The 6'1" Grinch

December 15

I
T WAS SNOWING
.

Again.

Claudia Claus just adored her hubby, and even after all their years of marriage, and even with his ever-growing love handles, just the tickle of his white whiskers against her face still sent shivers—and not those of cold—right down to her toes. And she loved their life together, but for some peculiar reason, this Christmas she had cabin fever in the worst way. The howling December wind, the blowing snow and deserted isolation of the North Pole were really getting to her. She'd had enough of the ice, snow, blizzards and subzero temperatures, and being ignored by Santa while he obsessively prepared for his annual gift run. Jeez, you would have thought that he could practically do it in his sleep. But, no. He was as nervous and persnickety as if this was the first time he'd taken the sled and reindeers out.

What she needed was a distraction—a little Christmas project of her own. Why, Santa probably wouldn't even miss her, he was so busy breathing down the necks of the elves, if she did take a small vacation. Last night when she'd breathed on his neck, hoping to lure him into the bedroom, he'd had the audacity to suggest that she might be out of shape!

She walked around aimlessly from room to room. Then, recalling Santa's crack, she searched for an aerobics tape and tried working out with Claudia Schiffer for a while. That didn't hold her attention for long. It was too discouraging. No amount of prancing and dancing was ever going to make her thighs as firm as Claudia's. For that, she'd require the magic of David Copperfield.

Ejecting the tape, she picked up one of the glossy women's magazines she'd taken to reading. She sat down in a wing chair in the bedroom, her attention riveted by an article encouraging women to do their own things. Escape convention. Shape their own lives.

It was just the encouragement she needed to rationalize her escape from frostbite temperatures and frigid boredom. And to keep her out of the Christmas cookies!

She went to pull her dusty suitcase from beneath the giant four-timber bed. A mischievous smile played at her lips as she planned her trip south. True, St. Louis wasn't that far south, but somehow she knew it wouldn't be wise to come back to the North Pole with a tan.

As it was, she was going to have to bring one heck of an extraspecial souvenir for Santa as a peace offering.

December
16

E
VERY YEAR
Hollie Winslow put up her Christmas tree at Thanksgiving, and every year her friend Sarah Smith came over on Valentine's Day to make her take it down. Hollie knew Sarah considered her a holiday freak, but Hollie didn't agree. She didn't think you could overdo such a bright, magical season.

The strings of colorful Christmas lights in combination with the dusting of snow on the cupolas and gables and cornices of the turn-of-the-century houses on Wisteria Avenue made the street appear shimmering with Christmas magic and spirit, Hollie thought as she drove along it. She was en route to the Premiere Homes real estate office for her last turn at manning the telephones before she began her annual vacation.

Suddenly she slammed on the brakes. The Victorian gingerbread house she'd had her eye on had a sign outside. She'd tried to list the vacant house herself, but had been unable to locate the owner. Darn! It now appeared another real estate agent had beaten her to the listing.

Curious about which agent had gotten the jump on her, she backed up her four-door sedan and pulled over to park in front of the house, skidding to a stop on a slick patch of road. Unsquinching her eyes after not hearing the crumple of fender, she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the still-intact red sports car jutting out of the driveway adjoining the house. By squinting just a bit, she could make out the sign posted in the long front yard.

It read:

Hmm…this was curiouser and curiouser.

Hollie decided to see who had rented the property and from whom. If it was on a short-term lease, maybe it would need to be listed after the holidays. She didn't want to work during the holidays anyway. The next ten days were carefully planned, filled with enough activities to make Martha Stewart look like a slacker!

She made the trip up the walk in her snow boots without event. On the front porch, she pressed the bell, expecting someone in gold hoop earrings and a fringed shawl to answer the door. Instead she was met by a stylishly white-haired woman wearing a red holiday sweater and green leggings.

“Come in, come in,” the woman said, as if she'd been expecting Hollie. “I'm Ms. Claudia.”

“Hollie Winslow,” she replied, shaking Ms. Claudia's hand and smiling as she read the slogan on the woman's red top: “You ain't seen cute till you've seen St. Louis.” Hollie recognized the whimsical artwork of a local artist, who was gaining a good measure of national fame.

“Would you like me to do a reading? The special holiday rate is only fifty dollars.”

“Uh…” Hollie glanced down at her favorite yuletide watch with the Christmas tree on its face. “I don't have much time before I have to be at my real estate office.”

“Well, we could do a minireading for, say, twenty-five dollars. I'll just hit the high points.”

“High points?”

Ms. Claudia's laugh was merry. “You know, like what Santa's bringing you for Christmas if you've been a good girl. And of course you've always been a good girl.”

Ms. Claudia had that much right. Orphaned at seven when her parents had been killed in an automobile accident, she'd first been placed in a series of orphanages, then had grown up in foster care when she wasn't adopted. Trying to please and be good hadn't gotten her love, but it had gotten her by. In foster care they hadn't wanted her to get used to any family, so they'd changed families every couple of years. Foster care was meant to be temporary care.

All that uprooting and loneliness had made her hunger for a home of her own. And she supposed it was the reason she had chosen to become a real estate agent—it was her way of finding just the right houses to become homes for her clients. And she found it immensely rewarding when she succeeded. She smiled to herself.

Since childhood she'd had this fanciful affinity for houses. They were as real to her as people. And each time she'd leave a house she'd say goodbye.

She looked around the hallway, taken by the oak staircase and paneling and the whimsy of the decoration. Something about this house was calling out to her. Hollie supposed it would be rude not to let Ms. Claudia do her reading—especially if she wanted to see more of the gingerbread house and to learn the name of the owner.

“The abbreviated reading would be all right, I guess.”

Ms. Claudia nodded and took Hollie's red swing coat. After hanging it up on the brass coat tree, she led Hollie into the parlor, which was dominated by a huge, gloriously splendid Christmas tree, hung with balls, lights and Victorian-style ornaments. Perhaps Ms. Claudia had inherited the house. The place did suit her; both were cozy, familiar and inviting, Hollie thought, as she sat down in one of the green velvet wing chairs facing the blazing fire in the hearth.

“Now, what would you like to know?” Ms. Claudia asked, settling into the chair across from her.

“Who the owner of this house is,” Hollie said with a smile.

Ms. Claudia laughed. “That's right, you're in real estate. Well, it isn't me. I've just leased it for the holidays. I answered an ad in the newspaper. Before you leave, I'll look up the number. I understand someone inherited the house, who isn't scheduled to take possession until after the holidays.”

Hollie slumped at the news. It was such a darling house and she would have loved showing it. Oh, well, it wasn't meant to be.

“Surely there must be something else you want to know,” Ms. Claudia said.

Hollie brightened. “Okay, what is Santa bringing me for Christmas?”

“Santa's got a great big package for you this year.”

“How big?”

“Six feet one inch.”

“What?”

“Santa's not bringing you a great big package with a bow on it—he's bringing you a beau.” Ms. Claudia settled back in her wing chair, obviously delighted with her news.

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me I should expect to find a man under my tree Christmas morning?” Hollie asked, laughing nervously.

“That's what I'm telling you. Anything else you'd like to know?”

“But…but there's not a man on my Christmas wish list. I wanted a bread maker—you know, one of those cool bread-and-butter makers.” It really was what she wanted and she felt compelled to explain. “I sampled the bread from one of them in a housewares store a few weeks back. It smelled and tasted so-o-o good.”

Ms. Claudia's eyes twinkled as she insisted, “So can a man.”

Hollie felt herself blush. And she knew Ms. Claudia could tell. It was the fate of having a pale complexion—she lit up like a Christmas tree when she blushed.

“Are you sure about this? I'm not certain I want—I mean, I'm not ready for…”

“Love? How can anyone not be ready for love?” Ms. Claudia asked, sounding amazed.

“It's not that I'm not ready for love. I'd like to fall in love, but with the right man.”

“And you haven't had much luck with men?” Ms. Claudia guessed.

“They tend to disappoint me.”

“This one won't.”

“That's what I tell myself every time. Oh, well, at least I'll get my holidays in before he shows up to disrupt my life on Christmas Day.”

“You know, Hollie, peace and quiet can be way overrated.”

“So can men,” Hollie grumbled a few hours later as she neared the end of her shift at the real estate office. In only five minutes she'd be off on vacation and could begin enjoying the holiday season she adored. Thank goodness the real estate business was slow at this time of year and she had a lenient boss. She glanced down at her watch. In mere minutes she'd be out of here, and she began to gather her purse and things to leave. Then the phone rang.

“Premiere Homes,” she answered, mouthing “go away” beneath her breath.

“I need an agent to help me—”

Hollie interrupted the client before he got too involved. Through the front window, she caught sight of Sandy Martin, the receptionist, who was just pulling into the parking lot. If she could hold this guy off, Sandy could take a message.

“If you'll just wait, I'll have the receptionist make an appointment for you—”

“No, that won't do. You don't understand. I need an agent right now. I've found a house I want to see today.”

“But—”

He was better at getting his way than she was. “I need to find a house by Christmas. I've just transferred in from another town,” he said, his deep voice firm and insistent.

She found herself weakening, despite her vacation plans. Of course anyone would want his family settled for the holidays. No man would want his family to spend Christmas in a motel.

He pushed his case.

“Look, I'll make it easy on you,” he said, softening his voice. “I'll waive all rights to any inspection—and I'll pay cash.”

A cash buyer was an agent's dream, and waiving all rights to an inspection was the icing on the cake. Only a fool would pass on a lucrative client with such potential. And a woman whose old car was having such an intimate relationship with the repair garage would have to be plain nuts. With the down payment for a new car dancing in her head, she felt herself caving in.

“Where is the house you want to see? Do you have an address for me?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I stopped and jotted it down when I saw the For Sale sign in the yard.”

He gave her the address and she logged on to the computer to look up the specs on the house in the MLS network of listings. She found the place easily enough. It was listed at three hundred thousand dollars, making her commission—if she closed the sale—nine thousand dollars!

“What time would you be available to look at it if I can schedule an appointment?” Hollie asked, trying to sound casual.

“As soon as possible. I want to buy a place by Christmas,” he stressed.

“Okay, let me call the agent and see if I can set up a time for us to go through it. It's difficult during the holidays, so don't get your hopes up. Give me your number and I'll phone you as soon as I can.”

He gave her the name of his hotel and she repeated it to him. “And your name?” she inquired.

“Noel.”

“Did you say ‘Noel'?”

“Is there a problem?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

“No, no. It's just that it's Christmastime and your name is Noel and my name is Hollie, Hollie Winslow.”

“I'll be waiting for your call, Ms. Winslow.” He replied so briskly that she felt foolish for bringing up the Christmasy associations of their names. She put down the receiver. Oh, well, she didn't have to like the man to sell him a house, and he most certainly didn't have to like her to buy the house. So why did it matter to her what kind of impression she'd made on him?

I
T HADN'T BEEN
an auspicious start to her holiday vacation, Hollie thought that evening at Leo's Garage, where she had been waiting for the past hour to have a new muffler installed in her car. Her old one had fallen off her car in the middle of the street, in the middle of rush hour, and she'd driven to Leo's making more noise than a freight train. Sandy had paged her that a Mr. Noel Hawksley was at the real estate office demanding to see her, more than a tad upset she wasn't there, demanding to know why she hadn't called back with an appointment to show him the house he wanted to see. Demanding to know if Ms. Winslow was always so inefficient. No doubt all his demands had fallen within earshot of the agency's owner. Hollie made a mental note to phone the owner the next morning and explain that she'd spent the afternoon driving by available stock in Mr. Hawksley's price range so she'd have something to show him if she couldn't get ahold of the agent who'd listed the house he wanted to see. That so far, she'd been unsuccessful in reaching the agent. Then her damn muffler had fallen off.

Aggravated, Hollie finished writing out a check for the new muffler. At least there hadn't been any more urgent pages from the real estate office while she was impatiently pacing at the garage.

As she ripped off the check from her checkbook to hand to the mechanic, she glanced at her cellular phone, which was lying beside her purse on the counter. She hoped it was working. It hadn't rung once. It was so frustrating trying to reach an agent during the holidays.

She'd wanted to get together with her anxious client, but it didn't look as if that was going to happen until tomorrow.

She glanced down at her watch again. Her godchild, Elena, was four years old, but had the patience of a two-year-old. Elena's mother, Sarah, Hollie's best friend, wasn't going to appreciate Hollie being late for their annual cookie-baking marathon. Most likely, Sarah had already started baking.

Hollie remembered the white chocolate Sarah had asked her to pick up. She'd have to make a stop for that and be even later. If she wasn't waiting for the agent to call, she'd call Sarah.

“Ring, damn it,” she muttered, glaring at the silent phone.

She hoped this wasn't a foreshadowing of how her holidays were going to go.

Her vacation wouldn't swing into full gear until she'd settled her new client and his family in a new home for the holidays. With any luck at all, in the morning they'd get in to see the house he'd called her about.

She smiled as she handed Matt, who was new at the garage, her check. “Tell Leo thanks for fitting me in.”

“Uncle Leo said any time you had trouble to take care of you right away.”

Hollie laughed. “That's because I'm financing his holiday cruise with the repairs to my old clunker.”

“I think it's because of your great smile.”

Hollie blushed and he turned to ring up her check.

A woman in a holiday sweater came in looking for someone to repair a flat tire. The sweater made Hollie remember Ms. Claudia's promise of a six-foot-one-inch beau for Christmas. Leo's nephew Matt had a nice butt and he was kinda tall.