I’m aware that many of you live in countries where Christmas starts Christmas Eve and ends on January 6th. In a way I envy you, because the Christmas season here starts on Black Friday (day after American Thanksgiving) and blares on with endless advertising, Santas everywhere, Mariah Carey wailing “All I want for Christmas is Yooooooo”.
I’m not a traditionalist. I’ve never watched “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I want to see people make their own traditions — I’ll have a post later on about that. I want to see a thousand little Christmases with endless variation and stories that are honestly emotional.
I tried to write a Christmas romance novel. but Harlequin turned it down, because it didn’t have what people were looking for. For example, the male protagonist was short. And he ran a toy store — he wasn’t an ex-Navy Seal become millionaire with a warm heart but a steely gaze. The female protagonist — you might recognize her; her name is Marcia (I didn’t realize I’d done that till today). Not gorgeous, a little absent-minded professor with the heart of a child. The couple was split apart by mistaken notions, which you’d expect in any romance novel, and they get together in the end. But you couldn’t give it a Harlequin title: “The Santa Claus’ Frightened Elf”.
I came up with this scene when I was fifteen. Yes, at fifteen, my idea of a hot guy was a short redhead who ran a toy store. It’s obviously been brushed up, but I remember getting an A on it in Creative Writing class. Enjoy:
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Marcia stood in front of a store she had somehow missed her first time down the block. She wondered how she could have missed it, as she could see through its windows well-crafted wooden toys and children’s furniture, not to mention dollhouses, rocking chairs for adults, and small carvings. Perhaps, she thought, she had dismissed it because of the “Closed” sign that hung on the door.
As she stood there, nose pressed against a misty show window, she heard the jingle of keys. Her reverie broken, she turned to see the flannel-shirted man, a short, rugged-looking redhead with a close-cut beard, turn a key in the lock.
“Sorry I wasn’t here,” he said pleasantly as he pushed the door open. “I had to get some – hey, weren’t you just in the Book Nook?”
“Yeah, I was the one chatting with your Santa friend.”
“My Santa friend – oh, yeah, Jack. He’s actually retired Air Force, believe it or not, but he comes out of retirement every year to play Santa for the community.”
“He does a great job. So, is this your store, or do you just work here?”
“This is my store.” He indicated the door with a flourish and stepped behind the glass counter full of small wooden sculptures.
Marcia stepped through the door he held open and instantly gravitated toward a wooden car that sat on a glass shelf, a cut-out with wheels. Of plain, unpainted wood, the car showed painstaking craftsmanship in the smoothness of the finish, the pleasant contours that comforted a hand. Marcia pushed it, feeling the “clack-clack-clack” the wheels made as it traveled down her invisible road. “I bet little kids really like this.”
“Not just little kids, apparently.” From behind the glass counter, the man grinned at her, a grin that removed all mockery from his words. Marcia realized that he was not as young as she had thought in the coffeehouse. He had the slightly weather-worn look fair-skinned men get in their thirties, with laugh lines around the eyes. The faint freckles and red hair, she thought – those must have thrown her off.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed as things clicked in her head. “When you said this was your shop, you meant this was your shop.”
“Well, yes?” One of his eyebrows quirked.
“I mean – you make this stuff, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wow, you have a real talent!” She looked at the walls, the shelves with toys, the dollhouses, the hobbyhorses all glowing with warmth. “I mean, I used to play with trucks like this, but they never felt so good. I bet your dollhouses have stairs that really go up to the second floor!”
“Where else would they go?” The shopkeeper chuckled, and Marcia sighed happily.
“I’ve always hated dollhouses that you can’t really walk through. And dollhouses that are all out-of-proportion to themselves.” Marcia talked rapidly, breathlessly, then stopped. “Listen to me get so worked up about toys!”
“And what’s wrong with that?” He casually strolled over to where she stood by the car, still idly pushing it.
“Nothing, I mean …”
The flannel-shirted man cut her off with a question she hadn’t expected. “Are you from around here?”
“No, I’m on sabbatical here till the end of the month.” She was relieved to talk about something she felt comfortable with instead of babbling. “I’m a grant reviewer for a private foundation.”
“Sabbatical, eh? That means you’re a professor?”
“Got it in one. Just got tenure last year, and the college thought they could spare me one semester of leave to recover.”
“I should have guessed you were a professor.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that he played idly with a pen. “Why?”
”Because you don’t miss anything. Luckily, though, you’re not one of those stuffy arrogant types.”
Again, his smile, the raised eyebrow, took all potential sting out of the words.
“Because you still know how to say ‘wow’.”
“Wow – er, I mean, thank you!” She felt her cheeks grow warm.
“See what I mean?” He grabbed the truck and said “Beep Beep!”
Marcia’s cheeks grew even warmer. Fortunately, as she glanced up at a simply elegant mantel clock, she found an excuse to flee – “Oh! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get back across town!”
“Here, take this with you.” The man handed Marcia the pen he had played with, and she discovered that it had a business card tied to the end of its smooth, curvy, turned-wood body.
“Kris Kringle’s,” Marcia read aloud. “How odd … but this shop is yours and not the Santa guy’s?” She looked around at the blond wood and the toys and the dollhouses begging for interior decoration.
“My shop. I’m Kris.”
“Kris – oh, no, not Kringle, is it?” Marcia laughed.
“Nope,” he chuckled, “Kriegel. But you can imagine what it was like for me in grade school. I decided to use it to my
advantage.”
“I know all too well. I’m Marcia Wendt – as in ‘Marcia Wendt to Hell?’”
“Oh, dear,” Kris Kriegel said sympathetically. “You do understand, then.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Kriegel, but I do have to go. This pen – it’s too nice to give away, isn’t it?” Marcia felt torn – the pen was glossy and fat and entirely too pleasant to the hand.
“No, really. It’s yours.” He curled her hand around the silky wood with both his hands, which felt warm and calloused.
“But why?”
“So you won’t lose the business card, of course.”
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Words Like Me 