“It’s
not about you, it’s about him, Joan.,” a grumbly voice said. “You’re looking at
this all wrong.”
Joan
turned so fast she almost lost her balance. She glared at the old man who had
spoken. He was around seventy, with ruddy cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. And
thick white hair. Lots of white hair. Flowing over his shoulders,
winding up in a very lush beard. On top of his head was perched a brightly
colored red knit hat. She frowned. “Wait a minute. You’re Santa Claus. Without
the red suit, but clearly, you’re him. I’d know you anywhere.”
The man
bowed and with a smile, said, “At your service.” He gestured toward a park
across the street. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Oh, no.
I’m not going anywhere with you.” Joan shook her head. “I didn’t mean you
actually were Santa Claus. Everyone knows he doesn’t exist. I just meant
you looked like him. You’re just a man who looks like him. I don’t know you.
Why would I…” She glared at him. “You’re not even wearing a red suit. And since
when has Santa taken up armchair psychiatry?”
She ran a hand through her blonde hair. “I must be hallucinating.”
Despite her objections, she followed him across the street.
Santa
laughed. “My dear, I have been dispensing advice since I was old enough to talk
and make people listen. God chose my role a long time ago and I have gotten
very good at it.” He looked toward the heavens. “Sorry, old boy. Still working
on that humility!” He chuckled. “Man never stops reminding me.” He smiled at
Joan. “Do you sense any ill-intentions from me? Of course not. I’m Santa.
All I want to do is talk.”
Joan
reached out and touched his shoulder.
He
laughed again. A laugh that came directly from his belly. “Yes, I’m real. Well,
as real as a centuries-old spirit gets. I even eat all those cookies children
leave me each year. And let me tell you, that’s a heavenly feat.” Again, he
looked skyward. “Yes, sir, I am well aware that borders on gluttony. A sin. You
know darn well it has nothing to do with gluttony and everything to do with the
magic of Christmas, an affirmation that Santa is real. I do it for the
children.” He smiled at Joan. “Sometimes, He gets a little overbearing
with his angels.”
He
smirked. “Even God has his faults. He is by no means perfect.” A strong wind
swirled through the plaza, nearly catching his knitted cap. He clapped his hand
on his head to hold it down. He whispered, “And he doesn’t take criticism too
well, either.”
Joan
stared at the man. Surely, she was losing it. Santa a spirit, an angel? He and
God didn’t even travel in the same circles. She shook her head, trying to make
the hallucination go away.
Santa
sighed. “I know, I know. You’ve been taught that I’m not real. That I’m a myth.
That’s a rumor started by Satan himself, the old devil. He can’t stand the fact
that people embrace the goodness in the world. And that I spread good cheer. He
would much rather unleash a plague and make people miserable. He hates
Christmas. He hates that the birth of Christ is celebrated, and his birth,
well, is not. He really can’t stand the fact that love binds people so tightly
during the holidays.” Santa shook his fist toward the ground. “The fool pouts
all through the holidays.” He then sat up straight and gazed at Joan.
“Christmas is really about love, you know. All kinds of love. The type of love
he’ll never have. Love of family, love of children, love of—”
“What
the heck do you want?” Joan blurted. “People are starting to stare.”
An Interview with
Seelie Kay:
Q. Why do you write romance?
Q. Do you prefer a certain type of romantic
hero?
I adore smart, dashing gentlemen who aren’t afraid to live
on the edge. They can be a bad boy, a billionaire, a prince, or a secret agent.
That hint of danger just hooks me! However, I they have to be paired with
strong, independent women who aren’t afraid to fight for what they want, even
love.
Q. Why did you write “The Last Christmas?”
My father is 94-years-old and as
you might expect, has had a number of serious medical, age-related events. Each
time, we were told to prepare for his death. Each time, he survived. The fact
was, my Dad wasn’t ready to die. And his children and his grandchildren weren’t
ready to let him go either. So I started thinking about terminal diagnoses and
how they are really a best guess, not a guarantee. That, of course, led to
thoughts how a terminal diagnosis often causes people to give up and
prematurely mourn the death of the person who is ill. I wondered how that
impacted the outcome. And because I was preparing to write a holiday book, I
also started thinking about the power of family, and how, time after time,
families are capable of creating miracles.
That led me to “The Last
Christmas.” Christmas truly is a time for miracles, and thought it important
that everyone be able to experience one through the tale of the Wright Family.
Thanks for featuring The Last Christmas today, my version of a Christmas miracle!
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