Christmas Carol Read online

  Christmas Carol

  by Natalie Vivien

  Synopsis:

  Ebbie Scrogg hates Christmas—and for good reason. Ten years ago, she lost her beloved father on Christmas Eve, and she's never forgiven herself for the accident that claimed his life.

  For the past decade, Ebbie has grown hard, detached, distant while she took over operation of her family's business: Scrogg's Christmasland, a holiday theme park that her father dearly loved. She's done nothing but work in a vain attempt to dull her pain. But this Christmas Eve, something unexpected happens: Ebbie runs into Carol, the woman whose heart she broke ten years ago...and realizes that her feelings for her are still very much alive.

  Before Christmas Day dawns, Ebbie will be visited by three spirits who attempt to open her eyes to the truth--and to the love of a woman who has never stopped believing in her.

  CHRISTMAS CAROL is a funny, heartwarming romance that turns Charles Dickens' A CHRISTMAS CAROL on its ear!

  "Christmas Carol"

  ©Natalie Vivien 2015

  Rose and Star Press

  First Edition

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Rose and Star Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials is illegal and directly harms the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Part One: Christmas Eve

  Part Two: Christmas Past

  Part Three: Christmas Present

  Part Four: Christmas Future

  Part Five: Christmas Day

  Part One: Christmas Eve

  “Ebbie, there's an emergency—”

  “Of course there is.” I close my eyes, hands resting on my computer keyboard, and sigh. “Have we run out of candy canes again? I told Tom—there are extra boxes of them in the workshop supply room. Next to the gumdrops, on the top shelf—”

  “No, no, it's not the candy canes. It's...um...”

  I swivel around in my desk chair to face Bobbie Jean. “Well, what?” I ask her, impatient. I've dealt with seventeen crises today and have officially surpassed my daily limit.

  Granted, it's Christmas Eve, our second busiest day of the year, but Murphy's Law has been in full effect.

  First, the reindeer carousel broke down, and a disgruntled guest busted Rudolph's glass light-up nose. Then the Whack-an-Elf machine started spewing smoke. The cause? Some kid spilled his eggnog milkshake all over the electrical panel. We had to call the fire department in for that one, just to be safe.

  Then Mrs. Claus burnt her arm on the oven door during a baking demonstration, and the partridge flew away from its pear tree, and six of our eight carolers came down with strep throat, and—

  Well, the naughty list goes on.

  So I'm regarding Bobbie Jean now with a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me expression while I massage my temples. There isn't enough Tylenol on the planet to chase this holiday-induced headache away. “Come on. Just give it to me quick.” I grimace. “Is it bad?”

  “Yeah.” She squirms uncomfortably. Like all of the other Christmasland employees, Bobbie Jean is dressed in a green velvet jumpsuit with gold piping sewn along the seams. Her pale brown hair is parted into two cute ponytails, and a pom-pommed elf cap sits perkily atop her head.

  But, instead of the requisite Christmas Smile, Bobbie Jean's mouth is sinking into a Bah Humbug Frown. Technically, I should write her up for that, but I don't have the energy. Besides, I'm in no mood for pasted-on grins. Or grins, period.

  “It's...pretty bad,” she murmurs, avoiding my eyes. “A level thirty-four.”

  “Level thirty-four?” I gape, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Oh, no, this can't be happening.”

  She wrings her hands together, and the jingle bells attached to her sleeves make annoyingly merry sounds. “I thought it was a prank. I mean, an honest-to-goodness level thirty-four? That kind of stuff only happens in the movies.” Her face smooths, becomes thoughtful. “What was the name of that movie again?”

  “Miracle on 34th Street,” I say through gritted teeth. The words leave an unsavory taste in my mouth., like stale cookies Then I rise from my chair, straighten my black suit jacket, and gesture helplessly. “All right. Take me to Drunk Santa. Hey, maybe he's only slightly drunk—”

  We step out of my office and into the control center as Bobbie Jean shakes her head, ponytails swinging. “Oh. No. No, no, no. I...saw him. He's, um, very drunk. Scary drunk. Some of the kids in line started crying...”

  “Crying kids at Christmasland—”

  “I know. It's against the Christmasland Code. Marnie and Tom are trying to neutralize the situation, but I heard one of the parents threaten to sue, and a lot of them were demanding refunds.”

  “That's the Christmas spirit for you,” I mutter beneath my breath, following at Bobbie Jean's red pointy-booted heels.

  ---

  This wasn't supposed to be my life.

  That phrase, in some form or other, has sprung into my head on a daily basis for the past ten years. And it's slicing repetitively through my thoughts now, like a particularly obnoxious Christmas carol that you just can't shake (“Little Drummer Boy,” I'm looking at you). I have to admit, though, the words have probably never rung more true than they do right now.

  This wasn't supposed to be my life.

  Santa's Workshop is in chaos. The elves have not only broken their contracts by failing to smile in the face of adversity, but several of them are, in fact, curled up in fetal positions on the floor.

  I can hardly blame them.

  There are crushed candy canes underfoot. Our faux wrapped gifts beneath the decorated tree have been torn open, revealing themselves to be empty boxes. A gang of boys is chasing an escaped French hen, flicking licorice whips at its tail feathers. Angry parents are shouting obscenities at Santa, the elves, their cell phones, and the empty air.

  Something even went wrong with the sound system... Instead of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” the speakers are blasting an NPR segment about, ironically enough, the commercialization of Christmas.

  My eyes hone in on a red-faced little girl sitting in the middle of the sticky floor, broken candy cane clutched in her grubby hand, bawling her heart out. I wouldn't mind indulging in a similar behavior myself, but, unfortunately, I'm the Boss, and it's up to me to transform Santa's Workshop from a house of tears into a house of cheers.

  God, I hate it when I think in rhymes.

  I roll up my sleeves; they fall back down immediately. Damn wool. Anyway, first order of business: escorting our inebriated Mr. Claus from the Christmasland premises.

  “Come on, Harvey. It's coal for you,” I whisper into “Santa's” ear, looping my arm around his puffy red sleeve. Harvey's a big guy, and I haven't made it to the gym, in, oh, my whole life, so I'm hoping he'll cooperate without any trouble. My elf staff is even scrawnier than me—and, by the looks of things, thoroughly traumatized. Yeah, workers' comp is going to go through the (glittery, snow-covered) roof...

  Wonder of wonders, Harvey complies, shuffling his big black boots off of the North Pole platform and stumbling along by my side—though he does hiccup quite loudly in my face; I breathe in a toxic gust of sugarplums and, ugh, Budweiser.

  Nobody ever said Santa had taste. I mean, the guy wears a furry red suit. Enough said.

  I assure all of the guests present that they'll receive free Stuffed Stockings (a red velvet stocking packed with Christmasland gear and co
upons) to make up for this “unfortunate incident”—and, appeased, they hold out their hands to Bobbie Jean as she passes around the conciliatory gifts.

  Free stuff: it works magic.

  I guide Harvey away from Santa's Workshop and outdoors into the Christmasland park. We weave behind buildings and snowman-shaped garbage cans in a vain attempt to keep a low profile. The fact of the matter is, everybody—young and old—reflexively looks to Santa whenever he's nearby. Even if said Santa is throwing up all over Candy Cane Lane.

  Which...he is.

  At Christmasland, we take pride in authenticity. No padded bellies; no strap-on beards. But right now, Harvey's beard is dripping, stained, and I've just noticed that it has a lollipop stuck to its side—grape, I think. A strap-on beard would be preferable here and now. Maybe I should reconsider that policy, in the event of another level thirty-four...

  “No worries, folks. Happy holidays! Have a complimentary hot cocoa at The Stirring Mouse!” I shout at the onlookers, then nod to the elves working The Stirring Mouse counter. Wide-eyed—but still smiling—they nod back and begin waving guests over while they ready the souvenir cups printed with the sixty-year-old Christmasland logo: the word Christmasland in a flowy, Disney-esque font with a silhouette of Santa's sleigh arcing through the stars.

  My great-aunt Maura Scrogg designed that logo herself. She founded Christmasland way back in 1955, and the thousand-acre Christmas emporium/theme park has been operated by the Scrogg family—my family—ever since.

  Dad used to joke that we were heirs to a throne, Christmas kings and queens. And everybody wants to be royalty, right? But the thing about being born into a “royal” family is...you have no choice in the matter. Your life is plotted out before you taste your first solid food, before you take your first wobbly step, before you figure out who the hell you are.

  Okay, that's dramatic. I wasn't forced to grab the jingle-bell-embroidered Christmasland reins. I could've refused the job. I did refuse the job. Repeatedly.

  But guilt is a powerful drug.

  And the truth is...I deserve this—every last headache-inducing twinkle light, every sickly-sweet Christmas carol lyric, every spoiled kid whining at Santa that he didn't give them the toy they asked for last year.

  This was supposed to be my life. I made the irreversible mistake of denying my destiny—a mistake that I've sworn never to make again. After all, the princess can't run away from the castle. She has a duty, whether she likes it or not. A duty to her family, her mother, her father...

  She's just got to square her shoulders, slip into some incredibly uncomfortable clothing, and resign herself to fate.

  A fate which, right now, includes distracting the park guests from the sight of Santa Claus twirling around the peppermint-striped streetlamps like he's Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. An alarmingly drunk and crazy-eyed Gene Kelly.

  Harvey's red coat has, somehow, come undone, revealing the fact that his chest is hairier than a polar bear's. A little boy points at Santa's antics, laughing, while his mother tut-tuts disapprovingly and punches at her phone. Great—she's probably Facebooking or Yelping about her offensive Christmasland experience.

  Another PR nightmare. I can see the headlines now: Who Spiked the Milk? Sloshed Santa at Scrogg's Christmasland.

  Harvey trips over a sleigh-shaped bench and lands flat on his back in a mound of fluffy white snow. The snow is real, but our Sparkle Sprites add glitter to the snow's surface three times a day to complete the effect of a whimsical, fairy tale landscape. When all of the snow melts in spring, the puddles sparkle like “fairy pee,” as my Dad used to say. He was head honcho of Christmasland before me, and he reveled in the role. Most days, when his schedule allowed it, he even played Santa Claus himself.

  He was born for the part, with his white-blond hair and his soft belly. His natural laugh even sounded like ho ho ho...

  I can't remember what my laugh sounds like, pathetically enough. I did inherit my father's pale hair, though; I keep it cut short, and let it do whatever the hell it wants. Normally, it behaves itself pretty well. Right now, though, it's probably sticking up all over my head, because I keep ruffling it with my free hand—an anxious habit.

  I sweep my messy bangs to the side, teeth chattering. I didn't have time to grab my coat, and it's a frosty Christmas Eve, thirty degrees according to the giant Christmasland thermometer that Harvey and I are walking past now. Whenever the temperature dips below freezing, the park sets up a pop-up stand beside the thermometer, offering hot gingerbread tea (with mistletoe-shaped sugar cubes) to incoming guests.

  I pause beside the stand now and nod to Geraldine, the elf on duty. “Do me a favor, Ger?” I ask, indicating Harvey by my side; her bespectacled eyes widen. Well, there's no mistaking Old Saint Nick's intoxicated state. Sober, Harvey is friendly, great with kids, but kind of shy when it comes to small talk. However, at the moment, he's greeting the adult guests passing through the ticket turnstiles by asking them, “Have you been naughty or really naughty this year? Santa wants details...”

  “Level thirty-four?” Geraldine mouths to me in disbelief.

  “Afraid so. I guess he had one too many at the staff party.” We'd held our annual staff Christmas party during lunch hour today, and, obviously, no alcohol was served by the park, but the meal was a potluck; somebody must have snuck some beer into the cafeteria. Or maybe Harvey hid a couple of cans in his giant Santa sleeves.

  Either way, he's hitting the sleepy stage now. As Geraldine and I watch, Harvey kneels down on the snow-covered pathway and curls up on his side, rosy-cheeked, a dreamy smile playing over his lips...

  He almost looks sweet.

  But I note, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that the onlooking guests' faces have gone sour.

  I lean toward Geraldine and whisper, “Listen, you know where Harvey lives, right?”

  She nods. “On Cooper, a couple of blocks from my own place. You want me to drive him home?”

  “Could you? I'd do it myself, but we're Santa-less on Christmas Eve, and I've got to find a replacement...” I shake my head miserably. “Scott's on vacation in Arizona, and Ralph has worked the past five Christmas Eves. I swore I wouldn't call him today.”

  Geraldine, a motherly expression on her face, pats my nearly blue hand and smiles, wrinkles branching from the corners of her mouth. “You'll figure it out, Ebbie. You always do. Just remember—Christmasland is the place where Christmas dreams come true!”

  I wince as she, somewhat grimly, recites the Christmasland motto. Those words appear on every billboard for our park, and are repeated on every television commercial. In my experience, Christmasland is the place where Christmas nightmares are born...

  But, hey, whatever sells tickets.

  While Geraldine rouses Harvey from his long winter's nap, I fetch a wandering elf to man the tea stand, and then I race back to Santa's Workshop, slipping and sliding over the snow in my treadless boots. Inside, I find Bobbie Jean standing on the North Pole platform, in front of Santa's empty throne, begging the guests to be patient for a little while longer. “Santa just had to take a quick power nap to prepare for his big night, but he'll be back soon, I promise?” Her sentence ends with a question mark, as if she's doubting her own words. And rightfully so.

  When Bobbie Jean spies me near the door, her shoulders sag with relief, and she flips the tail of her elf hat out of her eyes as she hops off of the platform and hurries toward me. “Everything all right with Harvey?” she asks breathlessly. Bobbie Jean is only seventeen, but right now, she looks no older than twelve, with her worried, wide green eyes and flushed pink cheeks.

  “Geraldine's driving him home.”

  “Great, then—”

  “Then we're still short one Santa.”

  Her lips part; she shakes her head. “But what about Ralph?”

  “He's off, and so is Scott, which means...” I eye the elves scattered around the workshop thoughtfully. They're all too young, too short, too skinny. Typica
lly, we hire the local high school kids to work as elves, with a few white-haired retirees, like Geraldine, thrown into the merry mix.

  I wrack my brain, trying to remember who's on the clock today—and whether any of them could begin to fill out Santa's suit. Ah, doesn't matter. Even if they could, the park is packed with guests. It's prime time, and I can't spare a single staff member. No one except...

  I exhale a piteous breath.

  Right.

  No one except me.

  ---

  The spare Santa suit we had in the supply room is the spare for a reason. It's one-hundred-percent wool and as itchy as hell. It also smells strongly of pastrami—and sweat. Couple those scents with kid classics like I-peed-my-pants and the extra-pungent I-pooped-my-pants, and you have all the fixings for a delightfully fetid afternoon.

  Two hours into my stenchy Santa Claus experience, Tom plops kid number nine-hundred-billion onto my lap, a little girl around five years old with shiny ringlets and a baby powder aura. She's wearing a prim pink dress, and her voice is just as prim when she says, “You aren't Santa. You're a woman.”

  “How can you tell?” I wonder aloud. After all, I stuffed the Santa suit to give myself a proper bowlful-of-jelly stomach, I glued—actually glued—some cotton batting (fake snow) to my face to create a mustache and beard, and I've been using the most masculine voice I could muster, and it sounds—to my ears, anyway—James Earl Jones-deep. Where did I go wrong?

  “I saw you go into that room”—she points a chubby finger to the ladies' restroom—“and then come out in a Santa costume.” She squints at me suspiciously. “How did you get your beard to stay on?”

  “Elmer's glue.”

  She makes a face. “It's gonna hurt when you pull it off.”

  Not as much as playing Santa hurts right now. I force a smile and offer the girl a shrug. “Okay, you got me. I'm not Santa. He's my brother.”

  “Your brother?”