Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

5. Nick

five

Nick

“ C ome on! There’s no good reason why I can’t carry Mae to the ceremony.”

“How about you’re not her parent?”

I make a dismissive noise in my throat as Aldon’s nieces and nephews race between us. Aldon’s other brothers and their families live on the mainland, but everyone comes to his house on tree-lighting day because it’s the absolute best start to the holiday season.

“Feel this sweater.” I tug the neck toward him, turning to Jane when Aldon rolls his eyes at me. “It’s incredibly soft. I wore it tonight, thinking it would be the best blanket for Mae to rest her sweet chubby cheeks on. And I brought my extra-large jacket so I can zip her into it.”

I get that most men my age have no idea what to do with a baby or aren’t even interested in kids, but large families have always fascinated me. Probably because I was an only child who was often left with a revolving cast of nannies or au pairs. When I finally meet the right person, I want to be outnumbered by slobbery, mess-making children.

Jane’s lips press together, fighting a smile. “It seems he’s thought of everything.” When Aldon’s stern expression doesn’t waver, she slides her hands up to rest on his chest. “Let him carry her for an hour. We’ll have her the rest of the night.”

Aldon scowls, his dark beard scruff making the look more severe, before conceding with a long exhale.

I keep my jubilation banked, though I want to pump my fist. “She’ll be warm and safe the whole time.”

After Jane carefully wraps Mae to my chest, I zip her into my jacket, making sure her tiny face is free of obstruction and checking for even breathing three times. Our group joins the dozens of locals strolling toward the library. Only those who can’t comfortably walk drive to park in the parking lot behind the building.

Several festive revelers ride by, their beach cruisers decorated with strands of lights. Though many residents have their outdoor displays completed, it’s tradition to not illuminate them until after the ceremony. Most attendees have decorated themselves instead, wearing light-up Christmas necklaces. Aldon’s oldest niece is sporting a lightbulb headband instead of the Santa hats donned by the rest of us—everyone except my grouchy brother. Even Jane couldn’t get him to trade up his favorite Carhartt black snow cap.

Impromptu caroling peppers the cool sea air, and I’m grateful the breeze from earlier has died down for Mae’s sake. A few of the nephews take up “Jingle Bells,” though they substitute the school-bus lyrics about Batman for the proper ones. A smile lifts my lips. If you’d have told me that this would be my future at seventeen, I would have thought you delusional.

Back then, my parents avoided everything Christmas, chiding its chintzy nature. We spent the two-week holiday break in French Polynesia or the Maldives. Spontaneous caroling while carrying tumblers of hot cocoa to watch a decades-old town tradition would’ve made my stepmother clutch her diamond tennis necklace. They’d bought their ‘summer home’ on Wilks Beach because it’d been hard to acquire, not because they loved being here. It’d only been after the drama with the private school in D.C. that we’d moved here permanently.

“How’s she doing?” Jane’s question pulls me out of the memory, the dark wisps of it dissipating like smoke.

“Sleeping like a champ.” I pause to give Jane a chance to check her daughter and adjust the red-and-white-striped newborn hat covering her nearly bald head.

“Good. She should sleep through the whole thing, but let me know if she gets fussy.”

“You got it.” I give her a salute. “In the meantime, maybe you can convince the Grinch to lighten up? Maybe tell him it’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake!” That last sentence is shot directly at Aldon.

Aldon’s mother smirks at her son’s grumbling, coming over to weave her arm through mine. “How are you, Nick? It’s been a while since we’ve caught up.”

We chat the rest of the short walk down the single two-lane road until it ends in the business area of Wilks Beach. To the left is the boxing/Crossfit gym beside the fire station. The firefighters on duty hand out miniature candy canes to the kids, their ladder truck decorated in evergreen wreaths. I snag one and pop it into my mouth since I didn’t want to drink hot cocoa or mulled wine with Mae beneath my chin.

The road splits into a T at Seabreeze Beans and Vivian’s Alterations—left to exit the island, right to continue toward the library. We pass Dotty’s Market on the way, closed early for tonight’s event. The historic library is a grand building compared to the rest on Wilks Beach—two stories tall with an atrium of paneled stained glass. We weave around the side of the building toward its ocean-facing doors.

Christmas trees bejeweled in various themes surround the octagonal gazebo directly in front of the library. Though locals call this a tree-lighting ceremony, a trees -lighting ceremony is more apt. Once upon a time, there was probably a single tree, but now six distinctly styled trees circle the structure. The themes change year to year, except for the nautical-themed one to the left of the gazebo’s entrance.

“Santa!” Aldon’s youngest niece screeches before bypassing the line of children waiting for their chance to sit on his lap.

The man himself rests upon a plush red velvet chair, an elated toddler on his knee.

“That’s not the real Santa,” Jacob begins, arms crossed. The oldest of the cousins, at eight years old, Jacob seems bent on spoiling everyone’s fun.

“I’ll have you know I helped that exact man repair his sleigh last Christmas.” I crouch to get eye-level with the boy, keeping my chest upright to not disturb Mae.

He sighs heavily. “You did not.”

“Ask him yourself. Go ask Santa if Nick Watson helped him fix the runner on his sleigh last Christmas Eve, and see what he says.”

Another Wilks Beach tradition is for Santa to “fly” his sleigh along the beach on Christmas Eve. They position a wooden sleigh atop a fishing boat with floodlights aimed at the sleigh so you don’t focus on the vessel beneath. Santa sails down the coast, waving and laughing at the pajama-clad children watching from the sandy shore. Last December, me and a few of the guys from WB Renovations did an overhaul on the sleigh.

“I’ll even stay back here, out of his eyeline, and you can ask Santa what I look like. See if he gets my eye and hair color right.”

Jacob gives me a patronizing look, like I’m the biggest doop he’s ever seen. “You have brown hair. Everyone has brown hair.”

“Not everyone, and only two percent of the population has green eyes.” When Jacob doesn’t budge, I add, “Ask him where my scar is.” I tap my right temple, where my idiotic younger self disregarded OSHA regulations and didn’t wear a hard hat on my first jobsite with overhead hazards, leaving my skin open for a falling piece of metal to slice through.

“Fine.” He stomps away, joining his siblings and cousins already in line.

“I know you helped repair the sleigh last year, but how is Santa going to know about your scar?” Jane asks out of the side of her mouth.

I lean toward her, keeping my voice low. “Because he’s the one who stitched me up.”

Dr. Dave Prescott—AKA Santa—is an orthodontist, but when my face had been bleeding profusely during the renovation of his kitchen and downstairs bath, he saved me from having to drive to the mainland to seek medical treatment that I couldn’t have afforded at the time.

A wide smile breaks over her lips. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” My grin broadens.

Mae coos, and the both of us look down to check on her. Jane adjusts the wrap over her small back as something across the courtyard catches my eye. Straight blonde hair and a green peacoat ducks behind the display of trees, but Jane’s follow-up question keeps me from investigating.