Love Your Elf Read online

  I shake my head when I think about the many opportunities I’d had to raise the issue of Santa’s daughter and my aspirations with Holly. I could have told her about my reluctant decision to marry and settle down as I was expected – my new realisation that I loved her. I’d had ample opportunity, and I’d blown it.

  “I should have said something,” I shake my head, still muttering to myself.

  ‘Why didn’t I tell her? Because I’m a bastard, and I was still one foot in, one foot out, no denying it. I wanted her, and I wanted the job. But I knew, I fucking knew I’d have to make a decision. And I wanted her to tell me she loved me. I wanted her to tell me what happened with Louis in the city – and she hadn’t.’

  “But I did make a decision,” I turn and take a handful of M&M’s, shaking off a bite from one of the sprites, “if she’d just waited, just listened.”

  A hail of candy hits me in the face as I say this because I know that isn’t totally true either.

  Yes, I’d told Santa I was in love with a human woman, just minutes before Aurora came down the chimney, yes I’d told him I didn’t want the job. But I hadn’t wanted to break up with Aurora in front of him, I owed her at least that, it would have been undignified, ungentlemanly. And I hadn’t thought through how I would fold up my life in the pole; my family, business interests, friends, without returning.

  And now, it cost me the woman I loved.

  “You’re right,” I stand and allow the sprites to pelt me with candy, “I should have said something then and there. But she ordered me away, she’s going back to her boyfriend. I’ve driven her straight back into his arms, and it’s my own fucking fault.”

  18

  HOLLY

  I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and begin to cry once more.

  It’s Christmas morning, I should be downstairs celebrating having my parents home, watching Sapphire open her presents, eating treats and serving egg-nog.

  Instead, I’m in bed crying over an elf.

  ‘An elf!’

  “It’s not as if he didn’t warn you, dumbass,” I tell myself once more. “He said over and over that he was going to leave. You buried your head in the sand, and now you only have yourself to blame.”

  Flinging back the blankets, I get up before I can change my mind and pad up the hall to the family bathroom. As I sit on the toilet, my face in my hands, I hear my mother call my name. Sighing, I flush and make my way downstairs to find the family sitting around the Christmas tree, the log fire blazing. But the room doesn’t hold any cheer for me today, it just reminds me of a few hours past, when I lost my elf.

  ‘Was he ever really mine? No, he was engaged and killing time before he went home – I was another holiday fling, nothing more.’

  Mum looks up to where I stand in the doorway.

  “We are ready to open all the gifts, Love, do you want to hurry Kris along too?”

  “He’s not coming,” I choke.

  “Oh? Does he have family commitments this morning?”

  “Something like that,” I mumble.

  “What? Sapphire frowns, “when’s he coming back? I’ve thought of the best prank ever to pull on him.”

  “He’s not,” I eye her sorrowfully, “he’s going to be Santa. We broke up.”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t understand, Santa?” Mum frowns.

  “No way,” Sapphire shakes her head “he’ll be back.”

  “I wish that were true,” I murmur.

  “He has to come back,” she whispers conspiratorially.

  “Huh?”

  She opens her pocket, and I peer in. Inside are a handful of little green creatures wrestling and squeaking and swearing at one another - rolling around like a basket of tiny puppies.

  “Sprites,” she smirks, “and they’ve had babies.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper back, leaning in to touch them.

  “Stop,” she gently smacks my hand away, “they bite.”

  “How on earth?...”

  “He gave them to me,” she grins, “and told me to use them as I see fit. He said to make sure if I feel angry, or sad, or alone, to let them know, and they will help me – although they can be pretty naughty. They are mine for a year. So, you see, I know he’ll be back.”

  “He won’t,” I shrug. “he’s engaged,” I shake my head as the lump in my throat threatens to choke me, “to another elf.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she sneers, “then how come he was so stoked with the present I gave him?”

  “What was it?”

  “A picture I snuck of you in the elf suit,” she grins.

  “He probably didn’t want to offend you,” I whisper, tears once again close to the surface, “he doesn’t need a fake elf when he’s back with the real thing.”

  “What is all this talk of Santa and elves? I can understand it from Sapphire, but you?” a sarcastic voice says from behind me.

  Spinning I see Sapphire’s father, Roger, with Stacey standing behind, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.

  “What’s he doing here?” I blurt, staring at her.

  “We’re getting back together,” she smiles.

  I frown and look at Sapphire, who is staring at the floor.

  “Are you out of your goddammed mind?” I shout, rising.

  Dad clears his throat and, looking to avoid the drama he can see is going to ensue, puts his hand on mum’s wheelchair to take her from the room, when there is a knock on the front door.

  “Don’t bother, Dad,” I snort, “I’m going for a walk.”

  Pulling open the front door, I step back and groan.

  “Oh, you are fucking kidding me.”

  I listen to what he is saying, and nod, but my mind is a million miles away, or rather, however many miles the North Pole is from here, which may as well be a million.

  “So,” he finishes, “yes?”

  “No,” I shake my head, sighing and looking him in the eye for, I think, the first time since he turned up two days ago.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why? After everything I’ve just told you…”

  “Because I don’t love you anymore, Louis,” I sigh. “I meant what I said in New York. I appreciated you being there, showing you care for my parents, I really did. And I’ve thought carefully about everything you said, and the answer is still the same. I’ve moved on. So no, I don’t want to move in with you – in fact, I’m not going back to campus next year. I’ve made up my mind to take a break from my studies for twelve months to, I don’t know, find myself.

  “Find yourself?” he snorts, “Holly, you know you need someone who can give you direction. Move in with me, I’ll guide you. Finish your degree, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “No,” I shake my head, “you’re not listening to me, Louis.” When have you ever? “I don’t want the neat little future you have mapped out; the family business, the trophy wife with her ‘little hobbies’ the three kids and picket fence – I don’t want any of it.”

  ‘I don’t want you.’

  “Holly,” he shakes his head, “Holly, Holly, you’ve had a hard Christmas, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “You’re right,” I smile ruefully at him, “I did have a hard Christmas. And it would have been great to know the man who says he sees a future with me was by my side helping me when I needed it the most. But you know what, Louis? You weren’t.”

  ‘Another man was, well, technically not a man... no, don’t think of him, block it out before you start crying again.’

  “What?” Louis demands, standing and glaring at me. “You said you were fine with me taking the tickets to Europe, you urged me to go.”

  “There was no urging,” I murmur, “I agreed you should go. But Louis, you should have known I would need you here.”

  “I’m no fucking magical mind reader, Holly,” he snarls.

  “No,” I shake my head, “you’r
e not. Goodbye, Louis.”

  He shoots me another angry glare before walking out, slamming the kitchen door behind him, and I sit silently, listening to the discussions in the rest of the house. In another time, I would have followed him, placated him, said I was sorry even if I wasn’t. But that was the old me.

  I take a deep breath as Stacey comes in and sits down beside me, studying her long, perfectly manicured fake nails.

  “Don’t even go there,” I whisper, my voice devoid of all emotion. “I don’t know why you invited him; I don’t want to know. Just stop interfering, Stacey, and don’t say anything, please.”

  “I just...”

  “I said,” I turn to her and shake my head, my anger at her tightly reined in, but nevertheless, palpable, “don’t.”

  “Well, you could at least be civil,” she mutters, “I’m just trying to stop you making a huge mistake.”

  “A mistake? Stacey, your whole modus-operandi is one big mistake after the other. Mum has just returned home after three months away and is supposed to be staying calm after a major operation, and instead, instead,” I hiss, “you invite Louis to our family Christmas, despite knowing I didn’t want to see him. You also invite your cheating bastard of a husband, a husband need I remind you, of whom we have heard nothing but awful things about for a year. And now, to top it all off, you tell Dad that you want a slice of the proceeds from the sale of the hardware store, claiming you deserve it as your inheritance, despite having not stepped into that store since you were like, ten.”

  She sniffs. “Well, I’m sure they will enjoy watching me appreciate that money now, rather than waiting until they die to leave it to me.”

  “You are a fucking piece of work,” I shake my head, “and the most selfish cow I have ever met – evidenced by, if nothing else, your decision to go back to Roger and move your little girl back to the city to suffer through you two bickering day and night.”

  She rises, scowling. “No need to be nasty – we won’t bicker, we are going to couple’s therapy. You know, maybe you could do with some therapy too.”

  “And you’re welcome, by the way,” I add, ignoring her intimation that I need my head examined.

  “For what?” she stares down at me, her face incredulous.

  “For looking after your daughter for two months,” I reply, my face perfectly neutral. “I’m sure at some point you were planning on thanking me for that, weren’t you Stacey?”

  She spins on her heel and leaves.

  After a time, I get up and walk to my room to begin packing.

  My present from the elf, found pinned to the tree, was a return flight to Tuscany.

  My flight leaves in three hours.

  19

  HOLLY

  “There’s something for you in the front yard,” Francesco says, stamping his feet to clear them of snow before entering our small studio.

  I look up at his old, hunched frame as he takes off his jacket, his hands, supple and strong, the only part of him that belies his 83 years.

  “For me?” I answer in my broken Italian as I continue to carefully bubble-wrap my sculpture tools, ready for my return to the states.

  “I said so, didn’t I,” he replies grumpily.

  I give the old man a hug as I walk towards my jacket where it hangs beside his on the rough timber peg by the door, and he grimaces and pretends to put up with it. I will miss him, the fractious old thing – he’s been the best teacher I’ve ever had, and his pragmatism and humour have been the perfect antidote to a broken heart.

  My year has flown, and I have, as I’d planned, found myself – but I owe much of that to him and his simple country approach to life. I know I’ll never forget my year in Tuscany.

  “Go on with you,” he grumbles, a smile peeping out from behind his thick, grey beard as I smirk at him.

  “You know,” I say over my shoulder as I step out the door, “I believe you will miss me, Francesco.”

  “Like a bull misses a ring through his nose,” he coughs, turning to pick up his tools and continue work on his marble masterpiece.

  I laugh and step out into the snow, my breath catching in my throat when I see what is standing in the middle of the front yard.

  Walking towards it, eyes wide, I circle once, twice, three times, before the tears start.

  “Francesco,” I murmur when I get back inside, “it’s the most beautiful work I’ve ever seen.”

  “Harumph,” he grunts, “too much time spent on the hair, not enough on the finer details like the fingernails if you ask me.”

  “It must have taken you weeks,” I shake my head, preparing to go back outside and take another look.

  “I didn’t do it,” he growls, “some amateur. If you don’t know my work after a year studying under me, then you’ve learned nothing, – foolish American girl.”

  “Hang on,” I laugh, ignoring his irritable manner, which I’ve come to learn, is all bluff, “are you telling me someone else carved a life-sized ice sculpture of me?”

  “No doubt one of the town lothario’s,” he shrugs, focussing back on the marble bust before him, “one of the stallions you’ve been running with.”

  “Francesco!” I laugh, “you know my heart belongs to you.”

  “Bah!” he laughs, “get on with you. Go to town and fetch the new marble I ordered and kiss all the boys; I know what you do.”

  I giggle as I pick up my purse and leave, pausing before I get into his old truck, to once more admire the beautiful ice sculpture. Francesco may say it’s by an amateur, but anyone can see a master did the work. I have to assume it’s his parting gift for me since I fly out tomorrow, my year of studying under him over.

  Sighing, I start the truck and reverse out the long driveway, turning and heading towards town. But I’ve only gone 500 metres, when I see another sculpture and, frowning, pull over and get out.

  This one if of me painting, and behind me, holding my palette, is Sapphire. On the ice canvas before me are the words, ‘Dear Holly,”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  ‘Francesco has never met Sapphire. Only one person, no, not a person, could have done this.’

  I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes, and hastily sniff and shake my head, to ward them off.

  ‘No, if he was here, I would know. He’s gone, I need to forget him. It’s over.’

  I get back into the truck and turn the music on the clunky old radio up loud. Christmas tunes and hymns are dominating the airwaves, but right now they make me sad. It’s been a hard year away from home, starting my life over as a single woman in a strange land, but I know I’m stronger for it. It’s just that as Christmas Day has approached, more and more I’ve struggled not to think of the elf who stole my heart last winter. Every time I see a little red and white Christmas hat, it reminds me of him.

  Concentrating on the road, I drive another 500m, when I see another sculpture.

  Circling it, I see it is another perfect depiction of me, this time sitting frowning at a ledger, as I did so often in the afternoons while I managed Dad’s shop. My hair is up in a messy bun, stray tendrils escaping here and there, and there are words carved in small, detailed handwriting on the pages.

  “It’s true, I knew Aurora was waiting for me, but we were not engaged.”

  I gasp and look all around, but there is no one for miles, the fields a blanket of white, there is not even another car on the small country road.

  Frowning, I stomp back to the truck, shaking my head, and turn off the radio as ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ begins to play.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” I growl as I pull out again, “some stupid elf practical joke?”

  As another sculpture looms, I put my foot down on the accelerator and zoom past, but I’ve only gone a few metres when I brake and reverse.

  Stomping back in the thick snow to the new sculpture, I see me depicted hanging decorations on a perfectly carved, life-sized ice Christmas
tree, and smiling at someone in the distance. On a bauble, tiny words are carved:

  “I’d considered marrying her and settling down, to take the role of Santa seriously – but I hadn’t voiced that plan.”

  I screw up my nose as I read his confession.

  “I knew it. You were engaged! Well, virtually. Bastard elf.”

  ‘But what does ‘virtually’ mean. She was far away, and wasn’t I dreaming of Kris while Louis was far away? Aren’t I really, just as bad? No! I didn’t sleep with the elf until I broke up with Louis.’’

  But another small voice reminds me; ‘you wanted to.’

  I stomp back to the car and drive on, but slam on the brakes, horrified, as I stop to examine the next sculpture. It’s me dressed in the sexy elf costume he’d made me wear that day he won his bet, tiny words are inscribed across my left breast. ‘His favourite,’ an unguarded part of my brain reminds me.

  “Then, I met you.”

  “So, how does that change anything? You pointy-eared little perve!” I shout into the wind.

  Hopping into the truck I reverse, planning to smash the sculpture, but change my mind at the last minute. No matter the subject, it is art, and I can’t bring myself to destroy it.

  Driving on, sniffing back tears, I yank the hand-break up a few miles down the road. Lurching out of the truck to march to the next sculpture.

  It’s me sitting beside him, holding a bag of frozen peas to his jaw – and I gasp as I see his countenance, so well-remembered in my dreams. Every line of his face is etched in perfection. It breaks my heart, and I begin to cry in earnest as I read the next words.

  “I was drawn to your goodness, your sweetness, you.”

  “Sure, sure,” I sob, marching back to the car, “drawn to an elf costume more like.”

  But I can’t even consider reversing over this sculpture, it’s too beautiful, he’s too beautiful.

  I drive on, stopping once more, my tears almost blinding me as I angrily wipe them away. This sculpture is me standing over my mother, smiling down at her as she sits wearing the hat Kris had given her. I miss my mother terribly, call her every day since I’ve been gone. He’s captured her face perfectly, every line.