This time, it was Mike's dark laughter that dominated.
And soon Caleb joined him, the bright sky sending a new snow shower as witness.
8
Jeremy
“I refuse to be the elf,” he insisted as Lydia tossed the tights at his face, the silky green fabric catching on the inside of his lip.
“But you're tall! And wiry! Like that guy in the movie.”
Sputtering, he flung the cloth on the couch, one leg draped over the arm in a manner that reminded him of a brothel.
“I look nothing like the guy who played Elf,” he argued.
“With your hair all grown out like that and curly, you kind of do. You need to shave the salt and pepper beard, though.”
“I do not have salt in my beard!”
Lydia stroked the side of his cheek and laughed. “I didn't know you were in denial, too, Jeremy.”
He grunted, shoving his feet into his boots, but he couldn't stay grumpy for long as Lydia stood, adjusting her long, flowing red shawl. Today was the Camp Christmas Festival at Escape Shores Campground, and it was all hands on deck.
But Jeremy refused to be an elf hand.
“Miles can wear the damn tights.”
“Miles is on elf strike, too.”
“Can’t Pete and Sandy find some local kids to play the elves?”
“The little kids still believe in Santa.”
“Then find some teens to do it.”
“Too jaded. Plus, they're all busy with final exams and sports.”
“Get Ed and Madge up here. They can be elves.”
“Grandma did it for years. It's too cold, Jeremy. They can't be outside for hours like that.”
“I will not be guilted into this.”
Just then, the front door to their cabin creaked open, Mike entering the living room.
Wearing... a Santa suit.
“What the hell is that?” Jeremy called out with a laugh.
“You can't be Santa!” Lydia jumped to her feet, her colonial dress, a crimson that set off the cream-colored tunic under the laced-up bodice weighing her down. “Dad is always Santa!”
“I'm filling in. Pete woke up with a bum knee and said he can take the second half of the day.”
“Dad's never missed out on even a single moment of being Santa.”
“He said he's getting old. Time to start handing it off in fits and starts to other people.” Mike wore a fake beard, but his silver-white hair was perfect for the role. Long enough to curl around his ears, if he planned for it next year and didn't cut it at all, he could have quite a shiny mane going.
“I wonder why he didn't ask Dan or Adam. Caleb's too young, and Miles is too grumpy,” she elaborated, going through the catalog of possible substitutes in her mind. Turning to Jeremy, she pointed. “Or you.”
“I don't have any silver or gray hair.”
Her fingers touched his chin as if arguing.
Outside, the clear day beckoned, plenty of snow from two nights ago making the festive atmosphere super-charged with holiday cheer. Camp Christmas was a simple affair, designed to be casual and fun.
Miles would give rides on “Santa's Golf Cart” in a loop around the campground. About twenty local vendors sold their wares inside the rental cabins, now repurposed for the event – and heated, too. The lodge was a gathering place for people to get food, stay warm, socialize, and for children to make ornaments.
And, of course, Santa held court in a green velvet chair by the fire. Pictures were free if you brought your own camera.
Pete and Sandy didn't charge a penny for people who attended, breaking even on vendor rental fees. Even the food was free, with big “Donation Bins” strategically placed everywhere but zero pressure to contribute any cash for the food. The “entrance fee” was a canned good or a gently used coat, all donated to local social service agencies.
The goal of Camp Christmas wasn't to generate business or to use clever marketing techniques to turn a profit. It was a much homier purpose:
Connection to community.
“Remember Mom's rule?” Lydia said as they all stood, Jeremy adding a candy-cane hat to his head.
“No stress,” Mike and Jeremy said in unison.
Lydia jingled a set of bells on a leather strap. “That's right! If you two stress me out, you're getting the strap.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Mike quipped as he headed to the kitchen, pressing a button on the espresso machine to get a shot.
“Kinky Santa wasn't on my role-play list,” Jeremy said in a voice he didn't like, even if it did come from himself. “And if I wanted a Kinky Santa, it would be Lydia. Not you.”
“I would be a great Kinky Santa.” Mike put a finger beside his nose and winked.
“Kinky Santa wouldn't put the finger there,” Jeremy reminded him.
“While you two argue over how to be a depraved version of one of the most beloved figures in childhood, I'll be over here brain-bleaching myself and heading to the lodge to serve hot apple cider,” Lydia said, pulling her long hair back over her hood.
“What's your costume?” Mike asked Jeremy, who halted.
Because under his coat, he wore red ski pants. And on top...
“I'm a candy cane.”
Mike snickered as Lydia laughed her way out of the cabin.
“I thought Miles was the candy cane?”
“Miles is the Nutcracker this year.”
“Nutcracker?”
“Sandy had a uniform commissioned just for him.”
“But you guys are the same size.”
“He won rock paper scissors.”
“That's how you decided who wore what?”
“Don't judge me, man. You have a bowl full of jelly.”
Mike reached down and patted his padded midsection. “It's less fake than you think at the rate I'm going.”
“You have a rock-hard eight pack, Mike.”
“Tell me that to my face again in February.”
Christmas music began to blare outside, the loudspeaker adjusted by half abruptly. Working out the kinks for any event at Escape Shores Campground was an education in event planning and production, something Jeremy knew nothing about.
Other than arriving and drinking alcohol at charity events in Boston.
Over the years living here, he and Mike had become good helpers, but not experts. Neither of them had the interest or the fortitude to do it professionally, and besides:
They were billionaires. Neither needed the money.
Instead, they were unpaid laborers, here because they were stupid enough to fall in love with a woman from a big, loving family that owned the place.
In his next life, he was definitely falling in love with someone who lived closer to the Equator.
“Come on, Fat Boy,” Jeremy said to Mike as he was halfway through his espresso, the Santa beard pulled down around his neck, blue eyes hard and mocking.
“At least I'm not a piece of man candy whose sole purpose in life is to get licked and sucked.”
“Is that what I signed up for? Because I'd rather do that than drive around with the coffee tank on the back of the tractor, offering peppermint hot cocoa to everyone.”