Santa's Daughter

I love Christmas time. I love the cold, wet snow. The piney smell of Christmas trees. The lyrical sound of Christmas carols and the gleeful laughter of children. But most of all I love playing Santa Claus. Well, not really Santa Claus—just Santa's daughter.

In real life I'm Sally Carter, director of our local YMCA.

Once a year I'm Sally Santa, Santa's daughter, who for a day sits on a makeshift throne in the Y's day-care center and invites youngsters to climb up on my lap and tell me their Christmas wishes, while their parents watch or work out.

I wear a lady Santa dress. My ensemble includes a big tousled Santa hat, a Santa skirt with a wide black belt, and red knee-high boots.
Dressed up like that, my face plastered with rouge, I have more fun than the kids, and no one ever guesses who I am. Some kids are afraid of Santa's daughter, but over the years only one seemed truly frightened of me.
He was a brown-eyed youngster, maybe four years old, with short, wheat-blonde hair and a dimpled chin. The handsome man standing next to the little boy looked like the youngster's adult twin, a man whose physique made it evident he'd found our facilities here at the Y to his liking.

"Hi, Santa's daughter," the man said, unleashing a wide, brown-eyed smile, that sent my heart pin wheeling. "I'm Travis Meyer, and this is my son Matt."

Upon hearing the man's name, I remembered several of our female trainers pointedly telling me about the hunky widower, a lawyer, who worked out four times a week at the Y.

I answered with my own smile. "Hi, Travis and Matt."

Travis knelt down in front of his son. "Want to sit on Santa's daughter's lap?"

Wide-eyed, fingers at his mouth, Matt shook his head, and took a step back. His bottom lip started to quiver. His eyes glistened. The sight of the frightened youngster squeezed my heart. "There's nothing to be afraid of," I said softly, deliberately skipping a boisterous, Santa-like, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" that might frighten little Matt even more.

Travis gave his son a tiny nudge. "She'll tell her dad everything you want for Christmas."

"I will," I said, extending a hand toward Matt. "And my dad listens to everything I say."

I think it was my feminine voice that convinced Matt I wasn't a scary creature. He inched onto my lap and looked up into my face.

My heart jolted when, smiling for the first time, Matt said, "Your mouth looks like my mom's." Then he touched my lips with his tiny fingers, as if to make sure I was real. "She's in heaven," he added. "But we have pictures."

I glanced at Travis. He nodded. "Couple of years ago. Auto accident."

In a halting voice, Matt whispered all his requests in my ear. His biggest request didn't surprise me at all. After the boy climbed off my lap, he leaped into his dad's arms and said, "I like her."

An appreciative grin crept across Travis's face. "Matt and I would like to thank you for—"

But before Travis could get another word out, a pigtailed little girl sprang onto my lap and asked, "Are you really Santa's daughter?"

Much to my disappointment, Matt and his son disappeared among the throng of other waiting parents and their kids.

When I went to bed that night, among all the parents I'd met and youngsters I'd talked to, Matt and Travis lingered in my mind. Such a handsome dad. Such a precious little boy with such a special Christmas request.

Late the next afternoon, I nearly fell out of the chair behind my desk, when Travis Meyer rapped lightly on my open office door and stepped inside.

"Ms. Carter—" he started.

I gulped. "Sally, please."

"Sally," he said, and hesitated. "Um...I want to thank you for helping Matt overcome his fear of Santa. You were marvelous."

"Thank you." I smiled. "But all that makeup on my face—how do you know I'm Santa's daughter?"

"Several of your trainers have told me about you..." His voice trailed off. He looked sheepish.

"Ah, yes. A lot of gossip goes on around here."

His feet shuffled. "Look, I know you're not seeing anyone. Do you suppose we could stop for coffee sometime?"

I tried to hide another gasp. Then, "Of course."

That was last Christmas. I'm going to play Santa's daughter again next week, but Travis and I have a huge problem. Matt's biggest Christmas wish from last year has come true: he has a new mom. But how in the world are my wonderful husband and I going to explain to our dear little boy that his dad married Santa's daughter?

The End
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The Right Move

             Like a woman half a sleep—which I was at five in the morning—I struggled to cram my luggage into the belly of the tour bus parked in the snowy church lot.

The sky was, cold, dark and starry.

Trying to jam my bag in with the others, I didn't get a good look at the man who bent to help me, but I said gratefully, "Thanks," and he said, "You're welcome. Going skiing?"

That was a funny question, considering the bus was headed for Snowstar.

"I'm a beginner," he said. "Taking lessons. Hope I don't break my neck."

"You'll be okay. Snowstar has great instructors."

Under the dim parking lot lights, though he wore a heavy coat, I saw he was solidly built. His words carried with them the hint of a Southern accent, and he definitely sounded nervous. A young southern gentleman, I thought, a rookie on the slopes, apparently alone, headed for a ski lodge in northern Wisconsin—I should help him. But I didn't want to appear forward.

During the hilly drive to Snowstar, we ended up sitting next to each other on the crowded bus. While the sun came up, we chatted. I spotted no wedding ring on his finger, and, of course, he spotted none on mine.

"You're skiing by yourself for the weekend?" he said.

He was very handsome. His eyes were light brown under dark eyebrows, like his curly hair. My breath quickened.

I explained I'd planned the trip six months ago with my girlfriend, Kerri, but her fiancé had come home unexpectedly on leave from the Marines. She wanted to spend the time with him and his family. "Alone or not, I couldn't pass up this chance. And you?" I asked.

He looked sheepish. "From Alabama," he said. "Never skied in my life. But some big shooters are coming in from out of state for a business meeting next month, and they want to go skiing."

"Ahhh," I said. "So you're trying to get some time in on the slopes before they get here."

"Exactly. I don't want to make a complete fool of myself. Been skiing long?"

I explained I grew up in a home at the base of one of the most awesome ski hills in Wisconsin. Then I confessed modestly, "I used to pictured myself skiing in the Olympics."

His eyebrows lifted. "You're that good?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I have to be honest. My dreams far exceeded my skills. So now I'm a high school P.E. teacher in Madison and ski once or twice a year."

We talked on. His name was Sam Cooper. I told him mine—Holly Forbes. He was a corporate lawyer in Madison, a few years out of law school. We were the same age. Twenty-seven. Neither one of us was dating.

After the bus arrived and we piled off to collect our gear, he smiled and said, "Perhaps we'll meet again over the weekend."

"Maybe after you finish your bunny hill lessons."

That morning, I glimpsed him learning how to turn and wedge. I also saw him struggling with the ski lift. Poor guy. I felt bad that I hadn't had the courage to show him a few skiing techniques before he started his lessons. He seemed friendly and warm, someone I really might like to know better. When it came to men, though, I never seemed to make the right move.

Later in the afternoon, following great practice runs on moderate slopes, I headed for Snowstar's most challenging one—Killer. The moment I took off flying down the hill, I kicked my imagination into high gear. In the dazzling sunlight, I was an Olympic skier, my reflexes quick as a cat's. I felt the crunch of snow under my skis and heard the wildly excited cry of spectators cheering me on. They sensed I was about to set an Olympic record. I knew the television world must be in awe of my skill. Million-dollar endorsements would be mine. My picture would adorn the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Sam Cooper from Alabama would ask me to dinner.

My dream scene ended in total disaster.

Lack of concentration and rusty skiing technique caused me to take an ugly spill. I pitched forward, capsized, tumbled, and plunged down the hillside in a powdery blast of snow. My heart in panic mode, thumping madly, I alternated between gliding and bumping over the last fifty feet of incline and finally halted spread-eagle on my back.

A crowd had gathered. Some laughed. Some asked if I was okay. As I sat up, I realized I was so covered with so much snow I must look like a snow woman. Then I saw that my skis, poles, hat, goggles and gloves littered the slope. When I tried to stagger to my feet, it was Sam who first grabbed my arm gently but firmly to make sure I didn't fall over.

"You all right?" he said.

My face burned—not from the cold but from total embarrassment. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to watch the expert skiers," he said without sarcasm. "You all right?" he asked again.

"I don't know, I think so."

"What happened?"

What could I say? I couldn't reveal the thought that had streaked through my mind at the instant of my disaster. "Um...I lost concentration," I said.

"On the bunny hill, they told us concentration was an important factor in successful skiing."

"That's true," I said.

I trudged up the hill to gather my scattered equipment. Sam helped. When we ambled back to my landing site, he gave me a huge smile and said, "Maybe if you ski the bunny hill with me, I can help you out." Then he added quickly, "Just kidding."

I laughed. I liked a guy with a sense of humor.

"Seriously, I really could use your help," he said.

"You sure? Didn't you see me fall?"

Brushing at the snow in my hair and on my parka and jeans, I felt a twinge in my left shoulder.

Sam said, "Later, maybe we can go to dinner at the lodge. Then dancing. If you're up to it. Really, are you all right?"

My eyes lifted and met his full on. My heart began to spin.

Wow! Had tumbling down a snowy hill, embarrassing myself, nearly breaking my neck, been the right move?

I grinned at him, ignored my shoulder, and said, "I'll be just fine, thank you."

The End
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