Chapter Eleven
“No way in ho-ho-hell,” Bailey Stockton said, his response to his brother’s request firm and definitive.
“Hear me out,” Dan urged.
“No,” he said again. He’d been conscripted to help with far too much Christmas stuff already. Such as helping Luke decorate Sunshine Farm for the holidays and sampling a new Christmas cookie recipe that Eva was trying out (okay, that one hadn’t been much of a hardship—the cookies, like everything she made, were delicious). His youngest brother, Jamie, had even asked him to babysit—yes, babysit!—so that he could take his wife into Kalispell to do some shopping for their triplets and enjoy a holiday show.
In fact, Bailey had been enlisted for so many tasks, he’d begun to suspect that his siblings had collectively made it their personal mission to revive his holiday spirit. Because he couldn’t seem to make them understand that his holiday spirit was too far gone to be resurrected. They’d have better luck planning the burial and just letting him pretend the holidays didn’t exist.
“But it’s for Janie’s scout troop,” Dan implored.
Janie was Dan and Annie’s daughter—the child his brother had only found out about when he returned to Rust Creek Falls not quite eighteen months earlier. Since then, his brother had been doing everything he could to make up for lost time. Which Bailey absolutely understood and respected; he just didn’t want to be conscripted toward the effort.
“Then you do it,” he said.
“I was planning to do it,” Dan told him. “And I was looking forward to it, but I’m in bed now with some kind of bug.”
“Is that a pet name for Annie?”
“Ha ha,” his brother said, not sounding amused.
“Well, you don’t sound very sick to me,” Bailey noted.
“That’s because you haven’t heard me puking.”
“And I don’t mind missing out on that,” he assured his brother.
“I need your help,” Dan said again.
“I’m sorry you’re not up to putting on the red suit, but there’s got to be someone else who can do it.”
“You don’t think I tried to find someone else?” Dan asked. “I mean, no offense, big brother, but when I think of Christmas spirit, yours is not the first name that springs to mind.”
Bailey took no offense to his brother speaking the truth. But he was curious: “Who else did you ask?”
“Luke, Jamie, Dallas Traub, Russ Campbell, Anderson Dalton, even Old Gene. No one else is available. You’re my last resort, Bailey, and if you don’t come through—”
“Don’t worry,” Annie interrupted, obviously having taken the phone from her husband. “He’ll come through. Won’t you, Bailey?”
He hated to let them down, but what they were asking was beyond his abilities. And way outside his comfort zone. “I wish I could, but—”
That was as far as he got in formulating a response before his sister-in-law interjected again.
“You can,” she said. “You just need to stop being such a Grooge.”
“A what?”
“A Grooge,” she said again. “Since you have even less Christmas spirit than either the Grinch or Scrooge, I’ve decided you’re a Grooge.”
“Definitely not Santa Claus material,” he felt compelled to point out.
“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree,” Annie said. “But these aren’t normal circumstances and your brother needs you to step up and help out, because that’s what families do. And that’s why I know you’re going to do this.”
Chastened by his sister-in-law’s brief but pointed lecture, how could he do anything else?
But he had no intention of giving in graciously. “Bah, humbug.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Annie said.
Bailey could only sigh. “What time and where?”
“I’ll meet you at the Grace Traub Community Center in an hour.”
And so, an hour later, Bailey found himself at the community center, in one of the small activity rooms that had been repurposed as a dressing room for the event. Annie bustled around, helping him dress.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked, as she secured the padded belly.
“Of course, it’s necessary. Santa’s not a lean mean rancher—he’s a toy maker with a milk-and-cookies belly.”
He slid his arms into the big red coat and fastened the wide belt around his expanded middle.
“Now sit so that I can put on your beard and wig and fix your face,” Annie said.
He 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.
