Believe (9 page)

The disbelief on Nick's face makes me want to cry, although it's not like I didn't expect exactly this reaction. I just don't know what to do now that all the information has been spewed out all over the place.

He drops my hand and jumps to his feet. “I don't know what is wrong with you,” he says. I can't quite meet his eyes, but I aim my gaze at the center of his face. His jaw has tightened, and his nostrils are flaring slightly with each breath. I can tell he's fighting to stay calm.

“Nothing's wrong with me,” I whisper as I force myself to stand up. “I'm telling you the truth. Ask your parents.”

“Oh, I will. Believe me, I will.” Nick turns and opens the door, letting a burst of icy wind into the entryway. “Just don't…don't talk to me again, okay? I can't handle this brand of crazy.” He steps out onto the porch. I want to tell him to get his coat, but I'm paralyzed with his doubt. When he turns back to me, hope sparks in my stomach. Instead he shakes his head and says, “And to think I was starting to…”

The wind steals his words as he shakes his head and jogs down the stairs into the dark night.

 

I stare blankly at the closed door for an eternity. Gran finds me and gently propels me into the kitchen. She seats me at the table, hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and nudges a plate of cookies in my direction. I shove a cookie in my mouth and look at Gran with pleading, plaintive eyes. She doesn't say anything but raises an eyebrow as she waits for me to finish chewing.

With a moan I bury my head in my hands. “He thinks I'm crazy. And he doesn't trust me. And the King of Winter was at our front door.”

Gran crunches a cookie thoughtfully. “And how did you find the King this evening?”

My jaw drops and I look up. “That's all you're going to ask me? What the King's mood was? Maybe I should have asked him to stay and join us for a little snack. Then the two of you could have chatted.”

“We already did.” Gran finishes her cookie, making a big show of dusting off the non-existent crumbs on her shirt.

“Wait, you called him here, didn't you? You set this whole thing up?” My heart hammers in my chest as I put the pieces together.

“Someone had to get things moving along.”

I stare at my sweet grandmother. She picks up another cookie, crunching it loudly, all while watching me with a raised eyebrow.

“But…but now Nick hates me,” I say. My fists ball in my lap as I fight to keep tears out of my eyes. When I think of the look on his face as he disappeared into the night, my throat aches and I want to rewind the evening. I want a do-over.

Gran makes a very unladylike noise as she stands up. “Nonsense. Nick doesn't hate you, dear. He's confused. How would you feel if someone showed up at your door saying he was your actual father?”

“Relieved.”

Surprise crosses Gran's face before she bursts out laughing. “Well, yes, I suppose you might feel that way. But, Nick's foster family has raised him with such an abundance of love that this doesn't just come as a shock but as a bomb.”

“It's more than that,” I say, shifting restlessly at the table. “He doesn't believe me. To him Santa Claus is strictly relegated to the world of children's stories. I thought his foster family would have raised him to be a true believer.”

“The same could be said for you.”

I look at Gran confused. “What do you mean? Of course I believe in Santa Claus.”

Gran studies me, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You have no choice but to believe in Santa Claus, my dear. But you don't believe in Christmas, do you? You really hate the holiday.”

“I don't hate Christmas,” I protest, but already I'm slumping back into my seat. Does Gran have a point? My upbringing certainly didn't leave room for a doubt in mythical things, but did it make me hate the holiday?

“Of course, you do,” Gran contradicts me. “You hate everything associated with Christmas and Santa Claus, and given who your father is, I don't blame you one bit.”

I take a sip of my rapidly cooling hot chocolate. What Gran says has merit, I have to admit. But I don't hate everything associated with Christmas, and I don't hate the idea of Santa Claus. I think maybe I do hate my father, though. My stomach twists at the thorough disrespect of the thought. Never before have I allowed myself to even think that.

Slowly I look at Gran and say, “I don't hate the idea of Christmas. I just hate what Christmas has become.” I pause, searching for the right words. My eyes flit around the kitchen. As one would expect, Gran's house has Christmas decorations littering every surface, and this room is no exception. She has several Christmas prints propped up on one counter. In each one a jolly Santa performs various tasks; greeting children, reading letters, supervising elfin toy making.

“My father has all but destroyed the holiday,” I finally say, my eyes still trained on a picture of Santa reading the mail. “Do you know that Dad sends all the Christmas letters he receives to the incinerator before they're even opened?”

Gran clucks disapprovingly, sounding somewhat like a disgruntled chicken. “I shouldn't speak ill of your father, but that man never had any decent intentions.”

Still staring at the pictures, I say, “I think…I think Nick could fix all of it. He is exactly what Santa is supposed to be.”

We fall into silence as I mull over this revelation. When I look back at Gran, she seems to be holding something back, and for the first time since I arrived, I don't want her to share her thoughts. Instead I stand up, just a touch too quickly, and my chair wobbles behind me.

“Can I borrow your car keys?”

Gran nods and I rush to grab my coat. “I'm just going over to Nick's house for a bit,” I call from the front hallway. “There's some stuff I need to say to him.”

“Do you know how to get there?” Gran has followed me into the hallway and hands me a pair of mittens and her car keys. “Just plug this address into the GPS.”

I take the paper she offered along with the mittens and the keys and rush out into the snowy night. The way the flakes swirl and dance in the air gives me pause. There's something too magical, too mystical about them. I peer into the night and very nearly whisper “The King of Winter” to make the King appear. He's here. I know he is because I can feel him watching me.

Forging ahead, I decide I don't care about that or any of the other things standing in my path. My tremulous heart trusts Nick and trusts these incredible feelings. I plug in the address Gran gave me and the generic female voice directs me out of the driveway and down the snowy ice-covered road.

As I head toward the vaguely familiar neighborhoods on the edge of town, I try to focus on the GPS instructions. The snow seems oddly heavy in spots, and I'm once again tempted to stop the car and call out the King. He had been a terrifying sight on Gran's porch, but oddly…beautiful at the same time. I suspect he uses that effect often to subdue and dazzle people.

When I turn on to the next street, I realize I didn't need the GPS after all. Nick's house sticks out like a sore thumb. Large blow-up Santas and reindeers and elves litter the front yard, and the house seems swallowed by millions of twinkle lights. Still the GPS lady chirps that we have arrived at our destination.

I ease the SUV to a stop beside the curb, relieved to have made it here safely and without seeing a police officer given the fact that I don't actually have a driver's license.

Digging up all the courage I have, I hurry up the front walk with a swirl of snow trying to beat me back. The King is here somewhere. Now that he's met Nick, he doesn't seem to want to bow out quietly. I'm not sure what that means, but the thought feels right. I'll have to puzzle that out later. Right now I need to talk to Nick. He has to become the next Santa Claus, and not just because my heart has firmly migrated to the loving him category, but because he will fix everything my father broke.

My knock on the door seems to echo around the neighborhood like thunder. I know I'm overreacting, but my heart hammers in my chest, and I have no idea what I'm going to say when I see him.

The door swings open in slow motion, at least that's the way it seems to my melodramatic mind, and all the air wheezes out of my lungs. Instead of Nick, though, I'm met by a pleasant-looking, plump woman with a messy ponytail.

“Is Nick here?” My voice cracks and I feel the weight of the past few weeks pressing in on me. When exactly this need for Nick to be near me occurred, I can't pinpoint, but suddenly I need him to be near me like I need air to breathe.

The woman smiles, brushing strands of wayward hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “You must be Virginia. Please come in, dear. I'm so happy to finally meet you.” I follow her inside, grateful when the door swings shut behind me. “I'm Muriel. Let me call Nick's father. He'll want to meet you too. Hank! We have a guest.”

I shift awkwardly in my boots. They know all about me. Why has it never occurred to me to think about these people? Nick's mom and dad? What is wrong with me? Have my parents screwed me up that royally?

“So, um, is Nick here?” I shove my hands deep into my coat pockets, balling them into fists to ground myself.

A look of disappointment flits across Muriel's face and I pretend not to notice. My mission is to find Nick and convince him to be Santa. For real. Muriel and Hank know that. Nick's destiny has never been a secret from them. Just from Nick.

“He's not here, Virginia,” she says on a sigh. “He came home awhile ago rather upset.”

I suddenly find it hard to swallow. Muriel doesn't look angry with me, just so sad. The look on her face makes me want to throw my arms around her.

“I'm sorry.” My voice barely registers in my own ears so there's no way Muriel heard me. To my surprise she gives me a sad smile and takes my hand.

“We're sorry,” she says. “We agreed to raise Nick with a love of Christmas. And we did that. But the thing we failed on was raising him with the knowledge of who he truly is, who he's destined to be.”

“He doesn't believe me.” Tears well up in my eyes, and I fight hard to keep them at bay. “Every time I try to tell him he looks at me like I'm a nut job. And now that he knows the whole story, he hates me.”

Muriel pulls me into a hug, and for the first time in a long time, I don't resist. Laying my head on her shoulder, I let a few tears slip down my cheeks. “Oh, sweetie, he doesn't hate you. If the way he talks about you is any indication, I would say his feelings run deep.”

As she releases me, I hurry to swipe the tears away. Her words give me a brief rush of relief but leave me feeling oddly empty. I don't want to be standing in this entryway hearing from his mom that Nick has deep feelings for me. I want to hear those words from Nick.

“Do you know where Nick is?”

Muriel nods as she turns toward the footsteps on the stairs. “He went to sort gifts from the local toy drive. He needed to clear his head. Service work always makes him feel better.”

I finger the keys in my pocket. My feet are ready to flee. I need to find Nick. A balding, rotund man appears at the base of the stairs smiling jovially at me. I stumble through an introduction, completely unable to remember what words leave my mouth seconds after I utter them.

With a big exhalation that leaves me feeling slightly lightheaded, I ask, “And where exactly is this sorting going on?”

Muriel and Hank give me the address of the community center and insist on sending a huge plate of cookies for the volunteers. Clutching my treats, I rush back to Gran's SUV and literally shake as I punch in the address of the community center. I don't know what I'm going to do or say when I see Nick, but every fiber of my being knows I need to see him.

As I drive, I don't have a clue when my feelings changed and became so intense. Normally my feelings are on constant lockdown, but Nick seems to have opened the floodgates.

“I love him,” I whisper aloud to the darkness in the car. The GPS voice chirps for me to turn right.

 

The community center is ablaze with lights. I find a parking spot nearby and hop out. The snow has momentarily abated and I take advantage of the break to dash for the front doors. Once inside the warm, welcoming building, I survey the activity. Piles of toys litter every available surface with volunteers busily wrapping and sorting.

I spot Nick across the room and my breath catches. Calming my jangling nerves, I scan the room for the person in charge, which the more I look around the more I think it might be Nick. He has a clipboard and volunteers seem to be congregating around him. Luckily I finally find a woman who also has a clipboard.

“Great, another volunteer.” She grins so big at me I think I can see the fillings in her back teeth. “This weather has really kept people away.”

“I bet. It's wild out there.” I'm thankful that some part of my brain can function to carry on this conversation. The other part of my brain is melting, oozing out my ears, with thoughts of getting close to Nick. My old self is disgusted with the new me. This girl should be kicked.

“So, I'm just going to send you over to my assistant, Nick,” the woman says.

I realize I've tuned out of part of the conversation. Maybe my brain isn't functioning so well after all. Wait, did she just say she's sending me over to Nick?

I let her point him out to me while I pretend to have no knowledge of him. Then I hesitantly start across the room. Somewhere amidst the gift-wrap and bows, I find my courage and pick up my pace. This mess of getting ready for Christmas is second nature to me. This is how I grew up. Nick and I are on a level playing field here.

“I'm here to help.” I make the announcement with all the false confidence I can muster.

Nick turns to me slowly, his face registering surprise with a hint of annoyance before he rearranges his features and masks his emotions. “Fine,” he says. His voice is a weird mixture of flat, forced unaffectedness and barely restrained emotion. Something about his tone gives me hope that we are more on the same page than he lets on. “Go wrap that pile of presents.”

He points me toward an unattended table. Then he walks away. I want to go after him, but he's made his feelings crystal clear for the moment. We'll just have to talk later. I can wait. So I go to the long brown folding table and pick up the list at the end. Pretty easily I decipher that each gift should have a number that corresponds to a child's name on the list. My job consists of wrapping and labeling each gift. I can handle this with my eyes shut and both hands tied behind my back.

The first several gifts are done quickly. The next few take me longer as I try to perfect my long curled ribbon bows. I remember Ebrillwen teaching me the technique just before I left. She'd insisted it might come in handy. Apparently she had been right. The other volunteers laugh and chatter as they work, giving the room a festive air. Every time I sneak a peek at Nick, he seems to be glowering at some unknown force. The grouchiness can't mask the good in him, though. Everyone should be allowed his low days.

As I work my way down the list, I'm pleased to see that each child has numerous toys and clothing items. Imagining all those happy faces on Christmas morning gives me a swell of pride. I come to the end of my presents, however, before I come to the end of my list. My finger runs down the names, landing on the last one. My heart falls into my stomach as I read the name, a name I recognize. Merry.

How is it possible that no one took her tags? I cannot let this happen. Jumping up from my seat, I seek out Nick. He's tapping a pen against his clipboard, staring blankly out the front window at the swirling snow. I briefly wonder if he can see the King out there. Shoving the thought aside, I reach out and touch his elbow. He jumps.

“What?” His voice is low and hard. “What do you want? I can't do this right now. Not here.”

I swallow past the boulder-sized lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “Look at the last name on my list,” I say, handing him the paper. “It's Merry. She has no gifts. How did that happen?”

Nick stares at the list and then around the room, confused. “I-I don't know.”

Licking my dry lips, I say, “This can't happen. Not to Merry. She needs this to be a good Christmas.”

Nick drops his clipboard on the nearest table, the expression on his face changing. He folds the list and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. As he starts to walk away, he tosses me an unreadable look. “Coming?”

I scramble after him. He grabs his coat from the coat rack near the front door and shrugs it on. We race through the snow toward his truck. Once inside the chilly cab, I dare a glance at him.

“Where are we going?” I venture the question because he doesn't seem quite as angry now.

He twists the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life with a dreadful rumbling. Nick chuckles softly. “The truck hates this weather.”

“Good taste,” I mutter.

Nick shoots me a look that I can't quite decipher. “I thought you were from Norway. Don't you get a lot of snow there?

I roll my eyes but turn my attention out the window. “I'm from the North Pole, not Norway.”

“Right. The North Pole. And you have reindeer and elves there?”

The derision in his voice makes my stomach twist. With a steadying breath, I turn back toward him. “Yes, we have reindeer and elves. Although, it's not quite the jolly place most people believe it is.”

Nick starts to tap his thumbs against the wheel, a gesture I'm beginning to associate with him. He slants me a curious glance as he stops at a red light. “Not jolly, huh?” He smirks at me for a moment before his mouth twists into a frown. “Didn't you tell me that your father is a jerk?”

I shrug and turn my attention to the fraying tip of one of my mittens. “Yeah, so? He is.”

“If your father is Santa Claus and your father is a jerk, then it follows that Santa Claus is a jerk.”

“Good logic there. Yes, the current Santa Claus is a jerk. A big, scummy jerk. Did you know he gets kick backs from toy companies?” I laugh bitterly. “Of course you don't know that. No one does. No one would believe it anyway.”

The light turns green and Nick accelerates a little faster than he should through the left turn causing me to pitch toward him. My seatbelt catches me hard in the shoulder, jerking me back to the seat. I gasp more from surprise than pain, but it causes Nick to glance my way.

“You okay?”

I rub my shoulder. “I'm fine.”

We lapse into silence. Finally I say, “Look, I know you don't believe me—”

“I can't really say that anymore, can I?” Nick interrupts. “Not after meeting my…father.”

I study his profile. “I guess not,” I say. “This is what I know. My father became Santa when he married my mother. And you'll become Santa if you marry me.”

“And we were engaged when we were babies?”

“More or less,” I say, tracing a pattern in the frost on the window. “You parents waged a war against the elf kingdom, and therefore against my parents. As part of the treaty to end the war, we were betrothed. And then I guess your parents sent you away because things were too dangerous for you otherwise.”

Nick grunts. “And I suppose I was in danger from Santa?”

I chew on my lower lip. There's still a touch of unbelief in his voice. Treading lightly is the only way to go, but the story doesn't lend itself well to that plan.

“My father could be a dangerous man if he wanted to be. I guess your parents were more worried about the elf elders, though.”

“Elf elders? Oh come on,” Nick mutters.

I blow out a big breath of frustration. “I know it sounds crazy. I get it, okay? But this is the life I grew up with. Apparently the elf elders can do all kinds of damage,” I say. “I'm not trying to confuse you. And I'm not making stuff up. I'm sorry if this is difficult for you, but this is hard for me too. Just try to believe me, okay?”

Nick pulls into a parking place and stares out the window for a long time. Finally he just shakes his head and gives me a tiny smile.