Christmas Carol Page 7

  Finally, I sigh and pop open the door, and Clarissa turns to face me. First, she narrows her suspicious eyes, but then she covers her mouth, giggling, and bounds toward me, launching herself at my legs, hugging them with all of her might. “Santana! Did you help your brother deliver presents last night?” Her smile is coy. “Because I got a lot of presents. I got a—”

  I listen as she describes, in minute detail, every gift she opened this morning. Then she laughs again, clapping her pink mittens on the sides of my beard. “Do you want to see my mommy?”

  “Yeah, I'd like that.”

  Clarissa nods, turning and trundling toward the house. “Okay, she's in there,” she says, opening the door for me. “I'm going to play a little more. I'm gonna build the biggest snowman on the block!” With a kick, she takes off, falling to her knees beside some piles of snow.

  I shake the snow from my boots on the front mat, and then I'm standing half in and half out of the hallway, my hat clutched between my hands. The house is quiet, and I feel like a trespasser, standing on the mat like an idiot—or like dog waiting for an invitation to come indoors.

  But then I hear sounds coming from the kitchen. I put my hat back on my head, and despite my shaky legs and labored breathing, I wander down the hallway and enter the kitchen, where Carol stands at the coffeemaker in blue pajamas.

  Self-conscious, I clear my throat.

  She turns around and nearly drops her coffee cup. Her eyes are round: she's looking at me as if she's seen a ghost.

  Time is standing still. There's no past, no future. Only now. Right now. Regardless of the outcome of this encounter, I know that it's one I'll never forget. My heart steels itself in preparation.

  I'm ready.

  Outside, the sunlight reflects off of the snow, and rays through the window gleam along the strands of Carol's golden hair, drawn up this morning into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. Stray wisps fall against her porcelain neck. Her long fingers grip the coffee mug firmly. My eyes trail the length of her blue satin pajamas, and I remember... I want...

  I hope.

  “Merry Christmas, Carol.” My voice is low, gruff, breaking on the syllables of her name.

  She hesitates, brow furrowed. But after a pause, she whispers, “Merry Christmas.”

  I take a step forward, fishing around in my pocket until I find Carol's card. “I...I got your card,” I tell her. “And...I'm not really a card person, so I thought I'd deliver my holiday message to you in person.”

  Carol's mouth turns up at the corners, and though her tone is still reserved, cautious, I detect some of her old levity when she asks, “Like a singing telegram?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I wouldn't abuse you with my singing.”

  Carol leans back against the counter, her head tilted the side as she considers me. “I never minded your singing,” she tells me, voice soft.

  My blood is pounding through my head, my hands—through every part of me. This is an all-or-nothing moment, and I've got to give it my all. For her.

  “Well,” I whisper carefully, drumming up my courage, “you asked for it...”

  And then I pocket the card again, and I lean forward, crouching down on one knee.

  Carol's mouth gapes, and there are tears in her eyes as I open my arms—and start to sing to the tune of Jingle Bells.

  “I'm an idiot. No, scratch that. I'm a total jerk. And a fool, and a sorry excuse for a human beeeee-ing! But I'm hoping! To change that! Because something happened last night. It opened my eyes, and when my eyes were open, all they saw was...you.”

  My singing is awful, and the melody is probably the most unromantic set of notes ever composed. But Carol's laughing, crying; her tears fall as I reach for her hand.

  I'd grabbed a jingle bell ring while I was at the Christmasland Emporium; it's one of those cheap, cheesy trinkets they keep in plastic buckets by the cash registers, in the hopes that you'll be amused enough by them to drop a quarter.

  Carol deserves better than a plastic bauble, but I didn't have time or a whole lot of confidence that I'd be courageous enough to follow through with my plan...

  But I guess I have more courage than I gave myself credit for.

  I gently slide the gaudy ring onto her middle finger.

  “Carol, I'm sorry,” I murmur, my heart aching too much to sing any more. “I hurt you. I was so stupid. I loved you, and that scared me. So I ran.” I hold her gaze, searching it, falling into her shining eyes. “But...but I'm not running again. Not ever again.”

  Carol sinks down beside me. Our knees touch, and tears course down her cheeks as she reaches out, cupping my face in her hands. She smiles a little as she traces her thumb over my beard, but then she locks her eyes on mine.

  “Promise?” she whispers.

  Hope surges through me, and when her thumb moves over my lips...I kiss it.

  “Would Santana lie?” I smile.

  Carol watches me—intensely, fiercely. And then she says, “Kiss me, Santana.”

  In secret, stolen pockets of time, I have dreamed about this moment. And, granted, I wish I weren't wearing a beard—or a smelly Santa coat, for that matter—but what the hell... It's happening. Really happening.

  I lean forward, and I kiss her. Her mouth is soft, warm, inviting; she tastes like sugar and coffee. God, I remember this. I remember... It was always so effortless between us; we fit together then, and we still fit together now. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me toward her. I lean against her, drawing her close, curling my fingers at her waist.

  When we draw apart, panting, Carol looks at me with bright eyes. Pain lingers in their depths. “I'm scarred, Ebbie,” she says, placing her palm against her heart. “I'm...not the same person you fell in love with. And I have a daughter now. We'll have to get to know one another all over again.”

  “Good.” I haven't let go of her, can't let go of her, and I wrap my arms more firmly around her now. “I can't imagine a more wonderful use of my time.”

  Carol searches my face. “But what about Christmasland? I know you're busy; you work so hard—”

  “Not anymore. I'll hire an assistant. I've sequestered myself away in an office for ten years, Carol. Ten miserable years.” I trail my fingers along her arm, feeling hope and want and love well up within me. “It's time to get out. It's time to...forgive myself. And to ask forgiveness of you,” I whisper.

  Carol's blue eyes pierce me through. “You don't have to ask that of me, Ebbie. I always understood why you did what you did—though it broke my heart.”

  I swallow, smiling weakly. “Well...luckily enough, I'm good at fixing broken things now—snow cone makers, snow machines, snowshoes—and some non-snow-related things, too,” I tell her, my eyes swimming with tears. “Maybe I could give your heart a try?”

  Carol's smile rivals the sunbeams filtering through the kitchen window. “I thought you'd never ask.”

  She leans forward to kiss me again, chuckling as she rubs at her itchy chin and then tugs on my fake beard. “This has to go right away, though,” she tells me, and a thrill races over my skin as I take in the implication of her words, the low, throaty tone of voice she used to use with me, and only me, that I've longed to hear every day since we parted ways...

  “That can be arranged,” I promise her.

  “We can take it off,” she begins, one brow raised, drawing out the word off suggestively, “later.” Her eyes twinkle. “But now—c'mon. We're about to pop the Christmas crackers.”

  We help one another stand, and then we embrace fully, heart to heart, before she threads her fingers through mine and leads me toward the front door, calling for Clarissa. I follow her until I notice a movement from the corner of my eye.

  I glimpse a familiar silhouette through the French doors: my father.

  Dressed as Santa Claus.

  He places a finger beside his nose, smiling merrily, and then flickers out of sight.

  Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
r />   The End

  More from Natalie Vivien:

  Cross My Heart: Alexandra Dark lives a commitment-free life. In pursuit of lost treasure, she travels the world as an archaeologist, and it's her policy to never put down roots--and to never linger for long in any woman's bed. Until she meets sexy librarian—and amateur ghost hunter—Trudy Strange...

  Gillian's Island: Shipwrecked on a deserted island with a gorgeous woman...what could possibly go wrong? A heartwarming, romantic romp.

  The Vampire Next Door: (Co-written with author Bridget Essex) Courtney's book store is failing, and she thinks her girlfriend might be cheating on her...Courtney doesn't even think she believes in love...that is, until she meets the vampire next door.

  Heart-Shaped Box – Can a chance meeting lead to lasting love? A heartwarming, romantic novella.

  The Ghost of a Chance – What if a new woman walked into your life while you were still haunted by the woman you'd lost? A poignant, passionate novel about love, loss and letting go.

  French Lessons – Would you have the courage to restart your life—and give love a chance—in a completely foreign country? A novel full of romance and mystery, set in the provincial French countryside.

  Drawn to You – Could you learn to love—and trust—again after suffering a painful betrayal? A novel about two women who, after the course of one eventful week, realize they were meant to be together.

  Love Stories – Escape for an hour or two in the tender, passionate pages of Love Stories. In her first collection of lesbian romantic short stories, Natalie Vivien offers nine romantic tales of love found and broken hearts mended. Each story features a woman who finds herself altered—and empowered—by love.

  The Thousand Mile Love Story – Would you take a thousand mile road trip with your best friends...and the ex who broke your heart? A novel about two women who fall in love all over again, and the funny mishaps a thousand mile road trip can bring.

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  Falling for Hope: The Hope Stories Collection – A sweet, romantic series of stories about a group of women who go camping, and the two women who fall in love.

  These and more are available now.

  Sign up to be notified when Natalie releases anything new!

  About the Author

  Natalie Vivien writes love stories, because she lives a love story that inspires her every day. Together with her wife, author Bridget Essex, for over a decade and married for over eight years, they are madly and passionately in love, and build a good, cozy life together with several fur babies who get away with murder because they're so adorable.

  Natalie and Bridget founded Rose and Star Press in 2014, a publisher of lesbian romance and fiction of distinction. Lesbian romance is Natalie's life's work, and she hopes very much that you enjoyed Christmas Carol.

  Learn more about Natalie at http://natalievivien.wordpress.com or send her an email at miss.natalie.vivien@gmail.com.

  Learn more about Rose and Star Press, publishers of lesbian romance and fiction of distinction, at http:///www.LesbianRomance.org

  Table of Contents

  Part One: Christmas Eve

  Part Two: Christmas Past

  Part Three: Christmas Present

  Part Four: Christmas Future

  Part Five: Christmas Day

 

 

  Natalie Vivien, Christmas Carol

 

 

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