A merry little rom-com
Instead of a dream holiday honeymoon on Bermuda’s pink beaches, I’ll be spending Christmas Eve 1964 in the Immanuel Methodist Church’s slightly damp basement, supervising the cookie table at the annual carol sing.
Right now, I’ve got a few dozen more cookies to bake, so I tighten the strings on my apron and sift more flour. As I defiantly cut out more gingerbread Santas, I remember Steve (“I prefer Steven”) mocking me up one side and down last year. I believe “aren’t those a little juvenile?” were his exact words.
That’s not the only reason I gave him back his ring a few days later and cancelled our wedding and our trip, but it was high on the list. Anybody who doesn’t get why Santa isn’t just for kids … well, so long, Steve.
So, 1964 wasn’t exactly kind to me. Or maybe it was?
I’m frosting mincemeat spice bars (another thing Steve loathed) when my sister June strolls in with her energetic kindergartener.
“Before we go, Fay, Joey needs a favor.” With every hair typically in place, she perches on a kitchen stool, admiring her nail polish and watching me box up the cookies, not lifting a finger to help. Also typical.
I hope my nylons survive my favorite nephew’s leg-grappling show of affection. “Aunt Fay, pul-eeeze? You just gotta call this number and they tell you where Santa’s sleigh is! Mommy won’t, but she says you will, so please?” He waves a grubby newspaper and I catch my Pyrex measuring cup on its way to the floor.
June shrugs when I give her a look. “I told Joey his crazy aunt who loves Santa would be happy to.”
I’m about to beg off, but this is exactly the kind of thing Steven sneered at, so I give Joey a gingerbread Santa and take his hand. “Of course we can, sport. Let’s go in the living room.” I slap June’s hand on my way past. “Those cookies are for the carol sing.”
Joey nestles onto the sofa with me and laboriously reads off the numbers from the advertisement while I dial. The phone’s picked up on the first ring.
“Merry Christmas! NORAD headquarters,” booms a deep, remarkably cheerful voice. “Captain Gil Wilson on Santa watch. Where are you calling from?”
“Oh, h-hello. I, uh, actually, I’m calling for my nephew Joey. Hold the line, please? Joey, ask the nice captain where Santa…”
Squirming, Joey shoves the phone at me. “I can’t,” he whispers tragically. “I’m too scared. You do it, Aunt Fay.”
“Okay, honey. Captain Wilson, we live just outside Colorado Springs. Is Santa near us yet?”
Joey nods, chewing violently. “Tell him about the cookies!” he hollers.
“Put the phone up to his ear,” the captain suggests. “Good news, Joey! Our HQ is in Colorado Springs. and our jet pilot escorts report that Santa arrives here around midnight.”
“Jet pilot escorts? For Santa? Woweee!” Joey grabs the receiver, jamming his face against mine. “Mr. Captain? How do ya know where Santa is?”
“Our radar scope picks up the heat signal from Rudolph’s nose. Oh, hold on, there’s a fresh report coming in…yep, Santa’s flying over England now, right on schedule. But, remember, you’ve got to be asleep before he comes down the chimney.”
“Gosh!” He anxiously bites off Santa’s pack. “Me and Mommy and Aunt Fay gotta go to the Meffadist church first to sing and eat cookies. Is that okay?”
“Sure, buddy. Santa flies right over that church on his way to your house. When you get home, put out some cookies and milk for him, then hit the hay.”
“Listen to the captain, Joey,” I say, laughing.
“Joey,” June scolds languidly from the kitchen, “mind Auntie Fay.”
“Mr. Captain, does Santa like mincemeat cookies? Aunt Fay makes real good ones. Last year, she didn’t make ‘em cuz’ of stupid Steven. That’s the guy who made fun of her Santa cookies. He didn’t even LIKE Santa. Mommy says Aunt Fay sent him packing!”
The captain’s chuckle rumbles over the line. “Say, Joey, how does Aunt Fay feel about airmen?”
I make a grab for the phone, but Joey vaults behind the sofa, taking it with him.
“Joey,” I hiss, “give me that!”
He ignores my snapping fingers, giggling. “I think she likes ‘em,” he yelps, wiggling backwards and dodging my flailing hand.
“Joey, we don’t have time to play,” June mentions around a mouthful of something, probably cookie.
The captain’s laugh sounds loud and clear. I kneel, squeeze behind the sofa, make a desperate lunge, and finally pry the phone from the small, sticky hand.
“Sorry, Mister, uh, Captain,” I say when I catch my breath. “Joey gets carried away. Anyway, t-thank you for telling us about Santa’s flight. Good night, uh…sir. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Aunt Fay and Joey,” he says, chuckling. “Hey, save a mincemeat cookie for me. They’re every bachelor’s favorite.”
I hang up, feeling a little lightheaded. He wouldn’t … would he?
June drifts into the living room, nibbling a contraband cookie. “Are we ready now?”
“Almost,” I say, whipping off my apron and bolting upstairs. “I’ve got to change.” The white damask dance dress from my trousseau might be a bit much for the church basement, but suddenly, it seems the perfect thing to wear tonight.
&&&
Nat King Cole’s mellow crooning is barely audible over the Yuletide racket in the church basement. Around the punchbowl, lipsticked girls in crinoline-poufed dresses preen self-consciously, eyeing Shetland-sweatered boys and the plastic sprig of mistletoe overhead. Humming with the record, I slip off my patent pumps and give my cramped toes a stretch, well-hidden behind the long tablecloth.
“Pardon my reach.”
I know that laughing voice. A long sleeve of Air Force blue gently sideswipes me, leaving a heat signal all its own.
“It’s a Christmas miracle! Mincemeat cookies.” The tall, husky man turns to me, cookie in hand, twinkle in his hazel eyes warming into the kind of look a girl likes to see. “I-I’ve been searching for you…I mean, these…all night.”
He takes a bite and tilts his head, eyes closed in rapture. “Please”—he opens one eye—“tell me you’re Fay.”
I nod, taking in the strong jaw, close-cropped brown hair, broad shoulders. “Mister Captain Gil, I presume? But, how…?”
His crow’s feet crinkle into laugh lines. “NORAD training. We can track more than Santa. Colorado Springs only has a couple of Methodist churches, and the others didn’t have any beautiful brunettes serving mincemeat cookies.”
Joey barrels up to us, eyes huge with excitement. “Golly! Are you Aunt Fay’s captain?”
Gil grins, glances at me, then the mistletoe. “Well, Joey, if Santa grants last-minute wishes, could be. Fay, how ‘bout you put your shoes on and let’s go get some punch?”
We laugh like old friends. I slide my feet into my pumps, my hand into the crook of his arm. “That sounds delightful.” I steal a look at the mistletoe and make a Santa wish of my own.