Page 55 of Naughty-ish

“She said wiener,” Nash giggles.

“She means a hot dog,” Nick corrects, good-naturedly laughing at his sister. “You pain in the—” He stops short, glancing at the kids before insulting his sister.

“Nash. Eloise. Nice meeting you. I have it on good authority you’ve been very good this year.” Kaye hitches her thumb at her brother. “Santa is proud. But your mom is prouder, remember that.”

After a finger wave, she steps away but Nick lingers. “She’s a nut this time of year.”

“She’s pretty. And sweet,” I repeat about her compliments.

“She’s right. I’ve had it wrong calling you hot, Holliday. You’re beautiful.” He leans down and kisses my head. “Be good for your mom,” he says to the kids, then addresses all of us. “Merry Christmas.”

As I watch him retreat, my insides are a clashing riot once again. He’s talked to his sister about me. He thinks I’m beautiful.

And I miss him.

“She looked just like Kris Kringle’s wife in that show,” Eloise says, a little awe in her voice.

“What show?” I turn back to my daughter.

“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” The circa-1970 stop-motion Christmas program is a classic, and I glance back up to see Nick watching us from inside the entrance to the tent.

With a soft wave, he timidly smiles, aware he’s been caught.

A thought hits me as I softly smile back and then return my attention to my children.

The greatest DO list I’ve been given is the two little people sitting opposite me. And while others might have expensive homes with fireplaces or access to a toy company, I have the best gift anyone could receive.

Incredible children.

They are that something more this season.

Chapter 13

Christmas Eve arrives, and we attend a children’s mass in the early evening then head to my parents’ house for dinner. The place is chaotic with my brother and his family present from Ohio.

By eight o’clock, we have the Santa tracker running on my phone and head home, searching the dark winter sky for a sleigh and eight reindeer. Pointing here and there toward the city sky, I keep up the charade despite the orange haze of streetlights reflected in the cloudy night. The threat of snow hangs in the air again and it’d be nice to have a white Christmas.

With a glance at Nick’s dark house when I pull into my driveway, I ignore the tug in my chest, and hope he’s with family this evening. Helping a groggy Nash into the house, Eloise follows, and soon enough they are tucked into their beds.

Santa isn’t in the sky, but hard at work in living rooms everywhere, cursing instruction manuals and assembling objects. Maybe last-minute wrapping or simply arranging presents beneath a tree. With our stockings stuffed—I’d hung them on the short railing along my staircase—and the gifts underneath the evergreen, I take a quiet moment to enjoy the silence and the colorful lights of my tree. The live item is holding up well and I’m almost sad to take it down soon. Some people keep a fake tree up all year, decorating it in various themes according to the month or season. I’ll never get to that kind of crazed enthusiasm.

Christmas is once a year, thankfully. But the magic of the season should be carried throughout the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the calendar. Silently, I vow to do better next year. Come what may, I’ll figure it out.

For some reason, I recall the window displays at Ashford’s. The storyline felt a little lacking this year. While the annual effort was an attempt to draw in children, the plot is often for adults. The idea of a soldier dreaming of home for Christmas wasn’t as poignant as it should have been.

I think about Eloise, who asked if we could return home, meaning our old house because of a silly fireplace.

Home. What does that word mean? What makes one?

Not the items within a place but the events and people that circulate around a person.

Suddenly, thoughts were racing, and I search for a notepad in the cluttered kitchen junk drawer. Seeking a pen, I only find the red marker I used to answer our elf’s final questions. Tonight, he gets packed away for another year, with the understanding he’s returned to the North Pole.

Please let my children still believe next year, I silently pray.

Then, I frantically write, plotting out an idea . . . for a children’s book.

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