Santa's Special Delivery Read online

  Santa’s Special Delivery

  A Sleeping with the Scrooge Short Story

  Sierra Hill

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 Sierra Hill

  Ten28 Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Joy

  “Oh my God, Deirdre! We just hit the 100 mark! Holy freaking sleigh bells, can you believe it?”

  I swivel around from my computer in my old rickety-antique, second-hand used desk chair and clap my hands together excitedly doing my best imitation of a circus monkey. Who cares that I look like a dork right now? I’m not ashamed in the least because we just hit a major milestone a year in the making.

  My partner of the non-profit organization we founded together, Make a Kid’s Holiday Merry, Deirdre Wooly, raises her hands in the air in joint celebration. She pumps her fists wildly, hooting loudly for good measure before jumping up from her desk and crushing me in a gigantic bear hug.

  “Yes! We did it, sista! I’m so proud of the work we’ve done together. But you are the true genius, Joy. Without your creative efforts, this wouldn’t have happened.” She squeezes extra tight and the warmth of her embrace and her genuine approval makes me smile and tear up.

  A few weeks ago, I’d placed an ad in all the large and small community newspapers in the Boston and surrounding areas, requesting donations for our charity that serves the needs of underprivileged and foster children. It’s a cause near and dear to both Deirdre’s and my hearts, as we were both raised together in the system. Deirdre is not only my business partner, but also happens to be my roommate and best friend, and the one that brought me through the worst times in my life.

  It’s the reason we created this non-profit in the first place. The holiday and Christmas season is not a wonderful time of the year for any child in the foster care system. For those with families, it means celebration and cheer, with loads of presents under the tree and big family holiday dinners.

  But not for kids who were like us.

  For children without families, the holidays mean loneliness, heartbreak and crushing disappointments.

  I click the online tracker account I’d set up, similar to a GoFundMe page, that lists all the toys, gifts and clothing requested, and the total items already marked off as purchased and donated.

  “Check this out, D,” I say over my shoulder, pointing to the screen. “Someone even bought that new Xbox system and the Frozen and Star Wars bikes, too. We have some big spender Christmas elves opening up their wallets this year.”

  I’m flooded with happiness over the prospect that this year we will have more than triple the gift donations then we had last year when we walk into St. Marguerite’s Home for Children on Christmas Day.

  Deirdre heads back to her desk chair in our living room that also doubles as our office space, and swings her coat from the chair, slipping it on along with her beanie hat, scarf and gloves. The temps in Snowdon, Massachusetts in December can be downright bitter cold, and bundling up anytime you head out is necessary. Every year around this time, we commiserate and complain over the weather and promise that next year we’ll be on a beach in Florida instead.

  Yet, here we are in this charming, snow globe town forty miles outside of Boston, where the freezing ice and wind can whip through you like razors. Maybe if we didn’t love the people in this town so much, it would be a different story. But they took us in and made us their own since we were just wayward teen girls dropped off at St. Marguerite’s when we were thirteen.

  “I’m heading to the post office to mail off these bills,” she says, slapping the pile of envelopes into her mitten-covered palm. “Want me to bring you back a Peppermint Mocha?”

  I give her a side-eyed squint. “Do you even have to ask that question? Duh. And ask them to make mine extra minty. I’m feeling extra today.”

  She laughs and mumbles, “Just today? You’re always extra.”

  As the door latches closed, my attention returns to the analytics report on the website, as I scroll down the page and stumble across something odd.

  My eyes narrow in on the results, which shows gift after gift marked off as delivered. Frantically, I scroll some more. A total of thirty-five gifts purchased in the last two weeks indicate they were delivered already. Yesterday.

  A lump of dread settles in my belly, as my eyes scan down the report.

  “Oh no…no, no…this can’t be.”

  In an attempt to calm my anxiety level, which has already shot straight to the North Pole, I grab a cookie from the plate of Christmas cookies that Mrs. Lassendorf brought over earlier today, and shove it into my mouth, not caring that the crumbs are littering my Christmas sweater.

  I continue to munch on the cookie and examine the information on my screen, obviously displaying invalid data. Because I know with 100 percent certainty that we have not received any packages yesterday, today or anytime this week. But before I send myself in a tailspin and contact the website, I rush to the front door, opening it up as if by some chance miracle, Deirdre walked right past a mound of packages on our front stoop without mentioning it.

  No such luck.

  I peer around the doorway and along the side of the front porch to find it empty, save for the now rotten pile of sweetpea pumpkins we left outside after Thanksgiving and haven’t bothered to throw away, as well as the rusted red wagon planter with the three dead plants we’d put out this past spring.

  Needless to say, there’s a reason D and I don’t own any pets because we can’t even manage to keep plants alive. It’s not our fault really. We’ve just been so invested in setting up all the details of our charity this fall that other things like decorations just seemed trivial.

  I step back into the house, shivering from the cold wind whipping through the snow pile out front, and scratch my head in confusion.

  Where on earth could those gifts have been delivered if not here? Our two-bedroom bungalow is down a private cul-du-sac, and all four of our neighbors are good, honest people who would never steal our deliveries.

  That’s not to say our community is crime-free, by any means, as there have been reports of package bandits who come in from the big city and steal from unsuspecting homeowners.

  But I honestly don’t think that’s the case. Even if one or both me and Deirdre are away from the house at the same time, Mrs. Lassendorf is always on the look-out. She is the neighborhood watch. She and her Sheltie, Doolittle, police our area like our lives depend on it.

  Returning to my computer, I take another look, about to locate the contact number for customer service when I notice something up in the right-hand corner of the screen. It’s the box where I entered our shipping address.

  I lean in closer to the computer monitor so my nose is practically all up in the screen to get a better look.

  Oh dear.

  Oh no.

  I screwed up bi
g time.

  I’m not a genius. I’m an idiot.

  Gabriel

  “Who is the idiot there that screwed this up? And what do you mean you can’t accept this delivery back? You guys are the one who fucked it up!”

  I’ve been on the phone now with the delivery company for the past twenty-five minutes. A complete and useless waste of my time since I’m getting nowhere with this woman, who claims to be the manager of the local operation.

  “Sir, please calm down,” the manager asserts, her frustration level growing every second with mine. “The packages were delivered as specified on the invoice and bill of lading. We did our job as requested.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose in utter annoyance, just about ready to throw the boxes out the window.

  “No, see that’s where you’re wrong. You didn’t do your job correctly because I’m currently the recipient of thirty-five packages that do not belong to me! There was obviously a mix-up and all I ask is that you send someone to pick them back up and deliver them to the right address.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then I hear a typing on a keyboard.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frost. But all I have here is the address of 1567 Bower Street, Snowdon, Mass. Is that, or is that not, your address?”

  “Well, no, technically, it’s not my address, it’s my grandfathers. But yes, that is his home address.”

  “Then I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do because that address matches what we were given, and we don’t have the time or the staffing to pick them up. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re a week from Christmas and we have many more deliveries to make. Have a nice day, sir.”

  Click.

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, my brows pinching severely in confusion and irritation.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I yell out, garnering an eyebrow raise over the top of his glasses from my grandfather, Fred.

  I sigh, standing up from the dining room chair and roll the tension from my shoulders that has slowly been building since the moment I arrived a few weeks ago.

  “Gabriel, calm down now. It’s not the end of the world and there are certainly worse things to happen. Look at it this way. At least you’re not the person who didn’t receive their deliveries. You’re a smart man and I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  My granddad’s sage advice instantly makes me feel guilty. It’s so typical of him, too. A man who is calm as a cucumber in any situation, even while going through his chemo treatments that began earlier this month. Nothing ever seems to ruffle this man. The only time I’ve ever seen him in a down mood was at my grandmother Arlene’s funeral two years ago. That’s when he broke down in front of the casket with a hundred onlookers staring in wide-eyed pity as he cried his heart out over the woman he loved for over fifty years.

  It’s that level of devotion and love toward someone that I can’t even begin to comprehend, having never felt it with anyone myself.

  At thirty-one, I’ve focused my energies on my career. Working myself through law school at Boston University and then becoming a partner at my firm last year. I’ve not had the time nor the inclination to find that one all-consuming love like my grandparents had together. My parents had a pretty solid relationship, as well, and both were great role models for me.

  Fat lot of good it did for me, considering my current level of frustration over this delivery debacle.

  I swoop an arm out wide. “But look at this mess. They’re piled up higher than your living room windows, for fuck’s sake. They’re in the way and a hazard.”

  Granddad tsks and wags a crooked finger at me. “You don’t need to use that type of language in my home, Gabriel Frost. ‘Tis the season for generosity of spirit and joy, not humbug gloom. I’m sure that whoever purchased these gifts will realize their mistake soon enough and come in search of them.”

  I plop down on the couch and drop my head in my hands. “I’m sure you’re right, but it’s just yet another thing on my plate right now.”

  When I turn my head to the side and see his expression, I immediately want to retract my statement. There is nothing in the world more important to me than my granddad, and I feel like shit for making him feel he’s a burden to me.

  When I learned he had pancreatic cancer and the aggressive treatment they wanted to start him on, I immediately shuffled around my client cases, leaving only one that I’d been working on for over a year with the Ebenezer Corporation. The class action lawsuit on behalf of employees is related to the mishandling of pensions by the Board and company. A case of the rich getting richer and poor getting screwed.

  While it turns my stomach to be defending these greedy bastards, it’s the oath I took and the business I’m in to defend them. My opinion about the way they manage their affairs means nothing in the due process of trying this case.

  I get paid regardless of whether justice is served.

  But the stress of the proceedings, coupled with my granddad’s diagnosis and having to work from his home here in Snowdon, when my office is Boston, has been brutal and weighing heavily on my typically good-natured manner.

  Maybe I just need to get laid and let off some steam to get myself into the holiday spirit. Not a bad idea. Although, this small town isn’t the hopping singles scene like it is in Boston, where I can go out to any bar on any given night and find a very warm and willing partner to make my bells jingle.

  I snort at the idea and pull up my phone app to find something local that might work out for me.

  Finding a local place that seems convenient, I plug in the address and decide I’ll head out tonight after granddad goes to bed.

  “Hey, do you think you’ll be okay on your own if I head out for a while tonight?”

  His white bushy eyebrows crease together, and he points another bony finger in my direction.

  “Now you listen here. I am not an invalid and you do not need to be with me every second of the day. I think it would be good if you got out of the house. You’re young and need to be around people your age. In fact, this weekend is the annual tree lighting ceremony and the Welcome Winter Wonderland festival in the town center. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the festivities.”

  Not exactly the type of entertainment I was going to pursue, but he’s right about one thing. Hanging around my grandfather who’s in bed every night by eight p.m. doesn’t exactly lend itself to an exciting social life.

  Decision made, I’m about to get back to work when there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, my ire returns, but a glimmer of hope wiggles in my stomach, as I head to the front door, hoping to find the delivery person.

  Swinging it open in a rush, I bark out a very unpleasant welcome.

  “Enough with the deliveries!”

  Joy

  I nearly jump out of my boots the minute the man opens the door with his all-in-caps shouty voice and extraordinarily Scroogey-greeting.

  But that’s not the only reason my knees nearly buckle, and my eyes punch open wide with shock. It’s not that I am completely embarrassed by this avoidable mix-up, but it’s the fact that this man standing in the doorway before me is drop-dead gorgeous.

  I’ve never seen a more attractive man in my life. And he’s as intimidating as a real-life Grinch.

  And now I’m questioning my reason for coming. Once I’d realized the huge mistake I’d made with the address, I panicked and tried desperately to come up with a solution.

  As soon as Deirdre returned from the post office with my much-needed caffeine fix, I told her what I did and we put our heads together and came up with a solution. That solution had me driving over here, to the address I accidentally listed on the website, in hopes of picking up the packages.

  I plugged in the Bower Street address, which aside from the name, was identical to our 1567 Bowen street address, and drove over at a snail’s pace through the slushy, snow-covered streets. Along the way, I imagined what the conversation would be
when I met the homeowner. I figured they’d welcome me with open arms, happy for my arrival to pick up the accidental deliveries. But it never crossed my mind that our exchange would start out anything like this.

  I reel back on my heels from the vehemence in his greeting, slipping on the slushy steps and stumbling over a Christmas decoration behind me. I flail desperately in search of something to latch onto before I fall the three steps backwards. The one solid thing I find in reaching distance happens to be Mr. Frosty Pants himself.

  At the very same time I reach for his biceps, his arm darts out, grabbing my waist with both his hands. And then, ZAP! An electric current as strong as the one that knocked out Clark Griswold’s neighborhood from his 250-strand of lights shocks me and sends a bolt of electricity through my unsuspecting body.

  I tingle everywhere.

  “Whoa there.” He says with a voice rich and deep, as savory as hot cocoa on a cold wintery night. The sound hits me straight in the belly.

  It takes me a moment to regain my balance, as I’m frozen in position just staring up into his icicle blue eyes. They’re almost translucent, like clear glass, with a darker ring around the outside. His light brown hair is perfectly gelled and styled, parting to the left of his forehead. Aside from the model perfect hair, his jaw is clean shaven and there’s an adorable indentation in center of his chin.

  I have the urge to stick my tongue in the divot and lick.

  Blinking once, I realize neither of our hands have moved from one another’s bodies, which he seems to simultaneously notice, and we drop our hands down to our sides.

  “You’re not with the delivery company, are you?”