The Santa Society (8 page)

Thirty minutes later, another woman picks up. She sounds much happier as she promises she’ll research the matter and call me back within three business days.

“Great, it’s Wednesday afternoon. So, you mean I might not hear from you until next Monday afternoon.”

“That’s correct, but I hope to have some answers for you by Friday.”

My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth hurt. “Look, I really need to know how much I’m looking at here, for repairs and fees. Can you at least give me a ballpark figure?”

“I really can’t. I haven’t encountered a situation like you’ve described. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” I hang up and throw myself across my bed, startling Klaus who’s sprawled on top. He looks up to see what’s going on. When he sees me, he inches closer for a cuddle. He looks like a large swaddled up cinnamon stick…with legs.

We lie facing each other. Over the top of his head, I see the blurry outlines of my old stuffed animals, soccer trophies, and trinkets lining the shelves. It’s a time capsule in here. Except now, I’m worried about bigger things than detention and prom.

And I still haven’t heard anything from Reason about the offer. Not that it matters anymore, not with biohazards oozing around the house. Even if I wanted to sell to the Lawless’ this would probably be a deal breaker.

For some reason, the longer it takes to get a call from him, the more I wonder how long it’ll be until I see him again. And the more I wonder, the more I realize I want to hear his voice, want to see him. I’m suddenly filled with a sense of impending doom, beyond all logic and reason.

Reason.
For some reason. Talk to Reason. Beyond logic and reason
.

Not only am I having a hard time keeping the man out of my head, but the word won’t stop either. He’s even affected the way I use the English language.

I close my eyes. My childhood home is probably sinking down into a bog of bodily waste. For that matter, it’s probably already seeped into the water table too. I’ve contaminated the water supply every time I flush the toilet. I don’t even want to think about what that means. Worse, I’ll never use or think the word “reason” again without thinking of my brown eyed, stubbly-haired realtor and wondering how he smells.

I close my eyes, and despite myself I imagine the scent of peppermint—peppermint and rain.

Chapter 10

I SPEND MOST OF THE NEXT DAY cleaning. The harder I work, the less I notice the work crew outside: the drilling, banging, and male voices shouting to each other. And the less I notice my phone not ringing.

The smell of pine permeates the air. I have several candles burning, all of them Christmas-tree scented. I breathe it in and think of the camping trips we used to take before my dad died. It smelled like this. It also reminds me of the obvious: Christmas Trees.

I don’t have one. Christmas will be here soon, and I haven’t cared one bit about anything except forgetting. But now I’m starting to want to remember things. Like how we always went to the local tree sale, and Dad hauled in a fresh tree each year, always the biggest one he could fit through the door.

Last year we used my mother’s artificial tree, the one she bought after we lost my dad. Not having a tree in this living room at Christmas is like a birth with no baby. It doesn’t matter if
I
choose to cancel Christmas, the rest of the city won’t. I’ve just been trying to ignore it, but it’s not working.

I return the mop bucket to the laundry room and drift over to the small kitchen radio that hangs under the cabinet, just above the can opener. I twist the knob. An articulate, measured voice comes through the static, a Noah Weather Station meteorologist. He calls for a rapid drop in temperature followed by a fifty percent chance of snow here in Merry Valley County.

I remember standing in this very spot, with this exact radio, praying for a forecast like this as a kid. But now I dread snow’s ethereal silence—when I’ll look through the window, gaze out from my cave of loneliness onto an eerily quiet earth, where everyone else has retreated to warmth and family. It’ll be like the worst kind of insomnia or being encased in a snow globe, separated from life and all other living things. I cross my arms, wondering if the temperature has dropped inside too.

The sound of the weatherman’s voice depresses me. Maybe music will help. I scan the stations, but I only hear Christmas music. The best thing playing is Jingle Bell Rock, so I leave it there.

Goose-bumps prickle my arms.
It really does feel cold in here
. I head for the thermostat in the hallway. As I move through the living room, I pause at the window to lift the faux wood slat and peer through the blinds. The workmen have all gone home. The lawn still looks like it’s been flayed. A huge stack of piled sod leans awkwardly toward the real estate sign. Yellow tape still connects the trees, blocking the stairway leading up from the sidewalk, and they’ve carved a fresh ditch in the ground with a mountain of unearthed soil next to it. Taken as a whole, it looks like a crime scene.

A horrifying thought occurs to me: What if it starts to smell like human—my—human waste? Have I been flushing the toilet straight into the front yard? I swallow. The Collins family will know. Reason will know. I drop the slat and turn my back.

In the hallway, the thermostat reads 62 degrees. I increase the heat setting and cross my arms, waiting for the furnace to kick on. While I wait, I see the digital numbers drop another two degrees. The house waits in silence. I increase the temperature again. The furnace still doesn't come on. I slide the switch off and back on again, hoping it just needs to start from scratch. Nothing happens.

Except now the digital display shows 59 degrees. This can’t be happening. I close my eyes. When I open them again—58.

I scramble for the phone book in the kitchen. I refuse to freeze all night. My watch says 5:30, so I know I don’t have much time. My mother always stuck the business magnets for repair services on the side of the refrigerator. I scan the vinyl rectangles until I find one for Double-S Heating and Air. It guarantees same day service and twenty-four hour response.
Thank You.

I call it.

A man answers after the fifth ring. He sounds ancient. “Double-S, this is Nick.”

“Hi, I really need help here. My heater just quit working. It’s getting really cold.” I sound like I’m calling 911.

“Oh, sorry to hear it.” He launches into a coughing fit. There is a pause, followed by a garbled wet hack. It sounds like he’s spitting. Finally, he clears his throat and continues. “What’s your address little lady?”

I tell him my address and wait while he chokes on another cough.

“Is that the Sinclair house? Adelaide Sinclair?”

“Yes, it is.” Relief washes over me. He knows my mother. He’ll be here tonight. I’m sure of it.

“I see.” I hear papers shuffling then a brief silence. “The earliest I can be there is tomorrow afternoon.”

No, no, no, no.
“I’ll freeze by then.”

“If I remember correctly, you have a fireplace. A big one. I’d suggest you put it to use.”

He’s right. I do have a fireplace—a big one. But the idea of trying to set a fire in it freaks me out. I’ve never actually done it before. And what will I burn? I have no firewood. And the chimney hasn’t been used in years. Birds probably live in it.

“I see here your fireplace was serviced recently—yesterday, as a matter of fact. It should be ready for a nice warm fire.”

“No, that’s impossible. I haven't done anything to it.”

“Hmmm. Well, it was definitely serviced yesterday. See, we also own Double-S chimney services. The Sinclair house is on a contract. Has been since 1987.”

I consider this. They must have done it when I went to the salon—which means I’ll be getting yet another unexpected bill for that too.

“Do you happen to know what the bill will cost?”

“There isn’t one, dear. Mrs. Sinclair paid it in advance last year, through the next
five
years as a matter of fact.”

The next five years? Why would she do that? She knew she was sick—knew she wouldn’t be here. The questions circle in my thoughts. Then one answer settles in the forefront.

She thought I might be here, or at least, she
hoped
I would be. But why the chimney? We never use it. I know we didn’t last year. But I have no idea what she’s done for the other ten winters. I wasn’t here. My chest feels tight.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon?” He coughs again.

“Yes, tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. Merry Christmas, Erin.”

“Merry Christ—” There is a click, and he’s gone. Erin? Did he really just call me Erin?

I’m certain he did.

Klaus emerges from the hallway. I see his big head in profile as he scans the living room looking for me. When he sees me standing in the kitchen door, he wags his tail.

“What’s the matter, buddy, getting cold?”

He wags faster. His amber eyes watch me intently, listening.

“We’re going to have to build a fire, big guy. I hope you know how.”

Klaus looks at me with an eager face.
He probably thinks we’re going bye-bye
.

He walks over to the fireplace and lowers his bottom to the floor. His tail thumps against the area rug. Did he really understand me?

I shake my head, wondering if he also knows what mother was thinking when she planned to keep the chimney serviced for five years after her death.

I watch the tiny flame ignite and shrink as it works at the corners of the scrapped two by fours I found in the shed. It creeps along the paper I shoved there too, pushing the burned edges closer to the wood. As a last resort, I have a bottle of lighter fluid on the kitchen counter. I blow soft puffs of air as I kneel on the cold brick hearth. With no idea what I am doing, I pray for the best.

The flame begins to die again. I glance at the small pile of spent matches. Why let them go to waste? I scoop them up and shove them one by one into every space I can find between the wood and paper. It looks a little a creepy, like I am building a sinister pyre or an effigy of something.

The flame flutters and grows smaller until nothing but a tiny strip of smoking ash remains along the edges of the paper.

There’s a sudden thud on the front porch. Klaus jumps to his feet and goes to the door for a sniff. He gives a loud huff and starts wagging. I hear another thump and then a soft knock.

I climb down from the hearth and dust off my knees. With my recent luck, I imagine more bad news waits on the other side of the door. The last thing I expect to see is Reason, holding an armload of firewood across his arms. It’s really him, though, and he has exactly what I need: wood. And probably skill.

He grins at me, and I want to throw myself in his arms. He looks like a great big beautiful ray of sunshine gleaming though the clouds of disaster, my hope—my friend—my firewood angel. The cold has turned his cheeks and lips rosy, and he bites the bottom one between his teeth with an expectant look. I don’t even stop to wonder how he knew I needed it. I just want it burning as soon as possible.

 “Need some help?”

“Definitely.” I’m still stunned, but I get out of the way.

He steps through the door and carries the bundle to the hearth. A few minutes later, I have a large warm fire blazing in it. He didn’t even laugh at my matchsticks.

I sit crisscross on the floor, relishing every bit of warmth I can absorb into my outstretched hands. He sits on the floor across from me with his back against my mother’s chair. Klaus’ head rests in his lap.

Now that I’m warm, curiosity takes over. “How did you know I needed help?”

“I got a call from Nick at Double-S. He told me you didn’t have any heat.”

It still doesn’t make any sense. “How would he know to call you?”

“Good question.” He rubs his head. “See, his company is a sister company to mine. We both fall under the same umbrella—the Santa Society.”

“In Florida.”

“Right. Florida.”

“And so all these sister companies are networked together?” Double-S must stand for Santa Society. Reason works for S & S Realty. I see the pattern. Still, it’s unusual.

“Sort of. He knew you listed your house with me, and he knew your mother. He thought you might need some help, so he called me.” He points at himself.

“Don’t you want to ask why my front yard is missing?” I watch his reaction, wondering if he already knows the answer.

He looks surprised and glances over his shoulder as though my living room wall is see through. When he looks back at me, I see he’s trying not to smile.

So he does know something. “What is this Santa Society, anyway? Code for CIA?”

He laughs. “No, Moon Lawless mentioned it to me. He saw the sign...and so did I, just now.”

“I’m glad I didn’t hear that conversation.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then his tone turns more serious. “I have bad news.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” I brace myself. Maybe he’s going to tell me the house is not sellable due to a large Indian burial ground underneath, right smack below the middle of this room.

“The Lawless’ didn’t want to counter. They withdrew their offer.”

I sigh, welcoming the relief of his words and lower my gaze to his flannel shirt, jeans, and dirty work boots. I haven’t seen him dressed this way before. Why do I find it so appealing?

Finally, I remember to respond. “Good.”

“Good?” He looks at me quizzically.

I hesitate. The guy’s doing a job, right? Sure, he acts like a friend, but it doesn’t mean he’d stick around if I decide not to sell, or I keep sabotaging offers. I guess I’m about to find out if he’s really a friend or just a salesman. My heart beats faster.

I look up to find him watching me with a serious expression. I shift my eyes away and fix them safely on the fire. “What if I change my mind and don’t want to sell?”

He starts to answer, but I cut him off. “I mean, you’ve been a really nice guy...and I know this is your job, and I’ve taken up a lot of your time this week. So, I guess I’m just wondering if I said that—”