sat. Then scowled. “What do you mean—fix my face?”
“Relax and let me do my thing.”
“‘Do my thing’ are not words that inspire me to relax,” he told her.
But he clenched his jaw and didn’t say anything else as she unzipped a pouch and pulled out a tube that looked suspiciously like makeup. She brushed whatever it was onto his eyebrows, then took out a pot and another brush that she used on his cheeks.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he grumbled.
“I know this isn’t your idea of fun, but it means a lot to Dan that you stepped up.”
“I didn’t step,” he reminded her. “I was pushed.”
Her lips curved as she recapped the pot and put it back in the bag. “Now the beard,” she said, and hooked the elastic over his ears.
“No one’s going to thank me for this when I screw it up,” he warned her.
“You’re not going to screw it up.”
“Beyond ho ho ho, I don’t have a clue what to say.”
“This might be a first for you, but it’s not for the kids,” she told him. “And if you really get stuck, I have no doubt that your wife will be able to help you out.”
Wife? “Who? What?”
“Mrs. Claus,” she clarified.
“You didn’t say anything about a Mrs. Claus.”
And he didn’t know if the revelation now made things better or worse. On the one hand, he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to face a group of kids on his own. On the other, he was skeptical enough about his ability to play a jolly elf, but a jolly elf with a wife?
“I didn’t think any kind of warning was necessary,” Annie said now. “It was supposed to be me—I was going to be the missus to Dan’s Santa, but when he got sick, well, I couldn’t leave him to suffer at home alone, so I asked a friend to fill in. But you don’t have to worry. Mrs. Claus will be here to hand out candy canes and keep the line moving—no romantic overtures are required.”
“Thanks, I feel so much better now,” he said dryly.
“Good,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “And speaking of spouses—I should get home to my husband, who isn’t feeling better but is feeling grateful.”
“Do you want me to drop off this costume later?”
“No, I’ll come back and get it,” she said.
When she’d gone, Bailey chanced a hesitant glance in the mirror. He was afraid he’d look as stupid as he felt—like a kid playing dress-up—and was surprised to realize that he looked like Santa.
There was a brisk knock at the door. “Are you just about ready, Santa?” The scout leader poked his head in the doorway. “Wow, you look great.”
“Ho ho ho,” Bailey said, testing it out.
The scout leader grinned and gave him two thumbs-up. “The kids are getting restless.”
“Mrs. Claus isn’t here yet,” he said. Although he hadn’t originally known there was supposed to be a Mrs. Claus, he now felt at a loss on his own.
“Maybe she got caught up baking cookies at the North Pole,” the other man joked.
Whatever she was doing, wherever she was, his missus was nowhere to be found, reminding Bailey of the foolishness of depending on a spouse—even a fictional one.
“Okay, then.” He exited the makeshift dressing room and followed the scout leader backstage. Though the curtains were closed, he could hear the excited chatter of what sounded like hundreds, maybe thousands, of children. All of them there to see Santa—and getting stuck with a poor imitation instead.
He felt perspiration bead on his brow and his hands were clammy inside his white cotton gloves. The leader handed him a big sack filled with candy canes and nodded encouragingly.
It was now or never, and although Bailey would have preferred to go with the never option, he suspected his brother would never forgive him if he chickened out.
Just as he was reaching for the curtain, he heard footsteps rushing up the stage stairs behind him.
Mrs. Claus had arrived.
He didn’t have time to give her much more than a cursory glance, noting the floor-length red dress with faux fur trim at the collar and cuffs, and a white apron tied around her waist. Despite the white wig and granny glasses, he could tell that she was young. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled, her lips plump and exquisitely shaped, and her eyes were as bright and blue as the Montana sky.
“Good, I’m not late.” She was breathless, obviously having run some distance, and paused now with her hand on her heart as she drew air into her lungs.
Of course, the action succeeded in drawing his attention to her chest—and the rise and fall of nicely rounded breasts.
“Are you ready to do this?” she asked.
He nodded. Yes. Please.
She sent him a conspiratorial wink, and suddenly he felt warm all over. Or maybe it was the bulky costume and the overhead lights that were responsible for the sudden increase in his body temperature.
Then she stepped through the break in the curtains and began to speak to the children.
“Well, we ran into a little bit of rough weather on our way from the North Pole, but we finally made it,” she said.
The crowd of children cheered.
Bailey listened to her talk, enjoying the melodic tone of her voice as she set the scene for their audience. He didn’t know who she was—he hadn’t thought to ask his sister-in-law—but it was immediately apparent to Bailey that Annie had cast a better Mrs. Claus than her husband had a Santa.
“I know you’ve all been incredibly patient waiting for Santa to arrive and everyone wants to be first in line to whisper Christmas wishes in his ear, but I promise you, it doesn’t matter if you’re first or last or somewhere in the middle, everyone will have a turn.”
They had a wide armchair set up on the stage, beside a decorated Christmas tree surrounded by a pile of fake presents. All he had to do was walk through the curtain and settle into the chair. But his feet were suddenly glued to the floor.
“While Santa finishes settling the reindeer,” she said, offering another explanation for the delay of his appearance, “why don’t we sing his favorite Christmas song?” She looked out at the audience. “Who knows what Santa’s favorite Christmas song is?”
Through the narrow gap between the curtains, he could see hands immediately thrust into the air.
Mrs. Claus listened to several random guesses as the children called for “Jingle Bells,”
