Agh.
Rebecca propped her feet up on the sofa, flexing her feet, which sent shooting pains up her calf. She deserved the pain for being stupid. But how stupid was she?
What if, in the end, Cruz was right? What if Rebecca was coddling them and they’d grow up to be spoiled adults ten steps removed from reality, just like her? What if Rebecca was the misguided one?
The phone rang again. Caller ID said Wilder. This time, Rebecca picked it up.
“Miss Neumann?” The voice was high and hesitant, even through the fiber-optic phone cable.
“Ethan?”
“Is it true? Austin’s mommy called Daniel’s mommy who called Megan’s mommy who called my mommy. They said you won’t be our teacher anymore.”
Rebecca sank into the carpet, curling up against the couch. “I think so, Ethan. But you’ll have somebody new.”
“Megan’s mommy said you had a nervy breakdown.”
Oh, no, thought Rebecca, wishing the bourbon would do its job. “I didn’t have a nervy breakdown. I told Headmistress Cruz that I believe in Santa Claus.”
“There’s no such thing as Santa. My daddy said so.”
Rebecca rubbed a palm over her eyes. “Ethan, I need to get off the phone now. You’ll be good? Don’t give the substitute heck, will you?”
“No, Miss Neumann. Please come back. My birthday is next month, and I want cupcakes, but my mother said I can’t have cupcakes because of the sugar.”
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” said Rebecca, a catch in her voice. Quickly she hung up the phone. She would not let her kids hear her cry. Not ever.
Not ever.
Not ever.
Because she was wasn’t going to see them again. Rebecca took the reindeer antlers off her head and threw them at the closed bedroom door.
“Hey!”
The door opened and Janine walked out, in boxer shorts, and a T-shirt with no bra. Which meant only one thing. Janine’s fiancé was here, and they’d recently been indulging in afternoon nooky.
Rebecca swore and then immediately apologized. “Sorry.”
Janine picked up the antlers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Rebecca limped to her feet, and discreetly shoved the bottle of bourbon between the box of Splenda and the green tea bags. “Nothing. Long story.” Her roommates would find out soon enough when she couldn’t make rent.
Janine, still caught in the postcoital afterglow, didn’t notice. “The UPS man delivered a package for you. It was huge.”
Rebecca managed the expected smile.
Janine pointed to the corner. “I stowed it behind the TV. Go ahead, open it. I’m dying to see what’s in it.”
It was a giant gift box, with shiny green paper and a bright red bow, all Christmasish, and if one hadn’t just been fired for said Christmas beliefs, one might have been totally excited. It was big enough, wide enough, deep enough.
Maybe…
Rebecca stared, her fingers crossed. Eventually curiosity turned into something more, and she tore off the wrapping. Then, sloooooooooooooooooooooowly, carefully, she lifted the lid.
And looked down to find…
A single sheet of paper.
Okay, not the brand-new, hot off the assembly line, homeopathic foot spa that she had coveted since her podiatrist first told her about it.
The paper was a handwritten note, with neat, tidy penmanship not seen in sixty years.
Dear Rebecca—
Because you’ve been good this year, I’m pleased to send you on a five-day holiday to the Timberline Lodge in Lake Placid, New York—all expenses paid, of course. I know what you want for Christmas, and there you’ll find it under the tree.
Santa.
Santa. Oh, that was rich. Even more pathetic, she could feel the old silliness springing up inside her. Gullible moron.
She reread the note four times, willing herself not to fall for it. This was a time-share opportunity, cleverly disguised with gleeful Christmas trimmings, probably a bad joke from Cruz.
However, she wasn’t moronic enough to dismiss it completely, either.
Her first call was to the lodge, verifying its existence and asking if time-share opportunities were available. The old woman on the other end of the line sounded insulted.
“We’re a family hotel with a long, well-documented history in the Adirondacks. No flim-flam here.”
Satisfied with the sincerity of her response, Rebecca explained the note and then the woman chuckled. “Our Santa Claus packages are very popular over the holidays. We have a strict confidentiality clause if the giver requests it.”
This time, Rebecca wasn’t so quick to defend the existence of Santa. “And what if a creepy, stalker dude is the giver? Mr. Murphy, for instance.”
“You have a creepy, stalker dude, missy?”