Santa's Secret (2 page)

“Yes, but you’re all I have left of Damon.
And we’re all you have left of him too. Aren’t you lonely, Eva?”

A movement out of the corner of her eye
made her glance across at the cabin next door. It was Rudi, coming out onto his
portion of the terrace. He stood facing the forest, watching the snow, a mug of
something hot in his hand judging by the steam that curled from it. Eva drew
back into the shadows, not wanting him to see her if he glanced around, but her
gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, his ruffled hair. Where was Isabel’s
mother? Was she in the cabin? He hadn’t mentioned a partner, but then again he
hadn’t
not
mentioned one either.

Not that it mattered, of course. She wasn’t
here to find romance. In a few days she’d be on a plane back to England, and
anyway, it was very difficult to have a relationship at all with young children
permanently on the scene. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t find friends while
she was there. Even if he did have a wife, it would just be nice to talk to
people, to relax, to let Oscar play with other children.

I hope he doesn’t have a wife.

“No,” she murmured to Bridget, watching as
he turned around and went back into the cabin. “I’m not lonely.” Then the guilt
prodded her again. “But I do miss Damon, Bridge.” She’d got used to saying it,
and the words came easily.

Bridget blew her nose. “Well, have a lovely
time. I’ll ring you later.”

“Okay, see you.”

Eva hung up. She couldn’t escape the phone
calls unfortunately. She’d rather have agreed not to contact each other for the
duration of their holiday, but Bridget had insisted she’d worry. Of course, Eva
could just turn off the phone, but that would make her mother-in-law worry even
more, and she didn’t want to be the source of Bridget’s misery over Christmas.

She slipped the phone into the pocket of
her jeans and turned back to the room. Oscar had stopped jumping, and now he
climbed down and ran over to her.

“Can I have a biscuit?”

She checked her watch. She’d set it to
Finnish time on the plane, but of course although it said just gone four, in
the UK it was after six. No wonder he was hungry.

“Shall we go into the village and see if
anywhere does chicken nuggets?”

His face lit up. “With fries?”

“And ketchup. And then do you think you’d
like ice cream? Or is it too cold?”

“Ice cream!” He jumped up and down. “With
chocolate sauce and sprinkles!”

Laughing, she unfolded another jumper.
“Okay. Let me finish unpacking and we’ll go and eat.”

Rudi sat back at the table and pulled his
laptop towards him. He had a financial report to finish by the end of the day,
and he was procrastinating.

He glanced towards the terrace again. The
small part of him that remembered being six years old wanted to run out into
the snow, make snow angels, throw snowballs, build snowmen until his hands froze
and he was too tired to do anything but fall into bed. A little bit of him
longed for those simple days when all he’d thought about was running and
jumping and climbing and food, when winter consisted of sledding and skiing,
when he had welcomed the snow. Now, he found it an inconvenience. It made
travel difficult, and it was uncomfortable to be outside for too long because
everything froze.

It was still beautiful, though. That much
he could agree.

The laptop hummed beneath his fingertips,
and he turned his attention back to it again.
Get this done. Then you can
reward yourself with a whiskey.

He tapped away for a while, referring to
his tablet every now and again, then shuffling through some paperwork he’d
brought with him, trying to balance the figures. His coffee grew cold, and when
he sipped it, he grimaced and pushed it away. But he forced himself to sit and
not get up to make another, knowing he’d only be distracted by the view again.

He heard a door open and shut, and knew it
was probably Eva and Oscar, heading out into the village, perhaps to get
something to eat. His stomach rumbled. Perhaps he should head out after them.

His gaze drifted to the view again as he
remembered the moment he’d turned to see her standing there, arms full of
suitcases, eyes open wide as she stared at him. She’d worn a thick brown duffle
coat and a scarlet scarf that had gone perfectly with her sleek, dark hair and complimented
the rosy flush in her cheeks.

Her pale skin had been free of makeup, but
her lips had glistened with lip balm, no doubt applied against the freezing
cold. Her natural beauty had been refreshing, a vivid contrast to his memory of
Vanessa’s heavily made-up face, thick with foundation, black kohl around her
eyes which glistened with eye shadow, and her dark red lips. All expertly
applied of course, but he’d always felt reluctant to touch her, as if she made
herself that way to be admired from afar. It had been difficult to grab a quick
kiss when it meant he had to then check his appearance in the mirror to make
sure he didn’t have lipstick over his face or shirt, and she had to spend
another five minutes re-applying it.

He wondered where she was, what she was
doing. Last time she’d rung, she was in Paris, although she’d talked then about
heading for Rome. Living it up on the money she’d wrung out of him during the
divorce.

His hand tightened on the stylus, and he
gritted his teeth. Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly and forced
himself to relax. He’d come here to get away from it all, convinced by his
mother that a holiday would do him good. He thought of Eva. Maybe she was
right.

As if his mother had a psychic connection
with him, his mobile rang, and he opened it up to see “Frieda” at the top. He
smiled and pressed the button, leaning back in the chair.

“Hey.”

Her bright voice, speaking in Finnish, came
through. “Hello, darling. Sorry to bother you—were you doing something exciting
and naughty?”

He laughed and tapped a few letters on the
keyboard. “Only if you consider financial statements risqué.”

“Darling…”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“But I need to get this finished by tonight so I can email it to the office.”

“Sweetheart, I understand. But you’ve just
got there. You should really be out having a look around.”

He tapped on the keyboard. “I will.”

“What’s Isabel doing?”

That made him stop. He glanced across the
room.

His daughter sat on the floor, leaning on
the coffee table in front of the TV, colouring a picture of Santa and watching
cartoons. Her long blonde braids curled around her on the wooden surface, and
she seemed engrossed in her picture.

“She’s colouring,” he said.

Frieda sighed.

He leaned back and pinched the skin at the
bridge of his nose. “I know, I know…”

“Honey, you have to make an effort. It
won’t happen of its own accord. That’s why I suggested you go away, to find
some time to reconnect. She misses her father, Rudi. The poor girl’s been
abandoned by both of her parents and it’s not fair.”

“I haven’t abandoned her,” he said,
irritated by the accusation, “I’ve been working.”

“That’s an excuse, and you know it.”

He picked at a fleck of an old label stuck
to his laptop. How did mothers always make you feel as if you were a kid again
no matter how old you were? “All right, stop nagging. I’ll try.”

Frieda cleared her throat. “Anyway. Tell me
about the place. What do you think of it?”

He snorted. “It’s exactly what I’d thought
it would be. Twee and sentimental.”

“It’s supposed to be twee and
sentimental—that’s the point. It’s supposed to remind you of your childhood.”

“Is that why Dad built it? I thought it was
to cream money out of the tourists who come here looking for some corny
representation of the festive season.”

“Rudi,” she said harshly.

He said nothing. She didn’t like him being
disrespectful to his father’s memory, even though he knew she felt the same
way.

He glanced out at the snow again,
remembering how he’d been thinking about sledding and skiing.
Real
skiing, not the kind Vanessa liked that involved wearing designer gear and
trying to get noticed on the slopes. “I suppose it does bring back some
memories.”

“You need to get into the spirit of things.
You need to start thinking like a child again, Rudi.”

He frowned. “That doesn’t come easily to
me.”

“I know—but what better place to try than Santa’s
Secret Village?”

“I haven’t come here to find Christmas
magic. I’ve come here to see if the place is worth selling.”

She sighed. “Are you going to meet Santa?”

“I’m not going to sit on his knee, if
that’s what you’re asking.”

She laughed. “What will you say if he asks
what you want for Christmas?”

He hesitated, and an image of Eva flitted
through his mind, of her kissing her son’s cheek, tender and sexy at the same
time. He brushed it away. “That I get this financial report finished.”

She sighed again. “Honestly. You’re so like
your father.” She went quiet for a moment. “Rudi, I don’t want you to end up
like him. Where work was the only thing that mattered.”

“I know.” And he did know. He could
remember his father closeting himself away for hours at a time, taking calls
while they were sitting in a restaurant, failing to come to school events
because more important things had come up. That was what his mother was trying
to avoid for Isabel.

He glanced at his daughter again. He knew
they’d drifted apart. When Vanessa left, Isabel hadn’t said a word, and he’d
wondered if she’d been relieved that the fighting had stopped, the constant
arguing, Vanessa’s tears, his frustration. It was better to have a quiet,
peaceful life, surely, even though it must hurt that her mother had just
abandoned her?

He hadn’t seen his own fixation with work
as doing the same—in his mind, he needed to earn money to keep them all—Frieda,
Vanessa, Isabel and himself, but he could see why his mother might say that.

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice a little
husky. He didn’t want to turn out like his father either.

“Okay, darling.”

He looked around the cabin. “It’s odd to
think Dad built this place. Out of all his projects, a Christmas village seems
such a weird thing for him to come up with.”

“Yes. He never liked the festive season.”

She didn’t have to tell Rudi. His memories
of Christmas past were not great ones. His father had always been full of
cynical comments about the commercialisation of the holiday and how foolish the
public was to fall for it every year.

They both fell quiet.

“Don’t end up like him,” Frieda said again.

Rudi pushed away his laptop. “I won’t. I’d
better go now.”

“Okay. Give Izzy my love.”

“Will do.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” He hung up.

He sat there for a moment, feeling a bit
flat. Frieda had sent him to Santa’s Secret Village in the hope that he would
rediscover the childhood magic of Christmas he’d lost over the years. But
somehow, he couldn’t imagine that happening. The complex of buildings, while
clean and well run, were syrupy sweet, with the helpers dressed like elves in
red and green, piped Christmas carols in the shops, Christmassy-themed food in
the restaurants, and a fake sense of cheer fluttering around like the
snowflakes. After all how could the staff possibly have the Christmas spirit
for 365 days of the year?

True, the cabins were nice, cosy and clean,
built from natural pine and with beautiful views across the forest. The
families he’d seen had appeared excited and enthusiastic, generally thrilled to
be there. The staff he’d met so far had been pleasant and cheerful. He hadn’t
told them he was actually their boss, come to check them out.

He clipped the laptop lid shut. It didn’t
really matter what Santa’s Secret Village was like; he had no desire to keep
it, even though it had passed to him in his father’s will and made a tidy
profit. He had no wish to be reminded of his youth, of the time when he had
imagined his future glowing and happy, when he had thought love could last
forever.

He pushed himself up and walked across to
where Isabel was colouring, and sat opposite her on the sofa. “How are you
doing?” He spoke in English, as her tutors had suggested they converse in it
whenever possible to encourage her to learn.

“Fine, thank you.” The epitome of
politeness. She didn’t look up but continued to colour Santa’s hat in with a
scarlet pencil.

“Did you know that Santa’s outfit was
originally green? It only turned red when Santa appeared in an advert on TV.”
He’d thought it was an interesting fact—another reason that Christmas had
become commercialised and had lost its original magic.

But Isabel said nothing, just continued to
colour, listening to the cartoons.

His stomach rumbled and he patted it. “Are
you hungry?” he asked.

She looked up then. “A bit.”

“Want to go out and get something to eat?”

She put down the pencil. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. Go and get your things, and we will
head out.”

Coated, booted and gloved, they left the
warmth of the cabin and headed into the iciness of the winter afternoon. Isabel
walked quietly beside him, seemingly shy of the children running around in
front of Santa’s House, screaming and throwing snowballs.

“Want to join in?” he asked as a couple
tore in front of her, faces lit with laughter.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He studied her, seeing her glance across at
them, but her face remained carefully blank and he couldn’t tell whether she
was envious of their excitement or not. If anything, she looked slightly
confused, as if she couldn’t for the life of her understand what they had to be
so happy about.

Rudi did not for a moment think that
Vanessa didn’t love her daughter. She rang her twice a week and spoke for half
an hour, and whenever she visited, she hugged Isabel and took her off for a
“girly” chat, as she called it. But she’d always seemed keen to encourage Isabel
to grow up. Vanessa discouraged chaos, and toy boxes had to be brought out and
tidied away one at a time, while the thought of pinning up sheets to make tents
or doing anything like painting or modelling soft dough would have made her
hyperventilate. On the other hand, she would talk for hours about clothes and
makeup, taking Isabel shopping and buying her new things, and encouraging her
to try eye shadows and lipsticks on the back of her hand. That was one area
where he and Vanessa had vehemently disagreed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He’d yelled the words the year before when he’d walked in to find Isabel
sitting there like a painted doll, caked in makeup and wearing an inappropriate
strappy dress and high heels.

Vanessa had glared at him. “She has to
learn some time.”

“She’s six,” he’d said softly, an ache deep
inside him at the thought that his daughter was going to turn out like her
mother. And that was when he knew the marriage was finally over—because that
thought did not fill him with the joy it should have.

They crossed the road, and he paused as he
decided which restaurant to go to. The fancier one with the haute cuisine menu?
He could really do with a whiskey with his meal. Or the more family-orientated
one where the waitresses dressed in red and green and wore antler ears?