”
Date night had certainly taken an interesting turn, and if the conversation didn’t take a lighter route here soon, I was going to be a blubbering mess. The problem was, I was incapable of speaking at the moment, and it didn’t look like Yule planned to let up. On the contrary, it looked like he was just getting started.
“One of Santa’s most classic tricks for turning nonbelievers into believers is to grant and sometimes even re-grant those long-forgotten wishes. Sometimes, like in this case, that requires a little outside-of-the-box thinking.”
“Forget it,” I sniffled. “There is no ‘in this case.’ The timeline has long expired. I don’t want or need a daddy.”
Yule was silent, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Not in the traditional sense, no. I’m unable to go back in time and fulfill those little girl desires. But something tells me, little elf, that a daddy and a magical Christmas to go with it is just what you need.”
My stomach twisted, and my heart filled with hope. I wasn’t about to admit it, but he was right. The long-forgotten desire had never fully gone away. But what did it matter? I was a grown woman. Even if my mom magically found someone and remarried, that man would never fill a daddy role in my life.
“Let me ask you something. Two somethings, actually.” Yule’s voice was pensive and his expression serious.
“I know you don’t know me well, but I think you know that you can trust me, don’t you, little elf?”
Dammit. I did. Against all my better judgment and all my adult sensibilities, I knew deep down that Yule Claus, whoever he was, was someone I could trust. “If I didn’t know that, I wouldn’t be here,” I confirmed grudgingly.
Usually, when I went on a first date, at least two people knew where I was and who I was with, and I had an escape plan. I had taken no such precautions with him.
“Okay, second question. This is a hard one. How is it possible with the sleigh ride and those letters and all the Christmas magic you have seen with your own two eyes, you still don’t believe that Santa exists, and I am him?”
“It’s getting harder and harder,” I grumbled. At this point sheer stubbornness was keeping me tethered to my nonbelief. I was thirty-one years old, almost thirty-two, and far too old to start believing in Santa.
Yule was watching me shrewdly, and I got the distinct feeling that he could see into my soul and hear the things I was not saying.
I met his gaze, and we engaged in a good-old-fashioned staring contest for what felt like a full minute.
Finally, he nodded, stood, and threw some bills on the table. “It’s settled, then.”
“Wait, what’s settled?”
“Give me the weekend, little elf. That’s all I ask.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit.
“The weekend for what?”
“To be your daddy. To fulfill every abandoned-little-girl desire and to put all your doubts about me to rest once and for all.”
This was crazy. He was insane. Be my daddy? What did that even mean? Make me believe in Santa? Why? Why was this all so important to him?
I opened my mouth to answer, and before I could stop myself, I said one word. “Yes.”
Yule snapped his fingers, and everything changed.